Alone at 90 Foot (7 page)

One by one, we sort of joined in. So that we were all more or less singing when the song came to an end.

“That was terrible. Just terrible. Let's try to put a little more pizzazz in it. Come on, Joanne. Darla, heads up! Pamela, Mandeep, Danielle, look sharp!”

Mrs. Lazarenko sat on those tacks for the entire music class. When the bell went, she stood up. She shuffled back to the piano to collect her music books. And there were the tacks, embedded in her great wide butt. She bent to pick up her music. She knocked it to the floor. With great effort, she bent all the way down. One by one, like bits of ammunition,
those tacks sprang out. Mrs. Lazarenko must have been wearing one major girdle. Like large enough to cover the state of Montana. Ping, ping, ping. We took off out of the classroom to avoid being struck.

One of Danielle's worst stunts was what she did to Joanne. Joanne didn't tell me the whole story until yesterday. But it was the reason Joanne returned to uncool. This all happened last December.

Joanne's parents had been friends with their neighbors, the Adlers, forever it seemed. Joanne's mom and Mrs. Adler were leaders of our Girl Guide troop and played tennis in the park. Mr. Robertson and Mr. Adler helped each other in their yards in the summer. On Saturdays they'd carry lumber or fix fences or sometimes just sit out front in lawn chairs and share a beer together. And at the beginning of May, since I can remember, the Adlers and the Robertsons organized a barbecue for the entire block. I always got to stay overnight at Joanne's when it happened. We'd eat Maui ribs and blintzes stuffed with cheese until we looked like them. We'd dance in the street until long after dark, then we'd all roast marshmallows in the Adlers' backyard.

The thing I haven't mentioned yet is that the Adlers' have a son. His name is Steve and he's sixteen. He was and is really, really, good looking. Picture Leonardo DiCaprio with black hair. Anyway, Joanne and I had been drooling over him for quite
a long time. Hey, he was so far out of our reach, it was allowed. We've always been just noisy little kids to him.

Oh, for this to make sense, you have to know that the Adlers are Jewish.

So, what happened is, last November when Joanne was cool, she went to this party with Danielle. It was with a bunch of people from senior high. And who should she meet there but her neighbor, Steve Adler. He didn't even recognize Joanne at first. Not now that she had turned fourteen. Not in her cool all-grown-up state. But as Joanne said, he must have liked what he saw because he hung around her most of the evening. He called her the next day. They went to a movie together and for a bite to eat at the mall. Everything was going real smooth between them — until Danielle stepped in.

The problem was, Danielle also had this thing for Steve going on. But instead of saying anything to Joanne, she handled it in her own “distinctive” way. Joanne discovered what Danielle had done when she was helping her dad put up the Christmas lights a month later. She was in the garage getting Mr. Robertson the extra light bulbs. Mr. Robertson was carrying the ladder to the front of the house. That's when Mrs. Adler came over to talk to him. Joanne watched her cross the driveway through the
garage window. Sensing some kind of weird tension in the way that Mrs. Adler walked, Joanne stayed right where she was. She just listened through the open side door. She told me the conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Debbie,” her dad said. He added something about it being so sunny and warm and how he could easily get used to weather like that in December.

“I want to talk to you,” Joanne imitated Mrs. Adler, in this very grave voice. “We've heard something from one of your daughter's classmates.” There was then this very long pause. “We, Ben and I, know you and Susan well. At least we thought we did. And we hope what we've heard isn't true.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Adler had Mr. Robertson's attention. “And what's that?”

“Your daughter — you and your family — have something against Jews.”

“What?!” Joanne said her dad practically yelped. She heard a clatter like the ladder had fallen to the ground. “Where did you hear such a thing? Debbie, we've known each other a long time. I'd like to think you know us better than that.”

Joanne figured that by the silence that followed, it didn't matter how long they had known each other. Or how well.

“I only know what I've heard. The things this
young lady heard from Joanne are vicious. They must have come from somewhere. If our friendship has meant anything, I trust you'll put a stop to it.”

