Educide

By S. Lawrence Parrish

Meet Avery Carmichael, student-teacher. This year he's teamed up with Mr. Samuel Petersen, veteran teacher. Avery is about to get an education in educating. . . but not the one he is expecting.

In a semester that will see school-shootings in the United States and Canada, Sam Petersen's lessons to Avery will be, at first, enlightening. Then horrifying.

EDUCIDE: Why do schools have to bleed to make headlines?

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Lawrence Parrish
• Release date: Oct 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987921031

S. Lawrence Parrish

S. Lawrence Parrish has been writing weird and twisted tales for many years. He's had many short stories published in small press 'zines (Dread--Tales of the Grotesque and Uncanny, Carpe Noctem, Not One of Us, Sepulchre, Mindmares, Agony in Black, Stigmata, Night Terrors, etc.). He's also written several novels, all of which will soon be available as e-books. For the past two years, he has been busily turning into podcasts many of his novels and stories, available at Podiobooks.com and on iTunes. To date, they include two novels: SHAT (a post-apocalypse tale with a feline twist) and Shape Shifters (a werewolf tale with NO vampires). And also Chicken Pi, an ever-growing collection of short stories. Mr. Parrish lives in the foothills of Alberta, Canada with an amazing wife, three stellar children, one Jack Russell terrier and one schnoodle, two cats, a chameleon named "Gus", a salamander, a tarantula, a frog, many fish, and at least two escaped crickets chirping from the furnace vents.

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Educide

By S. Lawrence Parrish

Copyright 2013 S. Lawrence Parrish

Smashwords Edition

This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This novella is intended for a mature audience.

March, 1999.

A city in Alberta, Canada.

Avery Carmichael slowed his Toyota Corolla, signalled and cut across the right lane to turn east down Thirty-third Avenue. To his right, a red brick building loomed out of a hillside that plateaued into a soccer field. Rusted letters bolted to a wall read Bishop Vanier Junior High.

Sucking a cleansing breath to ground a sudden fluttering of intestinal butterflies, Avery drove into the school's unpaved parking lot. He dodged around a deep, ice-crusted pothole, then wheeled into a visitor's parking stall, shut off the Toyota's engine and gazed down the length of the building.

So many windows, so many classrooms. Which one would be his?

Final practicum—Avery would spend the next four months in this junior high school teaching English language arts to his very own class. Student teachers called it the trial by fire. If those four months went well, Avery Carmichael would graduate with a Bachelor of Education Degree. He was aware that the Public Board of Education's long-term plan was to replace as many older, top-of-the-pay-scale teachers with less-expensive first-year teachers. Inject some youth into the system while saving precious dollars.

Avery had celebrated his twenty-third birthday a month ago. Pumping fresh blood into the system sounded to him like a good idea. Last year, he had completed a two month teaching practicum at Central High School and had been appalled to see so many old teachers. How could today's students relate to blue-hairs? Surely someone like Avery—someone with vitality, someone infused with energy and new ideas—could coax unheard-of levels of achievement from his students. His stay at Central was too brief to confirm this notion, but now Avery had almost an entire semester ahead of him!

Four months to prove himself, then maybe he'd land a teaching job in the fall. And then that first-year probationary contract could become a temporary contract the following year. After that, a permanent contract and employment for life. . . .

With possibilities swelling his heart and head, he pulled his keys from the ignition and stepped from his vehicle, jogged across the parking lot, bounded up the school's front steps, then hesitated before the door to draw another calming breath.

As he reached for the door handle, the outside buzzer signalling lunch break blasted scant feet above his head, an electro-mechanical shriek that could serve as citywide warning against incoming ICBMs. Squeezing his hands over his ears, Avery ducked against the nerve-jittering wail. When the bell had finally, mercifully, ceased, a low rumble like a distant tide resonated inside the school. Then the first student surging home to lunch burst from the doors, almost slamming into Avery. A red-haired boy wearing jeans and a t-shirt leapt down the steps and sprinted across the snow-dusted parking lot to hurdle a low fence.

Avery turned to grab the door before it closed. But now an adult pushed it open.

A woman wearing glasses that were stylish a decade ago blinked at Avery and asked, Did you see a boy come out? Red hair and faster than a rabbit?

Avery nodded and pointed across the parking lot. Over the fence and down the hill. He's long gone now.

The woman sighed and shook her head; she clutched in her hand a blue, down-filled jacket. Coming in? she asked, still holding open the door.

Avery nodded and thanked her as he stepped into the school. The foyer teemed with students, every one of them either talking or laughing. A group of girls screamed at a grinning African-American boy who sped down a hall away from them.

The glasses-woman hollered after him. "Jason! Jason! You slow down or you'll hurt someone!" The woman sighed again, balled a fist to massage her lower back, then opened a door to enter the school's main office.

Avery followed, closing the door behind him. The hallway din was muffled to a giggly drone.

Glasses-woman turned to Avery and smiled. Can I help you with something?

Yes, I'm looking for Samuel Petersen.

Who should I tell him has come calling?

I'm Avery Carmichael, his student teacher.

The woman offered her hand. How do you do, Avery. I'm Marj Watson, the school's principal. We're very pleased to have you join us.

Avery took the hand and shook.

