(La traduction de l'histoire "The Law")
Après plusieurs années de pression de lobbyistes frustrés sexuellement, on rendit enfin illégal que deux amoureux soient éloignés. Ça allait, bien sûr, si l'un d'eux allait chez le dépanneur ou dans le quartier seul. Sinon, cela n'aurait pas été très pratique. Après un délai convenable, ils pouvaient même retourner à leurs boulots respectifs. Mais une fin de semaine hors de la ville éxigeait un affidavit signé par l'autre conjoint, et une plus longue période de temps seul était simplement interdite. La principale cause de malheur dans le pays avait été ainsi supprimée.
Bien sûr, il y avait des problèmes avec la loi. Qu'est-ce qu'on pourrait faire avec des couples qui avaient des carrières prometteuses dans différentes régions du pays? Et combien de personnes resteraient dans les forces armées, si seulement les célibataires eussent le droit de s'y engager? Il y avait aussi plus d'instances plus de cas qu'on aurait pensé de personnes qui en aimaient plus qu'une autre.
Le plus grand problème, cependant, était aussi le plus simple. Quand on leur demandait d'interpreter la loi, les plus hauts tribunaux du pays ne pouvaient pas décider quoi faire quand une personne était amoureuse, et l'autre personne n'en était pas.
December 11, 2011
April 1, 2011
The Weird Girl and the Superheroes
Jocelyn was studying in the floor’s common room when the weird girl, whose name she could never remember, came in. The girl didn’t usually spend much time in the common areas; she was always out until odd hours and would return still wearing a white lab coat.
No one on the floor liked her. Some of them would make fun of her behind her back; Jocelyn’s roommate Rose was particularly cruel. Jocelyn didn’t take part in it but didn’t discourage it, either. When she and the weird girl ran into each other in the bathroom or on the stairs Jocelyn would smile politely, which she always feared the other girl would misinterpret as genuine friendliness.
“What’s up,” said Jocelyn flatly.
“Not much.” The weird girl sat on the couch across from Jocelyn. “What’cha working on?”
“Physics.”
The weird girl nodded. “How’s that going?”
“Okay,” Jocelyn said, “but I study better when I’m alone.” She hated to be rude, but this girl was not getting the hint.
“Well, I won’t bother you,” the weird girl said, “but I wanted to let you know about a club I’m starting.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “For superheroes.”
Beauty Tips
Everyone was stupid, so stupid. Tessica just wanted to go home and get online again. It was ostensibly an English class, but the teacher would always go on lengthy tangents or referee irrelevant debates instead of actually teaching. Right now, the question was whether women wore make-up for the benefit of men or for their own happiness. How had they gotten onto this subject from Catcher in the Rye?
Tessica tapped two bitten-down nails against her desk. She wished people would stop raising their stupid hands. What made them think their opinions were so important? Maybe they thought talking as much as possible would get them a better mark. She looked at the faces around her. No, some of them seemed to actually care.
Talking wouldn’t change anything. They could talk until their useless mouths fell off and their heads exploded into oblivion. Everything would just be the same as it had been yesterday, and the day before that. These blithering morons were a waste of oxygen, and forcing Tessica to sit in a classroom with them was cruel and unusual punishment.
When the bell finally rang, Tessica immediately heaved her short, heavy-set frame out of her seat. As usual, she was the first person to reach the door. She left without speaking to or even looking at anyone. They didn’t matter; plebeians, all of them. She wasn’t even out the door before she started checking her e-mail on her smartphone. There were three angry comments from the message board she frequented; the incoherent fury made her smile. She would reply to them once she was home.
Tessica tapped two bitten-down nails against her desk. She wished people would stop raising their stupid hands. What made them think their opinions were so important? Maybe they thought talking as much as possible would get them a better mark. She looked at the faces around her. No, some of them seemed to actually care.
Talking wouldn’t change anything. They could talk until their useless mouths fell off and their heads exploded into oblivion. Everything would just be the same as it had been yesterday, and the day before that. These blithering morons were a waste of oxygen, and forcing Tessica to sit in a classroom with them was cruel and unusual punishment.
When the bell finally rang, Tessica immediately heaved her short, heavy-set frame out of her seat. As usual, she was the first person to reach the door. She left without speaking to or even looking at anyone. They didn’t matter; plebeians, all of them. She wasn’t even out the door before she started checking her e-mail on her smartphone. There were three angry comments from the message board she frequented; the incoherent fury made her smile. She would reply to them once she was home.
