by Susan Juby
I don’t think she’s telling them too much about my part in the Battle at High Noon. She’s got this competitive thing about her family. I know she wants to be able to brag about me, but so far there hasn’t really been anything to brag about other than the fact that I rarely leave the house. She’s too proud to admit that she envies her friends whose children have friends, work at food co-ops, belong to Greenpeace, and attend regular school.
Mom sometimes talks about my independence and nonconformity like they are good things, but I know that a pessimistic, bitter misfit isn’t at all what she had in mind when she took it upon herself to conceive her firstborn, even if that child is quite advanced in some areas, such as irony and vocabulary. Oh well, maybe Death Lord will have better luck than Mrs. F. in turning me into the person my mother wants me to be.
Dad is a bit more real. He’s not much of a people person, but he’s so good-looking it doesn’t matter. He’s also pretty smart, but not in any useful way, as Grandma likes to point out. He spends quite a lot of time in the basement writing what he calls “bodice rippers.” Mom suspects that it’s pornography and is always checking to make sure his stories aren’t degrading women. Dad hasn’t actually had anything published yet, so the soft porn/romance novel thing isn’t exactly a big moneymaker. He only turns out about one little story every three or four months, and they are very historical and have a lot of women whose dresses are so tight, they are always fainting into “dead swoons.” Apparently the market for that sort of thing is limited. He is still convinced that he is going to make a fortune as a writer and is continually referring to his copy of Making It Writing Romance for inspiration.
He is also good at titles. He keeps a binder full of them. The President’s Neck Is Missing: A Rex E. Fortescue Mystery is one of my personal favorites. If he had a book to go with it, I think it could have real potential.
Dad has had quite a few careers. He has done just about everything that a person can do without a lot of preparation. Unfortunately, he gets tired of his careers quickly. When he was younger, he was a musician and played guitar. That’s what he was doing when he met my mom. She says she fell in love with him because she couldn’t resist a man with a guitar. That brings up all sorts of embarrassing my-mother-the-groupie scenarios. I try not to think about it. Anyway, Dad’s not a musician anymore because he finds it “soul killing” to cover other people’s songs. I suppose I can see his point. Having the local crowd call for “Stairway to Heaven” every five minutes would be enough to kill anyone’s love for music. On the other hand, I don’t think Dad exactly worked himself to death writing new material, so playing covers was really his only option.
Dad would probably be sort of disappointing to my mother, too, if he wasn’t so good-looking and such a magnet to the folk festival babes, especially the ones who are always talking about how they are “off men” and are “happy being single.” Dad isn’t really into them, but he is polite. When my mother’s folk festival friends are all busy being drawn to his energy, Mom gives him this “You old charmer” look and seems quite pleased that she has such a foxy husband.
On another note, I continue to make progress reading The Fellowship of the Ring. I’m on page five. I really understand now why it’s such an important book. I can’t believe I didn’t read it sooner!
August 4
What a relief to have a session with Death Lord Bob after that scarring experience at the Grocery Giant. Let’s see, we spent about five, maybe even ten minutes on the topic of my hair and my new look, then the rest of the hour either talking about Bob’s friend Charles or just staring at each other.
When I walked in, Bob seemed taken aback. Then, obviously gathering up all his counselor training and internal resources, he took a deep breath and started. He leaned forward in his chair and stroked his goatee thoughtfully for a second.
“Well,” he said.
Not knowing how I was supposed to respond to that overly open-ended counseling gambit, I said nothing.
Furrowing his eyebrows, which are, incidentally, suspiciously lighter than his jet-black hair, he tried again.
“Wow,” he whispered, “that’s quite a change.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said.
Bob’s goatee stroking was practically violent at this point. His mouth twisted as he racked his brain to remember the part in the counselor training manual that discussed how to deal with bad haircuts and fashion crimes.
“So that’s sort of a different look for you, isn’t it?” he whispered in his most intimate tough-guy voice.
I don’t know whether I was supposed to feel special that he noticed or what. So I just shrugged.
Apparently Bob wasn’t clear on whether he should bring into the open the fact that I looked terrible, or whether it would come as some sort of a devastating surprise for me. Bob shifted around in his seat. He crossed and recrossed his legs and smoothed his pant legs around his Doc Martens.
“So, how have you been? You know, since your new …” He trailed off briefly and then tried again. “Yeah, so how do you …?” Another dead end. “Well, I think it’s really great that you are developing your own, um, style.” He let out his pent-up breath in a blast. “When does school start?” he finally asked.
I shrugged again and looked at him.
I guess Death Lord didn’t know whether he should be trying to build up my poor self-esteem or whether it was his responsibility to get honest with me about how I really looked, you know, for my own good. And frankly, I was in no mood to help him out.
