Ch 2

I take a seat in one of the old wooden desks set cleverly in a semi circle in the centre of the room and survey the scene while I calm my breathing. Sometimes my anxiety gets the better of me and I can't have a panic attack right now. Not in front of them.

"What the hell are you in here for, Justin?" Kyle Rennet flops into the seat next to me and puts his boots up on my desk. He and I were in grade school together and I'm pretty sure this is the first time he's spoken to me since grade eight. Back then he was a scrawny kid with greasy hair who was obsessed with WWE. Since then he's moved into weight training and has better personal hygiene. He's a gym rat with a hard body who was busted for steroids last year.

"Same as you, I guess," I answer noncommittally.

"Yeah, right. Mr. 95 percenter needs extra credits and 'special treatment.' I'm sure you fit their criteria for a student at risk," Kyle snorts, but not unkindly exactly.

I don't want to play whose house is worse because, quite frankly, we're kind of tied in that department. His dad actually dated my mom at one point when we were in fifth grade. Instead I just shrug and role my eyes.

Kyle considers me for a minute, then asks appeasingly, "How is your mom, anyway? Still dating losers?" He doesn't have much regard for his dad, either.

"I don't know, new boyfriend again."

"Sucks, Bro. You should see the bitch my dad's with now." I can only imagine.

Our pathetic attempts at conversation are interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Sway and Ms. Francis. Gone is the usual teacher outfits, both dressed very casually in jeans, hoodies, and running shoes.

"Welcome to Beyond the Building," Mr. Sway begins. "All have you have been hand-picked for this program and we hope that we'll have another fantastic semester." He looks different today than he did last week, more approachable and friendly, rather than the strict physics teacher I was used to. His dark hair is a bit disheveled and his t-shirt shows more definition in his upper body than was noticeable in his dress shirts last semester.

"Last year we had a great success rate with most of the students earning all five credits," Ms Francis takes over. "There were no suspensions and due to all the hard work, we were able to secure additional funding for this year. If you all meet with the same level of success, it can benefit the students that will come after you, too."

Mr. Sway begins handing out composition books to everyone in the room, so the other misfits begrudgingly take a seat around the circle. A goth girl with probably twenty piercings lands in a seat to the other side of me. She's all in black, corseted and leathered, heavily covered in make-up and wearing the requisite heavy boots and ripped fishnets.

"So, I'm sure you're all thrilled with get to know you exercises, but we should still go around the room and introduce ourselves," Mr. Sway says as he returns to the centre. "I'll start. My name is Marcus Sway and I've been doing this program for six years. I'm 29 and teach science and love camping and hiking."

"I'm Kay Francis and this is my fourth year with Beyond the Building. I teach English, love the outdoors, and am 27." I had Ms. Sway in grade ten and loved her class. She's one of those teachers that really seem to actually care about her students and likes to talk. A lot of the guys at school think she's hot, too, partly because she's one of the youngest female teachers and partly because she's petite, blonde, and curvy.

"Are we supposed to call you by your first names, since you're telling them to us?" one of the girls asks.

"No, that would get us in trouble with the administrators, but you can dispense with the Mr and Ms—Sway and Francis is fine," Ms. Francis responds. "And you just volunteered to go first, Andi."

"Fine. I'm And, in grade 11, and here because I got kicked off the cheerleading squad for cheating on exams." I do seem to remember some sort of scandal about something like that. She looks like a cheerleader still, all perky and popular, but I know that being booted off the squad probably means she lost a lot of her social status.

The tall dark girl next to her rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth. "I'm Shayla and I didn't do nothing wrong to be here. I'm in grade ten." She looks over to the teachers to challenge her claim of innocence, but none comes and we move on. I didn't realize there would be younger students here, too.

"I'm Kent Gardner and I am being forced to be here by my probation officer. Apparently he did this program when he went here. Oh, I'm in grade twelve, sort of." Everyone knows who Kent is, and doesn't bat an eye when he mentions probation. He's pretty infamous because last semester he stole a car from the autoshop and smashed it into the side of the school while drunk. It's surprising he's not expelled.

Goth girl is next. "I'm Faith Czenic, grade 11 and my truancy officer is making me attend." Maybe that's why I don't think I've seen her around. I think about this for a second before I realize everyone is looking at me, precisely what I always try to avoid.

Awkwardly I spit out my name and grade and will them to move on to Kyle without giving me a second thought. Sadly, that's not the case.

"What the hell is he in for? I sure as fuck haven't seen him in detention." A lanky guy wearing torn jeans and shoes held together by duct tape spits out. He flicks his long bangs out of his eyes with practiced skill and continues, fixing his icy blue eyes on me. "Are your mommy and daddy okay with an academic like you mixing with the likes of us?"

"Uh..." I'm not sure what to say, confrontation isn't exactly my strength, and I feel myself shrinking under his gaze.

Suddenly Kyle jumps in—support from an unexpected ally. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Justin may do well in school but he's just as fucked as the rest of us. His mom's a total whore and his dad took off when he was two. Hell, I bet..." Thankfully Kyle's animated defence gets interrupted by Mr. Sway.