Imprudence
The kitchen wasn’t visible from the side door of the house, but Prudence knew that her daughter was there as soon as she came in. She didn’t want to see Sonya, but she needed to pass through the kitchen to get to the rest of the house.
“You’re here,” Sonya said when she saw her. She was sitting at the table, arms crossed. “You’ve got some nerve, coming here now.”
Prudence didn’t know how to respond. “Where’s your father? I need to talk to him.”
“I don’t think he wants to talk to you,” Sonya said. Her mother’s shoulders drooped, and Sonya seemed to take pity on her. “But he’s not here, anyway.”
Prudence nodded. She started up the stairs, each step an effort. She hadn’t eaten since the story hit the news a few hours ago, and she was feeling weak. Her knees felt like they would give out any second. She needed to eat something, but not with Sonya in the kitchen, sitting there, judging her. She was feeling a bit queasy, though, anyway.
It wasn’t a surprise that Truman would have gone out. He would have found a quiet place to have a beer or ten, a bar where they showed sports, or at least not the news. The poor man. He knew, of course, how long it had been since the two of them had been intimate - but he couldn’t have expected this.
“You’re here,” Sonya said when she saw her. She was sitting at the table, arms crossed. “You’ve got some nerve, coming here now.”
Prudence didn’t know how to respond. “Where’s your father? I need to talk to him.”
“I don’t think he wants to talk to you,” Sonya said. Her mother’s shoulders drooped, and Sonya seemed to take pity on her. “But he’s not here, anyway.”
Prudence nodded. She started up the stairs, each step an effort. She hadn’t eaten since the story hit the news a few hours ago, and she was feeling weak. Her knees felt like they would give out any second. She needed to eat something, but not with Sonya in the kitchen, sitting there, judging her. She was feeling a bit queasy, though, anyway.
It wasn’t a surprise that Truman would have gone out. He would have found a quiet place to have a beer or ten, a bar where they showed sports, or at least not the news. The poor man. He knew, of course, how long it had been since the two of them had been intimate - but he couldn’t have expected this.
March 31, 2011
the gender groove
he's a manly man
collared shirt and tie
keeping it cool
pbr in hand
working the crowd
before his number
excusing himself,
he escapes to the
ladies' room, puts on
glitter and lashes
crimson flame lipstick
strawberry blonde wig
padded bra over
her white undershirt
tiny black dress, and
five inch stilettos
then she gets onstage
to lip-synch to the
song that saved her life
she's been practicing
the moves for weeks
in her room, and now
she can feel the cheers
through her whole body
after, she goes home
unhooks and unwraps
her binder, untapes
the soft packer from
her inner thigh
takes off the make-up
boxers on, tits out
she falls into bed
smiling
collared shirt and tie
keeping it cool
pbr in hand
working the crowd
before his number
excusing himself,
he escapes to the
ladies' room, puts on
glitter and lashes
crimson flame lipstick
strawberry blonde wig
padded bra over
her white undershirt
tiny black dress, and
five inch stilettos
then she gets onstage
to lip-synch to the
song that saved her life
she's been practicing
the moves for weeks
in her room, and now
she can feel the cheers
through her whole body
after, she goes home
unhooks and unwraps
her binder, untapes
the soft packer from
her inner thigh
takes off the make-up
boxers on, tits out
she falls into bed
smiling
rules of the road
without looking both ways,
i start to cross the street.
a car turning right doesn’t stop;
i leap back, scared,
as my mother grabs my arm
and the driver leans on the horn.
“i had the right of way,”
i exclaim, indignant.
my mother is unimpressed by my knowledge
of the rules of the road,
maybe because she taught them to me.
“it’s like my mother always said,” she says,
“you can be right - ”
“or you can be dead right,” i finish.
she’s fond of her mother’s pithy sayings;
there are a hundred more that i could recite.
“but i was actually right,” i say,
smiling because I know she’s actually right,
as usual.
i start to cross the street.
a car turning right doesn’t stop;
i leap back, scared,
as my mother grabs my arm
and the driver leans on the horn.
“i had the right of way,”
i exclaim, indignant.
my mother is unimpressed by my knowledge
of the rules of the road,
maybe because she taught them to me.