Before I knew it, Bob was halfway through the story of some friend of his who, a few years ago, had gotten seriously into blaxploitation movies from the seventies. This friend, Charles, had been inspired to get an afro in his shoulder-length light-brown hair. Bob said that it’s really great to express yourself, an art really, if you think about it, but Charles’s afro wasn’t appreciated by everyone. In fact, Charles was teased so much about his afro (which apparently stood a full two feet off his head) that his self-esteem and his ability to interact with others on an equal basis were seriously damaged. And Charles didn’t get platform boots with goldfish in the heels or anything—it was just basically the ‘fro and a rugby shirt—but still the fashion experiment was not a positive experience for him. Plus, Charles was already established with friends and everything when he did his experimenting or it could have been worse.
By the end of the story, Bob was leaning so far forward and his whisper was so strained that I was actually worried about him. He had a death grip on his goatee.
“So you see, it’s great to explore your personal style, but not everyone is going to appreciate, you know, the creativity behind it. Especially people that don’t know you. You see?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said.
“So you see what I’m saying then?” He looked at me hopefully, if a little desperately.
“Yeah. People didn’t like Charles’s hair.”
“That’s right.” Death Lord stopped for a moment and kind of slumped in on himself. We sat in silence, listening to each other breathe.
By the end of the session we had covered all the sick dynamics in Charles’s family of origin and how Charles was actually the reason, mostly, that Bob had become a counselor, and how all this was really bringing up a lot of issues for him (Bob). When I left, he was being comforted in the waiting/recreation room by one of the hovering social workers and a couple of troubled teens.
I am sort of enjoying Bob’s very indirect counseling style. He’s trying hard not to pull a Mrs. F. and scar me for life by telling me what he really thinks. I appreciate the effort. I really do. But I can’t help him out. I mean, what if I opened up and it caused him to pull a crackup like Mrs. F? I couldn’t live with myself. And truth be told, I don’t think I would really know what to say to Bob anyway. That I used to think I was a hobbit but it turns out that I might be nothing interesting at all? Besides, he’s so nervous about me going back to school that I don’t think he can take any
more stress.
Later
Should have known. Bob put in a call to the guidance counselor at the high school as soon as I left. Then he called to tell my parents that he checked and Linda is not a student at the Alternative. She’s been kicked out of school forever for beating up a small teacher. So that problem’s solved. And he’s warned the guidance counselor that I’m in an experimental phase and to be on the watch for any problems related to my hair. At least I think that’s what he said. My mother is still not speaking to me, so my dad passed along the message, and he’s not completely reliable.
On a more personal note, it’s been only three days and already my pants are starting to give me a rash. That must be why people started wearing natural fabrics again. Also, the orange sleeveless muscle shirt isn’t warm enough in the evenings, so I’ve been wearing it over a plaid shirt. As a look, it’s not really happening. I have to do something about my fashion statement before school starts. I wish Frank would come back so I could get some more pointers from her. She looked stylish but I just look weird. Can I cross off number 7 on my Life Goals list? I mean, I have established an individual look. It just isn’t very attractive. No, that’s probably cheating. I’ll just modify it.
Life Goal No. 7: Develop new look. (Like career choice, must reflect uniqueness Must also be at least semipresentable, not just sad.)
PRINCE GEORGE, POPULATION:
70,000 OR SO; MALLS: SEVERAL; NUMBER OF VIOLENT TEEN OFFENDERS:
UNKNOWN
August 6
My mother is speaking to me again. She sat me down today for the big talk about how hurt she was by the scene at the Grocery Giant. She says she’s very worried about me, since school hasn’t even started yet and already I’m running into some of the same problems as I did in first grade. Plus she wasn’t sure I was “hitting the mark” with my new look. I considered mentioning that I wasn’t exactly bursting with pride at her performance at the Grocery Giant or her overall fashion sense, either. After all, she’d just inflicted on me the single most traumatic experience of my life. Just so long as she doesn’t try to pull me out of therapy with Death Lord due to lack of results. That would be a shame, especially now that he’s really starting to open up.
Near the end of our talk, Mom got into the whole “How are you feeling?” thing. I think she assumes anyone as strange as me must be on the verge of suicide most of the time. God, these talks are such a drain. She gears up for them for days and never fails to end up in tears the minute she opens her mouth, which is something I could totally live without. I think she thinks that the way I am is something I’m doing to her. I can’t believe how icky (that really is the only word for it) these conversations make me feel. She never lets up until she thinks we’ve gotten things solved or at least made some progress. She said how much she wanted to be supportive when school starts, but I’m going to have to “let her in.”
Between her concern and Bob’s anxiety, I’m starting to get a little worried about going back to school myself. But I can’t be an invisible, stay-at-home, plaid-shirt girl forever. I have a life to live, and it’s high time I met some people my own age who don’t wear antlers.
After my mom finished crying, and telling me how much she loved me but didn’t understand me, she suggested a trip to Prince George. We’re going to stay overnight in a hotel, get new clothes for school, and get my hair fixed by a hairdresser who can do more than one style. I’ve heard about families who do these trips to the city before school. I never imagined my anticommercial mother would go for it. She must feel really bad. It’s incredible that she’s ready for another mother-daughter shopping trip already. People are still being interviewed by the police about the last one. Can you imagine the trouble we could get into in Prince George, which is a real city with malls and freeways and probably hundreds of people who are as bad as Linda or worse? It boggles even a critical mind like mine.
