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Don Aker Publications Inc.
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STORY
Grade eleven should be easy for a sixteen-year-old who is a talented writer, but Ben Corbett is desperately struggling to keep his life together. For nine years, he has hidden a secret from his classmates, his teachers, his neighbours, from everyone but his girlfriend, Ann. Now a chance of a lifetime threatens to ruin everything.
Read an excerpt from Of Things Not Seen below:
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Of Things Not Seen, Chapter 1
“… and suddenly the whole world was sound: glass shattering, metal grinding, twisting, bone cracking, splintering. The front bumper shrieked as it crumpled and was driven back through the grill, radiator, fan, motor. Both front tires burst simultaneously, and the bug-spattered windshield crashed inward like a single, solid wave. The speedometer needle, which a split second earlier had pointed at 120 km/h, now aimed itself at David’s belly as the dash rose up and wrapped itself around the steering column in a sudden plastic embrace.
“Yet David was aware of none of this. His mind had not yet registered the impact of vehicle against bridge guardrail. He was unaware that his father’s Buick was now in midair, plummeting toward the icy waters below. He was unaware that his heart would beat only twice more before it exploded in a chest crushed between front seat and steering wheel. All he knew was that his right hand no longer held the beer bottle he’d drunk from only moments before. And then he knew nothing.”
Mr. Lewis looked up from the duotang he’d been reading, closed it, and said, “The end.” He glanced at Ben Corbett, who sat sideways in his seat at the back, facing the window. “Well done, Ben,” the teacher said quietly.
There was a heartbeat of silence and then suddenly the classroom erupted as the grade elevens applauded and whistled and stomped their feet in approval. Eddie Saunders and Carl Zwicker reached over and slapped Ben on the back. Even Shay Phillips turned around and flashed Ben a thumbs-up.
Ben looked around the classroom, his face scarlet, and sought out Ann. Her eyes glistening, Ann smiled back at him and suddenly Ben could breathe again. He felt like he’d been underwater for the last fifteen minutes, drifting beneath a sea of his own words. Spoken aloud, they’d seemed fragile, disconnected from the world he’d tried to create between the blue lines on his looseleaf. Listening to them, he had felt silly and exposed. He had agonized over how the class would respond to his story and regretted giving Mr. Lewis permission to read it.
Looking at Ann, though, Ben felt relief wash over him. Ann he could trust, even more than himself. She had told him the story was a good one—“Your best yet,” she’d said, and she had been right.
Smiling, Mr. Lewis held up his hands and after a moment the whistling and applause died away. “Ben,” he said, “‘One for the Road’ is a terrific piece of writing. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep this copy so I can share it with my other classes.”
His face burning, Ben nodded. As much as he’d wanted to say no, it seemed pointless to refuse. Mr. Lewis was a good teacher and Ben appreciated the genuine interest he showed in his students’ work. Ben would miss him when this school year ended and he and his classmates moved on to another English teacher. But he wished this class would end now.
Then miraculously the final bell of the day rang, signalling the beginning of the Victoria Day weekend, the last long weekend of the school year. He bent down to retrieve his books from beneath his desk, then stood and moved toward the door with everyone else. Being a town student, Ben could afford to take his time, unlike the bus students who raced for their lockers before launching themselves missile-like toward the buses that rumbled in the schoolyard.
Eddie Saunders was one of those bus students and he’d made it to the bottleneck at the door before Ben had even gotten out of his seat. Looking back, Eddie called, “Jeez, Corbett, that was some story.”
Ben flushed again and smiled awkwardly as Eddie disappeared into the crowd.
“He’s right. That was some story.”
Ben turned around and looked up at Shay Phillips, whose blond head was nearly four inches above his own. “Thanks.” Standing there in second-hand jeans and a shirt his mother had bought at Frenchy’s for three dollars, Ben didn’t know what else to say. He always felt tongue-tied around Shay. The only son of two lawyers, Shay quite literally had everything: money, looks, intelligence, athletic ability, confidence. Everything. Ben had often wondered what it would be like to be Shay Phillips. Now he wondered what it would be like to say more than one syllable. Words that flowed so easily onto his paper always seemed to vanish when he was around people like Shay. Ben looked at his watch, suddenly absorbed in the snail-like sweep of the second hand beneath the scratched crystal, and he prayed the knot of people at the door would unravel and set him free.
As Ben came abreast of Mr. Lewis’s desk, the teacher looked up from the papers he was sorting and putting into his knapsack. This was another thing Ben liked about Mr. Lewis—while most of the other teachers at Brookdale High carried leather briefcases, Mark Lewis came to school every day with an army surplus backpack slung over his shoulder. “Ben,” Mr. Lewis said, “could I see you for a moment?”
