Chill (3 page)

Orchid was a great mom, always encouraging and looking out for Chill—not that Chill needed any looking out for. That was why she didn't reveal her true feelings for me. I was sure that, when we went off to university, Chill would be old enough to handle it and she'd finally take me aside and confess her undying love. I was willing to wait.

Orchid went on to become a full-time news anchor at the station and selected any “field reports” she wanted to do, if she wanted to do any at all. We'd watch her every night—my day revolved around it. It was the only time I could freely enjoy her...everything. If Chill caught me enjoying when she was home, I'd get a very swift slap to the back of the head.

“What was that for?” I would ask.

He would only glare at me in return, not being able to say, “Stop checking out my mom,” because to say it meant he was admitting his mom was worth checking out, and no guy wants to admit that.

She arrived home at 7:30, on the nose, every night.

“Hello, Ms. Holinground,” I said with a welcoming grin.

“Hello, Sean,” she said. She turned to hang her coat in the hall closet, unable to bear looking at me for fear of revealing her desire.

Whack!

“What was that for?”

Chill glared.

While most guys had an irrational fear of blindness from impure thoughts and deeds, I had a very real risk of concussion or severe brain damage. It didn't stop me, though, or even discourage me.

“How was your first day back at school?” Chill's mom asked.

“Fine,” Chill told her.

“Our English teacher's a real jerk!” I said.

“Now why do you say that?” she inquired.

“Just is,” I said, but then went on to elaborate on what had happened.

“Maybe you just need to give him a chance.”

This was Orchid's one imperfection. She, like all adults, always took the side of the
other adults, thinking that, as a teenager, I was prone to exaggeration.

“How was your day?” Chill asked her.

“Good,” she replied. “They were asking about you at the station.”

After his parents separated, Chill spent a lot of time at the station with his mom. He got to do all kinds of cool stuff like learn how to operate a camera, hang with local newspeople—who were celebrities in our little town. He even got to take a cpr course when the station paid for it. He never told me who he got to do mouth-to-mouth on, though—I imagine it was the woman who does the weather. If Orchid wasn't available to me, that's who I'd have gone for.

They also showed him how to put the composite sketches on video and would sometimes let him load them up for the “If you've seen this man” bit at the end of the Crime Stoppers segment that Orchid still introduced.

“You should come down to the station after school and say hello,” Orchid suggested.

Chill just shrugged.

“I'll come down, Ms. Holinground,” I volunteered. Orchid opened the fridge and reached for something on the bottom shelf.

Whack!

“What?” I asked, rubbing my head and looking at Chill. Chill glared back.

“Shouldn't you be getting home?” Orchid asked teasingly.

“My parents don't mind,” I told her, to continue our banter.

“All the same, I think they'd like to see you,” she said.

She does this all the time. When she thinks she can no longer contain herself in my presence, she casually asks me to leave. I show mercy.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said, grabbing my bag. “Oh, yeah!” I added. “Chill's going to be doing the school mural!”

“Really?” she said. “That's great!”

“It's not a big deal, Mom,” Chill said. “It's not even for sure.”

“He'll be doing it,
for sure
,” I confirmed.

“And when it's unveiled, I'll be there with a camera crew,” she said. “It'll be the story of the year!”

Little did she know. Little did any of us know.

She kissed Chill on the cheek and gave him a big hug.

“I'm very proud of you,” she said.

“Are you proud of me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

I leaned in for my kiss.

“Go home,” she said.

So coy.

In art class the next morning, Chill already had a sketch of the proposed mural to show Ms. Surette. It had the school in the background. In the foreground were the faces of people like Pierre Trudeau, Wayne Gretzky, Albert Einstein, Shania Twain, Pablo Picasso, Mike Myers, Margaret Atwood, Alanis Morrisette...

“A mix of popular icons to inspire and encourage,” as Ms. Surette put it. “I like it.”

“And the quote?” she asked. “‘The future is bright if you're not afraid of the light'—where's that from?”

“Sean,” Chill quickly informed her.

I'd been inspired by Ms. Holinground and her many quotes.

“It's excellent,” she told me. “I suppose you'll have to help with the mural too, then?” she said, more telling than asking. “I'll be making my decision at the end of the week. But it's safe to say that you have a very good chance.”

“There won't be anything better,” I told her.

“There's a fine line between confidence and arrogance, Sean,” she said. “Best to stay well on one side of it.”

Chill smiled. He had heard various people say the same thing before. He always found it funny. I didn't see the humor. It wasn't confidence or arrogance. It was pride in my friend's work. Since Chill never took much pride in it, always thinking he could have done better, I felt I had to make up for it.

“Anyone can do it,” Chill said. “Most people just don't.”

I didn't believe it. I knew I couldn't. Or I thought I couldn't. Maybe if I'd worked as hard as Chill—always sketching or reading about other artists, always working on something—maybe if I did that, then I could.

Chill even had a signature that he used just for his art, which was a work of art on its own, an unreadable symbol of original design. Maybe if I worked as hard at my writing as he did at his drawing...maybe it's just easier to think...

“Some people are just naturally good at things and others aren't,” I said to Chill.

But in the back of my head I could hear Orchid saying,
If you put your mind to something, you can get it done, and don't ever let anyone tell you different!

Mr. Sfinkter arrived in class just as the bell rang. He dropped his books on the desk and looked around at the class.

“Your essays were enlightening,” he said. “Mr. Holinground?”

“Yes, sir,” said Chill.

“You want to be an artist, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how do you expect to support yourself?” asked Mr. Sfinkter.

“With my art, sir.”

“You think that much of yourself, do you?”

