The Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19
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Biology is not Dree’s thing. Equally heinous are English, Social Studies, her sister and mother, not to mention Edmonton in general. Toronto is where she belongs – specifically the upcoming Renegade Craft Fair where, finally, her crafts will be appreciated. Escape is imminent: on her 15th birthday, she will get the special fund her father promised, and the day after that she’ll be on Westjet Flight 233 to Toronto. Instead, her dad has a fatal heart attack, and all she finds are clues leading to the ominous Alberta Psychiatric Hospital where her parents once worked. As Dree tries to unearth a mystery, and to knit herself a passing mark in science, she keeps searching for the money, and for a way to grieve her father. Told in a fresh, frank voice, The Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19 is a wry, adventurous, unflinching look at the trials of teenage life. Instructions for renegade crafts included.
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BY JOCELYN BROWN
We watch the bus get sucked onto the bridge, which is also the same as ever. All of Edmonton, in fact, is desolation as per usual, like the set of a low-budget apocalypse movie, so low-budget they used old white sheets for both the sky and the ground. We watch the cars, not for poignant insights but because what else do you do in Edmonton, Alberta, on a Sunday morning? You watch traffic. It’s the only sign of life.
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If you’ve ever sat on a suitcase with all your weight, that is pancake number six. A woman two tables away smiles at me as I cut it up. I smile back and Joan turns to see and goes all oh-hi, but doesn’t look exactly happy. ‘Who’s that?’ I whisper. ‘Old friend from Timbley,’ she says.
I conquer the pancake then crochet like a demon, especially when the drumming involves tambourines. At least they don’t know that Paige plays handbells. The lizard tail’s almost done, and I’m all about getting it pointy. We’re bubbled in our sadness, and it’s just about over. Rita invites everyone over to her home, still Leonard’s home too, she says, to chant and scatter his ashes. How heinous. But I have to go look through his den. Joan half-smiles at me, as in it’s almost done, when Rita says our names. ‘I’m so honoured to know Leonard’s girls,’ she says, holding up Dad. ‘Dree? Paige?’
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