Relieved, Ben held back and allowed Shay to pass him. “Sure,” he said. He glanced over the students in front of him and saw Ann waiting just outside the door. He caught her eye and signalled for her to go on without him, putting his hand to his ear to show he’d call her later. Then he waited as the teacher finished packing up and tidying his desk. They were alone when Mr. Lewis finally spoke, and Ben got the feeling he had planned it that way.
“I want to thank you again for letting me read your story today, Ben. I know how hard it was for you to share it.”
“How could you tell?”
The teacher smiled. “I recognize agony when I see it. Every time I turned a page, you winced.”
Ben could feel his ears turning red and he grinned sheepishly. “It wasn’t your reading—” he began, but Mr. Lewis interrupted him.
“I know. It’s being so vulnerable. Like everyone is looking inside you, seeing things you’re not really sure you want them to see.”
Impressed, Ben nodded. “That’s exactly how it felt.”
“Have you felt that way all year when I’ve asked you to share your writing in your conference groups?”
“No. Not really.” Ben paused for a moment, considering the difference. “In those situations, I chose the pieces I wanted to share. And I got to choose the people I wanted to share them with.” He thought of Ann, who was always in his group, and of Shay, who never was.
Mr. Lewis leaned forward in his chair. “The reason I’m asking,” he said, “is that I’m wondering how you’d feel about sharing your writing with people you’ve never met before.”
Ben blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a remarkable writer, Ben. Better than any other student I’ve encountered in my three years’ teaching. Certainly better than I am. You have no idea how often I’ve read some of your pieces and wished I’d written them.”
Ben thought about the glowing comments Mr. Lewis had written on his poems, short stories, essays, and journal entries this year, comments that Ben had re-read many times as he’d lain on his bed trying not to hear what was happening in the kitchen or the living room or the bedroom across the hall. Sometimes the teacher’s written comments helped Ben shut out the sounds. Sometimes they didn’t.
“I mean that, Ben,” Mr. Lewis continued. “You’re a gifted writer. And I’m not just talking about your knowledge of grammar and syntax. You have a writer’s soul. You study people and situations and you notice details that most of us overlook. Then you weave these details into a reality of your own making, which ultimately is the reality we all experience, yet seldom see. I’ve learned far more from you this year than you have from me.”
Ben’s whole face was hot and he was sure his ears looked like dual stop lights. He was suddenly grateful Mr. Lewis had waited until everyone else had left. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
The teacher waved away his words. “That’s not just praise,” he said. “It’s the truth.”
Embarrassed, Ben tried to change the subject. “You said something about sharing my writing with people I’ve never met.”
The teacher reached into his desk and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Ben. It was addressed to Mr. Lewis and Ben looked at him questioningly.
“Go on. Open it,” said the teacher.
Inside was a letter typed on exquisite paper. At the top printed in gold script were the words “CANADIAN WRITERS’ COUNCIL,” followed by an Ottawa address and telephone number.
“Read it out loud,” said Mr. Lewis, beaming broadly.
“Dear Mr. Lewis,” Ben began. “As Chairman of the Canadian Writers’ Council, I am pleased to inform you that your student, Mr. Benjamin Corbett, has been selected to participate in this year’s Summer Institute for Young Writers to be held July 5-19.” Ben stopped, his mouth open as he looked at the teacher.
Mr. Lewis’s eyes twinkled and his smile, if possible, seemed ever broader. “Keep reading.”
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Ben searched for the place he’d stopped, then began again. “Mr. Corbett was one of twenty students selected from over seven hundred applicants across the country. Along with the other members of the selection panel, I was impressed not only by the range of Mr. Corbett’s ability, as demonstrated in the various forms of writing you selected, but also by the depth of expression found throughout his work. In particular, we found his prose poem ‘Walking Backwards’ to be one of the most compelling pieces submitted by an applicant in the fourteen-year history of the competition. We are looking forward to meeting him and working with him this summer. You will find details about the Institute and our requirements for its participants in the information packet enclosed. Should you or Mr. Corbett have any further questions, please do not hesitate to phone us toll-free at the number above. Our congratulations to both of you. Sincerely, William Bradshaw.”
The vortex of voices and locker noise in the hallway outside Mr. Lewis’s room had subsided, and now through the classroom window came the hiss of air brakes being released as buses revved and rumbled out of the parking lot. But Ben was conscious of none of this. Like his character David in “One for the Road,” Ben was, for the moment, aware of only one thing—the letter he held in his hands. He re-read it silently as if not believing that the name repeated so often in those few lines was his own.
