I Will Be Your Father Figure

We are coming in from recess, walking up the stairs to our grade six classrooms. He is standing at the top of them, supervising as we arrive. He points at me and then points to the side of the staircase. I reach the top of the stairs and stand over by where he is pointing. I watch everyone else stream by until it is just him. And just me. It is quiet in the stairwell. He turns to me and hands me a gold rope chain, with an eagle hanging from it.“I need your help. I need you to put this on me.”

He steps down a few stairs, because I am 11 and he is much older, and he turns his back to me. My fingers are clumsy and unpracticed with such things. And they are shaking. I reach down, my eyes flicking from my own childish fingers to the line where his hair meets the skin of his neck. It is skin like my father’s. I reach around, hoping my fingers don’t lose hold of the clasp. Hoping I will not have to try this a second time. When he turns to face me and thank me, I cannot meet his eyes, but I mumble a well-trained “You’re welcome,” and hurry off to beat him to class. None of the noisy, unsupervised children notice me slip in. He follows shortly after.

I am the one who is tasked with bringing the attendance folder down to the office each morning and afternoon. Some days, the folder has a paper clip on it. The first time, because I am no snoop, he needs to quietly prompt me as I take the manilla folder from his extended hand. “Look inside.”

It is always a note for me -- not for the office. It says things like, “Way to go, kiddo!” if I have received perfect on a test. It says things like, “I loved your story!” when it is composition day. It says things like, “I need a hug!” whenever I am wearing my teddy bear sweatshirt. It says things like, “You look pretty today!” when I am wearing the dress I almost never wear, because I hate dresses, but sometimes mums don’t care if you hate them.

I am always careful to remove the notes. Silently, of course. I don’t know how I know. Or why. But I do.

He is my coach for every sport. Volleyball, soccer, slo-pitch. And I am always captain. And he tells me to use his glove, when I am pitcher. Even when I get a new one from my parents, for my birthday, his is worn in and mine isn’t, so I should keep using his. And I do. And when teachers drive us to games, I am always in his car. And Robin is always loud and silly and teasing with him, especially when he talks about his three daughters. And she says obnoxious things, like imagine her being his daughter. And he says obnoxious things back like, “I would love you to be my daughter, you know.” Except he doesn’t say that to Robin; he says it to me. And he says it when no one else hears. And I try to roll my eyes and laugh like Robin does. But he looks right at me.

Sometimes he reads our marks out loud. And though I always land in the middle of the alphabet, with him I always land at the end. And when he calls out my grade, I am both proud and horrified, knowing that, even though I am well liked, my peers will loathe me for a few moments. Also knowing that he is beaming with his own version of pride. And I wish he would stop calling out the marks, and picking on Neil or Pancho, while holding me up like some sort of beacon.

It is before Christmas break, and we are giving him our gifts. He has warned us not to buy him anything, but tradition dictates and we follow. He assures us he will never do the opening-in-front-of-everyone thing, so we just watch him put wrapped mugs and cologne and chocolates into bags before taking them to his car. He finds me in the holiday chaos and whispers a warm, low thank-you into my ear.

The attendance notes become questions. Things like, “Where’s my favourite dress?” with a smiley face.

It is the last day of school before we move on to junior high. The grade sixes are at the park, playing Red Rover and tag, and hanging off of beloved teachers who will soon be missed. I am the only one of the girls not hanging off of him, so when he becomes “It”, I become the hunted. And though I am athletic, I am not particularly fast, and when he catches me, I squeal and wriggle and feel nauseated beneath his laughter.

We give him more gifts in the dying hours of the day, and, again, he does not open them. Robin tells him she will invite him to our junior high graduation in two years, and he grins a toothy grin and thanks her.

I never do hug him goodbye. Despite the loathing I have for my own father, these days, I cannot untangle my confusion surrounding this man. And I cannot navigate that my child-like, innocent love for him is a different brand from the love he has for me. I know there is... something not right. But there is no way I want to accept it.

Still. I am walking home, on that last day of school, wondering what he will think when he opens his gift and sees the dress I never wear anymore.