The class had left for ski school the day before, by bus. Ten days earlier, however, there had been a tragic accident, pictures of which had been shown on the news: a large truck had crashed into a school bus, and several children had died horribly in the flames. A meeting was held the next day at school to prepare for the class trip. Parents were to receive final instructions concerning their children’s belongings: what clothes were to be marked; the stamped envelopes to be provided for letters home; the phone calls, on the other hand, that were best avoided (except in an emergency), to help the boys feel truly off on their own, not tied by a thread to their families. Several mothers were distressed by this last instruction: the children were so young … Patiently the teacher repeated that it was in their interest. The main purpose of such a trip was to teach them how to stand on their own two feet.
Nicolas’s father remarked, rather brusquely, that the main purpose of school was not, in his opinion, to cut children off from their families and that he wouldn’t hesitate to call if he felt like it. The teacher opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed on. He had come to raise a much more serious question: the safety of the bus. How could they be sure there wouldn’t be a catastrophe like the one they’d all seen recently on the news? Yes, how could they be sure, chimed in other parents, who’d doubtless been wondering the same thing without daring to raise the issue. The teacher admitted that, unfortunately, there was no way to be sure. She could only say that they were taking every precaution with regard to safety, that the bus driver was extremely reliable, and that reasonable risks were a part of life. If parents wanted to be absolutely certain that their children wouldn’t be hit by cars, they’d have to prevent them from ever leaving home – and that wouldn’t keep them from having accidents with household appliances or from simply getting sick. Some parents conceded the soundness of this argument, but many were shocked by the teacher’s fatalistic attitude. She was even smiling as she spoke.
‘It’s easy to see they’re not your children!’ exclaimed Nicolas’s father. No longer smiling, the teacher replied that she had a child, too, and that he’d taken the bus to ski school the year before. Then Nicolas’s father announced that he preferred to drive his son to the chalet himself: at least that way he’d know who was behind the wheel.
The teacher pointed out that the chalet was almost three hundred miles away.
So what? He was determined to make the trip.
But it wouldn’t be good for Nicolas, she insisted. Wouldn’t help him fit into the group.
‘He’ll fit in just fine,’ said his father, and he laughed sarcastically. ‘Don’t try to make me believe arriving in a car with his dad will make him an outcast!’
The teacher asked him to think it over carefully, suggested that he speak with the school psychologist (who would confirm her opinion), but admitted that the final decision was up to him.
In school the next day, the teacher attempted to talk to Nicolas about this, to find out whose idea it was. Treading carefully, as she always did with him, she asked what he would prefer. The question made Nicolas uneasy. Deep down, he knew perfectly well he’d rather travel on the bus like everyone else. But his father had made up his mind, he wouldn’t change it, and Nicolas didn’t want the teacher and the other boys to think he was being forced to go along with his father’s wishes. He shrugged, said he didn’t care one way or the other – it was okay the way it was. The teacher left it at that. She had done what she could, and since she clearly couldn’t change anything, it was better not to make a fuss.