by Susie Taylor
He notices my eyes on him.
“Enough, boys,” he yells.
The bell rings, and Wanda and I walk slowly over and join the lineup. Tiffany joins the back of the line. I’m afraid to look at her.
Throughout the morning announcements the next day, Miss Blake is unusually solemn.
“Class,” says Miss Blake, “before our spelling test, we’re going to do something different this morning. We need to talk about what you are all doing during recess.” There’s a knock at the door, and Mr. Dean stands there along with all the girls in his grade seven class.
“Mr. Dean is going to take all the boys back to his classroom, and the grade seven girls are going to join us. Off you go, boys. Get up so the girls can take your seats.”
The boys get up and shuffle out behind Mr. Dean. I hear him say, “Don’t look so terrified. I know how it is. Boys will be boys, eh?”
The grade seven girls take the vacant seats among us. They look pale. None of us want to be in this room right now.
Miss Blake sits on her desk. “I’m sorry we have to have this talk, and to be honest I’m disappointed in all of you grade eights. I thought you all had more respect for yourselves. I need you to understand that the game the grade eights have been playing is wrong. What you were doing could have had serious consequences. Your bodies, your breasts, are not things to be flashed around without thought. They are a special part of you.” I purposefully block out the rest of what she says. I make a thundering sound in my ears. I can do this if I concentrate hard enough and vibrate the muscles across my forehead. I have my hand up over one ear. Wanda notices before Miss Blake and jabs me in the leg. I drop my hand.
“Boys, men, will take any opportunity. That’s why I’m particularly disappointed in you girls. Boys sometimes can’t control their urges. Does anyone have anything they want to say? Candice?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Blake. We won’t play anymore.”
“Tiffany?”
“Sorry, Miss Blake,” Tiffany whispers while still looking down.
“The rest of you.”
“Sorry,” we collectively mumble.
“Good. We’ll say no more about it then.”
seven
Miss Blake is getting us to vote on a theme for our grad. She is writing suggestions on the board. Silver and Gold, Putting on the Ritz, Shoot for the Stars, Top of the Class are all her ideas. Candice suggests “Oriental Nights.”
“We can decorate the gym with paper cranes and paper umbrellas. The banquet is always at Mr. Lee’s, so it makes sense.” Miss Blake writes down Oriental Nights.
“Do you have any ideas for ‘Oriental Nights’?” Miss Blake asks Peony, and Peony just shakes her head no. Shoot for the Stars wins.
“We can make stars with all of your names on them, and maybe some rockets and a few planets. How about a big moon hanging over the stage?” Miss Blake spits a little as she plans it all out.
Mum is watching the news with the paper on her lap. They are showing footage from a pro-life rally today at the Morgentaler clinic. Protesters wearing woollen hats like tea cozies are holding up signs depicting bloody dead fetuses. Mum’s circling job ads.
“Mum, I need something to wear to grade eight graduation.”
“Can’t you wear that dress from Sheena’s wedding? You’ve only worn it once.”
It is a cotton dress that reminds me of the costumes on Little House on the Prairies. The dress is tight in the neck and flattens my breasts. I try it on and show it to Mum.
“That’s a beautiful dress and you look so pretty in it,” she says, barely glancing up.
“It’s not like what the other girls are going to wear.”
“I can’t help if it these North Americans make such a fuss about switching schools.”
“It’s too tight.”
“Try holding your stomach in.”
I lift my arms above my head and hear the satisfying rip of fabric as the seam in one of the armpits tears apart. I stretch my arms higher, making the tear longer.
Mum looks up at me properly.
“You did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t!” I lie.
At school Cathy shows me a picture of her dress in the Sears catalogue; it’s pink with a ruched top with sparkles and a sticky-out tutu skirt. At Wanda’s her mom is cutting down an old shiny peach dress she once wore as a bridesmaid.
“It’s going to have one shoulder strap and a tulip bottom,” she explains to me, pinning the hem as Wanda stands on a kitchen chair.
“What are you wearing, Daisy?” Wanda’s mom asks me innocently.
