Scarborough

by Catherine Hernandez

  “You want some too?” I thought Sylvie’s mom was talking to me, and as I stepped forward, Laura passed me.

  “Sure!” Laura replied. Laura got the full glam treatment. Since she was a fairy, she got both rosy cheeks and ruby red lips.

  “All you need is lipstick!” Sylvie’s mom giggled. She shook her head at the sight of the two girls. “Goddamn it, my lipstick is almost all used up. You both look like tramps.”

  I was suddenly sad, feeling the grease of the painted-on beard. I wanted lipstick, too.

  The weight of my mother’s arm sloped across my shoulders. It was firm. A fence. I knew she had seen me take a step forward when the lipstick was offered. Her downwards gaze at me made me feel so ashamed. Then, to my surprise, she bent down, kissed me on the forehead, and whispered in my ear. “Not here.”

  She knew. The pairs of heels that were out of place in her closet. The worn-down lipstick. The dresses hanging lopsided on their hangers.

  I looked up and saw her smiling at me, tears welling in her eyes. “Another time. Not here.”

  DAILY REPORT

  October 31, 2011

  Facilitator: Hina Hassani

  Location: Rouge Hill Public School

  Attendance:

  Parent/Guardian/Caregiver

  Children (one per line please)

  Cory Mitkowski

  Laura Mitkowski

  Edna Espiritu

  Bernard Espiritu

  Helen McKay

  Finnegan Everson Liam Williams Sebastian Dennis Chloe Smith

  Fern Donahue

  Paulo Sanchez Kyle Keegan

  Marie Beaudoin

  Sylvie Beaudoin Johnny Beaudoin

  Lily Chan

  Jennifer Chan Aiden Chan

  Yanna Knowles

  Reese Knowles

  Sonia DiSorono

  Luka DiSorono

  Anna Maria De Souza

  Winston Dunst Benjamin Tate Paula Santiago

  Pamela Roy

  Evan Roy Yanna Roy Tasha Roy

  Notes:

  Halloween was a blast despite the rain. Lots of kiddos in cute costumes. The Chan family had them in matching dim sum outfits. Each kid had a hat with pork buns. So adorable! We made some pretzels shaped in the letters spelling “Halloween.” Not that the kids knew. They ate the letters before we could even decorate them. Oh well.

  Mrs Rhodes has been included in our conversation around Bing and his possible giftedness designation. I have forwarded them my thoughts for his assessment and will support his mother, Edna, through this possible transition and her decision making. He comes to me for extra work since, he tells me, he’s not challenged enough in Mrs Finnegan’s class. I usually give him story writing prompts, which he hands me the next day with ease. Today, though, he and Sylvie asked to make friendship bracelets. I gave them two colours of yarn, and they went to work. What was amazing is that they noticed Laura watching from the side, and they let her join in. It was lovely to watch. All of this strategizing around Laura, and she integrated herself into the group.

  Weekly supplies requested:

  2% milk

  three bags, please

  Cheerios

  one box

  Shreddies

  one box

  apples

  one bag

  bananas

  two bunches

  Jane Fulton

  November 1, 2011

  10:22 a.m. (9 hours ago)

  To

  Hi, Hina:

  Halloween sounded like a hoot!

  Judging by your attendance, you had only seventeen children and their caregivers/parents. Not to alarm you, but usually Halloween (or any holiday for that matter) is a big attendance day for most centres in the province. It’s not surprising if there are thirty plus people there. Do you have a clue why your numbers were the way they were? I know the centre is relatively new. But did you have the chance to flyer the neighbourhood, as I had mentioned?

  Also, I was watching the CBC the other day and noticed you in the crowds at some Indian cultural event with the NDP. Was that you? I just wanted to check. We have a right to stand by our political opinions, but I must caution you that the centres pride themselves on being no-politics zones.

