Free Waiting For Sarah by James Heneghan Page B

away from my history class, but I also hoped I would find something here in the archives of importance. I mean, what was life like for the average kid? Do these newspapers and yearbooks tell us anything about what it was like to come to Carleton High in those days? I’m not so sure they do. Looking through this stuff I get the impression that each year is the same: the same sports, same dances, same kids. Only the slang words — I plan to supply a list — and the hairstyles are different. I want to include the important changes in the school, if there were any, and in the neighborhood — Fair­view Slopes, False Creek. Know what I mean?” He had to stop for breath.
    She nodded.
    â€œIt makes my job ... it makes writing a history ofCarleton High more of a challenge.” He showed her pictures of False Creek taken in the forties and fifties. “I got these from the downtown library. Take a look. Floating shacks on the south shore. Most of them leaked like today’s condos. Squatters lived in them all year round.”
    â€œWhat are squatters?”
    â€œHomeless people. Some of their kids came to this school. One of them was a boy named Charlie Johnson. His school record for the high jump still stands; his name is still on the athletics honor roll, and he was also on the academic honor roll. Look, here’s his picture.”
    Sarah examined the picture of a thin, smiling boy with cropped hair, wearing a white undershirt and dark shorts that covered his knees. “Will you put him in your history?”
    â€œYou bet I will.”
    â€œWhat about the squatters?”
    â€œI’ll put them in too. Charlie was a squatter. They’re an important part of the history of the Creek and of Carleton High. Also, I might put in about a candidate for mayor in the 1950 civic election who called False Creek ‘a filthy ditch in the center of the city.’ He promised to clean it up and run a highway through it.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œNo highway. A guy named Hume got elected and cleaned it up instead. He poured landfill into the space between the shore and Granville Island so it wasn’t an island any more — the way it is today. The shacks were all cleared away by 1959.”
    Sarah crinkled her nose. “I like the bit about Charlie Johnson and the squatters, but the election stuff is boring.”
    She went around to the other side of the desk and sat on the chair and began painting with her water colors as they talked.
    After a while, after they had finished talking about the squatters, he joked, “Sometimes you seem quite sensible, Sarah, not like a girl at all really.”
    â€œThat is a typical boy remark. Not funny. Anyway, everyone knows girls are more mature than boys.”
    â€œNo, they’re not. That’s a popular myth put out by girls.”
    â€œGirls are more mature.”
    â€œNot.”
    â€œAre.”
    â€œThen how do you explain the fact that they spend so much time looking at themselves in mirrors, reading magazine articles on how to lose weight and how to look like a film star, and shopping for clothes and jewelry in the mall every weekend, instead of playing soccer or reading good adventure and sci-fi books and watching interesting stuff like “National Geographic” on TV?”
    â€œGirls play soccer as much and as well as boys. And they read everything and do it more quickly than boys, which is why they have time to shop in the mall and read magazine articles.”
    â€œHmmmph!”
    â€œHmmmph to you, too!” she said happily.
    He remembered Robbie’s questions. “Where do you live? Are you close to the school?”
    â€œLook,” she said, “I’m painting a picture for you to keep.”
    He craned his neck, but couldn’t see much of the picture, only blobs of color.
    â€œWhere do I live? Not far. Ash and Seventh. The address is 2230 Ash. Come by anytime and try my