Read Creeps for Free Online Page B

John’s.”
    â€œThat’s great.”
    Quiet for a moment.
    Wayne zips up his jacket. “Well, I better get home.”
    â€œHang on, Mr. Pumphrey.”
    Wayne stays where he is.
    Mr. Rollie lays a hand on Wayne’s shoulder. “I was thinking maybe you could help me direct.”
    Wayne doesn’t say anything.
    â€œThat means you and I will discuss the scenes and then tell the cast how to go about making them work. It’ll be up to us where they stand and where they walk and what lighting will work best. We’ll have a say about the set, too, and the music. Will we have the school band play live or have everything pre-recorded, for instance? The whole production will be you and me, Mr. Pumphrey.” He pauses. “How does that sound?”
    Wayne looks down at Mr. Rollie’s pointy shoes, then back up. “Does anyone see the director?”
    Mr. Rollie uses his pinky to push up his glasses. “Well, no, but the whole thing is the product of the director’s imagination. Name your favourite movie.”
    Wayne thinks for a moment. “I don’t know, Avatar— no, The Lord of the Rings. No, wait, The Hangover .”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œMm-hm.”
    â€œOkay. Well Wayne, behind that film was a director who made it all happen. They’re the leaders, the train conductors, pilots of the 747s, sergeants of the battalions, Bill and Melinda Gates, Steve Jobs, Sidney Crosby. That’s why I chose you: because you’re a leader. You have that creative mind, Mr. Pumphrey. That imagination. If you’re brave, one day you’ll discover it’s your greatest gift.”
    Wayne breathes in. Sees himself sitting behind that long table with Mr. Rollie telling Julie where best to stand; Marjorie how best to deliver that line; the drummer, Jim Butt, the best time at which to strike the cymbal.
    â€œWell, Mr. Pumphrey?”
    Wayne looks up and nods. “All right.”
    Mr. Rollie claps his hands. “Wonderful. We’ll make a fine team, you and I.” He holds out his hand.
    Wayne shakes it.
    â€œTomorrow we’ll begin.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œWe’ll have twelve weeks of rehearsal, so there’ll be no time to waste if we want to make the provincials.”
    â€œOkay.”
    They let go hands.
    Wayne turns to leave.
    â€œMr. Pumphrey?”
    Wayne stops. “Yes, sir?”
    The drama teacher reaches into his pocket and takes out a piece of paper and unfolds it and hands it to Wayne and Wayne looks at it for ages.
    â€œWell?” Mr. Rollie says at last.
    â€œWell what?”
    â€œDoes it look like me?”
    Wayne shrugs. “A little. Around the eyes.”
    â€œYou think so? Hmm. I’d never wear a sequined dress, though, or get my nose pierced. And I certainly wouldn’t say that awful thing they have me saying.”
    Wayne pauses. “Who did it?”
    â€œI was hoping you could tell me.”
    Silence.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Mr. Rollie takes the drawing back. “Flattering though, isn’t it? Someone going to all that trouble to draw a likeness of me.” He puts the picture back in his pocket. “High school won’t last forever, Mr. Pumphrey.”
    Wayne nods. Walks out into the cold dark.

    Dear Mr. Rollie,
    Are you sure you meant to call ME a leader?
    Only ’cause I don’t much feel like one. I mean, Barack Obama is a leader and Bill and Hillary Clinton and Jean Chrétien and Stephen Harper and Nelson Mandela and Oprah Winfrey and Sidney Crosby and Georges St-Pierre, but ME? How can someone who eats alone and walks alone and writes these letters alone be a leader? Leaders ought to be fearless and charming and good-looking (Okay, scratch Stephen Harper) and snappy dressers, but me … I’m fearful and awkward and far from a catch and my style won’t be in any magazine.
    Shouldn’t leaders have a look in their eye and be able to sway a