Mum has sewn up the rip and the rough hand-stitched seam rubs in my armpit like punishment. Mum and Elizabeth sit on the couch, and I come down wearing the repaired garment.
“It’s really not great,” Elizabeth says.
“Don’t you have something she can borrow? What did you wear?”
“That terrible white dress. I spilt fruit punch down it,” Elizabeth says, and then mouths, “on purpose” to me.
“I don’t need to go to grad,” I say.
“It is a lot of fuss for grade eight,” Mum says hopefully.
“You’re going,” says Elizabeth. “Both of you,” she says, shooting Mum a warning glance.
“I’m not wearing this dress,” I pronounce.
“What about your black dress?” Elizabeth says to Mum.
“That dress is ancient. And black, it’s a bit funereal.”
“Daisy won’t mind that. Funereal is in.”
They observe my face. I am perfecting a smearing technique with eyeliner.
It is a relic of Mum’s from the sixties. Sleeveless black velvet with a simple cut that comes just to my knees. The fabric is stiff enough that it holds in my gut, and I don’t feel self-conscious with the way it reveals my new, more curved shape.
“I knew I kept that for a reason,” Mum says.
“Do you like it, Daisy?” Elizabeth asks.
“Yes,” I say, and I’m not lying. Mum drives Elizabeth to the bus station, and I go to see her off. Back at home, the light is blinking on the answering machine. There is a message for Mum asking her to call and arrange a time to come in for an interview at the town hall. They are hiring a new front desk clerk. We whoop. Mum calls Olivia to come celebrate, and I try my dress on for her.
“You look fabulous!” Olivia tells me, and Mum pours me a half-glass of wine. The first few sips taste like cat pee and perfume, but then I stop noticing the smell and it’s finished before I want it to be. Before I take off the dress, I stand balancing on the edge of the bath so I can see myself in the mirror. I take in my reflection for a long time.
The ceremony is hot and long. Mum and Elizabeth sit in the audience, and I sit next to Wanda at the front. Peony gives the valedictory speech. She talks about what great friends she has made during grade school and how we will always keep in touch as we grow older. She’s moving to Calgary and no one has her address.
The other girls are crying and standing on the lawn of the school, saying how much they’ll miss each other. I’m not crying. Elizabeth, Wanda, and I stand in a corner and watch Candice’s mom organize group shots. She tries to get me in one, but Elizabeth saves me by saying we have to go find Mum, and we simply walk away. Wanda’s parents take a picture of me and Wanda. Her mom makes us put our arms around each other’s shoulders, and I pick up the scent of Dove’s Baby Soft perfume. I take a picture of Wanda, holding a rose and mini foil graduation balloon standing in between her smiling mom and dad.
Cora catches my hand as I am walking by her. “That is a cool dress.”
There’s a party at Candice’s. Her dad has a basement bar with a fancy stereo. Pop and chips will be liberally supplied. Everyone’s invited, although some of us are expected not to attend. I walk home with Elizabeth and Mum.
I keep Mum’s black dress on and lie in the dark, listening to Kate Bush and wondering what is happening at Candice’s. When I wake in the morning, the clock
says 10:00 a.m. and I’m wiping sleep from my eyes. I don’t know what time I fell asleep. I’m still wearing my grad dress, but I’m under the covers.
“Daisy! Daisy!”
“Mum, you’re supposed to knock.” I pull the covers up to my chin hiding my dress.
“I got the job. I have a job!” She flounces in and opens my curtains. “Come on, get up. You’re wasting the day.”
I pull the covers over my head, and she leaves the room humming.
eight
“Ican get you in to art camp, if you want? One of the campers broke their arm and pulled out. Carmen says one of the perks of the job is getting your kids in municipal programmes without having to line up for hours.”
“I’m too old for day camp, Mum.”
“You can’t just lie in bed all day when I’m at work. It’s not good for you. You’ll get all fausty. I’ve got to go, but we’ll talk about it when I get home.”
“I’m going to Cathy’s youth-group barbeque tonight.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go.”
“I changed my mind.”