“No, sir. But if I keep working at it...”

“Once that teenage ego of yours dies away, you'll realize that drawing is a hobby, not a career. Now would be a good time to start thinking about that.”

“I'll take that under consideration, sir,” Chill said while dismissing it.

“Well you can start by putting your doodling away and paying attention in this class.”

“Yes, sir,” Chill said, folding up his pad.

“I'd best not see that sketchpad again,” he said, staring at Chill before he continued, “And Sean Fitzsimmons.” I found myself immediately crossing my arms and legs. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where you show up at school only to realize that all you have on is your underwear.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hoping someone would appear with a blanket for me to hide under.

“You dream of writing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, perhaps you should spend less time dreaming and more time learning how to spell,” Mr. Sfinkter said.

“Sorry, sir, my pen's spellchecker wasn't working.”

I got a chuckle from the class, those brave enough anyway, but not from Mr. Sfinkter.

“And a smart mouth isn't going to get you far either!” he said angrily. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “If you want to be a writer, I would advise a teachers' college so that you'll have a job that pays while you write. It's very difficult to make a living writing, and I should know. I have three books published myself.”

“Really, sir?” I asked with genuine interest.

“Don't sound so surprised,” he said. “I have three works of non-fiction published, all about things that have happened to me in my life or to people I find worthy of my time and interest. Currently I am working on a fourth about all the authors and publishers that I have met, being in the business. I've had dinner with...”

And as he talked, the floor became littered with the names he was dropping. Some I knew, many I didn't. It was obvious by the way he spoke that I should be impressed. I tried my hardest to show that I was.

“You know, Mr. Fitzsimmons, if you are truly interested in becoming a writer, then you must write a book. Non-fiction is, of course, better, but that is best left to the more mature writers like myself.

“If you wish to show me that you're serious, then you must complete a work of at least one hundred pages, double spaced, twelve-point font. Spelling and grammar being, of course, the most important thing in those pages. If you do this, I will give it to one of my many publisher friends, who would be more than happy to do any favor I ask. In fact, if I think it's good enough, they'll publish it on my say-so alone.”

“Really?”

“I do hope your writing is less repetitive than your speaking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We'll see, won't we?”

“You'll give it to a publisher?” I said, unable to believe that such a thing could happen. I wanted to be a writer, but I thought it far out of my reach. And if Chill didn't have the talent to be an artist, I certainly didn't have what it took to be a writer.

“I am a man of words, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” said Mr. Sfinkter, “so my word is my bond.”

“Is that like a promise?” I asked.

“Yes, Mr. Fitzsimmons, that's like a promise.”

He didn't read anyone else's career plans that day.

“I don't want to overload your developing minds, so we'll just do a couple of students a day. Give you all something to look forward to,” he said.

And look forward I did.

I was no longer sure what to think of our new teacher. The chance he'd offered me was something beyond my wildest dreams.

Maybe he was just difficult because he thought that it was the best way to get us working. Maybe his outfits were eccentric and not a desperate cry for attention. Maybe there was more to him than I first thought.

Chill didn't like him. Chill didn't like anyone who trampled on other people's dreams, and that's what Mr. Sfinkter did at
the beginning of every week. He'd take out two of the essays and go through them in front of the class.

It's embarrassing to have yourself exposed. It was obvious that everyone had the underwear dream that semester, but on top of revealing everyone's dreams to their fellow students, ensuring certain attack, he then provided the ammunition.

Mr. Sfinkter found fault with every career choice, picking them apart student by student. I got off lightly and was the only one who received the slightest bit of encouragement. Maybe it was because I wanted to be what he was.

Or maybe he saw something in my writing that he thought worthwhile. Whatever the reason, I took it and ran, starting to work just as hard on my writing as Chill did on his art.

If I could paint a picture with my words half as well as Chill could with a brush or pencil, I'd do great and Mr. Sfinkter would guide and teach me and make all that I could wish for come true.

I told myself that over and over again at the beginning of every class so that I wouldn't have to hear Mr. Sfinkter go on at the other students. But Chill, robbed of his sketchpad, had to listen to every word.

Chill's design for the mural was chosen as the best entry. Every morning throughout the semester, he and I spent first period working on the mural in the front foyer. When it was finished, it would be the first thing people saw when they entered the school.

There was little I could do to help him in the sketching part, which would take a couple of weeks. So I worked on my story while he did the mural outline. I kept a pencil close, and if we heard footsteps, I'd quickly get to work on one corner.

“What's it about?” Chill asked me.

“It's about a guy who everyone thinks is really mean, but he turns out to be a...it's about a lot of things,” I said, not wanting to give too much away. Chill's feelings toward Mr. Sfinkter would probably cloud his judgment of my writing. Especially because the teacher had given me hope while telling
Chill he wouldn't be able to make a living from his art—despite his talents.

“When am I going to get to read it?” Chill asked.

“You're going to have to pay like everyone else,” I said jokingly.

Chill smiled. He seemed to be as excited as me, or at least he tried to be, about the potential of my writing.

“Seriously, though, that's great that he's going to show it to publishers,” I said.

“Can you take a look from back there and tell me if the ear looks okay?” Chill asked.

“I mean, even if he doesn't like it, he'll still give me input, and that's input from a published writer,” I said.

“Does it look okay?” Chill asked.

“It looks fine,” I replied.

“We should be able to start painting it tomorrow,” he told me.

“Ms. Surette say anything to you about it?” I asked him.

“She said it was looking good.”

“It's nice to get that encouragement from your teacher. Of course, you've always had
it from your mom, so I guess to you it might not seem like a big deal,” I told him.