Miriam Toews - The Flying Troutmans

Uh, no, said Thebes. She stopped shoving things into her backpack long enough to give me a look. First of all, she told me, eleven-year-olds at her school don’t do that, yet. Well, not the girls. And second, she already was not enjoying a lot of status at school, partly because of her prodigious kung fu skills that she couldn’t help, and partly because of her habit of knocking herself in the head in a vain attempt to dislodge the fragment of scalpel stuck inside. I’m on thin ice in the social hierarchy department, she told me. I’m not exactly a popular girl.

Hey, but, I said, where do you think it would go?

Where what would go? she said.

The scalpel, I said, like if you did manage to dislodge it. I mean, it would still be stuck in your head, right?

Yeah, she said, but not in my brain. It would be somewhere between my brain and my skull, in that nook, and then it would be a simple laser procedure or something like that to remove it.

Where’s Logan? I asked her. She didn’t know. He’d left already. Oh, okay, I said. Does he often come home drunk?

No, said Thebes. That was an aberration. Then she started talking about her commemorative-plate project. She had to glue things onto a paper plate, things that had sort of defined her world in the last year. Her teacher had told her that she couldn’t glue on pictures of the World Trade Center towers.

Why can’t you? I asked her.

Because, said Thebes, that didn’t involve me personally.

Well, I said, but in a broader sense, yeah, it did…

Other kids, said Thebes, have Stomp ticket stubs and birthday cake candles and photo-booth pictures, things like that, and now I have to start all over again.

Hey, I said, why don’t you put some of your lyrics on the plate. That would be cool.

On my plate? said Thebes. Which will be pinned up in public along the blackboard with all the others? Are you insane? Like that wouldn’t totally clinch my status as top dork of the universe. Are you going to stay in bed all day? She frowned.

No, I said. Definitely not. We have to get ready.

She came over and put her hands on my legs and her face close to mine. I’ll flip you later, she told me. You’ll love it.

Hey, I said, really, your lyrics are beautiful, you know.

No, they’re embarrassing, she said.

Why? I asked her. I told her that I wrote sometimes. Poems or short stories, I said, whatever, if I’m feeling…you know…

Thebes looked at me like I’d just admitted to occasionally starting grease fires at old folks homes or something, just every once in a while, just to make sense of my world. Hmmm, yeah, she said. Well, what are they about? she asked. Wait! Let me guess! Sex and death?

And love, I told her.

Sick, she said. She told me that tonight she had to start working on her “Helping the United Nations Rid the World of Racial Discrimination” speech and read an entire book for the read-a-thon to raise funds for the children of some Vietnamese province.

Holy shit, I said, and lay down again. Can I just give you twenty bucks? Like, who would know if you’d read the book or not?

She said no, that would be cheating.

I’ll be home at 3:45 precisely, she said. Shalom. She waved from the hall and left. I stared at the ceiling. She returned.

Hey! she said.

Yeah?

Did you know that I’ve been banned from Zellers for two years for having a perfume testers war with my friends?

No, I said, that’s funny.

That I have friends? said Thebes.

No! I said.

Just kidding, she said. I had a mug shot taken, she told me. They had those measuring lines and everything. That’s why my hair is purple now. I dyed it after they took my photo so I can still cut through Zellers undercover on my way to school.

Okay, I said. See ya later.

Not if I see you first, said Thebes. Psych. She left. She came back again.

Thebes, I said, you’re killing me. She asked me if I was going to see Min today.

Yeah, I said.

Tell her I love her, said Thebes. Hug her and kiss her for me. But gently.

I will, I said.

Remind her of the singing orange on the patio at Hermosa Beach, said Thebes.

Okay, I will, I said.

I had this singing orange, said Thebes, you know? And it killed Min. I had like this face on it — oh craps! Thebes had just looked at her clock radio, next to the bed. She said she had to go or she’d get “written up” and she could not afford a third “death note” or…She grabbed her throat and pretended to choke herself.

You should really go, Thebie, I said.

Okay, but one last thing? she said. Are you serious about trying to find Cherkis?

Yeah, I am, I said.

High-five, said Thebes.

I got up and went to Logan’s room and knocked on the door. There was a tiny tag from the dry cleaners stuck to the door that said “Press Only.” No answer. I knocked again. Logan? I said. I opened the door.

Empty room. I walked over to his desk. He’d carved the words Are You a Ghost? into a jagged heart. And had also written in black ink the words It’s Official. That grade 12 girl is now more imagination than reality. Shitty. And also: Hey, there, even if you do get your braces off, there’s still nothing the orthodontist can do about your sad, sad eyes. And next to his computer he’d written a message to himself: No, you will not type the letters you believe make up your father’s name into that small rectangle. Don’t be a loser. And beneath that, he’d carved a rough drawing of the planet Earth and inside it the words: No one can stay.

Okay. I went downstairs and looked around. Messy. Grey light. Dust everywhere. Piles of books and clothes. Dirty dishes in the kitchen. Crumbs. Old newspapers. No problem. I sent a telepathic message to Marc. I hope you’re having a blast at your ashram. I put on one of Logan’s CDs and started cleaning up. There were small though emphatic stick-it notes all over the kitchen. Cups! Glasses! Coffee off! I love you, Min! No more fires! Don’t forget your vitamin B stress therapy! You’re the best! All in Thebie’s loopy handwriting.

The phone rang and I picked it up and said hello. It was the secretary at Logan’s school. Logan hadn’t shown up for his first class. He’s got a doctor’s appointment, I said. That was all right, they said, but next time I should let them know first thing in the morning. Done and done! I said. I appreciate your call. I hung up. Was I supposed to find him? I finished cleaning up and went into the backyard for a smoke.

The next-door neighbour came out, a big guy in a yellow Haile Selassie T-shirt. Hey, I said. How’s it going?

Not bad, he said, but it’d be better if you guys weren’t throwing hatchets into my yard all night.

Oh, yeah, I said. Yeahhh…it won’t happen again.

No, it won’t, he said. Because I’ve got them all over here and I’m not giving them back.

Oh, I said, all right. Freaking uptight guy considering the shirt he’s got on, I thought. And there’s got to be a hatchet store around here where I could get reinforcements.

Who are you, anyway? he asked.

I’m Hattie, Min’s sister. I’m visiting.

Yeah? he said.

Yeah, I said.

You don’t look anything like her, he said.

I’ve had a lot of work done, I said. I stared off into space, hoping he’d disappear.

Hey, I don’t mean to be rude, he said, but your sister there, Min, what’s up with her? What’s her deal?

Min’s cool, I said. There’s no deal. I got up and went into the house and watched from a window as he and his man Selassie walked away. Then I went back out and sat down on the deck. There was a Ping-Pong table in the centre of the yard, and behind it, up against the yellow fence, a purple playhouse plastered with stencils of frogs and cars and suns and lizards. Three bikes were chained to a tree. There was a little dilapidated shack that had once been Min’s studio, and a fire pit piled with charred logs. I noticed two birdhouses up high in a tree, one painted with pink and purple hearts and the other with orange flames and streaks of dripping blood against a black background. Min had told me about the kids’ birdhouses, how she’d climbed the tree in a dust storm and nailed them to a branch.