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272 pages, Paperback
First published May 10, 2016
I can just hear the automated phone call now. A child in your household named FLANNERY was absent from fifth period and she walked home all by herself, snuffling and bawling, and it was a very long, lonely, miserable walk.
They are silver arrows they are eels they are licorice they are Lycra they are muscle they are will and will not and want to be and winning, for the first few seconds they are all winning and winning and winning and they are can't and must and will never and don't.
If you want to forget about that summer Miranda took us to Northern Bay Sands and we stayed in the ocean until our lips were blue and our teeth chattered and afterward we had a bonfire and jumped up and down on the bed until we broke the bed frame, and we had to sleep with the bed on a tilt and we kept rolling onto the floor, that's fine with me.
So in that moment, yeah – I understand the extent of Miranda's fear, though she tries with all her might to keep it hidden. Miranda is afraid of whether or not there will be enough nutrition in our diets, and she's afraid she's going to accidentally kill Spiky and/or Smooth and that I'll never speak to her again, and she's afraid that her art isn't any damn good at all, because she really believes in that stuff, and it means a lot to her, and she's sacrificing a lot to keep making art, but she's thinking maybe she doesn't have the right to sacrifice so much when she's a mother with two kids to feed.
There's a glass case full of chrysalises. Tiny, papery-looking sacs, each carefully pinned to a wooden slat. One papery sac has a hole punched in the bottom. I watch a wing unfold. It's black and white with a strip of fluorescent pink. It unfolds in the way all unfolding things unfold: pup-tents, origami cranes, inflatable rubber dinghies, the rest of your life. Popping out, unbuckling, flinging itself into being, already knowing what it will become. Unable to stop itself and not knowing but thoughtful about each unfolding pucker and undinted, undented, smooth and trembling wing, and yes, yes. This is it.
If you're late for school you get an automated phone call. A fake-human voice, faux-friendly and regular-guy-sounding, calls to rat you out.
A child in your household named -- and when it says "named", the voice changes. A completely different voice inserts your name right into Regular Guy's sentence.
And the second voice is very disappointed in you. They second voice sounds all blamey and sad and rumbling like a clap of thunder.
Mr. Galway owns all the radio frequency bandwidth available in Newfoundland. He started one of the first television stations here, back in the seventies. It's rumored that he himself was Captain Newfoundland, the superhero who appeared after midnight on NTV back in the nineties, dressed in a hooded cape and a face mask with the map of Newfoundland drawn on it. His cape fluttered into a background of zooming comets and blasts of disco-funk. A deep voice intoned that the captain was the Spirit of Newfoundland who lives in the hearts of all of us. You can still see it on YouTube.
Forget it, Amber. My days of saving you in class are over. If you want to forget about that summer Miranda took us to Northern Bay Sands and we stayed in the ocean until our lips were blue and our teeth chattered and afterward we had a bonfire and jumped up and down on the bed until we broke the bed frame, and we had to sleep with the bed on a tilt and we kept rolling onto the floor, that's fine with me.
Or if you want to forget about going to circus camp together when we were seven and spotting for each other when we were learning somersaults on the trampoline, go ahead, forget all about it.
Or when we got those glasses that are actually clear plastic drinking straws and you put one end in your lime crush and suck and the crush goes up the straw and circles one eye, and goes across the bridge of your nose and then it circles your other eye and behind your ear and into your mouth and we sat there watching each other's glasses until we were laughing so hard lime crush came out our noses. Go ahead, forget it.
Or when Miranda's former boyfriend Hank made us stilts and we climbed the fence to get up on them and then learned to walk through the boulders at the edge of the ocean in Broad Cove looking like elegant flamingos, okay, go ahead, yup, forget all about that too.
She carved the ice with a chainsaw, chisels and drills, and she polished it with a blowtorch. She wore goggles and a snowsuit, her steel-toed boots. Yanked the pull-cord on the chainsaw and there's a cloud of blue smoke. She touched the chainsaw to the block of ice and a giant fan of ice chips flew into the sky.
I don't know how she could see the shape in the block of ice, but she walked around it and stood back and moved in. She scratched some lines on the surface. Then the saw squealed and ground and ice flew some more and, little by little, the shoulder of a lumbering, downcast momma polar bear emerged, the surface roughed-up like fur, the big head swinging to the side to check for her cub, the doomed little family emerging in the evening light.
