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  JUST J

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2007 Colin Frizzell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Frizzell, Colin, 1971-

  Just J / written by Colin Frizzell.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55143-650-0

  ISBN-10: 1-55143-650-7

  I. Title.

  PS8611.R59J88 2007 jC813’.6 C2006-906135-1

  First published in the United States, 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006937241

  Summary: After her mother’s death, thirteen-year-old Jenevieve deals with her grief, her father’s neglect and her aunt’s eccentricities.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Typesetting by Christine Toller

  Cover artwork by Janie Jaehyun Park

  Author photo by Nicki Roswell

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW paper.

  10 09 08 07 • 4 3 2 1

  For Jordann

  and also for Mum and Trish

  Acknowledgments

  Both financial and emotional support are necessary to take a book from idea to publication. I have my families, by blood and by marriage, to thank for helping to provide me with both.

  I also need to thank the Toronto Arts Council for its support, and Lusiana Lukman for bringing the grant to my attention and believing in my writing. Special thanks to my mother-in-law, Bunny, for getting me to the grant office in the nick of time.

  I’d also like to thank the Self-Employment Benefits Program and all of its instructors for their support, advice and guidance.

  Thank you to everyone at Orca Book Publishers, especially my editor, Sarah Harvey, for her patience and dedication. Thank you also to my agents, David and Lynn Bennett, for taking me on and for their advice and encouragement.

  And finally, to my friends, who have always believed in me. Thank you.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  To see a world in a grain of sand

  And a heaven in a wild flower,

  Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

  And eternity in an hour.

  —William Blake

  Auguries of Innocence

  Chapter One

  My past is misery; my present, agony; my future, bleak. And it is not just because I’m a thirteen-year-old girl, or because I’m too thin or too tall, or because my hair is red (it’s orange, actually—but they call it red).

  I admit, in the big picture my life wouldn’t rank very high on the downtrodden scale. Not if you compare me to a kid dying of aids in Africa or fearing bombs in a war zone, but who thinks about the big picture? You think about your family and friends, your school, your work, your neighbors—how you measure up.

  My circle hasn’t just shrunk; it’s gone pear-shaped as well. In recent months it’s consisted of home, school and the hospital—that’s it. All of it.

  Other kids’ lives are a heck of a lot bigger than mine, which is ironic, considering how much smaller their minds are. Do I sound bitter? I don’t mean to. I’m not bitter, I’m downright furious.

  The sky sympathizes. It’s an empty gray, and thunder gives voice to my fury, saving me the trouble of screaming, which I have every right to do. Especially since, on top of everything else, Dad is making me ride in the same car as The Wicked Witch of all compass points associated with anything demonic. She’s pure evil in a black business suit. Her jet-black hair is tied back in a bun so tight you’d think she was trying to give herself a face-lift. Her eyes—two lumps of blackest coal—are set off by ghostly white, almost transparent, skin. Her suit does little to contain her breasts, which stick out like the noses on a pair of bloodhounds who have just caught their prey’s scent—my dad being the prey. Of course he doesn’t see her that way.

  “It’ll be okay,” she stupidly says to him.

  Dad nods.

  My eyes bore hateful thoughts through the Explorer’s headrest and into The Thing’s brain as she sits comfortably in the passenger seat. Maybe I’ll give her an aneurysm, or I’ll give myself one; either would improve the situation.

  The way It ogles my father makes me glad I skipped breakfast.

  The sun’s coming out now, shining through the trees as the rain continues to fall. The sun tries to cheer me up, outlining every dancing drop. The wind holds the beads of water in the air, giving them life. The sun-shower becomes a million tiny water babies sent to entertain me.

  Late June greenery emerges emerald from the mist as we wind through the Don Valley. The rain totally disappears as Mother Sun takes her little droplets home—what was com–forting suddenly seems cruel.

  As we turn onto Bloor Street, I’m happy to say good-bye to the trees and wrap myself in cold steel and hardened concrete. If only I could stop the sun from keeping an eye on me. I don’t feel like being sunny today.

  They say life goes on. That the sun is still going to come up in the morning.

  But why? Why must the sun always come up in the morning? Why can’t it take a day off? Why can’t we all take a day off to reflect on how screwed up everything is?

  The only way to be free is to not need anything from anyone, even the sun. That way no one can hurt you or leave you when you need them the most. That’s when they always go. That’s when she left—when I needed her the most. What kind of a mother leaves her thirteen-year-old daughter?

  This morning—the day of her funeral—I got my first period! It’s like she planned it that way. Her voice comes from behind a cloud, or wherever the hell she is—pun intended. “You’re a woman now and you’ll have to look after yourself.”