  Especially as the centres are the pride and joy of the Liberal Party, I want to ensure your NDP sentiments won’t hurt the neutrality of your workplace. You can imagine how the simple things we do every day can make a statement—be it what we say or how we dress (your hijab, for example)—and how they may affect the community’s opinion of you and what the centre can provide. Would love to know your thoughts about how you plan to keep these two worlds separate!

  Lastly, I am concerned about your grocery bill. I notice lots of requests for cereals and milk. Just checking that people aren’t expecting a breakfast program out of our beloved centres.

  Jane Fulton, MSW

  Supervisor, Ontario Reads Program

  Reading is a way for me to expand my mind, open my eyes, and fill up my heart.

  —Oprah Winfrey

  Me

  November 1 2011

  1:15 p.m. (3 hours ago)

  To Jane Fulton

  Hello, Jane:

  Thanks for your feedback.

  I will happily start flyering during my free time once I better understand how exactly I will be compensated for this labour. I hope you understand that spending my free time with my family is very important to me. I would love to discuss with you, and perhaps our union representative, ways we can troubleshoot this situation so that it is fair for all concerned.

  The footage you saw on the CBC was of my cousin Raj, who is running as a New Democratic Party candidate in the West Rouge district. Perhaps you were confused, since there were many South Asians in attendance. We are all very proud of Raj and stand by his skills. The “Indian cultural event” you mentioned was actually a fundraiser for Because I am a Girl, which is an international movement to end gender inequality. Again, my personal time is my own and is very important to me—as is my hijab. You can rest assured that my dangerous NDP views won’t be heard at the centre.

  Sincerely,

  Hina Hassani, Facilitator

  Ontario Reads Program, Rouge Hill Public School

  PART TWO

  WINTER

  The Rouge River is frozen still and quiet. Grandfather Heron hides.

  At Warden Station

  Despite the cold, a lineup builds at a café, as people wait for their Jamaican beef patties, a delicacy sandwiched between coco bread buns. People relish its heat in their hands and the steam across their faces.

  At the corner of Markham and Eglinton

  Lucky 88 Asian Market is busy. Brown and Black folks of all sorts take a number and wait for the butcher to cut their choice meat. Whole goat. Oxtail. Beef tongue.

  SYLVIE

  It was an indoor recess, because of the snowstorm. Bing and I were busy with the comic book we were writing and drawing together.

  “This is for you, Bernard.” Mrs Finnegan placed an envelope on Bing’s desk, then patted him on the back, like he’d earned it. “Don’t forget to put that in your backpack. Best to put it in there now, don’t you think?”

  Bing obeyed. He got up from our desks and headed to his bag, which was hanging on the wall. Standing there, he opened the envelope and read the letter inside. When he came back, he looked different.

  “What’s that for?” I asked him.

  “Don’t you know?” Clara tilted her head at me with a look of disgust. “This is the year they start testing everyone for the gifted program.”

  I looked at Bing to see if this was the truth, but he refused to look back at me. He just pretended to colour in our comic book. I could tell he was pretending because he was using his green marker over and over on the same patch of paper.

  “My dad says I’m gifted in other ways. Some people are book sm
art, but I’m art smart. That’s why I’m part of the children’s choir. He says that kids in the gifted program are socially awkward, but arts kids are social butterflies.” She snapped her pencil case closed like she was some lawyer on TV closing her briefcase. I wanted to shut that pencil case closed on her fingers, I hated her so much.

  The school bell rang the end of indoor recess.

  “Awwww!’ the kids all said together. As everyone began putting away puzzles and board games, I tapped Bing on the shoulder.

  “Can I please see the letter Mrs Finnegan gave you?”

  “It’s for Ma.”

  “Please?”

  “I can’t forget it in my bag. I can’t take it out now. It’s very important.”

  “You read what was inside. Why can’t you tell me?” I waited. He looked at his shoes. “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t show me, I’m going to tell your ma that you took a bottle of that slutty pink nail polish to paint your binder cover.” Bing’s eyes widened in fear.