“it’s like my mother always said,” she says,
“you can be right - ”
“or you can be dead right,” i finish.
she’s fond of her mother’s pithy sayings;
there are a hundred more that i could recite.
“but i was actually right,” i say,
smiling because I know she’s actually right,
as usual.
March 25, 2011
Going It Alone
For one week, Dusty didn’t leave her apartment. She lay on her folded-out sofa bed with the lights off and the TV on, occasionally getting up to eat. She paced the fourteen steps from one wall of her one-room apartment to the other, or sat staring out of her tiny window into the parking lot below. On Sunday she showered, put on clean clothes, and went to church. This was her vacation.
On Monday, Dusty went back to work. She walked there, like she walked everywhere. The ground was icy, but it was better than the forced proximity to strangers on the bus. At the factory, she avoided her coworkers’ eyes; it wasn’t hard to do. She had been working there for sixteen years. The boss who had hired her had long since moved on, and she wasn’t sure if anyone else there actually knew her name.
Over the course of the day, the other workers made plans to go out for drinks when they got off at six. They went out of their way to invite the new girl, a forty-something with bad skin and a horsey laugh; she talked with the other employees as if she had always been there. No one ever thought to invite Dusty to these get-togethers. Their eyes slid right past her. She told herself she didn’t care.
If her life was different, maybe her coworkers would be happy to see her. They might crowd around her, wanting to catch up on the last week, asking how her vacation had been. As it stood, she was glad they didn’t ask; the answer made her want to cry.
March 23, 2011
The Spirit of Why Not Kill Each Other
It started with a prank, a harmless prank. A sociology major got tired of her chemical engineering roommate talking about how easy the Arts students had it. She gagged him and tied him up in the back of an SJU classroom for the duration of a modern Canadian literature class, a God and Philosophy class, and an Honours Seminar in Educational Psychology. Six hours later, she let him go. He stumbled out, disoriented and barely able to walk, unfamiliar with that side of campus. Finally he found his way across the pond to refuge at an EngSoc meeting. “There was discussion,” he babbled in horror. “There was analysis.”
“Those bastards,” said the president. “We’ll get them for this.”
The next day, a virus sent through UW-ACE crashed most Arts students’ computers, as well as those in every Arts building on campus. When the computers finally turned on again, the screens would only show a picture of The Tool.
A FedS Arts Council member gave an interview to Imprint about how illiterate engineers and mathies worked out their insecurities by making fun of the clearly superior arts students. “Maybe if they were able to construct a complete sentence instead of communicating through grunts and farts, they wouldn’t feel the need to resort to violence,” he said.
He was found dead the following morning, hung by a pink tie in the middle of the SLC.
December 18, 2010
welcome to dykeville
last month i moved to dykeville
it's just south of gaytown, west of womensstudiesland
everyone knows everyone in this town
and the alice chart is city-wide
weeknights we drink beer on the porch
watching the u-hauls go back and forth
weekends we pair off and go out to party
at the intersection of finger and vag streets
the v train goes all the way downtown
and it's so easy to find my way around
i'm never moving back to heterborough
the sights and sounds on feeldoe avenue can't be beat
it's just south of gaytown, west of womensstudiesland
everyone knows everyone in this town
and the alice chart is city-wide
weeknights we drink beer on the porch
watching the u-hauls go back and forth
weekends we pair off and go out to party
at the intersection of finger and vag streets
the v train goes all the way downtown
and it's so easy to find my way around
i'm never moving back to heterborough
the sights and sounds on feeldoe avenue can't be beat
September 9, 2010
A Short-Lived Romance
The first thing she noticed was that he was short. She only liked tall men. The two of them could never be anything more than friends.
-
He was smart - really smart. He made her think, and then he made her laugh.
When she talked, he listened. He understood.
She realized that she made him nervous, even though she couldn't figure out why.
-
She'd never been good with platonic friendships. She always ended up wanting more.
Her friends rarely returned these feelings. When they became aware of her desires, they got scared or disgusted. They didn't stay.
On those occasions when she met someone who did feel similarly for her, they wanted her all to themselves. She couldn't live like that. She wanted everyone; she needed to be free.
This time, she wouldn't make either of those mistakes. They would be friends, and that would be all.
-
He was smart - really smart. He made her think, and then he made her laugh.
When she talked, he listened. He understood.
