Chapter 8: Tragedy Out East Hits Hard Back Home

As the alarm across my bedroom on my dresser went off at six o'clock Tuesday morning, I awoke with a groan. The sun still hadn't risen, and I really didn't want to get out of bed. It seemed that I had just found "that spot" underneath the covers... you know, the one spot in the bed which provides you the perfect level of warmth and comfort, so perfect that you just never want to leave it. Needless to say, I was feeling less than charitable towards the beeping appliance.

"Ungh," I grunted, and almost began to whine. Fortunately, I cut myself short; instead, I threw off the covers and stumbled out of bed. "I'm up, I'm up," I moaned to no one in particular, staggering across my bedroom to quiet the alarm. Now, struggling to stay upright wearing nothing but my boxers, I looked back to my bed and contemplated jumping back in and falling asleep again. Waffling for about a minute, I scowled and pouted like a five-year old, knowing full well that my chances of finding "the spot" again were essentially nil.

"Might as well go running," I said. Grabbing a pair of basketball shorts, a wick-away top and a pair of ankle socks, I left my room in search of my sneakers. I passed my dad in the kitchen along the way, who was sipping his morning coffee, eyes glued to the television set. Paying him no mind, I said, "Going for a run, Dad. I'll see you when I get back." He mumbled something incoherent as I put on my Asics and left out the front door.

iPod in hand and Dark New Day playing through my earphones, my feet hit the pavement running the moment I stepped off my driveway. I found their song "Take Me Alive" to provide a nice warm-up beat, and the lyrics didn't suck either. Regulating my breathing - inhale for six steps through the nose, exhale for four through the mouth - helped me set a quick pace without getting winded to early. Also, breathing both in and out of the mouth, I've found, results in a wicked case of the "pasties," a thickening of saliva which makes breathing and swallowing difficult.

Halfway through the second lap around my street, my legs began to get a little heavy, so I forced myself to take longer strides. Physically, I'm certain there was little difference, but the mental difference was considerable. Any long-distance sport events, whether it's swimming the mile, running a marathon, or racing a triathlon, requires a great deal of mental discipline because partway through the race the body invariably and inevitably fatigues. I had experienced it time and again in all disciplines, and knew that if I tailored my output to what felt comfortable, my performance would gradually yet consistently degrade.

While sprinters experience something similar, I've always held the opinion that lactic acid resulting from anærobic exercise simply doesn't have the time to settle in the length of a sprint. As impressive as it is to be able to run the 100-metre dash in under ten seconds, I've always held distance runners in higher regard; comparatively, it takes sprinters considerably less thinking and less discipline during the actual event itself, qualities which for me distinguish the real athletes from the rest. To those of you who sprint track and field, no offence is intended - I know the amount of discipline and conditioning it takes while practising to perfect a sprint. I've just never understood how a minimal difference in interval, measuring in the hundredths of a second, could determine one runner faster than the next. I guess the consistency of running a pace over miles makes the differences easier to see, something with which I'm more personally comfortable.

The burning sensation increased consistently through the third lap, to the point by which it was a struggle to keep up the pace. I couldn't try to increase the length of my stride, which in actuality had stayed pretty constant throughout the run, because my legs were simply too heavy. Breathing control had long since been abandoned in favour of a two-paced inhale, two-paced exhale system through the mouth in an effort to increase the amount of oxygen in my blood. My mouth had dried out, and I'm certain I felt much like a horse which had been galloping for an extended period of time. I had hit "the wall," the distance athlete's ever-dreaded enemy, and as I approached my house, I mentally gave up and went inside.

Fuck it, I thought, I'm spent. Checking the hour on my iPod, I noted that the pace I struck was considerable; the four-and-a-half mile distance took me just under a half hour, making it roughly a six-and-a-half minute mile. In comparison, the best marathon runners manage a six-minute mile throughout the distance of the race; while close over the short distances, there was no way I'd manage to keep up. Still, I felt proud at the accomplishment.

