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Authors: Laura Boudreau
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to shout at him that I was fine, to never mind about the cigarettes, but by that time there were people running down the street towards the store. Even the crossing guard man who has Downâs Syndrome was coming over to see what was wrong. Seriously.
Mrs. Ogilvy was on bus duty that day and she was the first one there from the school. Mouth open, she saw my bleeding forehead and the whole smashed up Doublemint display. She leaned forward, moving her whole body back and forth like she was one of those drinking bird toys. Thatâs when she said it: Lauren, sometimes you donât know when to quit. You almost felt like the words For Godâs sake were on her tongue, but they never came out, even though I suppose we werenât
technically at school and so it was fine to mention God.
No, it doesnât hurt. I told you, Iâm double-jointed. And I donât have to be home until five.
My sister is the quitter. Ballet, gymnastics, floor hockey, piano, guitar, high school. Whatever. Sometimes when people, mostly people like old Girl Guide leaders, the ones with pleated pants and dumpy bums, run into her at the grocery store where she works, theyâll ask her what sheâs planning to do in the fall. Get pregnant, maybe, she says. Or drunk. There have been lots of complaints to the deli manager. She wears midnight blue eyeliner and black and white striped arm warmers that she cut thumbholes into, even though weâre all like, Um, hi, but itâs twenty-seven degrees outside and your elbows have a rash from the wool that sat in some hobo-infested donation bin for the past six months. But when sheâs working she has to take them off so she doesnât contaminate the meat, thank God, and instead she wears an XXL polo shirt that says Food Giant in fluorescent yellow letters. She has to roll up the sleeves of the t-shirt six times so they donât get sucked into the meat slicing machines. My mom says itâs a safety hazard. My sister also has to wear steel-toed work boots that she says make her look like a dyke, and a nametag, so people know who to complain about. Her name is Margot.
Margot was a vegetarian for a while. Really she was on some crazy crash diet and not eating, period, but the meat thing was her excuse. Everything my mother cooked had come into contact with meat, or animal fat, or honey from exploited bees, or something, and so Margot was able to hide her whole no-food diet thing until she got anemic and started fainting at work.
I refuse to eat lips and assholes, was what she said when my mom barbecued hotdogs. I kiss enough ass as it is at the store.
You and everyone else, my mother said above the sizzle of wiener fat. But get used to it, Margot, the whole world is one big behind. Now watch your language. Your sisterâs here, and we have company.
But the company we had was just Alice. My mom thinks that because Alice always says please and thank you and doesnât push her peas onto her fork with her finger that sheâs some kind of angel child, and that hearing a swear word might tarnish the glow of her halo, or something. But who do you think I smoke those Belmonts with? Alice is actually the one who taught me how to smoke and told me that it helps keep you skinny. She learned from her grandma who has emphysema. She knows what sheâs doing.
And thatâs the thing. I didnât mean to make Alice sound like this priss and me like this jerk who falls on the ground to get what she wants. Itâs actually not like that. Alice only does things that she wants to do, and sheâs not an idiot. Like if some bozo in a white van asked her to help him find his lost puppy, sheâd tell him where to go, and scream bloody murder if he tried anything. She knows a pervert when she sees one, no offense. And when we took that self-defence class, Alice was the best at it. She kicked the guy in the balls.
Oh yeah, she did. The girls in grade six had to go to the gym for
Mrs. Ogilvy was on bus duty that day and she was the first one there from the school. Mouth open, she saw my bleeding forehead and the whole smashed up Doublemint display. She leaned forward, moving her whole body back and forth like she was one of those drinking bird toys. Thatâs when she said it: Lauren, sometimes you donât know when to quit. You almost felt like the words For Godâs sake were on her tongue, but they never came out, even though I suppose we werenât
technically at school and so it was fine to mention God.
No, it doesnât hurt. I told you, Iâm double-jointed. And I donât have to be home until five.
My sister is the quitter. Ballet, gymnastics, floor hockey, piano, guitar, high school. Whatever. Sometimes when people, mostly people like old Girl Guide leaders, the ones with pleated pants and dumpy bums, run into her at the grocery store where she works, theyâll ask her what sheâs planning to do in the fall. Get pregnant, maybe, she says. Or drunk. There have been lots of complaints to the deli manager. She wears midnight blue eyeliner and black and white striped arm warmers that she cut thumbholes into, even though weâre all like, Um, hi, but itâs twenty-seven degrees outside and your elbows have a rash from the wool that sat in some hobo-infested donation bin for the past six months. But when sheâs working she has to take them off so she doesnât contaminate the meat, thank God, and instead she wears an XXL polo shirt that says Food Giant in fluorescent yellow letters. She has to roll up the sleeves of the t-shirt six times so they donât get sucked into the meat slicing machines. My mom says itâs a safety hazard. My sister also has to wear steel-toed work boots that she says make her look like a dyke, and a nametag, so people know who to complain about. Her name is Margot.
Margot was a vegetarian for a while. Really she was on some crazy crash diet and not eating, period, but the meat thing was her excuse. Everything my mother cooked had come into contact with meat, or animal fat, or honey from exploited bees, or something, and so Margot was able to hide her whole no-food diet thing until she got anemic and started fainting at work.
I refuse to eat lips and assholes, was what she said when my mom barbecued hotdogs. I kiss enough ass as it is at the store.
You and everyone else, my mother said above the sizzle of wiener fat. But get used to it, Margot, the whole world is one big behind. Now watch your language. Your sisterâs here, and we have company.
But the company we had was just Alice. My mom thinks that because Alice always says please and thank you and doesnât push her peas onto her fork with her finger that sheâs some kind of angel child, and that hearing a swear word might tarnish the glow of her halo, or something. But who do you think I smoke those Belmonts with? Alice is actually the one who taught me how to smoke and told me that it helps keep you skinny. She learned from her grandma who has emphysema. She knows what sheâs doing.
And thatâs the thing. I didnât mean to make Alice sound like this priss and me like this jerk who falls on the ground to get what she wants. Itâs actually not like that. Alice only does things that she wants to do, and sheâs not an idiot. Like if some bozo in a white van asked her to help him find his lost puppy, sheâd tell him where to go, and scream bloody murder if he tried anything. She knows a pervert when she sees one, no offense. And when we took that self-defence class, Alice was the best at it. She kicked the guy in the balls.
Oh yeah, she did. The girls in grade six had to go to the gym for
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