August 10
Big news at the MacLeod house: My brother, MacGregor, had babies this morning. At least his angelfish did.
Mom spotted the eggs first, a sprinkling of tiny almost invisible balls, on the biggest leaf of the sword plant. She squealed and flew off to get MacGregor. Even Dad became animated. He kept saying, “Well now, this is quite the occurrence. A momentous occasion, really,” between sips of his coffee.
MacGregor and Mom rushed back in a panic. It really was an emergency, because the angelfish pair have this nasty habit of eating their own eggs. When they first began spawning, MacGregor tried to allow the eggs to hatch naturally so the parents could raise the babies because, according to him, “cichlids are some of the best parents in the fish world. And watching them raise their fry is remarkable.” Well, his angels are seriously faulty. They do their fascinating behavior—fanning the eggs and so on—for about an hour or two and then they have a big meal. It’s disgusting, really. MacGregor says their natural brood-care behavior may have broken down because of inbreeding or because they feel threatened somehow. I say those fish are mutants. Their own eggs are a staple part of their diet, which is pretty sick when you think about it.
Since his fish are such crappy parents, MacGregor has decided to interfere in the natural order of things to protect the rights of the children. He is going to hatch the eggs himself. Time was short, because since the little cannibals have gotten used to the joys of infanticide, they barely even make a show of angelfish parental behavior. MacGregor says that usually one of the parents does a lot of shimmying up and down the leaf where the eggs cling, fanning them so they get enough oxygen, while the other angelfish stands guard, but with these horrors, it’s out one end and in the other. After they eat their own potential offspring, the two of them have these extremely violent fights where they lock mouths and battle back and forth and upside down all around the tank. I wish it was more surprising that such a dysfunctional pair of fish ended up in our house.
While all this rough Wild Kingdom—with—Lorne—Greene material unfolded, MacGregor sprang into action. He had a tiny little nursery tank already set up nearby, and he put some water from the birthing tank into it, plugged in the heater and aerator, and added some kind of blue chemical to the water. Then, with us standing around giving him suggestions like “Get them out quick!”—“I think they’re going to attack!”—“I think you just blew it,” and so on, he clipped the leaf with the eggs on it and transferred it into the small aquarium. MacGregor put the clipped leaf and eggs quite close to the bubbles coming from the aerator. The operation went smoothly, probably as a result of my good advice.
After the eggs had been medevac’ed out, I enjoyed watching the evil angels peering around, the cycle of child abuse broken. They tried to have their usual posthatch fight, but without the main cannibalizing event first, their hearts didn’t seem in it. They made a few runs at each other, frayed a fin or two, and then returned to cruising back and forth between the swordplants.
I guess MacGregor saved the day, although letting such a pair of defects have children strikes me as a bad idea. I wonder what my brother could accomplish if he put his attention toward a worthwhile species. You know, like mammals. I think he could win a Nobel prize someday. Fish are a waste of his talents.
Anyway, the wait is on to see if the eggs hatch. Good thing my social calendar isn’t too booked up. Between waiting for water to boil and my brother’s eggs to hatch, I’m pretty much on a tight schedule. Plus I have about ten thousand pages of The Lord of the Rings to get through. The Hobbit may be a kids’ book, but I sure made better time on it. I seem to be stuck on page fifteen of Fellowship. Maybe I should skip to The Two Towers and see if I can make a dent in that.
August 14
The whole family’s been trying to get into the miracle-of-birth thing with MacGregor’s angelfish. It’s hard to get too excited about it, though, since the eggs and even the leaf they sit on are barely visible because the water has so much of that antifungal blue stuff in it.
Sometimes MacGregor is just great. He thinks I should
get a fish tank because I’m interested in his. Actually, I’m mostly just interested in MacGregor. It must be really nice to be into nature instead of society and culture and the problems of the world, like I am. And there are probably a few more jobs in the nature field than in the the-world-sucks-and-I-don’t-want-to-participate field. I think that my path as a student of life, cultural critic, and achiever of multiple Life Goals is much harder.
Tomorrow we head to Prince George. I wonder if the other families who make the big trip to Prince George for back-to-school clothes have to endure sage-burning ceremonies for safety beforehand and a father making cracks about how you haven’t felt bad vibes until a bald tire blows. I think it’s safe to say that we are the least sophisticated family in Smithers and possibly the entire Bulkley Valley Lakes District.
August 15
So far the trip to Prince George is just long. We left at about seven A.M. It’s seven thirty now. My mom and I don’t have much to say to each other. She wanted to know what kind of clothes we are looking for. I told her that I want stuff like what I have on. (I wore my stretch pants, muscle shirt, and down vest.) I don’t think that’s exactly what she had in mind. I bet she was hoping I’d want to get a few freeflowing hippie muumuus in pink and purple. Not likely. Thank God MacGregor is with us. He’s supposedly getting fish equipment and some new clothes for school, but they always bring us both on all major outings because they think he’s a stabilizing influence on me. Now if we could just find someone to be a calming influence on my mother. After all, she’s the one who gets into fights.