"That's enough Tom. Thank you, Kyle. Justin's here at the invitation of guidance department for more than one reason. Let's move on." My brow knits in confusion. Is there something I don't know about me being here?

"Fine, I'm Kyle. I need more credits since my little incident in the gym last year. I'm in grade 12," he gives everyone a friendly wave and I remember why I always liked Kyle—he's generally a decent guy. If his upbringing had been better, he'd probably be one of those popular jock types, but guys from our neighbourhood seldom have the cash or time to commit to varsity sports.

The rest of the morning moves pretty quickly. After the introductions, our basic schedule is explained to us, including required hikes, plant identification, food prep and budgeting. There is required reading just like other classes, but not from traditional textbooks—instead we have outdoors magazines, field guides, and different gear manuals. They've all been well worn, but none have the graffiti of other books our school owns. Even my physics text had some swear words, but oddly, these don't.

"Okay, group, listen up," Ms Francis addresses us. "Today we follow regular lunch in the caf, but most days we won't. Everyone in here qualifies for nutrition for learning, so the caf will have things set aside for us."

"You mean I won't get to eat with my friends?" Andi snaps her gum angrily.

"Most days we won't even be finished our morning activities," Mr. Sway conquers.

Panicked voices spring up from around the room. "What about my smoke break?" Carson, a ginger haired (former, supposedly) dealer in grade 11 asks.

"What about my boyfriend?" Liv asks. She and her boyfriend, Nick, are usually joined by the lips against the lockers in the senior hall, although she's a grade below me.

"Hell, Nick will be fine without you—he's got game. What about my girlfriend?" Jeff complains.

"People, please, calm down. This program has run successfully for a long time, just like Kent's probation officer pointed out. We do have plans for some of these things, like built in breaks during the day, but they are privileges," Ms. Francis explains. "For now, let's go to lunch. You all have thirty minutes and are encouraged to sit together. These are people that you will need to rely on with your life, so you'd better get to know each other."

And not for the last time, I really wonder if I made the correct decision, because most of these people I wouldn't trust to hold my gum, let alone anything else.

Begrudgingly we trudge as a group from our deathtrap of a classroom into the main building, across the icy path and past the snowbanks, piled high with the latest snowfall. When we enter the building, our teachers lead us to the serving area where a cafeteria lady is waiting, grey hairs protruding out of her black hairnet.

"Okay class, this is Barbara. She's our go to person in the caf. Sign in with her and you'll get your lunch. Like I said, I hope you'll sit together, and you are to be back to our room in thirty minutes," Ms. Francis explains.

"Thirty minutes? But lunch is normally forty-five!" someone behind me complains.

"Deal with it," Mr. Sway's physics teacher demeanour returns, his voice curt.

"Okay, gang. Find your name on the list. It will be at the checkout everyday when you go through, and I'll have your trays made up. Here's a sheet that you'll need to fill out with regards to food preferences and allergies. Make sure to hand them in before the end of the day. For today, you each get the special, a salad, cookie, and juice. Anything else and you have to pay for it," Barbara calls to us with her gravelly voice.

We all make it through the line in a few minutes and for once I have a decent lunch. The special today is chicken casserole with a caesar salad. It's a nice surprise, I haven't had a lunch since elementary school. Usually I just sit in the library and sneak an apple or something. My mom passed off the responsibilities for school lunch to me when I turned seven, and I decided the extra five minutes of sleep was more important by grade nine. Besides, we didn't always have sandwich stuff around and I hated bringing leftovers.

Standing with my tray, I realize another reason why I hate the cafeteria. There are a few empty tables, but I don't really have anyone to sit with. It's part of the problem with being anti-social. I should just go and sit by myself, but I hate to highlight that I don't have friends.

I get jostled from behind. "Come on, 95, just take a fucking seat," Tom almost throws his tray down on the table in front of us. I stand there and look like a complete tool for a few seconds while Kyle, Kent, and Faith sit with him. A few other people from our class whose names elude me walk around me and sit, too.

"Why 95?" Faith asks.

"That's his average," Kyle garbles, his mouth full of casserole. Kyle looks at me and nods his head towards an open spot.

I shrug and take a seat.

"Do you really have a 95% average?" one of the others asks, Jen, maybe?

"Not exactly," I look down at my tray, my cheeks red from the attention.

"Ah, let the boy eat," Kyle clamps his hand on my shoulder. "He's never been one for conversation." And with that, they move on to another subject and I can eat in peace.

I sneak a few looks at the people around me, but mostly I keep my head down. Between mouthfuls, Tom notices me observing and catches my eye. I swallow hard, trying to ignore the jolt from his piercing eyes. I look back down immediately and instead listen to the conversations swirling around me. Jen is the name of the girl who questioned me, and she looks a little familiar—all curly red hair and freckles. I think she was in one of my classes a few years ago, but I'm not sure. Now I'm wishing I paid a little bit more attention during the introductions, although I guess I'll get to know more about everyone soon enough.