  It was disgusting!

  I used bunched-up toilet paper for the first two hours until Dad could “pull himself together” enough to get out of the bathroom so I could see if Mom had left any tampons; she had—thank God.

  I don’t know why Dad’s upset. He’s already found The She-devil—Mom’s instant replacement. Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts from grade nine on—how do you replace that? And almost overnight!

  He says The She-devil’s “a friend who on
ly wants to help us through a difficult time.”

  He’s either naïve, stupid or lying—my money’s on all three. No way am I going to let her “help” me.

  “J,” Billy whines, tugging my sleeve and looking up at me with urgency in his clear blue eyes. Almost everybody calls me J. Jenevieve is too long, Jen is too short and Jenny is too perky. Billy’s my five-year-old brother. He’s all right, in his little pinstriped suit with his blond hair cut and styled like a junior executive: straight across the back and every hair arranged perfectly on top—a mini-Dad, poor kid. Of course, Dad’s hair is no longer thick enough to be perfect on top, and each year it gets closer to gray than blond. Mom wouldn’t have approved of The Witch’s new look for Billy.

  Billy doesn’t really understand what’s going on—about Mom, I mean. He cried a lot at the hospital after Mom died, but I think that was just because everyone else was crying. He’s been fine ever since. I’m sure he likes the fact that nobody hassles him about how much time he’s spending watching tv or playing his Game Boy. He even gets to watch martial arts films on the big-screen tv instead of sneaking into my bedroom to see them. Not that I watch them, of course—well, only with Billy. Mom thought they were too violent, so we kept it on the down-low, sneaking them out of Dad’s dvd library.

  “What?” I ask, leaving out the is it now part of the sentence.

  “I need to pee,” Billy says.

  “You’ll have to wait till we get to the funeral home.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” he whines.

  “You’re going to have to,” I tell him as he squeezes his crotch for dramatic effect. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him. “We’re almost there. Just think of something else.” The last thing I need today is a little brother in wet pants.

  “If you could read my mind love…” I begin singing a Gordon Lightfoot song—not the coolest, I know. Not that I care. Mom used to sing it to get Billy to go to sleep.

  We were going to see Gordon Lightfoot in concert, Mom and me, but then she got sick. Dad said I was too young to go on my own, and he couldn’t take me because he had to stay with Mom. He said I could go if I went with another kid from school. Like that was going to happen—I keep my musical tastes to myself to avoid total humiliation. Dad used Mom’s illness to get out of pretty much everything—mainly raising Billy and me.

  The Shrew glares at me in the rearview mirror as if my singing is inappropriate. What would she know? I doubt she has a mother; she was probably hatched from demon-seed.

  Friend of the family along to help out, my butt! She’s no friend of mine. I wonder if they have holy water at funeral homes. I could just throw some on her and be done with it.

  As the car pulls to a stop, she puts her front hoof on Dad’s shoulder. Dad takes a deep breath, trying to get into char–acter as the grieving husband.

  “I’m here for you,” The Creature says, oh so sympa–thetically.

  Dad opens the door, making a rapid exit as The Thing turns to Billy and me.

  “Come on, children,” It instructs as if we’re both five years old. She couldn’t get more patronizing.

  I take Billy’s hand and we’re quickly out of the car. I’m praying we make it to the washroom in time.

  “That’s all right, Jenevieve. I’ll take your brother.” I stand corrected; she can get more patronizing.

  “He’s fine with me,” I firmly inform her.

  “Jenevieve, your father doesn’t need you being difficult.”

  She tears Billy from my side, lifts him up and cradles him on her hip.

  I start to protest but catch myself just in time. I give an obedient and understanding smile and lean in to Billy.

  “I’ll meet you inside, okay, buddy?” I say, stroking his hair and giving him a little tickle under his arm. It does the trick.

  That may not be holy water running down The Creature’s side, but it’ll do for now.

  Chapter Two

  The funeral home’s chapel looks like a theater set, and I’m here to perform a bit part in Mom’s final act. The audience is filled with semi-familiar faces that watch my every move with expressions that make me feel like I’m naked on stage and have forgotten all my lines. They’re trying to express pity, but it turns to awkwardness and then stupidity as they approach.

  “You probably don’t remember me, do you?” asks a geri–atric stranger who bears an eerie resemblance to an apple doll I made in grade five. “I think you were being toilet trained the last time I saw you.”

  Well, then I had more pressing things on my mind than remembering you, didn’t I?

  “I used to change your diapers.”

  Oh yes, now I remember. You were the one who brought the especially soft wipes.

