Joe and Nelly sit on the old wooden bench outside the café, a soft breeze lifting the ends of her hair.
Joe:
“You know, Nells… I’ve been reading about those old one-room schoolhouses. The way kids learned back then. No grade levels, no rigid tracks. Just a room, a teacher, and children teaching each other. A place where if a kid understood something faster, they just moved on. No one accusing them of being a ‘teacher’s pet.’”
Nelly looks down, tracing a circle on her coffee cup with her finger.
“You remember they used to call me that,” she says quietly. “Just because I liked learning. Because I talked to the teacher. They made me feel like doing well was something to be ashamed of.”
Joe shakes his head.
“That’s the poison of the Prussian model. Bells. Hierarchies. Everyone slotted into these invisible ranks. If you shine, they mock you. If you struggle, they shame you. And the whole point is to make everyone obedient, predictable… manageable.”
He reaches over, gently touching her wrist.
“In a one-room school, you would’ve skipped half those grades before lunch. Nobody would’ve said a damn word except, ‘Good for her.’ You’d have been the bright kid helping the younger ones. The older ones helping you. Learning was just… natural.”
Nelly smiles, a little sadly.
“Would’ve been nice. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time hiding who I was. Pretending to be less smart just so people would leave me alone.”
Joe leans closer, voice soft but steady.
“You never had to hide from me. Not then. Not now. They picked on you because they saw the spark. I saw it too—but I wanted to protect it, not snuff it out.”
She breathes in, her eyes warmer now.
“I guess that’s why I always trusted you, Joey. Even when everything else felt loud… you made it quiet.”
Joe nods, looking out over the street.
“One room. One teacher. A simple place where brilliance isn’t a crime. I wish the world worked more like that. We’d have fewer bullies… and more Nellies.”
Nelly leans her head on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For seeing me. Even back then.”
Joe smiles.
“I always did.”
Joe and Nelly stepped off the bus at Commercial Drive, the rain tapping out a soft Vancouver rhythm on the shelter’s plexiglass.
Nelly had pulled her hood low, but a couple of teenagers still recognized her and smiled shyly. She smiled back—just a regular girl again for a second.
Joe nudged her with his elbow.
“See?” he said quietly. “This is the real campaign trail. Not Lennon’s Rolls Royce.”
Nelly laughed, a little defensive. “What’s wrong with John Lennon’s Rolls Royce? It’s art.”
“It is art,” Joe agreed. “But it was also his downfall. The moment he went from working-class poet to psychedelic royalty—people stopped seeing him as one of them. You want to win hearts and minds? You ride the bus. You get rained on with everybody else.”
They walked toward the SkyTrain entrance, passing a man struggling with too many grocery bags. Nelly instinctively helped him gather one before it toppled. He thanked her without realizing who she was.
Joe pointed after him.
“That moment right there. You can’t get that sitting behind tinted glass in a million-dollar car.”
Nelly sighed. “It’s not glamorous though.”
“Good,” Joe said. “Glamour is the enemy. If we want people to believe us—to trust us—we have to suffer with them. Same wet shoes. Same late buses. Same crowded train at 5 p.m.”
The SkyTrain roared in, brakes shrieking. People packed tighter to the edge of the platform.
Nelly looked at Joe. “Common people, huh?”
Joe grinned. “The only people. If you ride with them, they’ll ride with you.”
The doors opened. They stepped inside, shoulder to shoulder with the city—exactly where Joe said they needed to be.