“This is ridiculous,” Joanne's dad continued in disbelief. “Susan and I have always emphasized respect and tolerance in raising our children. Who said such things? Come on, Debbie, don't believe some rumor when you know it isn't true.”

“Do I?”

Mrs. Adler left at that point. Whether she believed the lies Danielle had invented really didn't matter. There was now this little seed of doubt. Nothing Joanne's dad could say would squash it.

There was no block party at the beginning of May this year. The Adlers made up some excuse. Mr. Adler and Mr. Robertson no longer carry lumber or build anything, or sit and have a beer together. Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Adler don't play tennis anymore. For a while, the Robertsons and the Adlers would nod or lift a hand to acknowledge one another. Now, Joanne says, they don't even talk.

May 30th

Today's the day I'm going shopping with Jennifer Reid. All morning, I've been trying to think of a style that would define her. You know, a visible expression of who she is. I've imagined everything from retro sixties to nineties glitz. But what continually comes to mind is a long flannel skirt and white blouse with a cameo at the neck and a calculator in the pocket.

She picks me up telling me how she's been looking forward to this all week and how we're going
to have this fab day.

Ouch! I won't survive if I have to listen to this all day. “Oh, no kidding,” I say. “Fab. More than fab. Maybe even awesome.” I must discreetly try to update her lingo.

We head to the Park Royal Shopping Center.

I think I've forgotten to mention something about me. I hate shopping. I know, like, my gender is supposed to be wild for it. Don't get me wrong, I like to look nice. But I can't go for hour upon hour and from store to store and stay interested. I get bored after thirty minutes. Joanne, on the other hand, could make a career of it. If she were paid to prance around stores, modeling in mirrors the way she does, she'd very quickly be a wealthy woman. And if I were paid for the number of hours I've been forced to stand there watching her, I would also make a few bucks. So, I have to admit, I was already pretty certain this day was going to be tedious.

We walk in the store, and there in front of us is a mannequin dressed in narrow black pants, silk shirt and a soft suede jacket. Too
Cosmo
for me, but for Jennifer? If she could handle leaving the collar open, it just might work. And I tell her so.

“Think so?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

She tries it on.

“Alright!” I'm really quite impressed.

Jennifer buys the entire outfit, just like that. Well, that was easy. Let's see, what else? Next, I find a totally wicked, hand-embroidered, waist-length denim jacket. Jennifer tries it on.

“Go for relaxed. Take that clip out of your hair and mess it around a bit. “

Jennifer attempts to, but relaxed causes her some stress. She moves two or three pieces out of place.

“Not like that. Like this.” Using my fingers as combs, I lift her blond hair high and let it fall to float around her face. “And don't do this button up. There. What do you think?”

She smiles in the mirror and nods. I can tell she is pleased. Forty-five minutes later we are out of there. Jennifer carries three new outfits. And I have four new bras. Don't ask. Let's just put it down to necessity. We've done alright. To thank me, she takes me to Earl's for lunch.

“Good,” she says, after we've ordered. “We've still got the entire afternoon ahead. Now we can have some fun.”

Uh-oh. I remember who I am with. Ms. Mathematics. Ms. Loves to Play with Numbers. “Does this mean a thrilling quiz in calculus?” Oops! I've said it out loud.

Jennifer giggles. “Only a dweeb would do that. No. I was thinking more like a walk around
the seawall. Or ice cream at Granville Island. Or, whatever you like.”

And I was thinking about the word dweeb.

“Dweeb?” I ask, “Jennifer, what exactly does that mean?”

She gets this pink kind of flush. “I don't know. Kind of like a nerd, I guess. Someone who is very boring. Usually because they are so obsessed with something they can't get away from it. That's not to say that ‘something' is good or bad. But they are always thinking about it and can never relax. And when they try to, really stupid things come out of their mouth. It's their attempt to make them seem like they are having fun.”

“You know a lot about dweebs.”

Jennifer just nods. The waitress serves us our lunch.

“Mind if we drop by my office on the way to wherever we're going, just for five minutes?”

“Okay,” I say, biting into my burger. “Where
are
we going?”

“You choose.”

I think for a moment. I'll say it, because I want a reaction. “What about the Art Gallery?”