Marj Watson turned to a secretary who had just hung up a phone. Bev, meet Mr. Avery Carmichael; he'll be student-teaching with Sam. Do you know where he is?

Bev smiled and greeted Avery, then wheeled in her chair to check a schedule pinned to a bulletin board. Sam supervises the cafeteria for the next fifteen minutes.

Marj said to Avery, Check the staff room first. If he's not there, follow the noise down the hall to the cafeteria. She pointed the way. And would you mind hanging up this jacket on the rack in the staff room? It's part of our 'Coats for Kids' program. I'll tell you, the hardest part of the program is getting the kids to actually take them.

Jacket in hand, Avery exited the office to plunge into a flood of students flowing toward the cafeteria. The staff room wasn't far; a sign taped to the door stated Students, don't knock until 12:20 (even teachers have to eat).

A tall, pretty young woman stepped toward the door. A teacher? Avery smiled at her. She grinned back. Avery held open the door. The girl leaned past him to yell, Ms. Kowalchuk! Ms. Kowalchuk! Jason took my lock again!

Avery blushed (she was a student?) when many teacher-heads turned his way. A woman stood from her seat around a large table and went with a frown to the door. Avery stepped past her into the staff room, his eyes fixed on a rack filled with winter coats. He hung up the blue down-filled, then turned to meet the gaze of a middle-aged man with long, dirty-blond hair bound in a pony tail. Can I help you? the man asked.

I'm looking for Mr. Petersen.

Ah! You must be the new student teacher. Just what we need—fresh meat.

Avery blinked.

The man grinned. My name's Will MacDonald. I teach band.

Avery introduced himself.

Will MacDonald said, You'll find Sam in the cafeteria. If he's not there, he's already begun his rounds. If that's the case, come back here, or wait at the teachers' counter at the cafeteria. Sam always stops to buy Mary's cookies.

Avery thanked him and turned to leave.

Will grasped him by an elbow, saying with a wink, "Remember: show no fear—they can smell it on you. Glad to have you aboard, Avery!"

Unsure of himself, Avery half-smiled and shook the proffered hand. Out in the hallway, a line of girls sat against a wall eating and watching Avery as he passed. The tall girl who'd had her lock stolen pointed Avery out to a friend. "He's the substitute teacher I told you about. I hope we get him—he's soooo cute!"

Avery pretended not to hear.

The cafeteria was a long, rectangular, windowless room. Student-painted murals decorated what otherwise would have been bare, sanitarium-white walls. Tables were filled with chattering adolescents. Wrappers and bits of food arced through the air to land in, or near, the many garbage cans.

At the far end of the cafeteria, a man stood talking to a table full of boys. The man's gray and white hair, in need of a trim, sat high on his forehead and was thinning on top. He wore a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and tan corduroys. On his feet, high-top canvas running shoes.

Was this Mr. Samuel Petersen, veteran teacher, Avery's mentor for the next four months? Avery had held in his mind's eye an amorphous image of the Mr. Petersen he was supposed to meet today, an amalgam of all the male junior high teachers who had ever taught Avery. Where was the plaid suit? The tie? The brown Hush Puppies?

Avery made his way down the aisle, catching bits of conversation as he went: . . . a Pokemon special that my mom says. . . . . .wouldn't even bum me a smoke. He's such a cheap prick. "Mr. Albright says there might not even be a track meet this year. . . . . . . skank. God, you'd think she'd never. . ."

Mr. Petersen regarded Avery as he approached. The teacher smiled, deepening crow's feet at the corners of his blue-gray eyes, and held out his hand. Avery Carmichael? Of course! Pleased to meet you.

Avery took the hand and shook as Mr. Petersen turned to the table of boys. So here he is, guys. Reinforcements. His name is Mr. Carmichael.

The boys regarded Avery as he smiled and nodded.

One boy, his face an unfortunate and too-complicated dot-to-dot of red pimples, said, He's too young to be a teacher. And he kind of looks like you, Mr. P. You sure he's not your son?

Mr. Petersen smiled. I'm sure, Tyler.

A big, plump boy seated beside Tyler said, Maybe he's a clone. I heard they're cloning teachers now. Or was it sheep? Doesn't matter. . . all the same. He stared directly at Avery and bleated.

Mr. Petersen said, Matt, keep it to yourself. . . at least for a little while.

Matt bleated again; Tyler laughed.

Through a nearby door, a short, lean, Asian girl with long, silk-black hair ran into the cafeteria. She tugged on Mr. Petersen's sleeve, then whispered into his ear when he leaned over to her.

Mr. Petersen said, You're sure it's him, Jenny?

She nodded.

Tyler said, If she's talking about Darren Broten, he's living with his mom again.

Mr. Petersen sighed and turned to Avery. Sorry. . . I've got something to attend to. He rushed out the door.

Avery said to the boys, Where's he going?

Matt drained a juice box and belched. Gone to say hello to an even bigger asshole than me. Six-six-six—the number of the beast; he tattooed it himself with a sharpened paper clip on his bicep while he was in juvie.

Tyler said, Him and his buddy stole my bike in grade four, then tried to sell it back to me. I made the mistake of calling the cops. He held up an elbow to show Avery a jagged scar, but didn't elaborate.

Matt jabbed at an apple with a plastic fork, breaking the tines. "He carries a knife.