Melting is part of the piece. It's a comment on global warming, Miranda said.
Tyrone was not a gronky, sweaty, profane, pretending-to-be-fencepost-stupid, arrogant, loud, math-failing, poetry-hating, eat-a-whole-pizza-by-yourself-in-less-than-five-minutes-and-burp-the-loudest, fart-joke-telling, buy-a-40-ouncer-off-a-taxi-driver-and-get-drunk-at-parties-and-puke-all-over-somebody's-carpet, typical high-school person of the male persuasion.
Tyrone had become an artist.
A graffiti artist.
An outlaw.
His tags and murals are all over St. John's and there have been letters in the paper. The cops have even come out with a statement. They'll stop at nothing to find SprayPig -- that's Tyrone's tag.
Okay, wait. Let me explain Amber because this is not her best moment. Amber has puffy black circles around her eyes from her swimming goggles getting suctioned onto her eye sockets, and she smells like chlorine and has to be nudged awake every five minutes or she'll be snoring her head off.
Just like I thought, he says. Tastes like spinach. It's spinach water, everybody. Just spinach and water is my guess. Is that right, Flannery?
I can feel my shoulders slump a little.
Yup, I say. He swirls it around. And takes another mouthful.
I'm getting nutty undertones, he says. It's fruity, am I right? Hints of cherry? Maybe some oak in there? Definitely an oak base. And it follows through with a hint of anise. Light but full-bodied? (When he says full-bodied he actually lets his eyes slide all the way down my body and back to my face, and wiggles his eyebrows.)
Actually it tastes pretty good, Kyle says. This is probably the best spinach juice I've ever had.
Nobody asks if he's ever had spinach juice before. Who drinks spinach juice? But he's looking straight into my eyes and takes another sip.
You have green eyes, he says. I never noticed that before. Really green. Not many people have green eyes. Not like yours. Like, a stormy sea-green. Like the green in the Northern Lights. Your eyes are beautiful, Flannery. I guess you get that all the time.
I can feel a blush flooding into my cheeks. I mean, I know he's joking around but he doesn't look away and he sounds dead serious.
And your freckles are like cinnamon. (Now he's really hamming it up.) Shall I compare you to an October's day in Newfoundland? he says.
You have the most beautiful freckles I've ever seen, Flannery Malone. Like autumn leaves scattering in the wind.
I punch him gently on the arm.
Aw, shucks, I say.
And you suddenly imagine yourself dying young.
That is a vulnerable moment.
It is a glance into the abyss. You actually tippy-toe around the abyss of loneliness. Look down. Vertigo. You're dizzy and nauseous and not loved, that's what you are. And, okay, a little self-indulgent, maybe.
But, what if you were to die in some horrific way before true love can find you?
Perhaps you imagine darting out into a busy street to save a toddler from an oncoming bus. Yes, there is a bus. There is a toddler. Cue the violins, slo-mo turn of your head, hair swishing over your shoulder, eyes wide with horror and you start to run. You're running as though through a river of molasses -- slow, graceful, beautiful -- and you gather up the toddler in your arms and toss her/him/it to the side in time but, alas, too late for you to save yourself.
The bus pile-drives you into tomorrow.
Cut slow-mo; hold the violins.
Oranges and apples burst from your shopping bag and roll downhill. The crowd on the sidewalk screams in terror.
Everything is growing dark. Death has opened its great black maw to swallow you whole. You are prepared to go gently. Goodnight, you think. Goodnight moon, Goodnight bowl of milk, Goodnight cat, Goodnight Tyrone O'Rourke.
But wait! You notice Tyrone O'Rourke, who has been, as divine intervention or sheer coincidence would have it, a passenger on the very bus that has been your doom. He has run to the front of the bus and is smashing his fist against the window. Now, for the first time in your about-to-be-cut-tragically-short life, Tyrone O'Rourke notices you. He finally notices you. Notices your shy beauty, your great spirit ebbing slowly from your half-closed eyes...
Tyrone, Tyrone, you whisper. But there is no sound.
He sees you lying on the pavement and thinks of how you have known each other pretty much all your lives. Tyrone is just coming home from hanging at the mall, and he has witnessed the accident and he has had a revelation.
Tyrone O'Rourke loves you.
"But we have lots of reasons to feel emotional. Life isn't fair. There's nothing wrong with emotion Flan. That's how we know we're alive. It's good."