Few Kinds of Wrong Read Online Free PDF

with the girls on Saturday nights now too instead of renting a movie and staying home with Jamie or going downtown with him to watch him in the latest band he’s in. And Sunday afternoons now, Mom and I don’t always eat at her house. Sometimes we go out to a movie or a play or for supper at a restaurant.
    With the exception of a couple of illnesses, a few weddings—mine included—and one funeral, the girls and I have managed to keep the standing date for several years now. Bernie’s is small, with an even smaller deck outside for those rare occasions when one can eat on a deck in St. John’s. If it’s actually sunny and warm, there are usually flies or the dreaded wasps of summer. At Bernie’s, we know we’ll
have our full meals of soggy bacon, runny eggs, toast, and warmed-up frozen hash browns before us — and the best Bloody Caesars in St. John’s. Some things are more important than food.
    After two full weeks with Jamie at the garage, I look forward to the usual Saturday. A sunny day in June makes us feel brave and we decide to eat outside on the deck. A bank of fog sits just outside the harbour, threatening to make our day darker.
    â€œI think we should go inside,” Michelle says, wrapping her jacket around her shoulders. “You said it would only get up to twelve degrees. That’s not exactly outside weather.”
    â€œShut up complaining,” BJ says, rolling her eyes. “It’s already fifteen, according to the thermometer in my car.”
    â€œWell, that means you were wrong about how warm it would be. Anyway it feels colder than that with the wind.”
    BJ puts her hand on her chest. “Oh my God. The weather person was wrong. Stop the presses. Call all media. This is a first in history.”
    â€œDid you put extra sarcasm on your corn flakes this morning?” I ask BJ.
    â€œYou know I snort it straight up. No diluting it with milk for me.”
    BJ smiles and Michelle sticks her arms into the sleeves of her jacket then zips it up to the neck. With hands laden down with one or two rings on each finger, she flicks her mousy brown hair out of her green eyes.
    â€œCome on then, let’s go inside,” BJ says, touching Michelle’s arm.
    Michelle Connors is broad in the shoulders and the jacket makes her look like a linebacker. Her face has a distinctive orange tint, thanks to her foundation, which today is matched with red lipstick and pink blush. Mom kindly said once of Michelle that she liked to “lay the makeup on thick” and added, “Strange for someone who works in a lab all the time. She must get mascara all over her microscopes.”
    A waitress I haven’t seen before comes over to take our orders. She stares at BJ and smiles. Michelle orders our food and drinks, but the waitress doesn’t write anything down, doesn’t even seem to notice that Michelle is talking.
    â€œI’m a big fan,” she finally says to BJ.
    â€œThank you.” BJ smiles the fake smile she reserves for people who annoy her with their adoration when she’s trying to eat or go to the bathroom or buy tampons.
    BJ Brown is the kind of friend you could easily hate if you didn’t love her so much. Brown hair, blue eyes, dark skin that seems to tan even when it’s cloudy, buxom chest, tiny waist, white teeth, perfect everything.
    â€œUh, excuse me,” Michelle says to the waitress, waving her hand, making the six gold bangles on her arm jangle. “Did you hear anything I said?”
    â€œOh, no, sorry. What would you like, Miss Brown?” The waitress turns from glancing at Michelle to focus on BJ.
    â€œI’d like you to listen to my friend while she orders, please.” Again a smile but less so.
    Once Michelle has placed our order, the waitress smiles at BJ again before walking away.
    â€œIt always pisses me off when people ignore us because you’re there, but she was particularly