"Hey! Earth to 95." Kent grins across the table at me while he taps his knuckles on the table top.

I look up, puzzled, noticing that everyone around me is standing up.

"We have to be back to class in five minutes. We're leaving now," Jen says.

"Oh, thanks," I stand and clean up my tray, face burning again. This much interaction with people in one day is unheard of for me.

I wasn't always this way. I used to have some friends. Not a lot of them or anything, but a few. Probably my closest friend was Taylor. He and I were pretty inseparable from grade one to grade five—it was his dad that took us on camping trips sometimes in the summers and even a few in the winter. Taylor and I were going to open our own architectural company together. I'd design the buildings and he would create them. I did elaborate blueprints and Taylor would build them out of lego. When we were camping, Taylor, his father and I would build lean-tos, sledges, cooking fires, all sorts of outdoorsy stuff. Then they moved, and I was heart-broken, literally.

Sal, my mom's boyfriend at the time, decided that since I liked camping with Taylor, I needed Scouts. That way at least someone would take me camping, and at a low cost, relatively. I did Scouts from grade five to grade nine, when I realized that, in high school, being a scout was a great way to attract the wrong type of attention. I was already a geek, I didn't need a bigger target on my back, so I quit.

The afternoon class is broken up based on grade level. Kent, Kyle, Tom, Jen, Nicole, and I are all in grade twelve, so we form one group. Nicole is an earthy-hippie type based on her clothes, and she seems a bit spacey. Of course that could be because she smoked up at lunch. Her eyes are definitely red and there's a distinct odour if you get too close. I'm assuming that might be the reason she's here. Rather than have her get busted the first day, I reach into my bag and offer her a piece of gum to at least get the weed smell off her breath.

"Thanks," she says, taking a piece, then offers it around to the seniors.

An empty pack gets tossed back on my desk. "Yeah, thanks 95," Tom gives me a smirk.

We work together for the next half hour on some outdoor safety sheets, all about first aid and emergency procedures. Most of it is stuff I already know, but I don't want to look like a know-it-all, so I look my answers up just like the rest of my group.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"You're my fucking problem, asshole."

The relative quiet of the room is broken by two guys in the group of grade ten students. I generally hate grade tens, they think they're so amazing just because they aren't in grade nine anymore. The older students have things to worry about, like what's going to happen after they're finished school, but the grade tens are all about parties, posturing, and hormones. Everything beyond high school is still too far away, and they aren't the lowest people in the pecking order anymore.

Before the teachers can step in, the two boys are on top of each other, desks knocked aside and fists pounding flesh. The thwack of the punches rings loudly, the rest of the standing now, watching. Mr. Sway and Ms. Francis step in, trying to pull the boys apart, but Kyle realizes his build is better suited to help, so he holds back one of the fighters while Mr Sway restrains the other. The tension in the room is almost palpable, and the two combatants stand, breathing heavily staring each other down.

Within a minute, Mr. Woodson, a vice-principal, enters our room. One of our teachers must have pressed the office button when the fight started.

"Already, Chris?" he looks at one of the fighters. "You do realize this was your last chance."

"Fuck you, Woodson," Chris responds, wiping blood from his lip.

"Sorry you feel that way, Mr. Smith. You know what happens now," Mr. Woodson says in an even tone, before turning to the rest of the class. "This goes for all of you, you know. All of you are here on your last chance."

The other person in the fight, a short swarthy looking kid swears in Spanish, before pleading his case, "He started it, he threw the first punch. Please don't expel me, Sir. I need this course."

"We will discuss your case, Mr. Alvarado, and we'll see."

"He's telling the truth, Mr. Woodson," a heavier blonde girl interrupts. "It was all Chris. He was angry that we were trying to make him do his share of the work and he just flipped out. He tore up the sheet and threw it at Jose."

"Thank you, Julia. I'll certainly keep that under advisement." He turns back to the teachers. "Mr. Sway, Ms. Francis, at least this year you made it until after lunch." With that he ushers the two boys from the portable and towards the office.

"Okay," Mr. Sway starts, "so you all heard him. Physical altercations will result in expulsion from this program, and probably from this school, too. Thanks for your help, Kyle. As for the rest of you, thank you for not stepping in and contributing to the fight."

"Five minute break. Smoke 'em if you got 'em," Ms. Francis announces.

"Seriously?" Liv asks.

"Yes, seriously. The room is really tense at the moment, and for some of you that's how you calm down. If you don't smoke, you can still take a five minute cool down. Get a breath of fresh air, whatever. Except you, Nicole. Come back high again, and you'll be gone."

Everyone looks at Nicole who just giggles and answers, "Understood."

People get up to leave and I stay at my seat, trying again, to figure out what the hell I'm doing here. Right now I could be in an academic English class full of university bound students who wouldn't give me, or anyone else in here, a second thought.

"Come on, 95," Tom kicks my foot, his duct taped shoe leaving a mark on my converse, "I'll buy you more gum from the vending machine." He flicks his bangs to the side and I stand to follow him, my heart beating a little bit faster.