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Authors: Allison van Diepen
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whole thing as funny as my ridiculous drawings in art class.
six
I T’S HARD TO BELIEVE I’m turning sixteen. I feel old.
Ms. Goff always tells us it’s a myth that high school is the best time of your life. She says we should count ourselves lucky if we get through it with only a few emotional scars. She says the older we get, the more freedom we’ll have to study what we want, work at a job we want and hang out with the people we want. Amy thinks she’s just saying that to make the depressed people in the class feel better.
But I kind of agree with Ms. Goff. Being a teen isn’t easy with so many reeling emotions, whirling hormones, excruciating classes and heinous part-time jobs. According to Oprah, our twenties are pretty much a write-off, too. She says that in your twenties, you’re confused, struggling to find your place in the world and chasing after the wrong kind of men.
Fast-forward to when I’m thirty. Maybe then, I’ll have a great career, great guy and great hair.
And now they’re saying forty is the new thirty. And fifty is the new forty. And sex after fifty is better than ever because you’re suddenly unselfconscious and free, even though your body isn’t what it was when you were twenty. I don’t want to wait until I’m fifty to be comfortable with myself and have good sex!
Maybe that’s why Mom’s friend, Sister Margaret, left the convent at age fifty-two to marry Father Caldwell. She was waiting for the good sex!
If I keep thinking like this, my head will explode.
D AD NEVER FORGETS my birthday. It’s programmed into his BlackBerry and reminders pop up every hour until he calls me.
“Happy sweet sixteen, Mickey!”
I cringe. He’s been calling me that since I was a baby. I told him I hated it the moment I was able to speak. I am not Mickey Mouse.
“What are you doing tonight, Mickey? Going out for dinner?”
“Mom, Erland and Tracey took me out for lunch. Tonight I’m going out with my friends. I don’t know where. It’s a surprise.”
“That’s great! You know, you should fly up for the weekend one of these days. It’s only an hour flight.”
Dad invites me to Ottawa all the time. One of these days I’ll have to go. But playing tourist with my dad isn’t my idea of a fun time, especially when I’ll have to make nice with his girlfriend of the month. I don’t know how he gets women, all at least a decade younger than he is. He hasn’t aged half as well as Mom.
The conversation drones on for another twenty minutes until his cell goes off. “I’ve got to take this.”
“What’s her name?”
He laughs. “Her name is Megan. I hope you’ll meet her when you come to visit. Bye for now, honey. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.” Somehow it never feels honest when I say it. It’s not that I don’t love him. I do.
I just don’t like him much.
B IRTHDAYS ARE A BIG DEAL to my friends. They’re an excuse to shop for gifts, eat too much and find ways to drink. For Amy’s birthday we got our hands on some rum and had a bush party. One bottle of rum doesn’t go a long way among five people, though. I didn’t even get a buzz.
Viv turned sixteen in August. Her party was hosted by her parents and attended by a hundred relatives and family friends. I ate too many samosas, had wicked gas and left early.
My friends are convinced that we should crank it up for my birthday. They tell me to pack for a sleepover and be at Ryan’s at six sharp. When I arrive, everybody isalready there, looking fabulous. I’m wearing my gift from Tracey, a candy-striped cami, with black skinny jeans and black suede booties. I hardly have the chance to sit down before my friends pelt me with gifts: a pair of earrings, a scarf, a chick-lit book, a personal manicure kit, a sampler of Victoria’s Secret perfumes.
Ryan’s parents are obviously away for the night, because he opens the liquor cabinet and uses his mom’s smoothie maker to concoct piña coladas and strawberry
six
I T’S HARD TO BELIEVE I’m turning sixteen. I feel old.
Ms. Goff always tells us it’s a myth that high school is the best time of your life. She says we should count ourselves lucky if we get through it with only a few emotional scars. She says the older we get, the more freedom we’ll have to study what we want, work at a job we want and hang out with the people we want. Amy thinks she’s just saying that to make the depressed people in the class feel better.
But I kind of agree with Ms. Goff. Being a teen isn’t easy with so many reeling emotions, whirling hormones, excruciating classes and heinous part-time jobs. According to Oprah, our twenties are pretty much a write-off, too. She says that in your twenties, you’re confused, struggling to find your place in the world and chasing after the wrong kind of men.
Fast-forward to when I’m thirty. Maybe then, I’ll have a great career, great guy and great hair.
And now they’re saying forty is the new thirty. And fifty is the new forty. And sex after fifty is better than ever because you’re suddenly unselfconscious and free, even though your body isn’t what it was when you were twenty. I don’t want to wait until I’m fifty to be comfortable with myself and have good sex!
Maybe that’s why Mom’s friend, Sister Margaret, left the convent at age fifty-two to marry Father Caldwell. She was waiting for the good sex!
If I keep thinking like this, my head will explode.
D AD NEVER FORGETS my birthday. It’s programmed into his BlackBerry and reminders pop up every hour until he calls me.
“Happy sweet sixteen, Mickey!”
I cringe. He’s been calling me that since I was a baby. I told him I hated it the moment I was able to speak. I am not Mickey Mouse.
“What are you doing tonight, Mickey? Going out for dinner?”
“Mom, Erland and Tracey took me out for lunch. Tonight I’m going out with my friends. I don’t know where. It’s a surprise.”
“That’s great! You know, you should fly up for the weekend one of these days. It’s only an hour flight.”
Dad invites me to Ottawa all the time. One of these days I’ll have to go. But playing tourist with my dad isn’t my idea of a fun time, especially when I’ll have to make nice with his girlfriend of the month. I don’t know how he gets women, all at least a decade younger than he is. He hasn’t aged half as well as Mom.
The conversation drones on for another twenty minutes until his cell goes off. “I’ve got to take this.”
“What’s her name?”
He laughs. “Her name is Megan. I hope you’ll meet her when you come to visit. Bye for now, honey. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.” Somehow it never feels honest when I say it. It’s not that I don’t love him. I do.
I just don’t like him much.
B IRTHDAYS ARE A BIG DEAL to my friends. They’re an excuse to shop for gifts, eat too much and find ways to drink. For Amy’s birthday we got our hands on some rum and had a bush party. One bottle of rum doesn’t go a long way among five people, though. I didn’t even get a buzz.
Viv turned sixteen in August. Her party was hosted by her parents and attended by a hundred relatives and family friends. I ate too many samosas, had wicked gas and left early.
My friends are convinced that we should crank it up for my birthday. They tell me to pack for a sleepover and be at Ryan’s at six sharp. When I arrive, everybody isalready there, looking fabulous. I’m wearing my gift from Tracey, a candy-striped cami, with black skinny jeans and black suede booties. I hardly have the chance to sit down before my friends pelt me with gifts: a pair of earrings, a scarf, a chick-lit book, a personal manicure kit, a sampler of Victoria’s Secret perfumes.
Ryan’s parents are obviously away for the night, because he opens the liquor cabinet and uses his mom’s smoothie maker to concoct piña coladas and strawberry
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