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Freeman told us that we have to rid the world of the notion that young people today don’t have ideals and morals. ‘Prove them wrong!’ she bellowed. Like everybody else, she wants us to get educated so we can score some pod job, licking the assistant vp’s loafers. Work sixty-hour weeks so we can earn the benefits we won’t get after we burn out and get laid off. I’d rather make soap. I read about some burnt-out human-rights lawyer who transformed himself into an organic farmer and hooked up with an Amish community to learn how to make organic soap. The Amish use ingredients from their gardens, kitchens and barns to brew soap. The human-rights lawyer got spooked about stewing animal fats so he substituted avocado oil, castor oil, cocoa butter and palm kernel oil. He mixes them together in a big cast-iron pot heated over a wood-burning stove. He throws in natural stuff that adds fragrance, like lemongrass, cedarwood, eucalyptus, lavender, then he pours it into a wooden soap pan with a wooden lid. Next he bakes it in a wood-burning stove, lets it cool, slices it up and sells it at markets and online. He says every morning he wakes up excited about some new natural ingredient
he wants to toss in his soap. I can’t imagine waking up excited. One thing’s for sure, sitting in a lecture hall with 300 Asians and Muslims isn’t going to excite me. Why bother when they’re way smarter than me and taking over the world and all that. There’s this girl called YangYang at Dairy Dream who’s a super-brain. She’s going to university to study business and you just know where that one’s going. In five years she’ll own a bunch of Dairy Dreams and poor minority white trash like myself will be soaking her scoops.
    I told Mrs. Freeman that the ruination of Spaceship Earth is thanks to the geniuses with post-secondary education.
    â€˜Are you suggesting,’ she inquired, ‘that we eliminate post-secondary education?’
    â€˜We need to learn from plants and animals,’ I told her. ‘Before they’re all dead.’
    On principle I’m against the Tim Hortons concept, the whole franchise thing, plus they don’t buy fair-trade coffee, meaning little kids are picking the beans. But their soup’s alright and affordable. Rossi’s in a state because Kirsten’s crowd threw clumps of wet toilet paper at her. ‘Why would they do that?’ she asks, looking like the JK kid I remember. We used to pretend to be pioneers and shoot horse thieves.
    â€˜Maybe they didn’t like your tank top,’ I say.
    â€˜What’s wrong with my tank top?’
    â€˜It’s a bit revealing,’ Tora says. She’s scribbling in her notepad again. I’ve quit actually reading her poems; instead I look down at the pad and picture snow falling upwards or something.
    â€˜It’s no more “revealing” than Kirsten’s tank top,’ Rossi says.
    â€˜There’s more of you to reveal,’ I point out.
    â€˜It’s total bull,’ Rossi says, ‘all that stuff about how if you’ve got it, flaunt it.’
    I’m pretty sure there’s msg in the soup because I always get a little hyper from it. ‘Did you read about that girl whose ex is posting sexually explicit videos of her on YouTube? You might want to give him a call, Ross.’
    â€˜Very funny.’
    â€˜He made it look as though she’d put them there herself. He impersonated her. Had her inviting any boy on the planet to enjoy her services.’
    â€˜That’s heinous,’ Tora says.
    â€˜Oh, the wonders of technology.’ I smear butter on my roll. I always ask for extra butter because I’m a butter addict. For some reason the servers seem to resent handing over extra butter, like it’s costing them personally, when we all know the Tim Hortons Corp. can spare a few slabs.
    Tora hands me her scrawl. I look down at it,