A Cherry to Savour

Cherry red. My favourite flavour. Something about the way it drenched my tickled tongue in a candied fountain of ecstasy. Some of the other girls told me this made me sound like that Tramp fellow, but they obviously prioritized speech over reason since Chaplin was a silent actor. Unless they meant the dog but, having grown up on Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies, this was a reference to which I was oblivious. A candied fountain of ecstasy. I adored that. Victoria once spoke to us of her ecstasy escapade that supposedly had her twirling atop a rainbow of seagulls, and while the other schoolgirls were left impressed by that anecdote – envious even – to this twelve-year-old girl, it simply sounded like a cry for either popularity or help. Or both. Victoria was no stranger to feeling unwanted. Her drunken father had said so just last week after recounting the tale of how his daughter was born on a highway, and although Victoria was left flushed in the face, I on the contrary found this to be a pretty neat way to enter the world. I was born in the Jewish General Hospital like the rest of my family, and there was nothing too interesting about that.

Sorry, Miss. Yes, I'll throw it out.

What I actually said was "Désolé, madame, je vais le jeter" since it was a French institution, and to speak in any other language was reason enough for decapitation. My desk was nothing but pencils and lollipops anyhow. To throw one out was to flip a whole dollar in a wishing well, a typical one which lacked the ability to carry out its purpose; the thrill that came with it consistently overshadowed the loss, no matter how tiny the former. I was one to believe this at the very least, and another lollipop was unwrapped seconds after I returned to my desk. Seated in the far corner of the classroom, I was shielded from Miss Balais who was thankfully either partially blind or suffered from momentary lapses of memory, for it was quite often I prudently indulged in nearly half a lollipop before being scolded by the wretched woman to waste another yet again.

Soon, my much-anticipated reward would appear, but still I impatiently waited. The ticking pace of the giant clock had me thinking of some lifeless Antonioni flick, and four o’clock seemed an eternity away. I had awaited weeks for this, and it was with immense pleasure that the remaining minutes of class were being counted down. Seventeen to be exact. Anna was sixteen but acted authoritarian because she was the eldest. Her life was an empty page that no man seemed to want to write on, and she was a member of a friend group who thrived on assailing one another. She had recently disputed with a friend of hers over some fair-haired freckled boy on the school hockey team. Or was it the basketball team? Perhaps I cannot recall since he was only ever once mentioned in our home, and this, because I inquired. I recall Anna’s half-devoured apple being hurled at my head when I did, but nothing more as it instantly rendered me unconscious. For the longest time, I believed Anna to be an absurdly regretful human being with respect to the daily deeds about which she would later alternate between laughing and sobbing within the warmth of her bedsheets. This hypothesis of mine came to light that one morning back in October when I overheard her send God a prayer. If memory served me well, she had asked Him to forgive her for her “inordinately egotistic lust for acceptance”. After being pummeled in the stomach for what Anna labelled “Lisa’s peeping sin”, I was told otherwise and informed by my sister of a gross misunderstanding. In reality, Anna was supposedly practicing for an upcoming English presentation, and I was swift to apologize. I asked her the name of the character she was playing to which she responded Enya before slamming her bedroom door shut, and the matter was never revisited. I never did ask about the performance, but my mother always said Anna was a drama queen, so I assumed it went well.

So, what’s the verdict? Do you think she’ll fail us?

She’s got nothing on us.

I’m sure she knows we cheated. I’m so dead.

If she knew you cheated, she’d have sent your parents an email by now.

Oh, please. Go be stupid somewhere else. That’s not how this works.

Girls, it’s fine. We didn’t even use the same words. Like I said, she has nothing on us.

Were our words that different? I’m stressing out.

Alright. Someone should stay after school to compare the sheets and tell the rest of us what she thinks. I can’t today. I have to leave right away.

I’ll do it. I don’t mind.

Thanks, Lisa. What would we do without you?

Speaking of people we can’t do without, has Benoit sent you another message?

For the love of God, don’t mention that boy again.

Come on, admit it, Madeleine. You like him too.

I do not.

Oh my God. You so like him.

