Stick Pick, page 5
Sometimes, I lie awake at night and wonder if it would be easier if we’d all been killed in the crash. Does that make me a victim?
I know the person who caused the accident might have to spend some time in jail. But I get to be in this chair for the rest of my life. No matter what happens, I am the one with the life sentence.
Mauro’s was in a strip mall in Crestwood. Janine’s parents couldn’t possibly hope to afford a home in the tree-lined Edmonton neighbourhood filled with large homes. Her dad pulled the minivan into the parking lot. All three spots marked with blue disabled parking signs were taken. A large pick-up truck in one of the spots was running. A blue-grey plume of smoke
hovered near its exhaust pipe. A man sat in the cab. The music he was listening to was so loud the bass shook the Burnetts’ car, even through the truck’s closed windows.
“He doesn’t have a sign in his window that I can see. I don’t think he can park there,” said Janine’s dad. He pulled up behind the truck and honked the horn.
Nothing.
Janine’s dad pressed down on the horn again. And again.
Finally, the truck’s window rolled down and the driver’s head popped out. Janine’s dad rolled down his window, letting in the bitter cold.
“Yeah, what?” the driver said.
“Can you please move your truck?” asked Janine’s dad.
“Why?”
“Because we have a disabled parking permit. We’d like to use that spot.”
“Sorry,” the driver raised his bushy eyebrow. “But can you wait a sec? My wife is in the store right there and she’ll be back in two shakes. We’ll clear out of your way in a minute.”
“Excuse me!” Janine’s dad raised his voice. “You’ll move it, now!”
But the driver of the truck had already rolled up his window.
So, Janine and her family waited. And waited. Finally, after fifteen minutes, a woman ran out of the store that was next to Mauro’s. She had two well-filled shopping bags in her hands.
Finally, the truck backed out. The driver even gave Janine’s dad a wave as he drove off.
“It’s okay, dad,” Janine said. “We’re finally here. Time to get some spaghetti Bolognese. Time for our first family dinner out since . . . well, I can’t remember when!”
The spaghetti Bolognese from Mauro’s was Janine’s favourite dish. She loved it with lots of garlic toast.
Janine slid into her wheelchair and then rolled down the ramp to the snowy parking lot. Her mom was waiting on the sidewalk. There were two small steps leading up to the door of Mauro’s, both covered in ice. But there was a wheelchair lift right next to them.
On it was a sign: Out of Order.
“Oh, that’s not right,” Janine’s dad said. “I’ll go in and get them to help you up the stairs.”
Her father disappeared into the restaurant. He came out two minutes later. His face was red. “I can’t believe it!” he growled.
“What is it?” asked Janine’s mom.
“They say they can’t carry her up the stairs. If someone slips, they could get sued. They don’t want to take that chance. They said the lift has been out of order for weeks! Weeks!”
“Jack, you and I could lift her up,” said Janine’s mom.
“I told them we could do that, and they said no way. They don’t want us slipping and falling on their icy steps and then suing them! Basically, their attitude is that it’s better luck next time.”
* * *
Janine dug into her second-favourite dish, lemon chicken, at the Chinese restaurant on 97th Street. The sticky glaze was sweet and salty at the same time. Having it alongside the special rice, with peas and baby corn and chunks of ham, was pretty good, even if it wasn’t spaghetti Bolognese.
Because it was a special day, her parents had allowed her a cola. And when she was finished one glass, the server would take it and return with another filled to the brim.
As she ate the last morsels of the lemon chicken, Janine realized she had to use the bathroom. The restaurant had washrooms downstairs. But it also had a family/accessible washroom clearly marked on the main floor, by the kitchen.
Janine excused herself and wheeled down a hall toward the accessible washroom. She opened the door. The automatic lights came to life.
There was a toilet and a sink at the other end of the large room. But to get there, Janine had to navigate through a maze of boxes. Some were marked Cleaning Supplies. Some were marked Plastic Cutlery. Others were marked Gloves. Chairs were stacked and leaning against another wall.
To make room to get through, Janine had to nudge some of the boxes out of the way with her chair.
A box that had been perched on top of two others came
tumbling down. It broke open and bottles of bright pink cleaning fluid rolled across the floor. The bottles went here, there and everywhere. They cut off Janine’s route back to the door.
Janine did the only thing she could do. She cried for help at the top of her lungs.
* * *
Janine sat in the back of the van, her head buried in her hands.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go out ever again,” she said. “No more celebrations.”
“Bright side,” said her dad. “When the manager finally got the door open, he was so embarrassed, we didn’t have to pay for dinner. We might never have to pay for dinner at that restaurant again.”
“He said no one ever uses that bathroom,” snapped Janine’s mom. “So, everyone thought it was all right to use it as a storeroom. We should sue. We deserve more than free meals.”
“Oh, Mom, they felt bad enough,” Janine said. “Does everything have to involve us going to court?”
“You’re the one who wrote that she wondered if it was better if we’d all died,” her mom said quietly. She looked straight out the window. “The prosecutor
forwarded what you wrote in the victim impact
statement to me.”
