By: Det. Evit Ceted
March 30th, 2020
There is no doubt that every student, no matter their school or their situation, is facing quite the set of circumstances at the moment - the unfortunate closure of TFS due to unrelated causes that seem to have coincidentally shut down a large part of Canada’s economy at the same time. But one group of people is challenged by an especially large problem: they are the teachers of TFS.
TFS is a school defined by the people who make it up: its administration, its student body, and its teachers. But with the closure of the school, this student investigator* started wondering: what is TFS without its teachers? What are its teachers up to now that the school is shut down? What are they doing in that mysterious lair of good and evil, that den of secrets, that room of enigmas that we call the teacher’s lounge on the lower floor of TFS? This is the most pressing issue I or any of my peers have faced, and so I took it upon myself to investigate the empty halls of Toronto French School to discover what they were so intent on hiding from us.
First contact with TFS went as planned - I hopped off my suspiciously empty 124 Lawrence bus, which still managed to be over an hour late and crossed the street to arrive at our glorious establishment. Strangely enough, there was yellow tape blocking off the park areas and a group of men who gave me unwelcoming looks. Could TFS be involved in unsavoury business? This is what student investigators* such as myself are here for. I slipped past the men watching me and unlocked the door with my card. Awaiting a friendly “Bonjour Evit, comment ça va?” from Gerard as I strolled in, I was met with nothing but the cold sound of a school void of people.
What happened? Why is no one here?
I adjusted my uniform tie and I kept on pressing forward. There were no Grade 6 and 7 students to make incomprehensible noises to pollute the quietness of the hallways, no shrieking Level 1 and 2 students to disturb my quest, and not a teacher in sight to tell me to get off my phone in the library. I suppose that last one might have had something to do with the fact that I was in the hallway, but I, as a student investigator*, declare it nonetheless suspicious!
I figured that, as any normal student does, instead of putting my bag next to my locker before I started my inquisition for the truth, I should throw it in the middle of the hallway in front of the cafeteria, since no one walks there anyways, right? After depositing my bag, I went straight for that promised Neverland, the Garden of Eden itself, the teacher’s lounge. I closed my eyes as I laid my hand on the doorknob - what could possibly be held beyond these gates? I took a deep breath and steeled myself for whatever could come next, and started to turn the knob.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
But then, I heard something. What? What could that sound have possibly been?
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
I could see a shadow rounding the corner from the science hallway. Who on earth could make that noise? It was getting louder and louder!
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
There he stood, in all his glory. Mr. Marino, his arms crossed and his brow so furrowed that I later had to consult Dr. Ernest Ngongo for help calculating the massive angle they formed. He looked right into my soul. Past my eyes, right into my very being. He only got out one question before I screamed and ran.
“Où est ton blazer?”
In a panic, this student investigator* was not armed with anything to defend himself (and the one weapon I did have, a rather sharp pencil, was confiscated earlier this year by Mme. Jurdy on the grounds that I can’t use it on an IB exam). So, I dashed past him and up the stairs back to the main entrance.
I just so happened to conclude my investigation of the teacher’s lounge at that same moment, for reasons unrelated to my escape from that awkward situation. It was true that Mr. Marino was too diligent to leave the school under any circumstances, but what could have caused our current situation? Some sort of international crisis? No, that couldn’t be it. If that were the reason, then I’m sure I would have already received plenty of emails from teachers about it that I neglected to read. An investigator* is nothing without evidence, and this investigator* is thorough if anything.
On the main floor, I decided that I would make another attempt to contact the teachers of TFS. I needed someone who wasn’t Mr. Marino, who would be easy to call out. I needed a second attempt to verify my results - after all, investigation is a natural science (or at least, that’s what I said in Theory of Theory of Knowledge class and everyone was too confused and uninterested to debate me on it), and so I needed a repeat experiment.
That’s when I had the idea. I started screaming. “I started to really like him! I want to truly show her what I meant! He wanted to foolishly try it again! Ooooh, I’m splitting an infinitive, someone come stop me!”
Mrs. Grimsley was nowhere to be seen. What could have possibly happened? I was puzzling upon this when the answer finally came upon me. Well, came upon me is the wrong term. A more accurate way of saying it would be that I walked into it. A sign for the Wind Ensemble making it to OBA.
Of course! It was so simple! The entire school is in Wind Ensemble! I mean, except those silly Jazz Ensemble kids, but sometimes I forget we have one of those. I’m an investigator*, not a historian.
But back on topic!
If the entire Wind Ensemble, which constitutes the entire school, faculty and students included, were at OBA, then the riddle is easily solved. Answers in hand and objective of opening the teacher’s lounge complete, I took the three-hour ride home by TTC to get four city blocks north to type up my findings for you TFS students who are determined to find the truth just as I am. Knowing what has happened brings me and many other students peace of mind, and we can safely go to school knowing that there is absolutely no threat whatsoever to our curriculum.
*I am legally required to state that I am not an actual investigator, but don’t let that affect how seriously you take this report.