No, I don’t! He has mushroom hair and peach fuzz. Don’t make me throw up.

This was our customary gossip segment of the week. Led by Victoria (though sometimes Alice who covertly wished to outshine her), my friends and I would talk petty nonsense in the back of the class as we hungered for the final chimes of the school bell. At that moment, Madeleine was speaking of a wedding she was to soon attend, which caused Victoria and Alice to sigh in thunderous fashion, but I froze, refraining from doing so myself as I never attended a wedding before. Besides, I had no valid reason to turn sorrowful, for I had my own event awaiting me later that day that was like no other. Nonetheless, a wedding seemed entertaining, and Madeleine was quite the flirtatious partygoer which led me to believe it was an occasion she would quite enjoy. Madeleine was a cute girl who at times left the impression of favoring regard over insouciance, and I wondered if I could ever live up to that. Or if I ever should.

After having briefly focused my attention on an outside squirrel, I redirected it back towards my friends who were in the midst of discussing some seemingly controversial incident involving Paul. Paul was a kind man who hardly ever debated contemporary events. Teachers generally disregarded his existence, as did most students, but my friends and I took a liking to him ever since that cherished day during which he secretly unlocked the door to our classroom so we could retrieve our mathematics manuals. The school had a strict policy that forbade us from returning to our desks past five in the evening. Furthermore, our supposed motto was “Discipline. Organization. Academic Integrity.” My classmates and I lacked all three, but our janitor friend thankfully did as well, for he was there to grant us access into the classroom without consequence of any kind. Above everything, Paul knew how to make us girls laugh, and I personally anticipated the first Friday of every month to hear him recount one of his bizarre stories from an earlier lifetime that nearly always had me splitting my gut. The first Friday of every month was the one day my father chose to pick me up from school to “spend quality time with his youngest” (although those drives mainly had me taking life lessons from Joe Strummer instead), and my dad was hardly ever on time, but that did not matter really. His tardiness was a blessing, for it allowed me to share a lollipop with Paul as the latter would narrate a comedic episode of his past. My mother was a workaholic, and my father was in desperate need to achieve similar status. It was alternately mid-life crisis and ego that made my father’s heart bleed so mercilessly. I knew the former to be true due to the three motorcycles he had recently purchased without my mother’s consent, and the latter was made evident through the bizarre shape of his head, which resembled the large egg of an ostrich. An ostrich was a peculiar animal. Did they crow or did they squawk? Did they even make noise at all? Why did all roosters sing the same song, I wondered? Had they all assembled together one day and decided this early on, or was this just innate in roosters? The chimes of the bell seemed so far away. Luckily, my tongue still tasted cherry.

No, no. He’s not resigning. I heard they’re forcing him out.

For not paying his taxes?

We don’t know for sure that’s what happened.

Yes, we do. My mother works in Human Resources. She said this the other night.

I heard he attempted suicide.

That’s obvious, isn’t it?

How can you tell?

Why else would his wrists be bandaged like that?

Ask your mother why he got fired.

I’m not asking her that. I overheard her saying it to her boyfriend when they were in the bedroom.

Maybe you misheard. Just ask.

The walls are thin. Believe me, I heard right. And no, I am definitely not.

Big deal. What’s the worst that could happen if they find out you were eavesdropping?

Pedicide. Or worse. They might forbid me from attending the Jazz Festival this year.

Look, girls, all I’m saying is the man clearly did something illegal for them to let him go after so many years. How many has it been?

Forty, I think.

The man’s incompetent.

I’m ignoring him as of now. That’s for sure.

What would you call the opposite of a role model?

If he ever dared look in my direction again, I would ask him to confess. It’s the least he could do to us, don’t you think?

Men like him are menaces to society.

How so, Victoria?

Well, they try to bypass the hardships of the working class, and that’s just not right. One can’t simply become successful without pulling a sweat. Think capitalism.

I’m not even sure I know what capitalism is.

It’s the opposite of communism.

What’s communism?

If capitalism is the opposite of communism, then what’s socialism?

Uhm, I’d say it’s the opposite of individualism.