“Can we stop this?” her dad growled. “We were supposed to be celebrating tonight!”
“Whoopee,” Janine said.
12
The Report
As the bell rang, Mr. Massey asked, “Janine, can you stay behind for a couple of minutes?”
“Sure,” Janine nodded. “I don’t have class in the next period.”
Her classmates filed out, leaving her alone in class with the teacher. She wheeled up to his desk.
He reached into his old tan leather satchel and pulled out her report.
“Interesting,” he said. “I thought you were
going to write a report like the ones your dad writes for the paper. After all, that was the whole point of shadowing, right?”
“Um, no,” she said. “Sorry, what I mean is that I was planning to write a game report like my dad would write. But as the night went on, I thought there was something more important to write about, at least for me.”
She looked down at the title page of her paper sitting on Mr. Massey’s desk. The title, “Access for All?” was circled in red. Her teacher picked it
up again.
“I’d like to ask you about this first page,” he said. “This is what you wrote . . .”
JOB-SHADOW REPORT
SUBMITTED TO: MR. MASSEY, GRADE 8 SOCIAL STUDIES
BY: JANINE BURNETT
The disabled are told over and over that we will be afforded the same chances as everyone else. But this simply isn’t true. I learned this as I covered my very first pro hockey game. Despite the best efforts of those who built the arena and the staff, the system doesn’t really allow someone like myself to have equal opportunity.
You get a window of maybe a couple of minutes to get your interviews. Just getting from the media room and down a long hallway that goes underneath the stands takes time. In the dressing room, the players talk to all the reporters in large media “scrums.” I couldn’t get close to most players, I was squeezed out.
“Um, and?” Janine asked.
“You didn’t write a game report. You wrote a
report about what it was like to cover the game. Okay, fine. But I found that you didn’t go deep enough. You write about how hard it was to get around. But you don’t go into detail about what you’d change. You need to explore that in your piece. Don’t dance around it.”
“Sorry,” said Janine. “I just thought I might get my dad in trouble.”
“Why don’t you talk to him about it and let him decide,” said Mr. Massey.
* * *
That evening, over dinner, Janine told her dad what Mr. Massey had said.
“He wants me to write another draft,” she said. “He told me he thought the paper could be great, that I just needed to be honest. But I was worried that if it got out, you could get into trouble.”
Janine’s dad laughed. “Janine, maybe your teacher is right. A good journalist always gives as many facts as possible to the reader. Do you know how many times I’ve ticked off the hockey team’s front office? How many times a general manager or coach has growled to me about my work? I’m always in the crosshairs.”
“Oh,” Janine said. “I just thought it was nice of the team to give me a media pass and . . .”
“That’s not how journalists look at it. Our job is to serve our readers. That’s it. The team understands that we write about the good and the bad. It’s just the job we have to do.”
Janine’s mom cut in. “Okay, enough about that. Janine, the Crown Prosecutor called today. She said she wants more about how the injuries will affect you long-term. Basically, your impact statement isn’t long enough either.”
Janine sighed. “What, everyone needs more
sentences on why my life generally sucks now? Is there
anything else?”
“Janine,” her mother’s eyes narrowed. “I will never walk properly again. You, well . . . anyway.”
“Say it mom. ‘Paralyzed from the waist down.’ Not so hard.”
“Well, okay. I mean, our lives have changed. The driver, this James Colangelo guy, he’s going to plead guilty. That’s what the Crown says. She says we’ll need to have the statements for the judge, for sentencing.”
“So? What do you want from me?”
“To write it again. Tell everyone about what you have to go through every day since the accident.”
JOB-SHADOW REPORT (REWRITE)
SUBMITTED TO: MR. MASSEY, GRADE 8 SOCIAL STUDIES
BY: JANINE BURNETT
I wheeled into the dressing room, expecting to get the same access everyone else had. After all, it was a big, open room. No stairs. The players were all there, willing to be interviewed. But the rest of the reporters scrummed around all the stars of the game, and wouldn’t let me in. They didn’t care if I said “excuse me.” If I tried to push my way in, they pushed me out.
I have found that making something accessible is one thing in theory, but it’s totally another thing in practice. You can take away stairs and replace them with ramps. You can make rooms wide. But you can’t change the way people think and act. And that’s the problem. What good is an accessible doorway if someone blocks it off with boxes? What good is an accessible ramp if a bunch of people stand on it and block the way?
We parked downtown, a couple of blocks from the arena. It had snowed earlier, so it was hard for me to wheel down the sidewalk. The snow had been removed, but the path wasn’t wide enough for my chair. And when I had to cross the street, there were large snowbanks on the curbs. My dad had to push me as hard as he could to get me through. What if I’d been on my own?
Once again, Mr. Massey asked Janine to stay after class. But this time there were no red circles on the first page.
“I think your new version is very powerful,” he started.
“Thank you,” said Janine.
“I think it deserves to be read by more than just your junior-high social studies teacher.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .”
Mr. Massey cleared his throat. “Janine, can I be completely honest with you?”