Gasping for air, I grabbed a bottle of Propel water from the fridge and took a huge gulp. "What's going on?" I asked my dad as I breathed heavily, trying to slow my heart rate. Mom and Ange had joined him in the kitchen, each sipping a cup of coffee, and were all watching the morning news.

"Oh son, it's awful," Mom said. "Those hostages taken last week in Iraq were just executed, and the group that killed them..."

"The so-called 'Sword of Justice, ' " Dad interrupted.

"... have said that they resent any foreigners in Iraq, regardless of their mission, and have promised to bomb targets in Canada in retaliation for what they see as interference."

I was stunned. Canadians had died participating in the Afghanistan campaign following 9/11, but they had all been under arms, members of the Canadian forces. These recent casualties in Iraq weren't only civilians, they were also strong peace advocates. While I didn't agree with their advocacy of an immediate withdraw from Iraq, feeling instead that the country needed to be stabilised before Coalition forces could pull out, that they were peaceful targets, and that the terrorists promised retaliation against an uninvolved nation which happened to be my place of birth caused my blood to boil.

The anger must have been apparent on my face, because Ange looked at me and said, "It's awful, honey, I know... but there's nothing we can do about it right now. If it'll make you feel better, say a prayer for the victims, and remember that your mother, father, and I all love you very much. Now, get showered and get going to school... seeing your friends will do you some good."

Her tone calmed me significantly, and I sighed, knowing she was right. There wasn't anything I could do; nothing could bring those four peacemakers back from the dead. With a brief internal prayer for the families of the victims, I hit the showers and got ready for school.

The morning's brief on CNN shaped my mood for the day at school. Sullen didn't quite cover it, and depressed wasn't the right choice of word; sombre, I think, fit best. All of yesterday's excitement, from my conflict with Mr. Wolfgang to the conclusion of my experiment and everything in between faded into background. Comparatively, yesterday's school day simply didn't matter.

The news of the hostages' execution had travelled quickly, and formed the basis of the students' morning discussion in the common area. I didn't join in any of them, moving on autopilot towards my locker, but I overheard conversation tidbits here and there.

"... can't understand how they could do that..."

"... their families must be devastated..."

"... at least they're with God now..."

The sentiments were well-meant, and I concurred with all of them. However, as I neared the N-wing, a comment made by a junior varsity wrestler to a friend of his turned my sombre mood to one of rage. "Fucking Canadians," he said. "Serves them right for staying out of the war; now they're just as much a target as we've been for the past four years."

I wanted to hit him. Stupid ignorant fucker, I thought to myself. God, I wanted to swing at him with my motorcycle helmet and crack his skull, and then break him in half over my knee. But I couldn't afford to. Not only would it bring the ire of the school, but it would also bring adult-sized assault and battery charges. That fell under the category of attention I wanted to avoid, and besides which, I liked my helmet.

The morning's mood prevailed in Mrs. Martinez' calculus class, and my classmates were generally subdued. As the teacher went over another review on the calculation of limits, I overheard some of my classmates talking, naturally about this morning's news.

"I can't believe that happened," Drew whispered to the student sitting ahead of him, a guy named Shaun Bender. "I mean, it's starting to get out of hand... they're scheduled for hopefully peaceful elections, and shit like this keeps going on. You think it'll ever stop?"

The other student snorted, and leaning back, said over his right shoulder, "Dude, you know they're never going to be satisfied until they kill us all. Why do you think 'Death to America!' is their slogan?" Bender shuddered. "It's scary as shit."

Similar localised conversations were happening across the classroom as well, but one much like the discussion the JV wrestler had just outside my locker cropped up at the far end. "Well, they can't be all high and mighty now, can they?" a guy sitting in front of Tony Tarantoulis said. "Like I've said before, if you're not with us you're against us, and those Canadians got what they had coming to them."

Hearing this, a couple of students in the class gasped aloud, and Mrs. Martinez, not having heard the comment's content, stopped her lecture to see what was amiss. Julie was trembling, and suddenly burst into tears, bolting from the classroom. Tony frowned, and smacked the guy upside the head. "Way to go, jackass," he said. "Something like this is traumatic enough for some people without you opening your goddamned mouth."

