My Time as Caz Hazard Read online

  My Time as Caz Hazard

  Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  Orca soundings

  Copyright © 2004 Tanya Lloyd Kyi

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Kyi, Tanya Lloyd, 1973-

  My time as Caz Hazard / Tanya Lloyd Kyi.

  (Orca soundings)

  ISBN 1-55143-319-2

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8571.Y52T54 2004 jC813’.6 C2004-904722-1

  Summary: When Caz and Amanda’s behavior seems to contribute to a classmate’s suicide, Caz must take a long hard look at her life.

  First published in the United States, 2004

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2004110933

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Department of Canadian Heritage’s Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Cover design: Lynn O’Rourke

  Cover photography: Christy Robertson

  Orca Book Publishers

  Box 5626, Stn B.

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  07 06 05 04 • 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper, 100% old growth forest free, processed chlorine free using vegetable, low VOC inks.

  For Gordon and Shirley Lloyd

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank Krystal Cullum for sharing her expertise in the areas of dyslexia and other learning disabilities.

  Chapter One

  I punched my so-called boyfriend at the end of grade ten.

  Joel played for a junior hockey team, and his big dream was to get drafted and live in New York or Chicago. I thought he had two chances — slim and none — but that’s not something you can tell your boyfriend.

  Some nights, it seemed like Joel’s main purpose was to bash into other players. They were always getting into fake fights, hauling off their shirts and throwing show-off punches. They pulled their fists back so fast they hardly touched each other.

  I went to the games with my friend Mel — mostly for something to do. I would load us up with hot chocolates and popcorn, and Mel would do her best to look like a hockey fan. With her thick brown hair swept back and her metal-rimmed glasses, she looked more like a Hollywood starlet. I could picture her in one of those old black-and-white romance movies. Mel’s too smart to be interested in hockey. She went to the games for my sake and watched with a slightly puzzled expression.

  Once we saw a player get slammed against the boards near the stands. His head hit the Plexiglas and his eyebrow started bleeding, a little river of red curving down the side of his nose. He looked up and saw these teenyboppers pressed up against the other side of the glass and winked.

  Mel made a disgusted sound. “He acts like he’s their personal hockey god. And he’s proud of that blood. It makes me sick.”

  “He is pretty good-looking. Without the blood,” I grinned.

  Joel wasn’t hard to look at either. He had dark brown hair and wide shoulders and a little dusting of freckles that made him look like a kid when he smiled. We’d been going out for three weeks, so I’d been watching more hockey than usual.

  Mel snorted again, still watching the bleeding guy. “The problem is that he knows he’s good-looking. Can you believe those girls throwing themselves at him? Puh-leeze. They should receive immediate therapy for bad taste.”

  I almost choked on my hot chocolate. “Uh, Mel…have you forgotten that I’m dating a hockey player?”

  She looked at me primly, but it was obvious that she had momentarily forgotten. “Maybe it doesn’t count when you only date one. Just don’t date more than three in a row.”

  “You’re jealous,” I teased.

  “Wait until all of Joel’s teeth get knocked out and then see how jealous I am. Next you’ll be telling me that dentures are so sexy.”

  That was Friday night. On Monday morning I was talking to Mel before class and this bimbo from grade nine waltzed up to us. Her hair was teased into cutesy pigtails. She had a posse of two or three other girls standing behind her for moral support.

  “I just thought you should know,” she said. I hate it when people think you should know something. It’s like when your parents say that something’s for your own good. You can tell it’s going to be bad.

  Bimbo Girl took a deep breath. One of her little friends gave her a push forward. “Joel slept with me last night.”

  In the middle of her big sentence, her voice cracked. She turned and fled down the hallway and into the girls’ bathroom. One of her friends stayed behind long enough to whisper, “She didn’t know about you until afterward.”

  Mel tried to calm me down all morning.

  “You should talk to him,” she said, reasonably. “I’m sure he has an explanation.”

  “Yeah, like explaining that her breasts are bigger than mine.”

  Eventually, she gave up on me.

  When the lunch bell rang, I went straight to the gym. I knew he’d be hanging out there with his hockey buddies. His back was to me. I walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. Everyone there went silent. They all must have known about Bimbo Girl. Anger swirled in my head until my eyes watered and my throat felt like it was closing.

  Joel hardly had time to see me. My arm was already back as he turned around. I hit him smack in the nose. He fell flat on his back, like a tree. I turned around and left before he could say anything.

  His friends were already laughing at him.

  Chapter Two

  I got suspended. Who knew? Two seconds, one punch and, voila — two weeks off.

  At first it was totally worth it. It was the end of school anyway, so it was like getting an extra couple of weeks of summer vacation. My week of being grounded was over in a flash. (It was supposed to be two weeks, but my parents got lazy and stopped checking on me.) After that I took my sketchbooks and sat in the sunshine at the park almost every morning, drawing the kids who fed the pigeons, or the elderly couple that came and sat on the same bench every day.