She realized that she made him nervous, even though she couldn't figure out why.
-
She'd never been good with platonic friendships. She always ended up wanting more.
Her friends rarely returned these feelings. When they became aware of her desires, they got scared or disgusted. They didn't stay.
On those occasions when she met someone who did feel similarly for her, they wanted her all to themselves. She couldn't live like that. She wanted everyone; she needed to be free.
This time, she wouldn't make either of those mistakes. They would be friends, and that would be all.
September 8, 2010
Catching Up
"Alice! Over here."
Madison waved at Alice from a table to the right of the patio. Big earrings, big smile, cigarette in her hand. It had been a while since the two young women had seen each other, but Madison hadn’t changed a bit.
“I got you a coffee,” Madison said, pushing a cup toward Alice as she sat down.
“Oh.” Alice paused to set her purse down on the table. “I don’t drink coffee.”
“I forgot,” Madison said sheepishly. “I’ll go get you some tea. Maybe a hot chocolate?” Alice began to acquiesce, but Madison had hardly caught her breath before speaking again. “Actually, I’ve only got a couple minutes anyway. Hair appointment. You’re not thirsty, are you?”
Madison waved at Alice from a table to the right of the patio. Big earrings, big smile, cigarette in her hand. It had been a while since the two young women had seen each other, but Madison hadn’t changed a bit.
“I got you a coffee,” Madison said, pushing a cup toward Alice as she sat down.
“Oh.” Alice paused to set her purse down on the table. “I don’t drink coffee.”
“I forgot,” Madison said sheepishly. “I’ll go get you some tea. Maybe a hot chocolate?” Alice began to acquiesce, but Madison had hardly caught her breath before speaking again. “Actually, I’ve only got a couple minutes anyway. Hair appointment. You’re not thirsty, are you?”
June 21, 2010
how to stay alive
get out of bed in the morning;
stay out of bed
until night.
go to work.
eat.
buy a bottle of wine if you need to.
when you feel the darkness coming,
lock yourself in a room
that has no windows.
have a trusted friend hide any knives,
scissors,
nail clippers.
don't nap outside
during snowstorms.
write your will
just in case.
instruct survivors
to donate your clothes
but burn your books.
buy another bottle of wine.
think of your mother,
and how much she loves you.
think of your father.
don't let him win.
December 3, 2009
Greyhound
7:22, my watch read. I walked a little faster. The bus was leaving in eight minutes, and I still had to get my ticket.
Just a few more steps to the bus depot. I'd been walking for half an hour, and drops of sweat were pooling in the neck of my $270 cropped leather Guess jacket. It was too warm for it that night, but there was no time to pause and take it off. I had two midterms coming up the next day, and the 7:30 was the last bus to Winnipeg.
7:26, and finally I was at the ticket counter. "A one-way student ticket to Winnipeg, please." If I was lucky, I would make the bus. I crossed my fingers in my left pocket while I passed the ticket dude my debit card with my right.
For a second, I debated with myself over whether sprinting for the bus would be worth the sweat stains in my lacy tank top. Two midterms tomorrow, and I'd be heading straight back to rez where I could change before anyone saw me. I made a run for it.
The last people in line were just getting on the bus. I made it! I arrived panting as the driver was about to close the doors. He gave me a knowing smile, but let me on.
The bus was nearly full. It looked like I wouldn't be able to get a whole seat to myself. I glanced up and down the rows for the person who looked least likely to bother me during the ride. Old lady, ugly guy, sleeping woman. I sat next to the sleeping woman.
Just a few more steps to the bus depot. I'd been walking for half an hour, and drops of sweat were pooling in the neck of my $270 cropped leather Guess jacket. It was too warm for it that night, but there was no time to pause and take it off. I had two midterms coming up the next day, and the 7:30 was the last bus to Winnipeg.
7:26, and finally I was at the ticket counter. "A one-way student ticket to Winnipeg, please." If I was lucky, I would make the bus. I crossed my fingers in my left pocket while I passed the ticket dude my debit card with my right.
For a second, I debated with myself over whether sprinting for the bus would be worth the sweat stains in my lacy tank top. Two midterms tomorrow, and I'd be heading straight back to rez where I could change before anyone saw me. I made a run for it.
The last people in line were just getting on the bus. I made it! I arrived panting as the driver was about to close the doors. He gave me a knowing smile, but let me on.