  “Sylvie Beaudoin. Bernard Espiritu. Please, sit down. Indoor recess is over now.” Mrs Finnegan looked down at both of us over her reading glasses. I realized everyone was seated at their desks.

  For the rest of the day, I had wished we could play Cursive Writing. It wasn’t even a game, but I really wanted to watch Bing’s pen gracefully move about the paper.

  I tried to write a letter with that same writing. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for getting him in trouble. I wanted to know if he was okay. And if he wasn’t okay, I wanted him to know he could tell me that, too. But I knew my cursive writing was illegible to him.

  After school, I saw Mama outside. Johnny was out of the stroller, and an old television set sat in his place. Mama was twirling the cord into a perfect knot as I approached her. I was so embarrassed and hoped Clara wouldn’t see us. That snooty bitch.

  “You won’t believe it!” she said, while shooing away Johnny’s prying fingers from the TV’s clicking knobs. “It was just sitting there outside of National Thrift waiting for someone to take it. Someone left it there as a donation, but National Thrift was closed. I feel so damned lucky!”

  When we got home, Mama plugged the set in. It had a large knob to change the channels. She clicked it back and forth and found only one channel that worked. Black and white images emerged from the squiggles on the screen.

  “You see him over there? When you serve him his martini, hand him this note, see? You have approximately ten minutes to deliver it. After that, the invisible ink will be unreadable.”

  “But how will he know what it says? It’s gibberish!”

  “It’s not gibberish, Charlie. It’s in code. I’ll explain it later. Now, get out there and serve your country!”

  Watching these spies disguised as waiters, my eyes twinkled. I knew exactly what to do.

  Two days later, I was ready. With the letter in my pocket, I searched the costume bin at the literacy centre. No trench coat, but Ms Hina did lend me a pair of sunglasses.

  “Nice glasses, Sylvie,” said Clara sarcastically. She pursed her lips at me. I took the glasses off and shoved them into my desk. So much for the disguise.

  With my hand still in my desk, I searched the mess of orange peels and crumpled granola bar wrappers until I found a pencil. My strategy was to use the pencil sharpener screwed to the doorframe near Bing’s desk, then to casually drop the letter on his desk on the way back to mine. Bing would see the truth, Mrs Finnegan would see nothing, and I would have a sharp pencil.

  Mrs Finnegan began her lesson on Venn diagrams by drawing two large, overlapping circles on the chalkboard. She scribbled a stick figure with a cowboy hat on the right-hand side of the diagram. “Let’s say we have two farmers.” On the left-hand side, she scribbled another stick figure, with something in his mouth.

  “Is he smoking?” said Hakim with a giggle. Everyone laughed.

  “No!” Mrs Finnegan always seemed to be on the edge of screaming. “That’s straw. The farmer’s chewing it.” She turned to face us, reaching for her coffee cup. She took a drink and a deep breath and turned back to the chalkboard.

  This was my chance. I got up and began to whistle as I strolled along the row. Casual.

  “Since both Farmer Smith and Farmer MacDonald have sheep, we will put the word sheep in this middle part—” Mrs Finnegan broke off and looked around, confused. “What is that sound? Hakim, is that you?”

  I stopped whistling and rushed over to the sharpener. No more time for casual. Eagerly, I turned the hand crank. Grind, scratch, click.

  Mrs Finnegan continued over the noise. “But since Farmer Smith is the only one who has chickens, can anyone tell me where we should write the word chickens?”

  I watched Bing. He looked so bored. “Sylvie?” Mrs Finnegan and the entire class was looking at me. “Do you think your pencil is sharp enough?”

  I looked down. My pencil was the size of a toothpick, thanks to my daydreaming. Everyone looked back at the chalkboard. It was now or never.

  My heart pounded as I approached Bing’s desk. I focused on the silhouette of his undershirt beneath his button-up shirt, on the icing sugar rolls of baby powder and sweat between his neck folds. With great nonchalance, I dropped the wet wipe of a letter, damp from my sweaty palms, on his desk, and kept strolling. I could feel him looking at me but didn’t look back. Casual.

