A Hole in My Heart Read Online Free PDF

they do it’s a half sing. She flings one arm about as if to work up some enthusiasm but still it’s an off-key, pathetic effort. Well, what do you expect with songs with words like “Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?” In Penticton we used to sing songs from musicals.
    Two summers ago our whole family went to see the movie South Pacific for Mum’s birthday, the twelfth of August. We sang “Some Enchanted Evening” and “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair” for days after. Mum then bought the record for Janet’s birthday a few weeks later, and the singing started all over again. I know every piece. At the end of the class, I almost say to Mrs. Bramley, if we sang something from South Pacific or Oklahoma! maybe the kids would sing. But then I think, Nah. If we do sing songs like that, I’ll cry remembering.
    Right after Music is Physical Training, PT for short. It’s my most hated class. It’s not that I don’t like to run or exercise or play soccer. I do. It’s that I can’t be invisible. In all my other classes, I go about my business, head down, and they go about theirs. Here it’s different. I stick out because I’m pretty hopeless. Like, if we play field hockey, I trip over the stick. If we play soccer, my kick misses the ball and I stumble and nearly fall on my face. Dad said last year it’s because I’m long and skinny and growing so fast. Surely that can’t go on forever. Maybe I’m just uncoordinated and clumsy. Either way, it doesn’t help when people are giggling behind their hands.
    After class, it’s even worse. We have to have a shower, but not if we have our period. Today, Margo Latimer says, “Please, Mrs. Grantham, will you excuse me from showering?” The other girls tee-hee.
    Then someone invariably says to me, “Of course you have to take a shower.” They tee-hee some more. Of course I have to. It’s written all over my flat chest. There’s more sniggering. What they’re really saying is, Too bad you’re so immature. So what’s so great about getting your period, especially when they call it “the curse”? Nothing. At least not the way Dot whines and moans.
    All this to say, nothing much has changed in three weeks at Sutherland Junior High. Except maybe I’m getting better at ignoring them. Well, not really. Even if I ignore them, I can’t forget. What I really want is Mum back, Mum to hug me and tell me I’m special the way she used to. Dad doesn’t even know I’m here.
    Actually, maybe he would if I didn’t make meals when I’m supposed to. Just a thought. When I get home I scrawl a new message on my chalkboard.
If I stop making meals
    will you play with me
    the way you used to,
    Dad?
    â€¢ • •
    After school I go next door. The back steps of the Rev. and Mrs. Jim Taylor’s house are painted in thick layers of grey. It’s like if the sun dares to dry and lift the paint or a wayward shoe dares to chip it, more paint is slapped on. The Taylors themselves look grey. Just like I imagine a Reverend and Mrs. would look. And inside their house, everything is prim and proper, with doilies on side tables and the good china imprisoned in neat piles behind the glass doors of the buffet. There might as well be No Touching signs in every corner.
    Despite their kid-unfriendly house and her hard and boney look, Mrs. Taylor is okay. She’s invited me over to see her cat, Fluffy, who’s having kittens. The cat has long black hair with a splash of white under her chin.
    As far as I’m concerned, Fluffy is the most boring name imaginable for a cat. So I call her Carmody instead. But I don’t say so in front of Mrs. Taylor. Just like I won’t use the word pregnant again. I did once. Mrs. Taylor looked at me and said with her thin-lipped,