The bus was nearly full. It looked like I wouldn't be able to get a whole seat to myself. I glanced up and down the rows for the person who looked least likely to bother me during the ride. Old lady, ugly guy, sleeping woman. I sat next to the sleeping woman.
October 25, 2009
"doc, - "
hey doc,
i really need your help.
i can’t stand my life anymore.
you think i should try meds?
prozac? really? if you say so,
i guess i'll give it a try
even though you brush off my questions
and don’t look me in the eye.
i'll see you in six weeks.
well, doc, i'm back.
how are you? how’re the kids?
yes, i know you’re busy;
yes, i'll get on with it.
my symptoms are a bit better;
the side effects are fine.
i’m constantly tired, but
no thoughts of suicide.
but, doc...
now there's more prozac than blood
running through my veins.
yes, they help, but these drugs
have taken over my brain.
who i am isn't me;
it's a stranger with my voice.
i'm doing better, sure,
but it’s because i have no choice.
you and me both know, doc,
this wasn't what i meant.
isn't there something besides this?
can't you help me just be myself?
i really need your help.
i can’t stand my life anymore.
you think i should try meds?
prozac? really? if you say so,
i guess i'll give it a try
even though you brush off my questions
and don’t look me in the eye.
i'll see you in six weeks.
well, doc, i'm back.
how are you? how’re the kids?
yes, i know you’re busy;
yes, i'll get on with it.
my symptoms are a bit better;
the side effects are fine.
i’m constantly tired, but
no thoughts of suicide.
but, doc...
now there's more prozac than blood
running through my veins.
yes, they help, but these drugs
have taken over my brain.
who i am isn't me;
it's a stranger with my voice.
i'm doing better, sure,
but it’s because i have no choice.
you and me both know, doc,
this wasn't what i meant.
isn't there something besides this?
can't you help me just be myself?
October 21, 2009
a moment
the tenth floor of the library is quiet;
i am the only person in sight.
the elevator i have been waiting for arrives,
empty.
i step in, the doors close,
and i watch the floor number
go down to nine.
the doors open
and a man comes in.
he presses the button,
coughs,
looks at his watch.
on the seventh floor,
the doors open
and there is a long pause.
we wait; we breathe.
i stand perfectly still, silent,
clutching my stack of books,
and the man beside me is silent, still,
holding his paper cup of coffee.
no one is there.
we are frozen,
exposed,
a tableau vivant of two strangers
in an elevator.
the doors close again and the elevator goes on,
but there, for a moment,
we were a ten-second drama
viewed by none.
the moment passes.
we reach the main floor.
i rush out
and he rushes out
and other people rush in...
and we are no longer
a work of art.
i am the only person in sight.
the elevator i have been waiting for arrives,
empty.
i step in, the doors close,
and i watch the floor number
go down to nine.
the doors open
and a man comes in.
he presses the button,
coughs,
looks at his watch.
on the seventh floor,
the doors open
and there is a long pause.
we wait; we breathe.
i stand perfectly still, silent,
clutching my stack of books,
and the man beside me is silent, still,
holding his paper cup of coffee.
no one is there.
we are frozen,
exposed,
a tableau vivant of two strangers
in an elevator.
the doors close again and the elevator goes on,
but there, for a moment,
we were a ten-second drama
viewed by none.
the moment passes.
we reach the main floor.
i rush out
and he rushes out
and other people rush in...
and we are no longer
a work of art.
September 9, 2009
There and Back
Toronto to Montreal. Montreal to Toronto. He refuses to make the trip himself – your city is boring, he says - but he’ll let you come visit as often as you want. Right now, all you can manage is a weekend every month or two. Six hours there on Friday, after a long day at work. Six hours back on Sunday, with hardly any time to rest before you have to be up again. All the girls at your office think it’s just so romantic.
On the bus, you never see the same person twice. Each week it’s a new assortment of unfamiliar, unfriendly faces. Sometimes you try to chat with the person sitting next to you. English or French, they never seen to want to talk; you wonder if they can sense your desperation. You bring a book that you don’t read. At the halfway stop in Kingston, you buy a crappy sandwich and eat it on the bus. You’ve noticed there’s a Tim Hortons in the same plaza, but for some reason you’re a little scared to do something different.
