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Barely sat down, Georgie flashed a tight grin, her gaze flitting to the twitching Toronto Blue Jays bobblehead on his desk. “They’ve had slow starts before. It’s nothing to panic about,” she replied calmly, even though their losing record was putting a damper on her early season buzz. “Season’s still young.”

“But it must feel old, right? Waiting years for a championship season.” Laporte snatched up a new addition to his desk, an autographed baseball enclosed in a protective glass cube. “I could never waste my time like that.”

Says the fickle bandwagon jumper. Staring at the Jays logo on the wood base of the keepsake’s case, Georgie held her tongue. Three weeks earlier, Laporte was all about the Pittsburgh Pirates. Before that, the Atlanta Braves.

Loyalty, it would seem, wasn’t Laporte’s strong point. With Toronto’s baseball team needing one more win against Oakland to punch their ticket to their first ever World Series appearance, he’d switched his allegiance yet again. Blue Jays mania had gripped many a Torontonian by the throat.

Many, but not all. Not Georgie. She wished her baseball brethren well, but that was as far as her support went. The only time she’d been to a Jays game was at Exhibition Stadium in 1982. Michael desperately wanted to watch his Montréal Expos play Toronto in the Pearson Cup, so she tagged along, playing photographer to his fanboy as he met his homerun heroes on the field pre-game.

“Didn’t the Leafs lose Saturday, too?” If his sneer was a clue, Laporte already knew the answer.

The 3-2 loss in Calgary, which Georgie had watched with Michael and Leesa at Randall’s apartment, was a penalty-filled clunker, one best forgotten.

“They made up for it on Sunday,” she replied, refusing to dwell on their Saturday defeat. “Fought hard and came from behind to tie the Oilers 3-3. Gilmour scored a goal and got two assists.” Always a fan of a dramatic comeback, Georgie celebrated that night at Kaitlin’s with a slice of Thanksgiving pumpkin pie and a warm cab ride home.

“Oh! Well in that case, we better plan the parade!” Laporte cackled and returned his precious baseball to his desk.

Georgie stared back at him, unimpressed. Like she hadn’t heard that one before. His insults were about as fresh as a five-day-old donut.

“Being a Leafs fan is the deadest of dead ends,” he tutted. “Nothing good can come from it.”

Was that the best he could come up with?

“Well, I can see why you might think that, being on the outside,” Georgie replied diplomatically, keeping things respectful, “but the Leafs have given me so much. New experiences, new friends, a bond with people from all walks of life—all because we share a passion for the same team. It’s amazing. And facing adversity together will make eventual success taste all the more sweet.”

With a snort, Laporte glanced away and cracked open a bottle of pain medication, shaking two tablets into his palm. “Success? Eventually? Pfft! That’s never going to happen.” He chucked the pills in his mouth, grabbed his takeout coffee, and glugged noisily.

“Never say never,” said Georgie, offering her best conciliatory grin.

But Laporte ignored her olive branch and swung sideways in his chair, rolling toward his electric typewriter and an open file folder of papers resting on top. “So if it’s not common sense you’re after”—he shuffled through several documents typed on school letterhead—“what can I help you with?”

Clueless as usual. Georgie shifted forward. “It’s about Vimy, sir.”

Caressing his jaw with a wince, he dropped the letters on his desk and picked up a pen. “What about it?” He scrawled his signature on the first document and flicked through the others.

Georgie aimlessly stroked the curve of her silver bracelet with her thumb. “The decision last week was a big surprise.”

Laporte began signing again, making zero eye contact. “In what way?” He yawned mid-scribble.

I have to spell it out? Scuttling a glare, Georgie inhaled deeply and stole a moment, swallowing her annoyance as her gaze skated over a framed certificate on his wall marking a decade as a volunteer for a local food bank. “I’ve been campaigning for Vimy for five years, sir. It’s no secret it’s been my personal mission to take my students to France. And my record is exemplary. I’ve completed more successful off-site excursions than any other current faculty member. I speak fluent French. My classes routinely lead the school in high test averages, and over the years, three of my students have placed in the cross-Canada essay contest held annually by the Royal Canadian Legion. The facts don’t lie: I’m the most qualified teacher for this trip.”

Laporte underlined his final signature. “You’ve done us proud.”

A compliment? Georgie let out a staggered breath and jutted out her chin. “Thank you. So you can see why I’d be confused.”

The principal gathered the remaining correspondence from his desk and jammed the papers into the file folder. “The decision wasn’t easy. We debated at length.”

“We? Yourself and⁠—”

“The school board.” He folded his hands on his desk. “Overseas travel is a serious undertaking, Georgina. A lot could go wrong, so we exercised thorough due diligence and decided to award the trip to Brian.”

She blinked incredulously. “Award? His test scores are awful, and he rarely takes part in our Remembrance Day activities.”

“Ah, but he does have an excellent reference from Scouting Adventures Canada,” said Laporte. “He took fifteen kids camping overnight near Orangeville last summer.”

An hour away? Big whoop. Georgie had taken students for a two-night stay five hours away in Ottawa—twice.

“The board were quite impressed.”