Heartache and Other Natural Shocks Read Online Free
Author: Glenda Leznoff
the Ontario school system has thirteen grades, whereas Quebec’s has only eleven. The two systems do not mesh.” The way she says “mesh” sounds accusatory. “The point is, Julia has a 94 percent average, and it would be a mistake not to move her forward.”
Mr. Squash flicks his pen against his clipboard and shifts his attention to me. “What do you think, Julia?” he asks in a condescending voice.
I glance at him. What do
I
think? Is he joking? Nobody gives a damn what I think. If what I thought counted for anything, I wouldn’t be sitting here, in this new school, in this suburban wasteland. This meeting is just a game, a power struggle between Mr. Squash and my mother. I am like Vietnam, stuck between China and the United States. A pawn. A battle zone. No one gives a shit about what Vietnam wants. Vietnam and me, we’re just territory.
I have a sudden flash of my face, photographed, like an Andy Warhol print, against the flag of Vietnam. It’s a funny image. It almost makes me laugh out loud. And at the same time as I’m thinking about that, I’m noticing Mr. Squash’sugly, brown ribbed socks and how my mother is glaring at me, as if she could will me to say something intelligent instead of sitting on my chair like a sullen lump.
In the end, I just shrug. Mr. Squash must think I’m an idiot. “Do you think you could handle grade eleven?” he asks. “The rest of the kids would be a year older than you,” he adds, as if I can’t do the math.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
Mr. Squash purses his lips. “I suppose we could give it a try,” he says. My mother smiles triumphantly. We discuss my electives. I choose drama and art. It’s over quickly. When I shake Mr. Squash’s pulpy hand, he says, “You know, Julia, skipping a grade can be difficult. Don’t expect to get the same high marks you got last year.”
I stare at him with a deadpan face. I may be a social misfit, I may have the confidence of a gnat, but one thing I
do
know is how to get good marks in school. School is not my problem.
In the lobby, we pass Mr. Squash’s next appointment: a thin, elegant woman and her son. The woman has a willowy, fragile kind of beauty. Her son slouches in his chair: lean, angular, all legs, black T-shirt and long black hair. As we walk by, he flicks his hair out of his eyes and looks at me. His face changes everything about him. His body is loose and lazy, but his expression has an unsettling intensity. His face is narrow with high cheekbones, a nose that looks likeit’s been broken at least once, lips that are too wide and sharp predatory eyes. Those eyes are unnatural: pale gray-blue, cold like a winter moon ringed in black. Wolf eyes. Eyes that know their own power. Our eyes meet. Neither of us smiles.
I spend the rest of the day in my room reading
The Drifters
, a book about six young people from different countries who, unlike me, have the guts to run away from home. They end up in Torremolinos, Spain, swimming, meeting cool people in the bar, having sex and basically living out my romantic fantasy life. The book is thick, but I have plenty of time.
After dinner, the doorbell rings and my mom calls out in a way-too-cheery voice, “Julia, it’s for you.” For a minute, I’m confused because I don’t know anyone in Toronto, but there, standing in the front hall, is Carla Cabrielli. She’s flanked by two friends: Snake Eyes, the string-bean blonde, and a short, wiry girl with a mouth full of braces who reminds me of a terrier. Carla introduces Debbie and Marlene and says, “Do you want to come over to my place?” She couldn’t sound less enthusiastic. Personally, I’d rather stay home and pick lint off an old sweater, but it’s obvious to everyone that my social calendar is wide open.
The Cabriellis’ basement is a dark room with high windows, pine-paneled walls and an orange shag carpet. Carlatosses a bag of chips onto a vinyl card table while Marlene flips through the records on the
Mr. Squash flicks his pen against his clipboard and shifts his attention to me. “What do you think, Julia?” he asks in a condescending voice.
I glance at him. What do
I
think? Is he joking? Nobody gives a damn what I think. If what I thought counted for anything, I wouldn’t be sitting here, in this new school, in this suburban wasteland. This meeting is just a game, a power struggle between Mr. Squash and my mother. I am like Vietnam, stuck between China and the United States. A pawn. A battle zone. No one gives a shit about what Vietnam wants. Vietnam and me, we’re just territory.
I have a sudden flash of my face, photographed, like an Andy Warhol print, against the flag of Vietnam. It’s a funny image. It almost makes me laugh out loud. And at the same time as I’m thinking about that, I’m noticing Mr. Squash’sugly, brown ribbed socks and how my mother is glaring at me, as if she could will me to say something intelligent instead of sitting on my chair like a sullen lump.
In the end, I just shrug. Mr. Squash must think I’m an idiot. “Do you think you could handle grade eleven?” he asks. “The rest of the kids would be a year older than you,” he adds, as if I can’t do the math.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
Mr. Squash purses his lips. “I suppose we could give it a try,” he says. My mother smiles triumphantly. We discuss my electives. I choose drama and art. It’s over quickly. When I shake Mr. Squash’s pulpy hand, he says, “You know, Julia, skipping a grade can be difficult. Don’t expect to get the same high marks you got last year.”
I stare at him with a deadpan face. I may be a social misfit, I may have the confidence of a gnat, but one thing I
do
know is how to get good marks in school. School is not my problem.
In the lobby, we pass Mr. Squash’s next appointment: a thin, elegant woman and her son. The woman has a willowy, fragile kind of beauty. Her son slouches in his chair: lean, angular, all legs, black T-shirt and long black hair. As we walk by, he flicks his hair out of his eyes and looks at me. His face changes everything about him. His body is loose and lazy, but his expression has an unsettling intensity. His face is narrow with high cheekbones, a nose that looks likeit’s been broken at least once, lips that are too wide and sharp predatory eyes. Those eyes are unnatural: pale gray-blue, cold like a winter moon ringed in black. Wolf eyes. Eyes that know their own power. Our eyes meet. Neither of us smiles.
I spend the rest of the day in my room reading
The Drifters
, a book about six young people from different countries who, unlike me, have the guts to run away from home. They end up in Torremolinos, Spain, swimming, meeting cool people in the bar, having sex and basically living out my romantic fantasy life. The book is thick, but I have plenty of time.
After dinner, the doorbell rings and my mom calls out in a way-too-cheery voice, “Julia, it’s for you.” For a minute, I’m confused because I don’t know anyone in Toronto, but there, standing in the front hall, is Carla Cabrielli. She’s flanked by two friends: Snake Eyes, the string-bean blonde, and a short, wiry girl with a mouth full of braces who reminds me of a terrier. Carla introduces Debbie and Marlene and says, “Do you want to come over to my place?” She couldn’t sound less enthusiastic. Personally, I’d rather stay home and pick lint off an old sweater, but it’s obvious to everyone that my social calendar is wide open.
The Cabriellis’ basement is a dark room with high windows, pine-paneled walls and an orange shag carpet. Carlatosses a bag of chips onto a vinyl card table while Marlene flips through the records on the
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