The Report Card

These were the last days of spring. It was 1975, and I was sixteen. In homeroom we received our third semester report cards. I was nervous. I thought I had done well, but I had been wrong before.

Mr. Cook called our names in alphabetical order. I was first. I was always first. I walked up the aisle past Mike, Lyn and Pat, my friends. They and the rest of the class watched me. Mr. Cook handed me the envelope and smiled. I took it back to my desk and just held it. I decided to wait until after class to look. If the news was bad, nobody would see my reaction.

After class, I walked to my locker. There I met Karen, my best friend. She was upset and scared. Her marks were not good. Her father would be angry tonight.

I thought going for a walk and talking might help her, so we walked across Morningstar Drive to the park opposite the school. A small creek runs the length of the park. We walked beside it and talked - that is, Karen talked, and I listened. There was nothing I could say to help her. My father did not yell at me all the time, and he never hit me. I wanted to find words to make Karen feel better. I loved Karen, and I felt helpless.

We sat down by the creek. I leaned back on the grass, closed my eyes, and tried to think of something to say. We had only a forty- minute spare so after a while I sat up to say we should start back.

My eyes met Karen's, then traced a line from her eyes to her right hand. She held a broken coke bottle. She dragged the jagged edge methodically along her left wrist. She didn't look as if this caused her any pain. I wanted to scream, grab the glass away from her, but I sat paralyzed and no sound came out of my mouth.

Then after what seemed like minutes but was, I am sure, only seconds, I asked Karen to stop. She did not. She did not seem to hear my voice. I ran.

I ran across Morningstar Drive and into the school. I needed to find Mrs. Shepherd. We trusted her. She was our friend.

Mrs. Shepherd looked up as I walked in. She ate a sandwich. In a calm, unhurried voice that I did not recognize I said, "Karen is in trouble."

Mrs. Shepherd ran with me across Morningstar Drive and into the park. We sat down beside Karen. Mrs. Shepherd did not take the glass away from Karen. I was surprised.

Mrs. Shepherd said in a soft voice, "Give me the glass." Tears ran down Karen's face. She continued to cut long vertical lines down the centre of her left wrist. Blood ran straight down her arm, then changed course to drip off the side of her hand into the creek. Blood hit the water, dispersed, and was gone.

Karen stopped. She gave the glass to Mrs. Shepherd. The three of us walked back across Morningstar Drive and into the school. The bell rang. People poured out of classes in a rush. They all talked at the same time. We threaded through them to the nurse's office.

Mrs. Shepherd closed the door and led Karen to the bed, one of those white metal hospital beds. Karen looked small and pale against all that white. Mrs. Shepherd filled a bowl with water, and she poured in antiseptic. She cleaned Karen's wrist and talked in a soft, calm voice.

I watched. They seemed to talk from far away. I couldn't hear what Mrs. Shepherd said.

I had to get away. I needed to think. There was a tiny room just off the one we were in, a little office with a desk. I crawled under that desk. I curled as tightly as I could into the far corner underneath that desk. I felt cold. I pulled my jacket tightly around me. There was something in the pocket. I took it out. It was my report card. I looked at the envelope, still unopened, and quietly, so that Mrs. Shepherd and Karen could not hear me, I cried.

- Carol Allen

From No More Masterpieces: Short Prose by New Writers edited by Guy Allen et al. Reproduced by permission of Canadian Scholars' Press Inc.