The Field Guide to the North American Teenager: Chapters 1–5

Unfortunately for Norris, and just as he’d predicted, none of this flavor, tang, zest, piquancy, whatever you might call it, was hospitable to your average Canadian.

As Norris had learned over these past few hours, one of the ways in which Airport People interacted was by recognizing each other’s self-branding. College shirts, home state visors, high school rings. He’d witnessed nods of approval, high fives, and fist bumps occur without the two parties even slowing down from their respective paths.

“I’m just saying it doesn’t bode well. Like seeing a white dove before going to war.”

Black. French. Canadian. Based on sitcom jokes alone, Norris knew Americans were predisposed to dislike all three of those things.

“It’s not that hot,” she said, earning her a deadpan glare from her son.

Creole and Patois scholars weren’t in high demand in North America, as it turned out.

Her smile would dim with every inevitable rejection of her candidature for adjunct vacancies, but as soon as she noticed Norris watching her, she’d turn it back on. A full tenure-track offer was a rare stroke of luck; Norris knew that too.

Austin was definitely a city with a very imbued sense of self, Norris thought. Maybe the rest of America had praised it too much as a child.

She pulled another pamphlet out of her bag and foisted it on him.

“Hmm, well, I know that’s not the Carolina Panthers,” he continued pensively.

Canadiens might be the team’s official name, but any fan that had ever called Montreal home knew to call the beloved team by their alternate moniker: the Habs. Short for Les Habitants.

“I am not forgetting about Whistler,” Norris said apropos of absolutely nothing.

GUIDANCE COUNSELORS
APPEARANCE: Tricolored plumage, "stylish" glasses.
FEEDING HABITS: Half-eaten containers of Light & Fit yogurt known to linger on desk past eleven a.m.; copious amounts of caffeine.

School was never optional in their household. Colds, swollen gums from dental surgery, hockey playoffs, divorce court hearings: unless there was a discernable fever, Norris couldn’t remember the option to skip a day ever being on the table.

“I mean it, Norris. Try to make friends, try to get along with teachers. No international incidents on day one because you couldn't control your, y’know...” she added, moving her palm haphazardly.
“My what?”
“Your mouth, boy!” Judith said, stopping short of poking Norris in his chest.

Through the glass door, she’d looked like one of those impossibly compact elderly women who only managed a single city block every day to stave off death.

She began to rapidly flip through a stack of papers that had been preemptively placed at the corner of her desk. “Guessin’ you won’t need these!”

“Merci beaucoup, madame Kolb, lurètre du clown me semble amplement vaste,” Norris answered with a smile, making sure the cadence of his voice in no way reflected “ample clown urethra.”

“I’m not much of a diary keeper, ma’am,” Norris said, taking the proffered notebook.

If the flavors were different—pack of quirky outsiders here, ruthless-borderline-feral popular girls there—it all mostly amounted to one thing: in versus out. And Norris Kaplan—black French Canadian Norris Kaplan—had no delusion about where he would fall in that demarcation.

JOCKS AND CHEERLEADERS
IDENTIFYING CHARACTERISTICS: Muscular, rarely spotted without a water bottle, athleisure wear.
HABITAT: The jock table, football stadium or other athletic field, keg parties.
PREENING HABITS: Extensive.

And yet Receding Hairline, Hairy Armpits, Protein-Shake-Crusted Upper Lip, and the rest of their brood—Norris went out of his way not to learn their names, as the ones he assigned were better—had clout at this school.

Really, this building was less of a school and more of a series of contingency plans needed to make these eight-hour stretches tolerable.

What was looking down at him—in every sense of the word—was nothing short of a gaggle of cheerleaders. A haze? A miasma. A miasma of cheerleaders.

Biting his tongue hadn’t helped one iota, and the eh thing bothered him more than he cared to admit.

“Hmm, I don’t believe I’m on the schedule today, no,” Aarti answered with a bright and earnest smile that Norris had to remind himself was completely fake.

Before Norris could think of a comeback, the cheerleading phalanx was already in retraction, too far down the hall to even hear him.

Norris went through his inner lexicon of American high school customs.

Not trying had paid off, and the novelty of the New Black Canadian Kid had dissipated. He was now the guy who didn’t do much except go to class or take strolls between said classes, which again was fine.

“This is actually a great opportunity for you to get some content for your diary! Getting involved in school activities is important here!" She had gesticulated during their second meeting in a way that led Norris to believe that “here” meant the 3.8 million-square-mile expanse of America.

Fortunately, Kolb had framed it as a suggestion, which meant that Norris would not capitulate until “strongly encouraged” turned “mandatory.”

Ever since their encounter in the hall, Norris had categorically not been stalking Aarti. For one thing, stalking required prey, and Aarti was nowhere to be seen.

“Jesus Christ!" Norris yelped. (Actually, not yelped: screamed. It was a Viking-like scream of virility, not a yelp.)

The apartment almost felt like home now that their pristine new kitchen had slowly turned into a landfill of grocery bags that had been emptied but not put away, thick dissertations held by rubber bands, and the near-constant buzzing of the printer coming in from the living room.

Norris couldn’t even remember how he and Eric had become friends in the first place. It had been at school, yes, but he couldn’t connect it all back to a single interaction. Hanging out with Eric was just a fait accompli of life back in Montreal.

“Well, I wouldn’t do that,” Name-Tagged Tracy said, sounding way too insulted. Oh, Name-Tagged Tracy absolutely would do that. By the needlessly affronted tone, Norris could tell that Name-Tagged Tracy had probably done it twice that morning already.

What was it with Texans and this apparently innate ability to fake the most genuine smile while also obviously telling you off with their eyes?

“Ain’t that what you wanted? Tracy said you were pretty adamant.”

“...using my name as a synonym for all vapid, brain-dead cheerleaders of the world?” Madison continued casually, eyes still on the baby.

Norris scrutinized her.