Jennifer almost chokes on a red pepper. “Really? For sure? Oh, I love to walk through the Emily Carr exhibit.” Her expression quickly changes from one of excitement to this quizzical look. “You're not just
saying that, Pam?”

“Why?”

She stabs at her food. “Well, because you think it's something a dweeb would like to do.”

I have to laugh. “If it is, that makes me one too.”

Jennifer smiles and relaxes.

“How's that stir-fry?” I ask.

“Tops!” she says. She sees my mouth drop open. “I mean tasty. Very tasty. In fact, you might even call it super. No. It's awesome. It's super awesome!”

I'm laughing, “As long as you're enjoying it.”

It's a long, smooth glide up the elevator to the top of the bank and Jennifer's office. Once we have stopped, we pad out the door and down the hallway on this plush pink carpet. I look behind us. My footprints are bigger than hers are.

Jennifer's humungous polished desk faces a wall of long shiny windows. And a major view of Burrard Inlet. I can see nearly the entire North Shore from way up here. From the Lions to Seymour Mountain. I can see where Lonsdale cuts high into Grouse Mountain. The cars moving up it look like tiny toys from way up here.

Jennifer tells me to make myself comfortable at her desk, she'll only be a moment. So, I do. I lean back in her big leather chair and look around me. There is only one other person here. Marie. Jennifer
introduced her as her secretary on the way in. We had to walk through her glass office to get in here. I watch Marie walk toward Jennifer. She is carrying a file folder and looking real concerned. She refers to it, while asking Jennifer a question. Jennifer glances at the file, but only for a moment. Right away, she tells Marie what to do. In this confident-sounding voice. Like she knows exactly what she's talking about. But then, I guess maybe she does. After all, she is in charge up here. She must know her stuff. Jennifer and Marie finish their conversation. With — is Marie laughing? A joke? Jennifer made a joke? Well, when you're sure of yourself, I guess anything can happen.

Her chair is so cool. It rocks. It spins. It tilts. She has a super-modern computer. And a telephone that is ringing. I look at Jennifer. I look at her secretary. I push the button that is flashing.

“Hello?” I say.

“Ms. Reid?”

“No.”

There is a short hesitation. “Can I speak to Ms. Reid?” The voice of an older man sounds urgent.

I am looking at the view. At the expanse of desk before me. I feel — power! This is major control. “May I ask who's calling?” I hear my voice — hot! Sizzling with confidence. It must be catchy.

“Ben Bremnar. Please, tell her it's important.”

“I'll tell her. But I know she is very busy.” I hold the phone away from my ear. “Ms. Reid?” I sing. “A Mr. Ben Bremnar is on the phone for you.”

Jennifer leaves the secretary's office and comes over to her desk. I hand her the phone. I lean back in the chair and cross my feet on the desk. She talks to Mr. Bremnar in this real calm voice, telling him exactly what to do. Taking charge of the urgent situation. And by her manner, I can tell it is a common thing for her to do. I could see her doing it in one of her technical suits. In this room. Reflected in those windows. Next to this desk. It would fit.

“So, you're chipper with that, Ben?”

Where
does
she get these words?

“Good. Talk to you soon.” She sounds so cheery, I'm sure Mr. Bremnar is better than chipper.

I think she likes this job. I think she must be half decent at it too. People seem to value what she thinks and says. That must make her feel good.

“Okay, let's get out of here, Pam. Marie, we're off to the Art Gallery.”

Marie is standing in the door to her office, smiling. “You two have a good time.”

I just had a thought. Maybe I have Jenn all wrong. Maybe she isn't so weird. Maybe she's had plenty of takers. Maybe she's just been having too much fun doing what she likes to do.

Three hours later we are on our way home, driving down Ross Road in Lynn Valley, when I spot Matt Leighton. He has stopped to throw a stick for Lupus, Mr. Spinelli's German shepherd. Lupus tries to trap anyone who walks by his yard into playing with him. He's been doing it for as long as I can remember. Matt leans back, aiming so Lupus gets a good run, just short of the house. He hurls the stick. Lupus tears after it.

“Now that's a healthy-looking specimen,” Jenn comments.