Every week, you arrive at Berri-UQAM station. Of course, he doesn’t come to meet you. You take a taxi to his place. Looking out of the window, the city’s beauty makes you feel inadequate. The women on the street are fashionable; you wonder if you’re wearing the wrong thing. When you get there, he doesn’t hug or kiss you, but he fucks you. Twice. He comes; you don’t. He’s always gone before you wake up in the morning.
While he’s out working at his tiny, trendy art gallery that the Mirror once called a “gem,” you sit around. You sip coffee. You smoke cigarettes – something you never do at home. The phone rings; people are looking for him. You wonder which of the callers he is fucking when you’re away. And which ones while you’re there.
When he gets home hours later, he is either ecstatic that he made a big sale or despondent because he couldn’t get an artist that he wanted. Either way, he takes you out to a nightclub or a CD release party. He gets you drunk off dark rum and liquid cocaine, and you remember why you fell in love with him in the first place.
Sunday mornings, if he isn’t busy, you both sleep in. You read the paper together and he mocks your lack of knowledge of Québécois affairs, calling you an ignorant anglophone. You eat. He touches your breasts, but not your face; he fucks you again. You vow to yourself that you won’t come back, even though you know that you will.
This can’t go on forever, you are aware. The longer you drag this out, the more it will hurt when it ends. And yet something keeps pulling you back to Bay and Dundas, back onto the grimy intercity bus, back into his bed.
On the bus, you never see the same person twice. Each week it’s a new assortment of unfamiliar, unfriendly faces. Sometimes you try to chat with the person sitting next to you. English or French, they never seen to want to talk; you wonder if they can sense your desperation. You bring a book that you don’t read. At the halfway stop in Kingston, you buy a crappy sandwich and eat it on the bus. You’ve noticed there’s a Tim Hortons in the same plaza, but for some reason you’re a little scared to do something different.
Every week, you arrive at Berri-UQAM station. Of course, he doesn’t come to meet you. You take a taxi to his place. Looking out of the window, the city’s beauty makes you feel inadequate. The women on the street are fashionable; you wonder if you’re wearing the wrong thing. When you get there, he doesn’t hug or kiss you, but he fucks you. Twice. He comes; you don’t. He’s always gone before you wake up in the morning.
While he’s out working at his tiny, trendy art gallery that the Mirror once called a “gem,” you sit around. You sip coffee. You smoke cigarettes – something you never do at home. The phone rings; people are looking for him. You wonder which of the callers he is fucking when you’re away. And which ones while you’re there.
When he gets home hours later, he is either ecstatic that he made a big sale or despondent because he couldn’t get an artist that he wanted. Either way, he takes you out to a nightclub or a CD release party. He gets you drunk off dark rum and liquid cocaine, and you remember why you fell in love with him in the first place.
Sunday mornings, if he isn’t busy, you both sleep in. You read the paper together and he mocks your lack of knowledge of Québécois affairs, calling you an ignorant anglophone. You eat. He touches your breasts, but not your face; he fucks you again. You vow to yourself that you won’t come back, even though you know that you will.
This can’t go on forever, you are aware. The longer you drag this out, the more it will hurt when it ends. And yet something keeps pulling you back to Bay and Dundas, back onto the grimy intercity bus, back into his bed.
September 3, 2009
Fairy Godsister
When I was in the seventh grade, a dance was held at my school. There were one or two every year, but this was the first one I was old enough to attend. My best friend Amanda and I had been waiting years for this moment.
We were so excited! We went to the mall together and picked out fancy clothes: long, flowing skirts; sheer shirts over lacy camisoles; high-heeled, sequined sandals. We pored over stacks of teen magazines for advice on how to put up our hair and get boys to ask us to dance.
The big night finally came. Amanda’s mom gave us a ride, dropping us off at the front door of the school. Our hearts pounding, we walked into the gym-turned-dance floor. We looked around. And then we stopped flat and looked at each other.
We were wearing the wrong things.
The boys were in baseball caps and their most expensive sneakers, their baggiest jeans, and their brand-name T-shirts. The girls were in tight pants and tops that were probably intended to be bras. Their hair was loose and their eyes were rimmed with dark make-up. I knew we had made a huge mistake.
I grabbed Amanda’s hand and pulled her into the bathroom before anyone could see us. Before she could say anything, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I wiped them away in embarrassment. This was a time in my life when I cried often and with much less provocation, but until then I had been able to hide it from other people.