Finally he looked up. “How—” It was all he could think of to say.
Mr. Lewis leaned back in his chair and put his hands palm-down on the big oak desk in front of him. “First, I owe you an apology. Five months ago, I submitted copies of several of your pieces to the Summer Institute competition.
Ben suddenly realized his mouth was open. He closed it. Then he opened it again. “But you’ve always told us—”
“I’ve always told my students that I’d never share their writing with someone else without first asking their permission. I know. And until now I haven’t.”
Ben knew this was true. There was no official writing text in Mr. Lewis’s course. His “textbook” consisted of his students’ writing, which he photocopied and distributed among his classes. Together, he and his students would identify what each writer had done well, then make suggestions each writer might consider when revising a piece. He never allowed discussions of someone’s writing to be anything but positive and helpful. And he never distributed copies of a student’s writing without first receiving permission. Until now.
“I’m sorry, Ben. Mr. Langley, our faculty chairman, received information about the competition in the fall and had given it to the grade twelve English teacher who was supposed to read it and then pass it along to the other members of the English department. Somehow the information got misplaced and didn’t surface again until just before Christmas break. The day I finally saw it was the application deadline date. The moment I read about the competition I knew you were the student whose work I wanted to enter, but you weren’t in school that day. I tried to reach you on the phone but there was no answer, so I took the liberty of entering your work anyway. I planned to explain what I’d done when I saw you next, but you didn’t return to school until after the holidays and by then it had slipped my mind. As a matter of fact, I didn’t think about it again until I received that letter today.” He pointed at the paper Ben still gripped in his hands. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
The euphoria that had flooded Ben suddenly evaporated. He didn’t want to be reminded of his absence from school in December. Or of any of the other absences that had happened at almost regular intervals over the years. Without realizing it he was frowning.
“Ben?” Mr. Lewis looked concerned. “You will forgive me, won’t you? My intentions were good. I think the Summer Institute is a wonderful opportunity for you. Not only will it give you a chance to learn more about writing from some of the country’s finest authors, but you’ll also meet several publishers interested in discovering talented young writers like yourself. I think this is a chance of a lifetime.”
Ben looked up and smiled wanly. “Hey, Mr. Lewis. You don’t have to sell me. I want to thank you for entering me in the competition. I’m thrilled. Really.” But his voice was flat, toneless.
Now it was the teacher’s turn to frown. “You don’t sound very thrilled,” he said. “Are you worried about having to share your writing with strangers? Because you shouldn’t be. I guarantee you that the other participants will be just as impressed by your work as I am.”
“That’s not it.” Ben looked down at the letter, avoiding Mr. Lewis’s eyes. “I won’t be going.”
Mr. Lewis leaned forward. “What do you mean you won’t be going? Is it your parents? Won’t they—”
“No.” Ben looked at the gilded script at the top of the paper, the dramatic signature at the bottom, his own name typed so many times in between. He felt the smooth thickness of the expensive paper between his fingers, the knife-edge crease a secretary had made before putting it into the envelope he’d opened only a few minutes earlier. He would remember every detail of this moment for a long, long time. Every detail except one. He would try to forget the lie he was about to tell now. Careful. “I just don’t want to.”
Mr. Lewis raised his eyebrows. “You can’t mean that, Ben. Why don’t you want to go?”
Ben looked at Mr. Lewis’s forehead. He could not meet the teacher’s gaze. “Writing’s fun, but I have a chance at a part-time job at Save-Easy over the summer. I don’t want to give up two weeks’ work for something that’s just for fun.”
Mr. Lewis shook his head in disbelief. Leaning back, he put his elbows on the arms of his chair and placed his hands together, fingertips lightly touching in a gesture that reminded Ben of the childhood finger game of the church and the steeple. “Ben,” he said, his voice low, “I had no right to enter you in the competition without your permission, and your decision to attend the Institute or not is certainly yours to make. I’ll respect it. I hope you’ll reconsider, though. Opportunities like this don’t come along often.”
Ben handed the letter and the envelope back to Mr. Lewis, then picked up the books he’d set on the teacher’s desk. “I really appreciate your interest, Mr. Lewis,” he said quietly. “It was nice being one of the twenty who were chosen. I’m sorry you went to all that trouble for nothing.” He moved toward the door.
“Ben?”
Ben was in the hallway when he turned. “Yes, Mr. Lewis?”
“At least think about it over the weekend.”
“There’s nothing to think about. Really. Thanks, anyway.”
Mr. Lewis listened to Ben’s footsteps echo down the empty hallway. Slow and shuffling at first, their pace increased until the teacher knew Ben was running by the time he reached the exit door.
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