“Yes.”
“Before your accident, you were the most confident girl in this whole school. If you didn’t like something, you spoke your mind. Don’t lose that.”
“Mr. Massey, it’s hard to try to stand out when you always feel like you need to apologize for yourself. Respectfully, try sitting in a chair like this, even for an hour. See how the whole world changes for you.”
13
Confrontation
Janine had the puck on her stick. Rowena was grunting from the strain of trying to keep up. Janine dug the picked end of her stick into the ice so she could turn to see just how far Rowena was behind her.
And then Janine was rocked. Her sled shook. She felt her chest strain against the straps as she heaved forward.
“Enough baby-feeding you,” said the player whose sled had just crashed into Janine’s.
As the player pushed her sled away, the picked end of one of her sticks raked across Janine’s arm. Janine saw specks of blood on the sleeve of her white hockey jersey before she could register the pain.
“You have to watch yourself out there!” sneered the girl. “You and your friend are clogging up the ice. From now on, if you get in the way, you get hit.”
Oh why, oh why did I agree to come back? Janine thought. I thought for sure after the first practice Rowena wouldn’t want to play anymore. What is wrong with us?
Janine looked back to see if Coach Laboucaine had seen her getting spiked. The coach looked straight at Janine — and smiled.
“Get moving, Burnett!” she cried. “Is one hit
gonna stop you? Are you gonna go home and cry to your
mommy and daddy?”
Janine moved her sled away from centre ice. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Rowena’s sled sliding backward from the force of a collision. The player had struck again.
Janine felt her blood boil. She barrelled toward the player. She pushed off so hard that the sled tilted a bit and, for a second, Janine thought she might fall over. But the sled righted itself and Janine was off in pursuit. Her arms burned from the effort.
Janine was going as hard as she could. But there was no way she could catch her quarry. The girl was too fast. Suddenly, she turned around and came bearing down on Janine’s sled.
Crash. Harder than the first time.
“I guess you want some more, huh, hockey star?” said the other girl.
“Hockey star!” cried Janine. “What the heck does that mean?”
“Come on,” said the other girl. “You don’t think we don’t recognize your face from the news? The
little hockey expert who was in the accident. She feels so sorry for herself. Daddy and Mommy are going to court. They’re gonna get a big settlement and
everyone’s gonna live happily ever after. Now you show up here and slide around and act like you can just hold everyone else up.”
Janine was so angry, she took her stick and chopped the other girl on the arm. The other girl cried out. Coach Laboucaine blew her whistle.
“Okay, you two. Cool off. Both of you, take your sleds over to the boards and take a break.”
Janine could barely restrain herself from giving the other girl another chop as she followed her to the boards.
“What was that about?” Janine hissed, as they parked their sleds.
“Oh, Janine Burnett is all angry,” said the girl. “You do have emotions other than self-pity. What, you going to try and chop me again? I let you get away with that one. Do it again and I’ll rake you with the picks so bad that they’ll think you’ve been in a fight with a mountain lion.”
“You think you know me?”
“I know your type. You come in and because you’re new, you think it makes you better than the rest of us.”
Ryan’s sled screeched to a halt in front of Janine and her rival. A fine spray of snow flew from the blades of his sled as it came to a standstill.
“Sandy, what’s with you?” he said. “Janine is just learning the game. You didn’t have to target her like that.”
He turned his head toward Janine. “This is Sandy. She’s a good player. But she’s always got to show the newbies that she’s sooooo tough. She’s all right once you get to know her. Now, Sandy, take off your glove, pull right up to the side of Janine’s sled and shake hands.”
“Beat it, Ryan,” Sandy growled.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Janine, did you know that I’ve caught Sandy looking at videos of cute kittens on her tablet?”
Sandy drove one of her sticks into the ice. “Ryan! Stop that!”
“I will tell Janine a lot more about how sweet you really are if you don’t shake hands.”
Sandy grunted. She took the glove off her right hand and held it out for Janine to shake. “My name is Sandy. Sandy Tranh. I’ve been playing for six years, now. I see you’re still wearing the big, bulky gloves. That’s stupid.”
Janine swallowed hard and didn’t say a word.
Sandy laughed. “Talk much? You needed to be knocked down a peg. All the rookies do. Okay, that chop of yours is going to leave a mark. You got your shot in. Trust me, you do it again, I’ll mess you up bad. And, if you want to start playing for real in summer league, you can go up against a junior on the Sherwood Park squad we call The Chopper. I don’t know her real name. She’s vicious. And the way she drives her sled, it’s like a non-stop crash-a-thon. That’s when you’ll know what it’s really like to get hit. What I am trying to say is, don’t think this is where a bunch of us get together and feel sorry for ourselves and everyone goes home happy when the game ends in a tie. You come onto the ice, you get ready to play.”
Coach Laboucaine blew her whistle. Through Rowena’s helmet, Janine could see the greenish colour of her face. Janine had never seen her friend look that way. Rowena gasped for breath as she slid by. She tried to use her arms to lift herself out of the sled, but couldn’t.