The door opened, and I thought I would die. Bad enough my best friend should see me like this, but now someone else would, too. The girl who came in was someone I didn’t know. I’d seen her around, but never spoken to her. She was an eighth-grader.
“What’s wrong? – I see,” she said, answering her own question as she looked us up and down. “It’s all right.”
She took some tissue and wiped away my tears. Then she poured the contents of my little sequined handbag out onto the sink counter. She used my nail scissors to cut off the bottom half of my long dress, turning it into a miniskirt. She pulled every bobby pin out of my hair so that it spilled around my shoulders and used the pins to hold the skirt together, making it ripple fashionably. She pulled off my sheer cardigan and crammed it into the handbag, and rolled up the hem of my camisole to expose a hint of midriff. And she took my eyeliner and painted my eyes to look smouldering and mysterious instead of innocent and distressed. Then, she did the same for Amanda.
We looked in the mirror. Without sounding vain, we looked better than any other girls who were there that night. We looked classy, sophisticated – the way I always wanted to look.
The girl replaced our things in our purses. “You see,” she said, “you already have all you need to be who you want to be. You just have to use it.”
We were so excited! We went to the mall together and picked out fancy clothes: long, flowing skirts; sheer shirts over lacy camisoles; high-heeled, sequined sandals. We pored over stacks of teen magazines for advice on how to put up our hair and get boys to ask us to dance.
The big night finally came. Amanda’s mom gave us a ride, dropping us off at the front door of the school. Our hearts pounding, we walked into the gym-turned-dance floor. We looked around. And then we stopped flat and looked at each other.
We were wearing the wrong things.
The boys were in baseball caps and their most expensive sneakers, their baggiest jeans, and their brand-name T-shirts. The girls were in tight pants and tops that were probably intended to be bras. Their hair was loose and their eyes were rimmed with dark make-up. I knew we had made a huge mistake.
I grabbed Amanda’s hand and pulled her into the bathroom before anyone could see us. Before she could say anything, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I wiped them away in embarrassment. This was a time in my life when I cried often and with much less provocation, but until then I had been able to hide it from other people.
The door opened, and I thought I would die. Bad enough my best friend should see me like this, but now someone else would, too. The girl who came in was someone I didn’t know. I’d seen her around, but never spoken to her. She was an eighth-grader.
“What’s wrong? – I see,” she said, answering her own question as she looked us up and down. “It’s all right.”
She took some tissue and wiped away my tears. Then she poured the contents of my little sequined handbag out onto the sink counter. She used my nail scissors to cut off the bottom half of my long dress, turning it into a miniskirt. She pulled every bobby pin out of my hair so that it spilled around my shoulders and used the pins to hold the skirt together, making it ripple fashionably. She pulled off my sheer cardigan and crammed it into the handbag, and rolled up the hem of my camisole to expose a hint of midriff. And she took my eyeliner and painted my eyes to look smouldering and mysterious instead of innocent and distressed. Then, she did the same for Amanda.
We looked in the mirror. Without sounding vain, we looked better than any other girls who were there that night. We looked classy, sophisticated – the way I always wanted to look.
The girl replaced our things in our purses. “You see,” she said, “you already have all you need to be who you want to be. You just have to use it.”
August 30, 2009
The Law
After years of pressure from sexually frustrated lobbyists, they finally made it illegal for two lovers to be apart. It was fine, of course, for one to go to the corner store or around the block alone. It wouldn't have been too practical otherwise. After a suitable amount of time on love leave, they could even go back to their separate jobs. But a weekend out of town required a signed affidavit from the other partner, and a longer period apart was simply not allowed. The main cause of discontent in the nation had been removed. Everyone, it seemed, was happy.
Of course, there were problems with the law. What could be done about couples who had promising careers in different parts of the country? And how many people would be left in the armed forces, were only singles permitted to join? There were also more instances than you would think of one person being in love with more than one other.
The biggest problem, though, was also the simplest. When asked to interpret the law, the country's highest courts could not decide what should be done when one person was in love, and the other was not.
Of course, there were problems with the law. What could be done about couples who had promising careers in different parts of the country? And how many people would be left in the armed forces, were only singles permitted to join? There were also more instances than you would think of one person being in love with more than one other.
The biggest problem, though, was also the simplest. When asked to interpret the law, the country's highest courts could not decide what should be done when one person was in love, and the other was not.
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