Heartache and Other Natural Shocks Read Online Free Page A

stereo stand. Debbie flops onto a corduroy beanbag chair and checks her hair for split ends. “So, you’re from Montreal,” she says without looking up.
    “Yeah.”
    “So, what’s it like there?” she asks.
    “It’s great,” I say.
    “What’s so great about it?”
    I shrug. “Beaver Lake, the restaurants, the old city …” I remember my uncle Seymour’s latest joke about Toronto:
What’s the difference between yogurt and Toronto
? Answer:
Yogurt has culture
. It’s not a joke Debbie would appreciate.
    “Why did you move here?” Marlene asks.
    “Because of the FLQ ,” I say. Marlene stares blankly at me. “The separatists. The FLQ ?” I repeat. Silence. Does she even know what I’m talking about? Are these girls living in the same country as me?
    Marlene says, “Oh, right. They kidnapped that French guy last year.”
    “They kidnapped two guys,” I say. “James Cross and Pierre Laporte.”
    “And they shot the French one,” Carla says, like she knows.
    “They didn’t shoot him,” I say. “They didn’t use a gun.” Carla gives me a cold stare; she obviously doesn’t like being contradicted. “They locked him up for a week and then strangled him with the chain he wore around his neck. Afterthat, they dumped his body in the trunk of a car and left it in an airport parking lot.”
    “What happened to the other guy?” Marlene asks, interested now. There’s nothing like a few gory details to get people hooked.
    “James Cross? He’s the one they kidnapped first,” I explain. “It was October 5th, his birthday. He was in his bathroom getting ready for work when three guys from the FLQ burst into his house. They had an M1 rifle, a .22 Beretta and a Luger pistol. They ripped out the phone wires, handcuffed him and took him to their hideout. Then they sent a list of demands to a radio station. Five days later, a different FLQ cell group kidnapped Pierre Laporte.”
    The girls stare at me. I know I’m talking way too fast, but I can’t stop. I’m like a runaway train. I say, “Pierre Laporte was playing football with his nephew on his front lawn when four men with machine guns pulled up to his house. They dragged him into their car. He had a wife and children. They made him write a letter to Premier Bourassa begging for his life. They threatened to execute him. No one believed they’d do it, but they did. They killed him!” I screech to a halt. You can practically smell the burning rubber. The girls gawk at me like I’m some kind of weirdo.
    Finally, Marlene says, “Uh … did you know him? Like, personally?”
    “No,” I say.
    There’s an awkward pause. Carla and Debbie exchange looks, eyebrows raised. Carla drawls, “O-kay, then. Sooo, are we playing cards or what?”
    I feel my face flush. I’m being way too intense. This is supposed to be a “fun” night and I’m blowing it.
    Carla plunks a game on the table and turns to me. “Do you know how to play Rummoli?” she asks. I shake my head. “It’s like poker on a board game. You
do
know how to play poker, don’t you?”
    “Sort of,” I say.
    “Well, you’ll pick it up. You must be smart if you’re skipping a grade.” The way she says it is like a challenge. Or an insult. My mother must have told her mother.
    Marlene puts on a record: Tina Turner singing “Proud Mary.” Carla grins, and the girls instantly launch into a backup singer dance routine, rolling their arms and bobbing their heads as they sing along. I sit there while they roll on over to the table and take packs of cigarettes and bags of coins from their purses. Carla and Marlene smoke du Mauriers. Debbie smokes Player’s menthol.
    Debbie looks at the empty table in front of me. “She doesn’t have money,” she says to Carla, talking about me like I’m not even here.
    “We’ll have to lend her some,” Carla says.
    “Well, I don’t have that much,” Debbie says.
    “You’re so cheap,” Carla says.
    “I can pay you back,” I say.
    “But