Against the Wind
― Jodi Picoult
When a man falls, it’s not necessarily precipitous—sometimes it’s a slow descent into darkness. It was for me.
I was patrolling the Jane-Finch Corridor in Toronto—a young police officer trying hard to make a difference.
My confidence was rising and falling until the day my partner, Steve Jacobs, was gunned down outside a sandwich shop. I was inside sipping scotch from a mickey I hid in the washroom.
By the time I hit the sidewalk, the perp was gone, Steve was dead and my career as a cop was over.
There’s no graduating from AA, but I faked it. Went back to university, got a degree and ended up back in the Corridor—this time as a teacher.
I was still brittle—fragile as glass and about as likely to shatter.
As a wise man once said, anything cracked will shatter at a touch. There was a fine, barely discernible crack still left in me.
“You gonna help with my homework tonight, Teach?”
Nicky smiles seductively from the porch—sixteen going on thirty—always flirtatious. Her mother, Emily, rents me the loft and no way I'm going to jeopardize my fresh start.
“I think you can handle that yourself, Nicky,” I shout back at her as I get into my Vette.
“How come you drive such a hot car?”
“Just turned thirty—gotta do something.”
“Yeah well, Mom’s working the night shift—maybe we can party.”
I grin and shake my head. “Not gonna happen—and don’t plan on inviting any friends over and doing something stupid.”
I watch in my rear view mirror as Nicky stands in the driveway, looking like a blonde Lolita.
She’s defiant in her spray-painted jeans and midriff-baring shirt. As I drive away she gives me the finger.
It used to be Britney—then, Miley—now, Nicky? Baby, baby, I chuckle to myself.
Meg Carson’s my department head—she’s only a few years older, but seems to have it all together in a Prime of Miss Jean Brodie kind of way.
Maybe it’s the wispy tendrils of red hair that get in her eyes—or her soft Scottish accent—but she’s slowly driving me mad.
“Can you handle Writers Craft last period?” she asks, as we walk to class.
Last period on a Friday and fifteen grade twelve girls—I groan inside.
“You ask too much of those who love you.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, I’m sure I don’t—besides, all that teenage female angst—you’ll be in your element.”
“Says you,” I smile. “I prefer older women.”
“That’s a relief—that’ll quash the rumours about you being gay.”
I look at her hard, and she bursts out laughing, “Got you!”
I shake my head and give her a wry smile. She senses I’m ex cop or military, but doesn’t pry.
I like that about her.
But last period is exactly what I dread. I hate all-girl classes and bitchiness.
I try to teach Meg’s lesson on Taming of the Shrew, but half the girls aren’t talking to the other half and there’s half a dozen candidates who could audition for the role of Kate—and definitely out-shrew her.
Mercifully, the bell saves me as my patience finally expires.
“Have a nice weekend, Ladies,” I smile, inwardly wanting to wring a few necks.
Janice Turner, a shy, brown-haired girl hangs back. “Have you got a minute, Mr. Devine?”
“Sure,” I tell her, and straddle a desk. “What’s up?”
“I think I should warn you—Nicky’s planning a wild bash tonight at her place. You might want to make other plans.”
I sigh. “You know I can’t do that, Janice—Guess I’m gonna have to rain on Nicky’s parade.”
Her eyes are huge. “Don’t tell her I warned you.”
“I won’t.”
She turns to go. I stop her.
“Hey—thanks for giving me the heads up.”
She beams. “Have a nice weekend, Sir.”
With the prospect of confronting Nicky I'm sure that won't happen.