“Will he? Won’t he? How do I look? —But I called, whereas in high school they likely didn’t. —I went to high school in Vancouver and stood far too many cold afternoons under the colonial street light on the corner of Wiltshire and 43rd with boyfriend X, after our respective rugby and volleyball games. I tried to convince him I wasn’t too crazy to love long term, that just because my sister was near death I wasn’t sad all the time, I could tell a good joke, cared about the civil rights movement a...nd necked well, though ancient at fifteen. We stood so long my toes froze, in sight of my square blue Georgian house, its rhododendrons, my mother’s cream-coloured Austin inept in the driveway, but we didn’t go in there. X helped keep me whole but by graduation, he had taken up with a rough covey of rugger chicks who liked their boys straddling rebuilt Harleys with long scars where pins held their ruptured bodies – elbows, knees. Girls who drank hard liquor fast and smoked weed in their parents’ condos at Whistler and took pills and called that carefree.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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