  Mel kept me up-to-date on the school gossip. Gossip like the week-long fling and subsequent breakup of Bimbo Girl and Puck Head. News of the split kept me happy for almost a month.

  Then, at the end of August, everything fell apart. My old principal told my parents that I might do better in a different environment. That’s how they all kept saying it — “different environment” — as if they were changing my pen at the zoo. My new school was Dogwood Senior Secondary in East Vancouver. It was smaller — only four hundred students — and supposed to be more supportive. “Supportive” turned out to mean anal. Before classes started, I had to go in for an entire day of tests. My parents and I were called in for a meeting the week after.

  “We’re late,” Mom hissed as we swung open the double doors at the front of the school. Mom looked like she might be the new head of the parents’ association. She had her blond hair (courtesy of Clairol) swept into some complicated bun on the top of her head. She’s a realtor, and Dad says she scares people into buying houses. It might be true. Someone forgot to tell her that turquoise blue eye shadow went out of style about two decades
ago.

  “We’re only ten minutes late,” my dad said calmly as we filed toward the office. “They can’t start without us.”

  Within a few minutes we were sitting on tweed chairs in a meeting room. The principal and the woman who gave me my tests — she turned out to be the learning assistance coordinator for the school district — sat together at the end of the table.

  Test Lady cleared her throat. “Upon reading Caz’s file, we had some concerns about her past performance at school.”

  Mom barely let her finish her sentence. “I assure you, the incident with that boy was a one-time occurrence. Caz has already been severely punished at home.” I love how parents think being grounded is a severe punishment. As if watching soap operas and eating popcorn for lunch is somehow painful.

  Test Lady waited for my mom to finish. “The violence is only one of our concerns. Some of the tests Caz wrote earlier this week show that she has a mild learning disability.”

  “She certainly does not,” my mom said. Dad was silent.

  “It’s called dyslexia,” Test Lady continued, as if Mom hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Dyslexia is a congenital and developmental condition, with genetic and environmental causes.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, and I could tell that Mom didn’t understand her either. “That’s ridiculous,” she said.

  “Symptoms include poor reading, writing and spelling skills,” Test Lady said, “as well as some problems with mathematics.”

  That’s where Mom walked out. She stood up with a huff and left the room. I looked at Dad to see if I should follow. He didn’t move, so I stayed. After a minute he turned to look at me. “Do you think that you might have this?” he asked me.

  I shrugged. “I suck at English. Does that count?”

  Test Lady nodded. “It does indeed. Mr. Hallard, Caz’s dyslexia is not severe. What we would like to suggest is that you place her in our remedial reading program. She’ll spend part of each morning with a small group of other students and receive personal attention from our learning assistance teacher. For the remainder of the day, she can take regular classes.”

  Dad agreed to everything, like he always does, and I tuned out. Was dyslexia curable? I didn’t want to ask.

  When we got outside, Mom was in a fury. “I can’t believe you stayed and let that woman talk to you like that,” she shouted as soon as Dad climbed into the car.

  “She’s only trying to help,” Dad said.

  Mom echoed him in a high voice. “She’s only trying to help. Well, Ms. Goody Two-Shoes can stuff it. Caz isn’t stupid. I hope you told her that!”

  “I told her that we would do whatever it takes to help Caz improve,” Dad said. I thought that was nice of him, although I saw no real hope of improving.

  “You are so immensely spineless,” Mom snarled. At Dad, not me. “They probably thought ‘sucker’ the minute they saw you. They can put your daughter into whatever retard class they want, and you say nothing.”

  I sank into the backseat upholstery and pretended I wasn’t there.

  “No one’s calling Caz a retard,” Dad said.

  “No one says retard anymore,” I told them. That was a mistake. It gave them an excuse to stop yelling at each other. They both glared at me instead.

  When we got home I went straight to the phone to call Mel and tell her how horrible Mom had been. Then I realized that I’d have to explain about the remedial reading class. Halfway through dialing, I hung up.

  Chapter Three

  On the first day of school at Dogwood, I wore a burgundy skirt with my high black boots. A bit sleazy, I guess, but I wanted to make an impression. And I succeeded. I wasn’t even in the hallway for two minutes before this guy with curly black hair and huge brown eyes separated himself from his friends. I could tell he was the type who stopped conversation at a party just by entering the room.

  “New kid?” he asked. I told him I’d just transferred.

  “I’m Brad. I’ll show you around.”

  “You could show me to my first class,” I told him, giving him my best flirty look. I reached in my bag for the schedule the principal had given me. I found it, already crumpled. “It’s 112.”

  “Sure,” he said, “112.” Then all of a sudden he stopped talking. His eyes looked like they were scanning the hallway for an escape route. Was it my imagination? Had I developed a giant zit on my forehead in record time?

  “I just remembered something,” he said. “I gotta go. Your class is at the end of the hall.”