Mrs. Martinez glared at the both of them. "Keep your hands to yourself!" she snapped at Tony. "And you," she snarled at the other student, "this is a calculus class. If you want to debate politics, you're welcome to do so... outside my class." The student kept quiet, and when the teacher returned to the whiteboard, turned around and glared at Tony.

Beyond that, calculus went off without a hitch.

Halfway through second period, I got pulled from Mrs. Eishorn's closing lecture on Beowulf to see Mr. Montez. Upon arriving in his office, he told me to take a seat. Again, no offer of coffee was forthcoming, so I prepared for the worst.

"Jay, I wanted to speak to you before you got to physics — that's why I pulled you out of English. You weren't in the middle of anything important, were you?" he asked.

"Well, I'm certain Mrs. Eishorn would disagree, but we weren't being tested, if that's what you meant," I replied. "I'll catch up on my material later today."

"Great. Now, I spoke with Jason this morning, and he more or less confirmed your story from third period yesterday. Normally, I wouldn't consider a single student's word sufficient, but Jason's a different case... he does have the ear of the entire school," the dean began. "I still think you've got a bit of an attitude..." I bristled at the remark. "... but it seems I judged you too harshly, and too quickly. Are you still looking to CLEP out of your physics class?"

I nodded. "Sir, Mr. Wolfgang and I simply don't see eye to eye. I'm certain he's unaccustomed to feeling like his authority is being challenged - which was neither my purpose, nor was that what I did yesterday - but I'm not going to be talked down to by anyone."

Mr. Montez sighed. "I was expecting you'd say something like that. Alright, what I'll do is schedule an appointment with the school's guidance counsellor for next period, who'll proctor your physics CLEP. When you decide to schedule the appointment is up to you, but I'd recommend doing it after school today; otherwise, you'll be listed in the school's attendance computer as skipping third period on a daily basis."

"I appreciate it, Mr. Montez. Look," I said, "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot yesterday afternoon. I hope that's something we'll be able to avoid in the future."

"I hope so too, Jay... I hope so too."

After the warning bell rang for third period, I ran into a girl I recognised from English class. "Serenity?" I asked. "It's Serenity, right?"

"Almost," the raven-haired girl replied with a chuckle, "Clarissa. Serenity's my family name... kind of a funny last name when you think about it, but that's what people remember."

"Sorry," I apologised. "What'd I miss?"

"Oh, it was awful! Word got around about what happened in first period today, and so Beth... well, you know how she is... she started picking on poor Julie, calling her a whiny cry baby. Then, the Johnson twins... you know, the brown-haired class morons... started laughing at her, and she just fell to pieces," she raced. "I felt so bad for her."

"No, I mean, what did I miss from the lecture?"

"Oh." She paused thoughtfully for a moment, and her brow furrowed. "Well, we finished off the last episode of Beowulf, and Mrs. Eishorn reminded us about out final assignment on the poem."

I remembered it; thankfully, we weren't being tested, which is generally pointless to do in a class aimed at creating lively discussions, but rather we had to write a five-page essay by the end of the week on the nature of heroism and how it was exemplified by the Geat king. I was fairly certain a number of students were going to end up writing about the hostages' execution in their essays, and I couldn't blame them; there was something subtly heroic about their sacrifice.

"So, you off to third period?" Serenity asked.

I shook my head. "I've got a meeting with the guidance counsellor in a couple of minutes; looks like I'm going to be CLEPing out of my physics. Besides, I think I'm persona non grata in Mr. Wolfgang's classroom."

"Julie told me about what happened yesterday. You'll be better off." I nodded. "Anyway, I gotta go - if I see Julie, I'll tell her you said hi."

"Sure, thanks. See you later, Serenity." She smiled and walked away, presumably to her third period class, whatever it was. As I turned around and made my way to the guidance counsellor's, a funny thought struck me: I don't remember asking her to say hi to Julie for me. Shrugging it off, I continued walking to the office.

Sixth period came and went without much in the way of fanfare. I still had to get to Ms. Thompson's office to write my exam and thus exempt myself from third period for the remainder of the year, so the day wasn't quite over just yet.