The Altruism Trial

Chapter 1: My Profile

September 10th, 2018 Notes:

- Get Dad to sharpen my hockey skates - Complain to Coach about 5 AM morning

practice

- Convince mom to let me drop French Immersion

- Take new selfie for Instagram profile

5:25 PM

Got a package in the mail today—some retro looking tablet with instructions attached to it—said something about me having to log what I do each day into it and with compliance I will have further success with their pilot program—says no one will read it except some dude named EOTS. How do you even pronounce it? Eee-awwts? Sounds like a donkey. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s part of some new off-ice training requirements for the Ontario Minor Hockey Association. I’m cool with that. They look for honesty and integrity so they better be down with me putting it all out there because I’m not hiding a thing.

Note:

Remind me to look up ‘integrity’.

5:35 PM

I wonder what the little blue light on the top of this device means? Is it a camera?

7:30 PM

Just got an Instagram message from Brianna Forster to finish the ‘Flight Vocabulary’ questions for tomorrow in Science Class. Did I mention it’s en français? It’s only the first week of school—totally not fair. Speaking of school, I hate it—already got sent down to the office for sharing a video story of Madison Baylor on Snapchat.

My classroom looks like a geeky play centre with way too many dorky French words all over the walls. Mme. Capretta is so mean too—like today, she sent me out in the hall because I was making fun of the French language. What’s the point of learning French anyway?

That’s honesty for you.

Brianna’s cool though. She came to one of my games last winter. I scored three goals that night too. I yelled at one of the refs during the third period—got an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty for it, but I didn’t care. If the refs can’t do a good job, someone’s gotta tell ‘em!

I think Brianna thought I was cool for doing that.

I was.

7:48 PM

Fluid, Air, Pressure, Density, Buoyancy, Gravity, Lift, Thrust, Drag, Bernoulli’s Principle, Aerodynamic... Ya-da, Ya-da, Ya-da.

That was the last message from Brianna on my iPhone 6. How am I supposed to get all those definitions ready for tomorrow and in French?

I have to play ‘Call of Duty’ and catch up on last season’s ‘Stranger Things.’ Plus, there’s an AHL game streaming on TSN3. I got things to do. I’ll do the first ten and you do the last ten.

Brianna messages me again.

How about you do it all, I reply, and I’ll let you come to one of my games next weekend?

K, she messages back with a smiley face and a heart.

Told you she digs me. I can’t blame her. She knows I’m going to be the next Sidney Crosby. The truth is, my whole team knows it.

September 11th, 2018 Notes:

- Fake injury at end of second recess

- Sleep in the nurse’s room during French

Class.

9:23 AM

Guess I should introduce myself. Not that anyone important will read this. But just in case this gets me in the AHL I suppose I’ll be polite— besides, this EOTS dude wants me to send a mini-survey to some strange IP address located somewhere in the South Pacific.

So here it is:

Name: Riley Pickering

Age: 11

Score: 0/100 (not sure what this means) Residence: Waterdown, Ontario (a small town about 1,853.6 kilometres away from where Sidney Crosby was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia.) Are you an Altruist? No. Challenges with school: Work, French. Do you enjoy helping others? Nope.

Best Friend (I added this part): Tyler Copentaker, but he’s being a jerk lately so I’m thinking of switching over to Justin. Justin is on my hockey team and is the second best player. Behind me, of course.

Did I mention I’m in Triple A?

“Please get out your homework from last night.” Mme. Capretta stands at the front of the class. “Maintenant pouvez-vous sortir vos devoirs d’hier soir s’il vous plaît?”

She’s our homeroom teacher. I hate it when she speaks French. She makes us do stupid assignments too—at least that’s what Justin’s older brother told me. He had her last year.

Bobby Hickler, in the next table group over throws up his hand. “Why do we hav-ta know these words? We ain’t gonna need to know ‘em in the real world. My Daddy tells me most of the garbage we learn is useless anyway.”

I laugh and give him a high-five.

Mme. Capretta purses her lips and chugs down her cold coffee. And then places it on her perfectly organized desk—duotangs stacked with labels up, pencils all sharpened in a pink plastic cup, photos of her three children in silver frames. “Excusez-moi tout le monde!! En français s’il vous plaît!”

Bobby grunts and mutters to himself before replying, “Pourquoi, uh, da words?”

Mme. Capretta shakes her head. “You have to know these words because I’m giving you an assignment today.”

The entire class moans, except for Melody Squire. She gets excited about anything that requires ‘work’. She’s on my top ten ‘I Can’t Stand’ list.

“Quelle est la taçhe?” Melody asks. Her eyes widen as her mouth stretches into an annoyingly fake, I-love-french-and-sucking-up-tot-eachers-frenchy-like-smile.

Mme. Capretta lets out a long breath and calmly walks to the front of the class. “Aujourd’hui, on va commencer une enquête scientifique du vol. Today, you will be starting your scientific investigation on flight.”

Melody perks up again. “Are we going to build a plane?”

“Oui.” Mme. Capretta looks around the room. “You will all be working independently on this. As you’ve likely heard or seen from previous years, the winning design will be entered into the Provincial Championship.”

A buzz filters out around the room.

Ever since I was in Kindergarten our school has hosted the ‘Grade Six Flight Challenge’. It used to be pretty cool when I was little, but the idea of having to build a stupid aeroplane sounds pretty dumb. It’s not like I’m ever gonna need to know how to make one when I’m a famous hockey player.

“Est-ce que nous pouvons installer un moteur?” Melody asks.

“Mais, oui,” Mme. Capretta replies. “Est-ce que nous pouvons le rendre assez grand pour le voler nous-mêmes?”

Mme. Capretta nods. “Oui bien sûr.”

The class breaks out into chatter again.

I have no clue what she said, but quickly catch on that we’re allowed to build a plane big enough to fit someone.

Over the past three or four years, there have been YouTube videos showing kids from all over designing their own airplanes and actually piloting them. Out west, or somewhere in the States, a few kids actually lost control of their planes as they jetted up into the clouds. They were never seen again—at least that was what I was told. I’m surprised they haven’t banned this project for that reason alone.

11:45 PM

The dark sky opens up and releases a thunderous explosion. Lightning spills out through the window in my bedroom. The heavy rain pounds the roof, pat-patting over the shingles.

The giant oak out front of the house heaves and moans as it sways back and forth.

I’ve never seen it so black out before.

As I’m about to close the shutters, and call it a night I hear the doorbell ring downstairs.

I wait at the top of the stairs and hang my head over the banister as my dad opens the front door.

“Please sign here,” a man’s voice mutters out from the porch. The white flowers in the vase on the side table shake as a gust of wind pushes through the house. I can hardly make out their conversation.

“What is it?” My dad asks the man. He picks up the pen and signs the strange man’s iPad.

“A trial,” the stranger replies, sliding a large red box onto our doormat. He leans in through the door and glances up the stairs to me. I can’t see his face in the shadows and dim light, just the whites of his eyes. “A trial for Riley Pickering.”

To be continued Monday, October 15. Next Time: The Big Red Box