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Authors: Laura Boudreau
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okay, and then move on to thick basement carpet, which gave me rug burn.
Eventually I got it, though. At first Alice thought it was stupid, but then I showed her that itâs actually pretty crazy. Like I said, sometimes I just have to do stuff first.
I used it at this variety store across the street from the school. The man behind the counter is an Indian guy with a turban. Heâs got this weird rolled-up twist of hair that comes out from the turban on one side, goes under his chin and then gets tucked up into the turban on the other side. It kind of supports his double chin. I know thatâs not the reason behind it, but it seems sort of rude to ask, Hey, whatâs with that hair strap that youâve got under your chin? So I just let it go. I went in there one day and asked him for a pack of cigarettes.
Belmont Lights, I said, leaning on the counter in front of the candy bars and trying to play it cool. Like maybe if he
noticed that I wasnât staring at his hair strap, he wouldnât give me a hard time about the cigarettes. Theyâre for my mom, I said, pointing across the street to a car that had a bored-looking woman in it. The woman was checking her watch and flipping her hair in the rear-view mirror, putting on lipstick and drinking a coffee, all at once. She looked like the type who sent her daughter for cigarettes, I thought, but the guy hesitated. He looked at me like maybe I was just another punk kid trying to shove jawbreakers in my pocket when he turned his back, which, for the record, is not the kind of person I am at all. I had already calculated the exact change for the cigarettes. So I decided to fall.
I rolled back my eyes and twisted my mouth and twitched my shoulder and then did the arm thing. Blam, there I was on the floor in front of the counter, a few chocolate bars spilling off the shelves, and the guy looking like he was going to crap his pants because now he had a dead girl in his store. I got up quickly and was all like, Sorry, sorry. My mom . . . I need to go. I acted all embarrassed and apologetic and scared, like my mom, waiting in the car and plucking her eyebrows, was going to beat me if I was five minutes late with her cigarettes. Like maybe I was subject to all kinds of nic-fit beatings and thatâs why I had the falling problem. I donât know what he thought, but he gave me the cigarettes and hustled me out of the store. Iâm a really good actress.
From then on, Iâd just walk into the store and heâd have a pack of Belmonts in his hand like that, like the faster he sold me the cigarettes, the less chance there was of me falling and dying in his store and clogging up the aisles that were already jammed with kids who were trying to tuck porno magazines into the sleeves of their jackets. He had enough to deal with, I guess, so it was just easier to sell the cigarettes
to the girl with the exact change and the freaky falling problem and not question it. It worked out well.
One time, though, the regular guy wasnât there. It was some young dude in a homemade t-shirt that said Sikh and Destroy on it. For a second I thought he might be cool with just selling me the cigarettes right off, but then I thought Iâd better do the falling thing, just to be safe. But because I was out of practice, I actually hit my head on this giant Doublemint gum cardboard display and gave myself a little cut. It wasnât a big deal. Anyone who has taken the St. John Ambulance babysitting course knows that head wounds can really gush and itâs usually not something to go ape about. Evidently this guy hadnât taken the course and he completely freaked out. He ran out of the store, shouting for an ambulance, a doctor, the police, you name it. It was kind of ridiculous. There he is trying to be all tough and religious in his Sikh and Destroy shirt and heâs crying and waving his arms because a twelve-year-old girl knocked over a gum display thing. I tried
Eventually I got it, though. At first Alice thought it was stupid, but then I showed her that itâs actually pretty crazy. Like I said, sometimes I just have to do stuff first.
I used it at this variety store across the street from the school. The man behind the counter is an Indian guy with a turban. Heâs got this weird rolled-up twist of hair that comes out from the turban on one side, goes under his chin and then gets tucked up into the turban on the other side. It kind of supports his double chin. I know thatâs not the reason behind it, but it seems sort of rude to ask, Hey, whatâs with that hair strap that youâve got under your chin? So I just let it go. I went in there one day and asked him for a pack of cigarettes.
Belmont Lights, I said, leaning on the counter in front of the candy bars and trying to play it cool. Like maybe if he
noticed that I wasnât staring at his hair strap, he wouldnât give me a hard time about the cigarettes. Theyâre for my mom, I said, pointing across the street to a car that had a bored-looking woman in it. The woman was checking her watch and flipping her hair in the rear-view mirror, putting on lipstick and drinking a coffee, all at once. She looked like the type who sent her daughter for cigarettes, I thought, but the guy hesitated. He looked at me like maybe I was just another punk kid trying to shove jawbreakers in my pocket when he turned his back, which, for the record, is not the kind of person I am at all. I had already calculated the exact change for the cigarettes. So I decided to fall.
I rolled back my eyes and twisted my mouth and twitched my shoulder and then did the arm thing. Blam, there I was on the floor in front of the counter, a few chocolate bars spilling off the shelves, and the guy looking like he was going to crap his pants because now he had a dead girl in his store. I got up quickly and was all like, Sorry, sorry. My mom . . . I need to go. I acted all embarrassed and apologetic and scared, like my mom, waiting in the car and plucking her eyebrows, was going to beat me if I was five minutes late with her cigarettes. Like maybe I was subject to all kinds of nic-fit beatings and thatâs why I had the falling problem. I donât know what he thought, but he gave me the cigarettes and hustled me out of the store. Iâm a really good actress.
From then on, Iâd just walk into the store and heâd have a pack of Belmonts in his hand like that, like the faster he sold me the cigarettes, the less chance there was of me falling and dying in his store and clogging up the aisles that were already jammed with kids who were trying to tuck porno magazines into the sleeves of their jackets. He had enough to deal with, I guess, so it was just easier to sell the cigarettes
to the girl with the exact change and the freaky falling problem and not question it. It worked out well.
One time, though, the regular guy wasnât there. It was some young dude in a homemade t-shirt that said Sikh and Destroy on it. For a second I thought he might be cool with just selling me the cigarettes right off, but then I thought Iâd better do the falling thing, just to be safe. But because I was out of practice, I actually hit my head on this giant Doublemint gum cardboard display and gave myself a little cut. It wasnât a big deal. Anyone who has taken the St. John Ambulance babysitting course knows that head wounds can really gush and itâs usually not something to go ape about. Evidently this guy hadnât taken the course and he completely freaked out. He ran out of the store, shouting for an ambulance, a doctor, the police, you name it. It was kind of ridiculous. There he is trying to be all tough and religious in his Sikh and Destroy shirt and heâs crying and waving his arms because a twelve-year-old girl knocked over a gum display thing. I tried
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