be pissed off about not being asked first.
Weâre thinking of a gangster theme, she says. Black and white, lots of mist, lots of shadows.
Then Amber gets a text.
Oh no, she says. She actually smacks her forehead. Gary is waiting for me. Heâs not going to be happy.
And just like that, sheâs racing down the corridor, away from me.
Hey, I say. Want to talk after the game?
But she turns the corner and is running down the stairs. She didnât even ask what Tyrone and I have decided to do for our Entrepreneurship thing.
Which is just as well. Overhead ? That is not a word that made it into my/our Entrepreneurship proposal.
I think of what Tyrone said â just food coloring and water , all profit  â and I feel a little better.
But then I think, What the heck are we going to put these dazzlingly colorful, profitable creations in ? Iâd forgotten all about packaging!
8
A word about my familyâs financial situation. Dire. Itâs a dire situation right now.
The dads â my dad and Felixâs dad â have never contributed any child support (in my dadâs case, well, he can hardly be held accountable as he doesnât know heâs a dad, and in Hankâs case, well, he doesnât know heâs a dad, either).
Which, well, contributes to the predicament we currently find ourselves in â namely, having to deal with a phone call from Newfoundland Power.
Miranda has not paid the electricity bill. There have been three cut-off notices. The third one says, You have not responded to our previous attempts to contact you. We are sending a field worker into your area to discontinue services.
I watch Miranda fold the third cut-off notice into a fan and bat her eyelashes at me over the top of it.
A field worker sounds kind of intriguing, she says. Do you think heâll be wearing one of those tool belts slung low over his hips? Iâm a fool for tool belts.
The third cut-off notice says this: You will see your breath as you stand over the toaster in the morning waiting for your toast to pop.
You know what? the notice says in big red letters. Forget toast. There is no toast. You are toast. We have cut off the electricity. Try burning the kitchen chairs so you can warm your hands over the flames.
Then it says, Itâs not all bad. Social workers will probably arrive and take your little brother off kicking and screaming to an orphanage. You will never have to share the Oreos with him again. He will be fed to hungry lions.
The third notice says, Have you heard of the dark side of the moon?
Or it says, You know that fairy tale, âThe Little Match Girl?â The kid who has to stand outside in sub-zero temperatures lighting one match after another to warm her little hands, and each match holds a memory of, like, a roast chicken or the kidâs poor mother who died of consumption under a pile of potato sacks, or some rich guy in a shiny top hat who tossed her a gold coin once, and then sheâs out of matches and basically turns into a human ice cube. They find her dead in somebodyâs doorway in the morning. Remember that one? Yeah, well, ditto.
Miranda has never called us accidents. She prefers to call us surprises. My mother loves babies. And she says she loved our fathers.
I know itâs true she loved Felixâs father, because I know who he is. For a few years before Felix was born, he practically lived with us.
Hank doesnât know heâs Felixâs dad. And Felix doesnât know it, either. Miranda pretends she doesnât know it. We arenât allowed to talk about it.
But I know it. Itâs something I have to contend with, this knowledge. It feels like a stone tucked under my rib. The trouble is, for a while, maybe I thought of Hank as my dad too.
My father â X  â sheâs happy to talk about. Even though she only knew him that one night before he returned to France and
Weâre thinking of a gangster theme, she says. Black and white, lots of mist, lots of shadows.
Then Amber gets a text.
Oh no, she says. She actually smacks her forehead. Gary is waiting for me. Heâs not going to be happy.
And just like that, sheâs racing down the corridor, away from me.
Hey, I say. Want to talk after the game?
But she turns the corner and is running down the stairs. She didnât even ask what Tyrone and I have decided to do for our Entrepreneurship thing.
Which is just as well. Overhead ? That is not a word that made it into my/our Entrepreneurship proposal.
I think of what Tyrone said â just food coloring and water , all profit  â and I feel a little better.
But then I think, What the heck are we going to put these dazzlingly colorful, profitable creations in ? Iâd forgotten all about packaging!
8
A word about my familyâs financial situation. Dire. Itâs a dire situation right now.
The dads â my dad and Felixâs dad â have never contributed any child support (in my dadâs case, well, he can hardly be held accountable as he doesnât know heâs a dad, and in Hankâs case, well, he doesnât know heâs a dad, either).
Which, well, contributes to the predicament we currently find ourselves in â namely, having to deal with a phone call from Newfoundland Power.
Miranda has not paid the electricity bill. There have been three cut-off notices. The third one says, You have not responded to our previous attempts to contact you. We are sending a field worker into your area to discontinue services.
I watch Miranda fold the third cut-off notice into a fan and bat her eyelashes at me over the top of it.
A field worker sounds kind of intriguing, she says. Do you think heâll be wearing one of those tool belts slung low over his hips? Iâm a fool for tool belts.
The third cut-off notice says this: You will see your breath as you stand over the toaster in the morning waiting for your toast to pop.
You know what? the notice says in big red letters. Forget toast. There is no toast. You are toast. We have cut off the electricity. Try burning the kitchen chairs so you can warm your hands over the flames.
Then it says, Itâs not all bad. Social workers will probably arrive and take your little brother off kicking and screaming to an orphanage. You will never have to share the Oreos with him again. He will be fed to hungry lions.
The third notice says, Have you heard of the dark side of the moon?
Or it says, You know that fairy tale, âThe Little Match Girl?â The kid who has to stand outside in sub-zero temperatures lighting one match after another to warm her little hands, and each match holds a memory of, like, a roast chicken or the kidâs poor mother who died of consumption under a pile of potato sacks, or some rich guy in a shiny top hat who tossed her a gold coin once, and then sheâs out of matches and basically turns into a human ice cube. They find her dead in somebodyâs doorway in the morning. Remember that one? Yeah, well, ditto.
Miranda has never called us accidents. She prefers to call us surprises. My mother loves babies. And she says she loved our fathers.
I know itâs true she loved Felixâs father, because I know who he is. For a few years before Felix was born, he practically lived with us.
Hank doesnât know heâs Felixâs dad. And Felix doesnât know it, either. Miranda pretends she doesnât know it. We arenât allowed to talk about it.
But I know it. Itâs something I have to contend with, this knowledge. It feels like a stone tucked under my rib. The trouble is, for a while, maybe I thought of Hank as my dad too.
My father â X  â sheâs happy to talk about. Even though she only knew him that one night before he returned to France and
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