A bus carried students from Lorne Park to Port Credit High School, usually an old, lurching Gray Coach that belched diesel exhaust, braked too hard and accelerated too slowly. The drivers usually made this 15 minute trip seem like an hour.
The Lorne Park stop featured some of the most stunning female students in the history of schooling. They were all cheerleaders at PCHS, which meant they immediately were no longer available to any average, plodding dolt who was neither a noted scholar, a sports star nor an angry rebel without a cause.
I was one of those average, plodding dolts. A 5th wheel amidst this group of sophisticated, worldly over-achievers. I considered my greatest contribution to group unity was in blushing profusely on the rare occasion they noted my existence.
One of these raving beauties acted as a model for the Eaton's catalogue. Coincidentally or not, there were a dozen or so copies scattered around our house; the second was a Jayne Mansfield clone, who had so many offers for rides to school when she wore her tight white sweater that she hid in the bushes until the bus arrived; the third and fourth, sisters, chatted and laughed in a knowing manner. Both were academically at the top of their class, although they took considerable pains to hide their intelligence and scholastic achievements.
As it was nearing the Christmas break, term tests were mandatory, and most of us were fretting the results, but I overheard one sister ask the other, "What did you score on the history test?"
"90", she replied blandly, apparently disappointed that her mark was not higher.
I ruefully noted that it would take two history tests for my marks to add to 90.
One day, one spoke to me.
"You're leaking" she said. Short and to the point.
I looked down at my pants, but thank the Lord for small mercies, they were dry.
"No" she continued, "Your lunch bag"
I lifted my brown-bagged lunch to eye level to take a look, and sure enough it was. A dark fluid oozed from the bottom.
Then the bottom of the bag let go. We all looked at the pile on the ground. Garbage. Eggshells, coffee grounds, banana peel, carrot peelings. Definitely garbage.
"Oh" I said perceptively, "I guess I grabbed the wrong bag!" and with that ran back down the road towards home, carrying the now empty, dripping bag in my hand.
I was accompanied by hysterical female laughter as I went.
Years later, when I had recovered some of my aplomb, I asked one of this bevy of four beauties if she would like to go out for a coffee. To my never-ending surprise, she agreed, but quickly added, “Just so long as you don’t bring a bag lunch!"
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