I’m confused.

So, think of all the countries in the world who choose not to participate in global events because they prefer nurturing their own. That would be the opposite of socialism.

Like India at the Olympics?

There you go.

When is his last day?

Sometime next week, I believe.

I tried to listen in on the exchange as much as I could, but my short attention span played hardball, and I redirected my focus yet again, only this time, it was towards the rambling Miss Balais. The woman was still amid some intimate monologue detailing the emerging jealousy which overwhelmed her upon recently learning of her sister’s second pregnancy. How she managed to segue from exponent laws to family conflict so effortlessly was a skill I would feel so lucky to acquire, and I became puzzled as to which of the two ongoing conversations sparked the most interest in me. I foolishly chose Miss Balais but flipped my pigtails back towards my friends once the teacher began awkwardly slurring her words over what I counted to be her third cup of coffee in under ten minutes. That tiny bottle, forever secreted within her coat, seemed like a bottomless pit of caffeine, and the refills just kept coming. At an exponential pace, might I add. My grin intensified, for I surmised this to be a rather sharp way to add such a difficult math concept to my daily thoughts. “Apply what you learn at least once within the same day to better serve your memory in the future”, that was what my nonno once told me. Class material was now covered, and the clock was soon to ring. I figured I learned enough for one day, and I opted to conclude the class with some final laughs, however fleeting, alongside the girls before moving on to my treasure. An alarming thought suddenly arose. Perhaps there were few cherry ones that remained. I rushed to count them all, but there were at the very least eight, and so I sighed with reassurance as I shut my desk once more. No big deal. I would buy more tomorrow. Besides, the younger cross-eyed man running the convenient store across my street usually gave me a small discount on Saturdays, and this somewhat aided to tame my disreputable situation. Surely, Anna would take eventual notice of her piggy bank’s startling cash depletion, but I saw no other option, for I was a minor, too young still to earn a decent salary. Besides, with both an inherent generosity and a tender heart I forever crossed, I took an honest oath to one day replace all the money I borrowed over the years, so I deemed my actions to be just.

A day like today made me happy to be alive. What a terrific rush it was, rising in the morning, discovering the air I breathed still excited me as much as it had done the day prior. The teacher spotted me again. Wait. No, she didn’t. I knew I was of the clever kind. More so than what most people presumed, anyhow. There were far too many presumptions roaming about for my taste. Just last week, Victoria informed some of us girls that Florence was in love with our chemistry teacher, Mister Tartocitron. He was sixty years old and had a mullet, so I hardly believed it to be true. Then again, to each her own. Who was I to judge Florence for crushing on a repulsive man who bathed in holy water and agitation? My physics teacher Misses Matraque was the perfect example for this. She had married that grizzly toothless cigarette-smoker who stank of rotten fish, and she had been on cloud nine ever since. Well, besides that one time a few months later when she broke down in the hallway and wailed like a little schoolgirl, but that was most likely nothing. It had assuredly been that time of the month like she later uncomfortably confessed to our class in what initially seemed like an incumbent apology forced upon by the administration. That day was an eye-opener for me as it spotlighted my own weakness on generating false presumptions, but it was getting better all the time, and I simply had to keep at it.

Sorry, Miss. Yes, I'll throw it out.

I would not risk another. Not right away, anyhow. With so little time remaining, it would be more than foolish. Besides, I knew better than to get carried away with overconsumption. Overconsumption led to addiction. Worse than that, it took value away from these little things. For instance, I never quite understood where zio Clemente stored all that beer of his. His belly ballooned thrice in size since the snow had taken Anna Maria last February. Anna Maria was an excessively Italian-sounding name in my book, but it was very pretty. I wondered why my parents settled on Lisa. There was nothing Viet nor Italian about it. Maybe that was the point. I was often teased by the other children for what they called “Lisa’s rice eyes” and “Lisa’s eagle nose”, but again I could not quite discern if this was really meant to be an insult or if I was in reality to interpret it as an implication of a subtle commendation. I loved rice, and eagles seemed to be a symbol of respect and power across the border. Come to think of it, maybe that was the joke. An eagle was a bird originating from another country, just like me, and my teachers often scolded me for having my head in the clouds, just like an eagle. Besides, my roots did not allow for much insult. At least, I thought they did not. What was better than eating penne for lunch and sashimi for supper? My Quebecer friends could enjoy spaghetti and ketchup four nights a week if they pleased, but this combination never seemed too appealing to me. Never have I tried it though, so maybe somewhere, someday, someone will prove me wrong.