At Cathy’s house we pray before eating the hotdogs and potato salad her mom has piled on the picnic table. I stand in a circle with the kids from Cathy’s church and we hold hands. I feel my palms sweat in the loose grasp of the boy to my left and the girl on my right. They all say grace, and I watch an ant crawl across the top of my shoe.
A blind speaker comes after dinner. In Cathy’s living room, we eat bowls of ice cream, and he tells us how lucky he is to be blind in Canada as his wife projects pictures of semi-naked, blind children lying on dirt floors and covered in flies. He gestures to the opposite side of the room from where the screen is; no one corrects him.
I stay after the other kids leave, and Cathy picks up the acoustic guitar she is learning to play. She plays “Kumbaya” and I make up dirty verses. “Someone’s pooping, my lord, kumbaya…someone’s peeing my lord, kumbaya.” She laughs. “Someone’s fucking, my lord,” I sing, and she stops playing and tells me I should go home.
Wanda spent the first two weeks of the summer holiday in Barrie with her cousins. One of them did her hair for her. I feel a little shy with her at first, when she shows up at my house. Her hair is bleached blonde, and she’s wearing new, very tight jeans and feather earrings. We walk to the park. We’re walking past a grown man inside his car stopped at the intersection. He whistles at Wanda through his open window. He looks her up and down, and she tosses her hair. “Don’t look, Daisy!” she says, realizing I am staring back at him. He has a bald spot and is wearing a golf shirt.
At the park we find a bench facing the water and wait for something to happen. I am hoping that some boys will show up, or maybe the Dickie Dee cart will come by, and we can buy popsicles. I tell Wanda about “Kumbaya.”
“Someone’s murdering, my lord, kumbaya.”
“Not so loud, someone will hear.”
“Someone’s stripping, my lord, kumbaya,” Wanda sings more loudly, and a passing woman with a stroller shakes her head at her. Wanda is quiet.
“You know, it’s true. Someone is stripping, and I don’t see why God shouldn’t love them,” Wanda says.
“Daisy! Don’t forget I’m going out tonight. You’ll have to get your own dinner, and I want you home by five. No calling from Wanda’s. I want to know you’re safe at home before I go out.”
“Daisy?”
“Okay, okay,” I call from beneath my blankets.
The mail arrives at the house at around 10 a.m. and I pick it up from the floor where it has landed. There are the usual bills, but today there is also a blue envelope that has African stamps on it and Dad’s handwriting. The seams are just holding together where they have been licked and stuck together. I’m holding the letter up to the sunlight when Wanda arrives. She takes it from my hand and holds it up to see if she can make out any words.
“I can see writing, but it’s too messy and I can’t read it,” she says.
“Mum’s been in a good mood recently, and she’s supposed to go out with people from work tonight. This could ruin that.”
“Maybe you should just hide it from her?”
“What if he wants to move back in?”
I fill the kettle and my hand shakes.
“Are you sure?” Wanda says as she hands me the envelope. It only takes seconds to unseal it when I hold it over the steam coming out of the kettle’s spout.
“I’ll just stick it back together once I know what’s inside,” I tell Wanda.
My research is going well. I have found a colony that is surprisingly resistant to ear mites….
The entire letter is about his work, except for one paragraph about a stomach bug that he caught when he first got there.
Say hello to the children for me. Love, Donald. The letter ends.
“He doesn’t even mention Elizabeth and me by our names.” I read the last line to Wanda.
“Maybe he forgot them?” Wanda says.
“Why did he bother to send this?”
“Get rid of it.”
“I can’t. That’s illegal.”
“It’s illegal to open someone else’s mail, and that didn’t stop you. I bet letters get lost all the time on the way from Australia.”
“Kenya, he’s in Kenya.”
“Whatever. If it’s not going to help her to read it?”
“It will just make her mad and then sad.”
Wanda and I shove the letter between two slats of wood on the porch floor. I want to make it look like our mail man dropped it and it slipped down there accidentally, just in case Mum finds it.
