Walkout

“Get back to your classes, now,” the Principal bellowed through his bullhorn but the students only laughed. It wasn’t a bullhorn. It was the voice changer he had confiscated from a student and he was sounding like Donald Duck. Trust Chambers from Phys. Ed. to have not returned the bullhorn to his office as required.

In front of him, Taryn Talbot, cool and self-possessed, carrying a clipboard with her anti-dress code manifesto urged her classmates to follow her. A swell of pushing, laughing students surged into the foyer. Principal David Veale stepped to the side, hugging the wall, not knowing where to look and hearing and seeing more than he cared to. Placards: “Its not my boobs, its you’re dirty thoughts need covering up.” (Did they teach any basic grammar?) “My generation, comfortable in its skin.” “Measuring is for Math, not my short’s length.” Worse, a low “Choice veal” and an accompanying mooing sound as one group of boys sauntered by. A tall, thin girl wearing a- what was it? A tank top, a sports bra, a halter top- made with the remnants of the American flag of all things, squeezed beside him and took a selfie. He looked hapless but he knew her name, Meghan McEvoy. Veale prided himself on recognizing all his students and addressing them with decorum. Standards.

He hated these walkouts. Today students walked out over the slightest issue. There had been the revolt against the shuttering of the pop machine. Support for the Drama teacher dating the Grade Eleven vamp. The fallout from the cancellation of Beach Day, after the main street mooning incident on the bus by the Senior Boys’ Volleyball Team returning from a tournament. And now this. A walkout protesting the upholding of the dress code forbidding girls wearing tank tops and Daisy Duke shorts. Predictably as many males as females he noted.

The parade of students seemed endless. Every student in the school must be leaving. And they were all so tall, even the girls. Veale was not a short man but now even the girls seemed able to stand and look straight into his eyes. Rigid against the wall, his arms at his sides, he surreptitiously hoisted his sagging khaki pants. He had lost a lot of weight over the past year. He should have bought a new belt as his wife said.

He looked at Miss Talbot now perched on the stair railing and encouraging her followers to keep an orderly line down the stairs. She was tall. Today she was wearing a demure grey cardigan with a short plaid skirt and tights. With her short bangs and tidy bob, she looked like a latter-day Audrey Hepburn. Trust her to dress conservatively for the walkout. Media savvy. What else should he expect?

“Gather by the flagpole. One love,” Talbot said. She swung off the railing and disappeared.

“One love,” several shouted back to her. Veale was puzzled. He looked for her again.

“Hey Stoner,” Veale heard from within the massed bodies.

Veale looked around. Vic Graystone, Vice-Principal, must be somewhere in the crowd. Why wasn’t he outside keeping students from spilling into the streets and getting killed? And why did he allow students to call him “Stoner”? Veale had seen him surrounded by a circle of boys, laughing, high-fiving, only distinguishable from the students by his well-curated beard.

Veale liked Graystone. He was dedicated, somehow managed recalcitrant students and spent time coaching the cross-country team. Veale tried to be a cheer leader for various assemblies, attended games, sat through plays, some of them obscure in meaning, wore silly hats when requested, supported every fundraiser, endured loud music at dances. He felt liked but not well-liked as Willy Loman (that was a play worth seeing according to Veale) would have it.

Through the crowd, he heard Graystone’s voice. “Let me through, folks.” The waves parted. As Graystone sailed past him, Veale heard him say, “We’ve got a counter protest happening.”

The last of the students surged past him. Veale considered retreating to his office. He decided it would be better to view from the sidelines. Besides, he was curious to hear Miss Talbot speak. He thought how awful it would be were she to become a successful politician as she had declared she would in her Students’ Council President nomination speech. Veale felt a vague shudder imagining her being interviewed on the CBC. The question about the roots of her ambition. The enquiries into her mentors and influences. The dismissive assessment of him.

A noise. Two loud bangs. Veale stopped on the stairs. Firecrackers. How dare they. Surely Graystone was stepping in. Now screams. Another bang. And another. Veale froze. Gunfire.