mind,
considering what happened.
I guess it’s expected,
and I won’t turn down
the attention. But it feels
a little weird to be followed
so closely by someone
so new. I agree to the muffin
but nothing else.
Familial Interlude
I’ve been so wrapped up in my burgeoning social life that I haven’t been around the house much. I haven’t had to watch any of Layla’s brain-numbing dances or listen to my parents’ reminders about good grades and medical school-related extracurriculars. Honestly, I’ve been keeping to myself a lot since the slam. It’s self-preservation that results in a lot of eating of cereal in my room.
But maybe Mum and Dad sense this with their offspring-happiness-radars, because tonight we are having Family Pasta Night. Family make-noodles-from-scratch-each-other’s-eyeballs-out night.
I’m told this when I get home from school. Only an hour to mentally prepare for the onslaught.
Pasta Wranglers
Layla and I have been making pasta for a few years now, so even though I don’t want to be here at all, at least I know what I’m doing. She and I are on roll ‘n’ crank duty. We roll and crank the pasta dough through the machine until it comes out in long, playdough ribbons, which we lay out and then put in boiling water. I can tell the fun of doing all this is wearing thin with her too. We both used to love it, fought over who did what.
Now I have to be dragged in and I wager next year she will too. Mum’s on sauce duty, but she eyes us as we roll and crank. “Isn’t this nice, girls? We don’t do this enough these days.” I know she sees what’s happening. Her little girls are growing out of pasta wrangling — what on earth can she do?
“There’s more dough? I thought we were done!” Layla wails.
“Only another few sheets.” Mum leaves the sauce to help. I take over stirring, thankful for the switch-up. Layla gives me a look that says, “You cow, how could you leave me here?” Mum sees it, square on. Like the look was meant for her.
Food Club Blues
I am over being forewoman.
So, so over it. Since I’m Ashlyn’s
new saviour, she asked me
to take on extra duties, and these
include shepherding those
with the littlest brains so they
don’t burn or drop things,
and then cleaning up
after they do a shoddy job
cleaning up the kitchen.
If I have to chip off any more
pasta dough dried like glue
on the counters
when I could be doing anything else
I’ll freak.
Warning
Mr. Marchand is once again the bearer of bad news; my progress report will show a pitiful chemistry grade, much too low for The Board’s standards. Not a fail, thanks to James, but still: undoctorly.
But there are other far more pressing matters on the horizon, and I push everything else out of my mind …
Countdown
Today is the day.
Now is the time:
3:30 P.M., and I’m pretending
to read my social studies homework,
waiting for the clock
to get to 4:00 P.M.,
so I can walk outside
and look like I almost
wasn’t going to make it.
Flawless casual-looking makeup: check.
Slightly messy but perfect hair: check.
Jeans that give good butt: check.
Lucky bra: check. (It’s not really lucky,
but after this it will be!)
Heart in throat: check.
Maybe I should check my pulse —
Be cool. I search for the bitchin’ attitude
I had in the car the day I asked him out.
Well, asked him to ask me out.
Breathe in.
Okay, go.
Dean Pulls Up
looking so … touchable in a blue-collared shirt, with a bouquet of daisies lying on the passenger seat. I’m in trouble.
He gets out and opens the door for me, gives me a hug and the flowers. “I know we’re just going for coffee, but I wanted to get you something.”
He shifts the car with finesse and we drive away from the school, away from my boring life as a nobody in grade eleven, and toward —
We Get Married in the Coffee Shop
My dress is made of white linen napkins
stitched together, and the manager
of the
considering what happened.
I guess it’s expected,
and I won’t turn down
the attention. But it feels
a little weird to be followed
so closely by someone
so new. I agree to the muffin
but nothing else.
Familial Interlude
I’ve been so wrapped up in my burgeoning social life that I haven’t been around the house much. I haven’t had to watch any of Layla’s brain-numbing dances or listen to my parents’ reminders about good grades and medical school-related extracurriculars. Honestly, I’ve been keeping to myself a lot since the slam. It’s self-preservation that results in a lot of eating of cereal in my room.
But maybe Mum and Dad sense this with their offspring-happiness-radars, because tonight we are having Family Pasta Night. Family make-noodles-from-scratch-each-other’s-eyeballs-out night.
I’m told this when I get home from school. Only an hour to mentally prepare for the onslaught.
Pasta Wranglers
Layla and I have been making pasta for a few years now, so even though I don’t want to be here at all, at least I know what I’m doing. She and I are on roll ‘n’ crank duty. We roll and crank the pasta dough through the machine until it comes out in long, playdough ribbons, which we lay out and then put in boiling water. I can tell the fun of doing all this is wearing thin with her too. We both used to love it, fought over who did what.
Now I have to be dragged in and I wager next year she will too. Mum’s on sauce duty, but she eyes us as we roll and crank. “Isn’t this nice, girls? We don’t do this enough these days.” I know she sees what’s happening. Her little girls are growing out of pasta wrangling — what on earth can she do?
“There’s more dough? I thought we were done!” Layla wails.
“Only another few sheets.” Mum leaves the sauce to help. I take over stirring, thankful for the switch-up. Layla gives me a look that says, “You cow, how could you leave me here?” Mum sees it, square on. Like the look was meant for her.
Food Club Blues
I am over being forewoman.
So, so over it. Since I’m Ashlyn’s
new saviour, she asked me
to take on extra duties, and these
include shepherding those
with the littlest brains so they
don’t burn or drop things,
and then cleaning up
after they do a shoddy job
cleaning up the kitchen.
If I have to chip off any more
pasta dough dried like glue
on the counters
when I could be doing anything else
I’ll freak.
Warning
Mr. Marchand is once again the bearer of bad news; my progress report will show a pitiful chemistry grade, much too low for The Board’s standards. Not a fail, thanks to James, but still: undoctorly.
But there are other far more pressing matters on the horizon, and I push everything else out of my mind …
Countdown
Today is the day.
Now is the time:
3:30 P.M., and I’m pretending
to read my social studies homework,
waiting for the clock
to get to 4:00 P.M.,
so I can walk outside
and look like I almost
wasn’t going to make it.
Flawless casual-looking makeup: check.
Slightly messy but perfect hair: check.
Jeans that give good butt: check.
Lucky bra: check. (It’s not really lucky,
but after this it will be!)
Heart in throat: check.
Maybe I should check my pulse —
Be cool. I search for the bitchin’ attitude
I had in the car the day I asked him out.
Well, asked him to ask me out.
Breathe in.
Okay, go.
Dean Pulls Up
looking so … touchable in a blue-collared shirt, with a bouquet of daisies lying on the passenger seat. I’m in trouble.
He gets out and opens the door for me, gives me a hug and the flowers. “I know we’re just going for coffee, but I wanted to get you something.”
He shifts the car with finesse and we drive away from the school, away from my boring life as a nobody in grade eleven, and toward —
We Get Married in the Coffee Shop
My dress is made of white linen napkins
stitched together, and the manager
of the
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