In the hallway, Paige said, ‘It’s Dad.’ I was all of a sudden hollow, like a cheap chocolate Easter bunny caving in over a heat source. Leonard had already had two heart attacks. I used to be scared he’d die, used to imagine him dead on a stretcher every time I saw an ambulance or heard a siren. But since the Plan, no worries. Because Leonard was indispensable to the Plan, his death stopped being possible. I stopped at the trophy case with a picture of someone’s butt still taped to the corner. We could see Joan in the office with the principal. Paige pulled on my sleeve. ‘If we don’t move, it didn’t happen,’ I say. Paige pulled again. ‘C’mon, Dree. They see us.’
Three
We’re back in the bio lab and the fruit flies are still dead. Paige impales me with her pointy little elbow and whispers, ‘Sit up.’
I lift my head long enough to look at the clock. Three p.m. Day 2 of being fifteen. I should be over Winnipeg about now. And since I’m not, I should be at home in bed. And since I’m not, I should destroy my sister because, clearly, that’s what she did to me this morning with her pre-dawn hysteria. ‘Paige,’ Joan had said in ubermaternal mode. ‘Paige, honey, no one expects to see you girls today.’ And Paige?
‘Correction, Mom. My handbell choir does expect me because without me, Mom, there is no A flat. Also, Mom, Dree and I are going to fail biology if we don’t deal with the fruit flies today. Capital F fail, Mom.’
With head down and hope crushed, I listen to Riddell doing her responsible-sexuality thing.
‘And what is our main purpose as a species?’ she asks. ‘Don’t be so savagely dull, good lord, think of fruit flies, think of any species and what they must do. Yes, Raymond, brilliant, reproduction, reproduce is what your genes demand, do be sensible and understand that you are foremost a gene machine, and genes demand replication at any expense, including STDS and good taste, and hormones can be viciously clever in convincing us something is about love or pleasure when really it’s all biochemistry, the same kind of biochemistry that gets fruit flies and all other species to mate, and they’re not exactly thrilling, are they, but let’s hope they enjoyed themselves.’
Ms. Riddell gets all that out in the time it takes most people to say, ‘Hey, how’s it going.’ And good for you, Ms. Riddell, for talking about sex all the time, but please. If we’re biologically programmed to bonk everything that moves, why not tell us where to get cost-effective sexual aids? Or better yet, provide DIY instructions?
‘And now, young friends, turn your thoughts to activity of a cellular nature, and kindly formulate hypotheses on your favourite organelle.’ Riddell walks between the lab tables, checking for things to con fiscate. ‘Yes, I speak of your final project, that penultimate expression of genius worth 50 percent of your final mark, and yes, the outline for your presentation is still due on Friday. Do work with great intellectual rigour; the marking will be savage.’
With the class nicely traumatized, Riddell, DNA earrings twirling, comes over to Paige and me and puts her hand on my shoulder. I almost start bawling. ‘Girls, I’m surprised you’re here,’ she says, and I say, ‘Yeah, you have no idea, Ms. Riddell, how surprised I am.’ Paige gets all huffy and wants to talk deadlines but Riddell says, ‘Mercy, Paige, I hardly think we need discuss that today.’
Paige is all, ‘But Ms. Riddell, I need to start an independent project on mitochondria, I’m researching – ’
‘Shuddup! I’m totally into mito, too!’ I couldn’t help myself.
‘Mercy,’ Riddell says. ‘Well then, excellent, yes, do work together on this one, yes, I do see you’re not comfortable but that’s hardly the point of projects, is it, Paige?’ Riddell gives me a good-for-you pat, makes sure we’ve got all the assignment info and goes off to stop the back row from starting another fire. ‘You are so unstable,’ Paige hisses.
What are mitochondria, I wonder, and smile at her. Something to do with cells, something about power. Something to google when I can’t think of anything interesting to do.
Going to English feels excessive, as it so often does after biology, so I hit the library. Fresh hell. I’m deep into etsy.com and in comes my tortured English teacher, Mr. Trenchey, with my tortured English class. He doesn’t say hello, just raises his eyebrows and clutches Death of a Salesman tighter to his chest. Blayne sits beside me and stares at my breasts like Blayne does, a total perv, and I slump low enough to graze the keyboard, A) to stop thrilling Blayne, and B) because, god, Trenchey is talking about transformation yet again. ‘That’s what I must see on your assignment,’ he says. ‘How did this book transform you, show me how you changed.’
He hovers over Emma B’s Corset Creations webpage and says, ‘Maybe you can explain how this is related to Arthur Miller because I can’t see it.’
‘Arthur who?’
He sighs and keeps standing as if I should apologize or confess. Teachers are so needy. And I think, nothing personal, but my dad died last week and he was an oppressed working-class male too. Out loud, I say, ‘Sorry.’
Lunch is lonelyville. All the way down the hall it’s Hey Erin, Hey Marney, Hey Daniel. Only I am heyless. I spend Leonard’s last toonie on Cheezies from a machine, hoping Paige will appear to disapprove. She never wastes money because she’s saving for orphans in Rwanda, so far $1,200.
I squeeze by the indie girls when I smell Santini. He marinated in aftershave extra long this morning because, whoa, really bad. The girls are running.
‘Dree, so glad to find you.’ I get that imploding feeling and think he’s sad for me. ‘Dree,’ he says, hands out, palms up, like he does. ‘We need to see you in my office.’ We.
‘Actually, Santini,’ I say, ‘I’ve got this appointment.’
‘No, Dree, let’s check in, please. I’ll take this.’ He takes my craft bag and goes ahead, very un-Santini-esque. No rapport-building chat about knitting, no slowing down to my troubled-teen shuffle.
‘Can you slow down?’ I say. Santini wears platform shoes, totally cute, and cargo pants with great big side pockets that bulge with what? Sandwiches? Extra shoes? Because, honestly, they’re extreme.
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘we’re a little short on time.’
‘Actually, Santini.’ But he’s already a step ahead of me. I don’t suspect anything because I trust him. The last time we met, he said, ‘Dree, your version of success might look like failure to others,’ and, ‘Dree, that’s okay, even if other family members succeed in the conventional way.’
‘So, Santini, you’ve got a perfect sister too?’
‘Millionaire brother. Santini Delis?’
‘OMG, Santinti. My father adores Santini salami.’ It was a bonding moment.
So I don’t think anything of those two wes until at his door, he says, ‘Mrs. Johnson came to chat with us.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m