Lisa, ici.

Why?

Ici!

There was only ever one reason Miss Balais wanted me up beside her desk, and that was to apologize for wasting everyone’s time. Sometimes, it was for speaking English, but never was it for both. I did not mean any disrespect when I switched languages like that, and if anything, school thankfully served to remind me of the city I lived in. Otherwise, my life would be nothing but the tedious language of English mixed with broken Vietnamese and a horrendous Italian dialect that had my ancestors referring to homeless men as the shpork. As Miss Balais endeavored to stand up straight, the woman, who clumsily mumbled her words, did so in the thickest of accents in an effort to lambaste me.

One, we sp... speak in F... French here. It is French school.

Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.

Two, you b... bother everyb... body. You waste all our t... time.

Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.

Go back to d... desk. Next time, you get p... you get p... punish... punishment!

Once I returned to my desk, I was put on the spot once more, and Miss Balais inquired the reason for my agitation. I teased that it was due to impatience in the wake of the upcoming Cinco de Mayo weekend, but rather than giggle along with the other girls of the classroom, she covered her mouth in disarray and stared pensive out the window as if she were caught in some independent thought no classmate of mine could have possibly understood nor cared about.

Anyways, what are your plans for the weekend?

I’m going to Carrefour with my sisters.

My parents and I are going to watch the Habs game at my grandparents’ house.

How can you stand watching hockey? It’s just a bunch of sweaty men fighting all the time.

Yeah, but some of those men happen to be gorgeous. Three hours’ worth of gorgeous.

But they’re shielded with helmets. I don’t think there’s one inch of visible skin in an entire game besides the ref who sometimes puts his hand up.

Yeah, but what a hand.

What about you, Lisa? What are your plans for the weekend?

I’m taking it easy more than anything. I’ll watch TV… Listen to the new Lana album… Other things I can’t think of right now.

Like sucking on more lollipops?

Yes! Exactly. I can’t wait.

You’re so weird.

Thank you.

The clock sounded, and the girls swarmed the hallways like fruit flies. My friends and I parted ways at our lockers, and by as early as five past four, I was alone, withdrawing my high up pigtails from the slits of my woolen bonnet. I skipped towards the lobby and flung my schoolbag on the couch beside me. Dangling my feet in synchronous fashion and rapping my fingers on my lap to the rhythm of a ska beat, I awaited my father to arrive, but I had already accounted for the half-hour delay. Paul arrived shortly afterwards and took up a seat beside me. I smiled and after handing him a lollipop, I enshrouded my own between my lips.

I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up, Lisa.

It’s the first Friday of the month. Why wouldn’t I?

No reason. Cherry red?

Your favourite flavour.

Yours, too. Hey, I don’t know if you heard, but I won’t be working here anymore.

Why not?

Oh… other opportunities await me, I guess.

And they’ll be just as good as this one, if not better.

That may be, but where will I get my lollipops from now?

That was Paul. Always kidding around. Always making light of a situation in the hopes of cracking some tiny smile on my face. It worked that time, as it did all others.

Paul, you can’t be that lazy. If you want something, go for it. You don’t need me.

I don’t? I was sure I did.

Of course not. Stop fooling around.

But who knew these would taste so good? You made me discover them.

Through me, you’ve discovered. Through you, you’ll carry on. It’s as simple as that.

I’ll miss talking to you, Lisa. You’re a good kid, I hope you know that.

We’re here together now, aren’t we?

That’s very true… Listen, the ending’s a bit anticlimactic, but would you want to hear a good story?

If you knew me a little better, you’d know it’s all I’ve been waiting for.