Читать книгу The Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19 - Jocelyn Brown - Страница 7

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 not here to judge you,’ Rita says. ‘But I want that key back.’ She wears unflaky brown clothes and sits by the window all perfect posture. Rita keeps saying she’s not judging, I keep saying I’d rather stand, and Santini does his best by validating. Mostly I stare out the window at a plastic grocery bag impaled on a dead tree and wonder why Rita calls Santini Roger and Santini calls Rita Mrs. Johnson.

‘Excuse me, Roger, I do know, without question, that Dree has something that belongs to me.’

Santini tries. I’ll never forgive him, but he tries. ‘Mrs. Johnson, let’s validate what you’re both going through. Dree, perhaps this book can help, please – ’

In my peripheral vision, I see The Grieving Process on his desk. And, weird, beside it, the small shiny book I saw in Rita’s purse. Heavenly Riches. It takes willpower to keep staring at the tree.

‘Dreeee? Dree, are you with us? How can I support you here?’

Rita says she knows exactly what I’m going through, actually holds her hands out to me, reaches to touch my arm. You’d like to rip out my lungs, wouldn’t you, Rita?

‘Dree, this is not a courtroom,’ Santini says.

‘I’d rather stand.’

‘So, Dree, I’m noticing that Rita, Mrs. Johnson, and I are doing all the work here.’

‘On what?’ My first eye contact with Santini. Fuck you, it says.

‘Dree, give me my key back.’

‘What key, Rita?’

‘You have to understand that Leonard is still very connected to me.’

‘So ask him where your key is.’ I sound ruthless but I know the optics are bad: red face, shaky legs, compulsive twisting of hair.

‘In your bag, honey.’

The honey does it. I take a step forward and dump my bag onto Santini’s desk. Eyeliner, dead orange, Kleenex, wool and tampons fall out. Santini flinches and rolls his chair back. Deal with it, I think, and throw the empty bag onto Rita’s lap. ‘Oh, I bet Dad’s real impressed with you now.’

Rita pats the bag inch by inch. Very creepy.

I focus on the poster above her head. Riches from Heaven: A workshop with Master of Abundance Jojo Bunting.

‘I’m not feeling comfortable with this, Mrs. Johnson. We need to honour personal – Dree – please, this book – ’

They both stare at me full on, intensely checking for cracks, then stare at the poster too. Santini turns back to me and shrugs, all isn’t this awkward.

Rat-faced coward.

‘Fine, Dree, we can wait.’ Rita looks at him looking at me. ‘So you’re coming to Jojo, Roger?’ she says.

OMFG. Roger? They yoga or whatever together? I take the book Santini’s put down and take the other one too, as in, oh, I thought you meant both of them.

But he doesn’t notice or does and says nothing. ‘I feel totally violated,’ I tell him as Rita hands me the bag. Santini closes his eyes, possibly getting ready to apologize. I slip out door and run like hell.

Finally, the main doors clunk behind me. On the smokers’ bench, I tug on the leather cord to check the knot, leaving the key under my sweater. Thank you, fashion gods, for making me wear my one and only turtleneck today. I vow to be a better human someday.

Who cares if she knows I’ve got it. If the delinquent count is low at the downtown library, I’ll get a spot on computer row and get the key pic on my blog toot sweet. In fact, if she sees it, excellent. As long as she can’t actually rip the thing off my neck, it’s all good.

I’m too pumped to wait for the bus, which is only marginally faster than walking anyway. What I also need to do at the library is check the Dante statue because Leonard once rammed a clue in his nose. It was hell getting it out. Who knows, maybe Dante’s chin is hollow too. Then I need to sit on our bench, close my eyes and laugh with him at the sound of the toilet flushing which is the loudest sound anywhere on the main floor. Enough said.

Reincarnation of a Salesman

The North Pole’s melting, everybody’s medicated, but what are your goals? They can’t stop saying it. From Grade 4! Your goals. Yes, we are the damned. Yes, we’re trapped. But do the characters of the obsolete books we’re supposed to read have to be? No, they do not.

Circle of Life Bowl

1. Take one outdated book (guy goes on quest, guy becomes manly man, guy offs himself after failing manly-manness, et cetera).

2. Rip into tiny pieces.

3. Add enough water to cover the paper, and soak overnight.

4. Add two cups of shredded newsprint, more water. Boil, then simmer for two hours. Add water as needed to keep things sludgey. Turn off heat and leave to cool.

5. One cup at a time, throw sludge in blender and pulse until pulpy. Throw pulp into big bowl.

6. Add 3/4 cup of white glue to pulp and mix with hands.

7. Press mixture into wire strainer, making rim a bit thicker. Roll an orange inside if you want it nice and even. Leave to dry overnight and next day, if necessary.

8. Carefully press outside of strainer to release bowl.

9. If you want it to last a while, coat with varnish.