  “How are you?”

  “How are you doing?”

  “How are you holding up?”

  These questions are all very popular at Mom’s funeral.

  “How are you holding up?” is my personal favorite; at least it acknowledges that something has knocked me down.

  But—“How are you?”

  Great, just great! Oh, did I mention my mom just died?

  Think about it!

  Then there’s the classic—“That’s too bad.”

  It’s too bad when you miss an episode of your favorite show or when the corner store’s out of the candy you like. It’s catastrophic when your mom dies. I mean, come on. What’s next? “Bad luck. Have you thought about getting a cat?”

  How these people remember to breathe is beyond me. The fact that I actually share the same genes with some of them disturbs me to no end. Thank God I only see them at weddings and funerals, which are pretty much the same thing.

  The only difference I can see is that at weddings everyone pretends to be happy when really they’re miserable because they wish it was them standing at the front of the chapel. At funerals everyone pretends to be sad when they’re actually happy that it’s not them lying at the front of the chapel.

  Besides that, I don’t see much of a difference—except maybe for the dancing and the clothes, although for most guys it’s only the ties that change. The faces are the same; everyone sits quietly through a boring service, and then there’s a reception where everyone eats, gets drunk and talks crap.

  I’m not going to drink when I get older. I don’t see what the attraction is in consuming something that will make you even dumber than you already are. People, you’re stupid enough. Trust me. Oh, wonderful. Great-aunt Milly. The woman has an entire beard growing out of one ginormous mole stuck squarely in the center of her chin. You’d think that it would only appear at a full moon, but the thing seems to be there all the time, night or day, rain or shine. God, even I know about waxing.

  Aunt Milly descends with her arms stretched out, ready to engulf me in a smothering embrace.

  “J,” Dad’s voice cracks as he gently grabs my arm, res–cuing me from a fate worse than…well, from a horrible fate anyway. I’d be grateful, if I hadn’t guessed what was coming.

  I look to the back of the funeral home and see The Evil One—who disappeared during the reception line—has returned in an expensive new outfit. She’s holding Billy’s hand. He’s wearing a new pair of khakis and a god-awful black sweater with white lilies on it. He looks like one of the floral arrangements that surround the coffin.

  The Witch insisted on going to the department store down the street for new clothes. Apparently she spent half an hour picking out a fresh suit for herself, and then she grabbed Billy’s clothes from the sale rack in the Little Miss section on the way out the door.

  Dad squeezes my arm; it’s time.

  We slowly make our way to the front. There’s an open casket. They say it’s better that way, that it gives you a chance to say good-bye. All these chances to say good-bye. Just go already.

  I hate this; it’s the longest walk ever. They’re not going to let Billy go up. They say he’s too young. I say, if he’s not too young to lose his mother, he’s not too yo
ung to see her dead.

  If there is anything to this whole open casket thing, then Billy should get his chance too, don’t you think? And if there isn’t, then what am I doing here?

  The closer I get, the more surreal it feels. The light reflects off Mom’s forehead, making her look like wax. Blush turns her gray cheeks pink; lipstick turns her brown lips red. She looks better than she has in months. This death thing has done her a world of good.

  I feel Dad’s hand tighten on mine as we take our places beside the coffin. He’s quivering. I’m not quivering, and I’m not feeling the way I should; at least I don’t think I am. But then again, this is my first mother-dying experience, so I’m not really sure what I should be feeling.

  She’s so beautiful. I hope I look that good at my funeral. Heck, I hope I look that good at my wedding, not that I’m thinking of getting married any time soon—or any time at all.

  Oh God, Dad’s quiver is turning into a shake. He’s going to lose it. Please don’t let him lose it, please. The casket, look at the casket, so nice and shiny. The grain in the wood flows like waves, like waves of energy frozen in time, trapped, trapped in this box, longing to flow again, to move again.

  Wake up, damn it, wake up! All these people have come to see you! They’re here for you and you’re just lying there! You would never have let me get away with this, never.

  My cheeks; my cheeks are wet. How did they get to be wet? I look up and see Dad crying. Could some of his tears have landed on my cheeks?

  I feel him pull away.

  Oh my god! It’s The Creature! He’s gone into the arms of Satan right in front of my mother’s coffin! How inappropriate is that?

  Hello, distraught daughter over here! This is unbelievable. I turn to see the crowd’s reaction, but they don’t even notice as The Predator drags her prey away from me.

  I see Billy in the back, being mauled by Aunt Milly. He looks toward me for rescue. I get down on one knee and extend my arms. He obligingly runs into them—it’s his turn to say good-bye.