  The door was only a few steps ahead and I found it easily enough. As I was walking into the classroom, I heard a guy’s voice at the other end of the hall calling, “Check it out — a new sped!” I glanced in that direction. Brad and his friends were looking straight at me, leering.

  I ducked into the classroom as if it were an emergency shelter. Then I looked around. This couldn’t possibly be the right place. It looked more like a day care than a high school classroom. There were two bulletin boards covered with brightly colored construction paper, looking like they were ready to showcase new finger paintings, and there was an alphabet pinned to the top of one wall.

  Seated around a long, rectangular table were four other kids — two girls on one side and two guys on the other. One guy was rocking back and forth slightly, tapping on the table. He had blond hair that hung over his forehead and swayed back and forth into his eyes as he rocked. He didn’t look up. The other guy had dark skin and piercing black eyes. He was staring at me like I’d just killed his best friend. It made me want to shiver.

  I closed my eyes. Please, please, please let this be the wrong classroom. I looked back at the open door. The number was definitely 112. I scanned the two girls on my side of the table. The first one looked like she was dressed in her grandmother’s sofa, so I chose a chair beside the prettier one.

  “What’s a sped?” I asked her, ignoring Psycho Boy’s continued stare.

  She rolled her eyes. “Special education student,” she enunciated, giving me a clear view of her bubble gum. “Welcome to Dogshit Secondary. You can ignore Jaz over there. He’s brilliant — shouldn’t even be here — but he’s dealing with, like, serious anger management issues.” I jumped as Jaz — Psycho Boy — scraped his chair back a fraction and transferred his glare. The girl with the bubble gum didn’t flinch.

  She held out her hand for me to shake. It was adorned with spiky silver rings in gothic designs. “I’m Amanda. What nuts-for-brains called you a sped?”

  “Some guy named Brad.”

  “Looks like he just flew his private jet from Hollywood?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well, don’t stress about it. It’s not like he’s getting into Harvard any time soon. He’s the biggest dealer in the school.”

  “Drugs?” I said, trying not to look shocked. He’d seemed more like an art dealer than a drug dealer.

  Amanda winked at me. “It’s not the worst thing in the world. I wouldn’t run the other way if he asked me out. Can’t blame me for that, can you?”

  I didn’t have time to answer before our teacher swept into the room. She had crazy hair that was flying in all directions and she wore a long skirt and a crystal necklace on a brown leather cord.

  “Talk about a flashback to the hippie era,” Amanda muttered under her breath.

  The teacher was also wearing what looked like a Girl Guide vest, several sizes too small. It was covered in those little badges they award for baking cookies or starting a fire. I wouldn’t know — I quit Brownies after three weeks. I couldn’t handle all those sucks in one room singing about owls.

  “I’m Ms. Samuels.” When she smiled, her eyes crinkled in the corners and she looked like we were her favorite people in the world. “We’re going to be spending lots of time together, so why don’t we get to know each other. How about we share our names and our favorite hobbies?”

  Amanda made gagging sounds.

  “Why don’t you
start, dear?” Ms. Samuels said, her smile fading.

  This time Amanda cleared her throat and crossed her hands on the desk in front of her, like a model student. “I’m Amanda. I like sunsets, long walks on the beach and kittens,” she simpered.

  Ms. Samuels nodded as if Amanda were serious. “Next?” she said, turning to me.

  “Caz. I like…” My brain suddenly went blank. “Shopping,” I finally stuttered.

  When it was Jaz’s turn, I’m pretty sure he said “go to hell” under his breath. Ms. Samuels pretended not to hear.

  “Rob?” she said. Apparently she was talking to the rocking kid, but he didn’t answer.

  “He’s what they call ‘non-verbal,’” Amanda whispered to me. “About as chatty as the sphinx.”

  Finally Ms. Samuels turned to the third girl, the one dressed in upholstery, who spoke so quietly I could barely hear her. “My name’s Dodie and I like sewing,” she whispered.

  Amanda made gagging sounds again.

  “Good,” Ms. Samuels said, ignoring Amanda. “Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m wearing this vest. A few of you are having some difficulty with spelling, and we’re going to begin the year by reviewing the rules. We’ll start with the consonant sound ‘dge,’ as in badge.”

  This time when I looked at Amanda she seemed to have dropped into a coma, and I understood completely. A year of spelling sounded like death by slow torture. And did Ms. Samuels think we were in preschool? As she unfolded a poster of the Golden Gate Bridge — another “dge” sound — I slid down in my seat and kicked Amanda under the table. When she turned, I showed her the first page of my notebook.

  I’d written: Time to jump off a ledge.

  Chapter Four

  My work with Ms. Samuels was going to count as English for the first semester, so the remainder of my day was divided into three. There was history, with the oldest teacher known to man. He taught while clinging to a podium at the front of the class, as if he might topple if he lost his grip.