  I watched his back muscles reconfigure when he realized the letter was in code and had a key. He took a pen from his pencil case, and his muscles changed shape again as he deciphered my letter. Then I watched the muscles reconfigure as he read what I had written:

  Dear Bing,

  You are my best friend.

  Love, Sylvie

  At recess, I found Bing hiding in the alcove of the school’s back doors. He was sort of staring at the brown brick wall of the school and kicking the concrete, like he was bored. I sat down on the cold grey surface and rested my chin on my bony knees, knowing he wanted to talk.

  “I watched my dad put his hand into the frying pan. That’s why we’re alone now. Ma says he is sick in his head and heart, and it’s not his fault. He didn’t go to the doctor.” Bing was suddenly still. His forehead rested on the brick. “You’re my best friend, too.”

  I looked at him. He had that moon face only fat kids have. Like someone sewed on eyes, a nose, and a mouth too small for such a large surface. I could hear him breathing, the snot getting in the way, the tears flowing. He wiped them away. I gave him the napkin from my pocket that Mama had packed for my lunch that day. It had a bit of pizza sauce left over from the corners of my mouth, but I knew he wouldn’t mind. That’s what best friends are like.

  “Are you going into the gifted program?” I asked, never wanting to let him go.

  “I don’t know. Mrs Finnegan wants me to get tested. But it’s far away.”

  “You left me hanging, little girl.”

  Christy’s brown hair was newly shaved on one side and the other was draped over her face. She smelled good today. She looked awake and eager. Like last time, she poured herself a cup of black coffee and sat near me and my pile of newly found treasures, this time a note with the words right on College, left at Bathurst, as well as a mood ring.

  I began.

  “My mother did not give me my name. It was given to me by a young girl named Samantha, who scribbled my name onto paper with a purple marker. She folded the paper twice and placed it in a plastic bin. It was a contest to see who would name the new orangutan. The zookeeper shook the bin, then reached her hand inside. Once she pulled out Samantha’s submission, the zookeeper held it up high for all to see. When asked why she chose the name Clementine, Samantha answered, ‘Because she’s orange, and she’s small.’ My mother knew what my real name was, though. She whispered it into my ear while I nursed. It was also the last thing she said to me before they took her away to the San Diego Zoo.”

  “What was it?” Christy interjected.

 
I whispered it into Christy’s ear, the ear next to her shaven head. A secret.

  I continued.

  “Before I tell you the rest of this story, I have to make it perfectly clear that my mother did not try to drown me, as the newspaper said. She had a funny feeling, is all. Something was speaking to her near the wading pool that surrounded our part of the zoo. Something told her to let me swim. For days she would pace beside the pool, this pool that was meant to keep us from climbing. From escaping. The zookeepers knew we orangutans could climb. Climb anything. Climb a wall of slippery fish covered in Vaseline. Climb a waterfall of spaghetti. But we could not swim.”

  Christy laughed. Patted me on the head.

  “Only my mother knew different. At least, that is what she heard from the water. She tried once to dip her toes in, but couldn’t fight the sick feeling in her belly. She didn’t like wet fur or cold between her toes. But what about her baby? What would her baby girl know of fear?”

  Christy suddenly stood. Her face was red. “No she didn’t.”

  “No she didn’t,” I reassured her. Christy scratched at her tattoo, flakes hitting the air and sunlight.

  “The zookeeper started thinking my mom was acting strange. Her pacing—with a baby girl on her back—made the zookeeper nervous.

  “One day, the zookeeper began offering food near the pool. The crowd was taking photos as the long hairs and the rest of my sisters and brothers walked to the edge. Mama didn’t care though. She just looked at her reflection in the water. Touch me, the water said. Touch me and be free. She looked at her reflection. At the reflection of the zoo’s fake trees and glass ceiling. At the reflection of her child, me, on her back, ready to swim.