When she gets home, Mum rifles through the pile of mail absentmindedly. “The day that I’ve had, Daisy. Someone’s been stealing stop signs, and people are up in arms. It’s not like the town is out taking them down at night. And dog licences, I had to get Carmen to show me again how to issue them. This lady came in to register three poodles. Who needs three poodles? Surely one is more than enough. Carmen says it slows down in the fall and that starting in the summer is like trial by fire. People come out of their houses and start finding things to complain about. I need this drink tonight.”
“Who’s going?”
“Carmen, I’ve told you about her. Nancy, Marjory, the mayor’s secretary, Glenda, if she gets off on time. She was still waiting for the mayor to get back from lunch when I left, and she can’t leave until he’s signed a bunch of stuff. And Grahame, he just started too. I don’t think Carmen warned him it would be him and all women. He’s a historian, well, an archaeologist. Doing a survey on land that’s up for development. He’s got an NDP sticker on his car. Carmen keeps joking around that he’s single, but he’s not my type.”
Mum changes three times before she heads out. “I won’t be late.”
When she comes in at midnight, I am still up and I hear her humming to herself.
It was raining too hard to go to the park, so we took the bus to the mall. Wanda and I are sharing an Orange Julius and watching a little kid sit on top of a blue snail that rocks back and forth when you put quarters in it. His mom is digging through her purse to find one. I used to ride this snail, but my favourite was the mini movie theatre, a small box that Mum would plug a quarter in so I could sit inside and watch ancient black-and-white cartoons. The little cinema is still there, but has a big out-of-order sign hanging off it. We talk about these, but both of us are watching three teenage boys, older than us, on the other side of the snail. One is the guy from the smoking section at the high school.
“Second trumpet,” Wanda finally says to me.
They’re standing outside of the record store. Wanda slurps down the end of the Orange Julius.
“Come on.”
The boys talk loudly when we walk past them, and Second Trumpet nods his head at Wanda. Even though it’s Wanda he nods to, I feel a flip flop in my stomach. Wanda’s jeans are really tight, and when I walk behind her it’s hard not to stare. I stand next to Wanda, flipping through
the hanging rack of posters. There are cute kittens, ladies in bikinis, the Beatles, and David Lee Roth showing his bum. We’re flipping through half-heartedly when Second Trumpet arrives behind us, wearing a nametag. His name is Nick. “You need any help?”
“We’re just looking,” I stammer out.
“You need anything, come find me,” he says, looking at Wanda.
We’re going through the records, and Nick returns and comments on the Journey album Wanda has pulled out.
“That’s a classic.”
“That’s my parents’ music. I prefer something harder.”
“You like G N’ R?” He is eyeing her Swatch band.
“Yeah, and Steven Tyler.”
“What’s your name?”
“Wanda.”
“I’m Nick.”
“I know,” says Wanda, pointing at his nametag.
“You look familiar?”
“I’ve seen you around.”
“Do you go to Greensborough High?”
“No, Clearview, but I’m thinking of transferring.” Clearview is the jock high school. I admire Wanda’s seamless lie.
“Cool, I got to get back on cash, but can I get your number? We could talk about music sometime?”
“Okay.” I feel pretty invisible at this point in the proceedings. Nick pulls a pen from his back pocket, and Wanda writes her number on his hand.
“See ya,” she says.
“I hope so,” Nick replies, and we walk sedately until we are out of sight and then start running and skipping through the mall to the bus stop.
The bus home takes forever as it winds down all the little streets. “I bet he tastes good. I bet he tastes good/bad like black licorice,” Wanda says.
It has never occurred to me that boys might taste like something, although I’ve always figured Wanda tasted like artificial strawberry or maybe raspberry jelly powder.
“What flavour do you think I am?” I ask Wanda.
She looks at me. “Salt and vinegar, for sure.”
Wanda is sitting on the edge of our blanket at the park painting her toe nails Vixen Vibe red. Nick is watching her and occasionally taking a long blade of grass and sticking it in her ear. He’s wearing a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off. They listen to Aerosmith, a yellow set of earbuds split between them. Nick plays air guitar. Nick humours my presence like I am some kind of little sister. I read and try to ignore them, especially when Wanda has to keep moving Nick’s hands when he tries to wiggle them up the short leg of her cut-off jeans.