Kensington Sands had big plans for Halloween. She was nine years old now, and bored with dressing up. She wanted proper thrills and frights. "Grandpa Jonas, can you come over tonight? I've ... [+]
I showed my mother the Tiger Beat picture of Donny Osmond standing at his well-stocked, orderly fridge, his wholesome smile as bright as the fridge light. I begged my mother to fill our fridge with cheerful fruits and deli meats, just like Donny’s mother did. One day Donny would walk up our driveway and right into our house. He didn’t need to wait to be invited in. He was Donny Osmond. He’d be hungry and I’d show him our fridge, where the shriveled saskatoon berries and Velveeta had been replaced with perky grapes and sharp cheddar.
“My favourites!” he’d say, and give me a hug!
I begged my mother to clean the house. Our house was nothing like Donny’s. Our house was a tumble of lumpy cushions and dusty curtains, nests of cigarette butts, clusters of newspapers and dirty dishes and my younger brothers’ toys, and a slump of Good Housekeeping magazines my mother collected.
Without taking her eyes off her favourite soap opera, my mother said, “I’m not a maid. Clean it yourself.” So I did. I tidied and swept and scrubbed and polished.
I waited and waited for Donny. By midsummer my dream faded. Plus, I was tired of cleaning and tired of wishing for a fridge full of virtue.
In one of the Good Housekeeping magazines I discovered three things: pomegranates and brie and Mikhail Baryshnikov.
Mikhail. When I whispered his name, it was like a breeze fluttering the leaves. He was mysterious and exotic, a true artiste. From him, I learned a new word: defector. I dumped Donny for Mikhail. I imagined him lifting me high over his head into the tree where I would pluck plump saskatoons, the berries bursting with possibility. Together we’d grand jete across the backyard, over the septic tank, and into a new cultural era.
“My favourites!” he’d say, and give me a hug!
I begged my mother to clean the house. Our house was nothing like Donny’s. Our house was a tumble of lumpy cushions and dusty curtains, nests of cigarette butts, clusters of newspapers and dirty dishes and my younger brothers’ toys, and a slump of Good Housekeeping magazines my mother collected.
Without taking her eyes off her favourite soap opera, my mother said, “I’m not a maid. Clean it yourself.” So I did. I tidied and swept and scrubbed and polished.
I waited and waited for Donny. By midsummer my dream faded. Plus, I was tired of cleaning and tired of wishing for a fridge full of virtue.
In one of the Good Housekeeping magazines I discovered three things: pomegranates and brie and Mikhail Baryshnikov.
Mikhail. When I whispered his name, it was like a breeze fluttering the leaves. He was mysterious and exotic, a true artiste. From him, I learned a new word: defector. I dumped Donny for Mikhail. I imagined him lifting me high over his head into the tree where I would pluck plump saskatoons, the berries bursting with possibility. Together we’d grand jete across the backyard, over the septic tank, and into a new cultural era.