Read Online The Petty Details of So-And-So's Life by Camilla Gibb - Free Book Online Page B

secret: Oksana, she would share with the world. Tabatha had had parents, but Oksana would be simply singular—without attachments to the past.
    â€œTaylor, Emma,” her grade nine English teacher called out. “Taylor, Emma?” he repeated.
    â€œShe’s there,” Charlene said, pointing spitefully at Emma.
    â€œAre you Emma Taylor?” Mr. Flick asked.
    â€œWell, actually, I’ve changed my name.”
    â€œOfficially?”
    â€œYes,” she lied. Imagine that I have. Imagine that I am actually Oksana Vladivostok—the only surviving member of Russia’s royal family, the great granddaughter of Czar What’s-his-name, a revolutionarygirl who narrowly escaped execution by hiding in the womb of an unsuspecting woman in Montreal called Mrs. Taylor. Or a mole who had been programmed to attend Eton and Cambridge and get a top-secret job with MI5, working for a certain Mr. Philby, but everything had gone so horribly wrong that she ended up at McArthur High in Niagara Falls rather than Eton.
    Whatever it was, the whole plan had gone so awry that revealing herself as Oksana at fourteen wasn’t going to put her in any danger. In fact, in the best-case scenario, it actually might spare her the fate of Emma.
    â€œWhat will we call you then?” Mr. Flick asked with annoyance.
    â€œOksana Vladivostok,” she stated. Mr. Flick smiled and the entire class burst out laughing, Charlene’s high-pitched squeaking audible over all the others.
    â€œPerhaps you could spell that for me,” Mr. Flick said sarcastically.
    â€œSure. O-X—no. O-K—”
    â€œWell, which is it then?”
    â€œO-K—”
    â€œOkay, Commie girl,” Wayne shouted from the back of the room.
    â€œO-K … go on,” Mr. Flick prodded.
    Emma Taylor was inconsequential. She was a fly on the wall of a house in Niagara Falls—the eldest child of two non-existent parents, one missing in body, the other in soul. Oksana was different. Perhaps she would even be removed from McArthur High and sent to some boarding school for Russian defectors, where she would study Latin alongside other reformed moles, anorexic gymnasts, and closeted ballet dancers.
    Emma spent most of that fall behind her locked bedroom door, writing poetry in front of a window propped open with a carrot. Herhands were stiff with cold and tired as she wrote painful poems about dead cats and other roadkill. She spent hours in the bath on Saturday mornings, reading biographies of famous women writers who had tied stones into their long skirts and thrown themselves into rivers, or given their children glasses of milk before they stuck their heads in ovens.
    It was two years now since Oliver had disappeared from the garage and puberty seemed to be making her hallucinate. She was sure she saw him sometimes, although Blue was the one he talked to. Oliver would turn up every couple of months at his school and wave to him through the fence. It changed Blue. He didn’t play hacky sack or throw a tennis ball at the school wall like other boys did during recess, at lunch, and after school. He stood alone and simply stared at the fence, his eyes running back and forth like they were punching keys on a typewriter.
    â€œWhat are you waiting for?” the other guys would taunt. “The second fucking coming?”
    It
was
sort of like looking for God. His thoughts were like prayers and he would tune out the sounds of the schoolyard and concentrate hard and wonder if he could will his father into appearing. Oliver’s visits did become more and more frequent during Blue’s grade eight year and Blue thought it must be because his concentration was getting better.
    But he never approached his father. Blue stood rooted in place like a river too fast and deep ran between them. It was as if they saw each other through water: a swift current distorted their features; Oliver looked like waves of sand had run