Few Kinds of Wrong Read Online Free PDF Page B

bad.” Michelle doesn’t look at BJ as she speaks.
    â€œNo,” I say. “The time that guy pushed me out of the way and onto the ground so he could talk to BJ was particularly bad. She was just mildly rude.”
    â€œSorry, guys. I can’t help it.”
    â€œMaybe you should wear a disguise,” I say.
    â€œMy God, I just read the weather on the news. I’m not a movie star.”
    â€œYou might as well be. You’re a big fish in a goldfish bowl,” Michelle tells her.
    We both stare at Michelle. I don’t know what’s going through BJ’s mind, but I’m pretty sure she’s wondering, like I am, if Michelle meant the statement to reflect how small Newfoundland is and how big a minor celebrity can be here, or if she just mixed up her clichés. The first choice would be a surprise. The second would be expected.
    â€œWhat?” Michelle asks, her green eyes opening wide.
    â€œNothing.” BJ giggles and shakes her head.
    I shiver a little and pull my coat on as subtly as I can, pulling my ponytail outside once I have the coat on. Underneath, I’m wearing my usual casual-wear t-shirt and low-rise jeans. My collection of t-shirts with funny sayings or comics or something Newfoundland-related means I’m an easy person to buy for. Today I’m wearing the t-shirt BJ gave me for my birthday. This one says Department of Redundancy Department, and people either read it and don’t get it or they read it, take a moment, and laugh.
    The three of us grew up on Shea Street and have been best friends since elementary school. An odd combination of the beauty, the scientist, and the mechanic. Michelle went to university to study biology and followed it up with a job working in a lab at the Health Sciences Centre, while BJ lucked out after she won Miss Teen Newfoundland and was offered a summer job travelling around the island promoting an FM radio station. From there she caught the eye of a TV station manager who let her replace the regular weather guy when he went on vacation. After the weather guy “retired” following charges of marijuana possession, BJ became the regular weather person and occasional anchorperson on holidays and vacation fill-in.
    The waitress is back with our Caesars in what seems like an impossibly fast time, if I didn’t know that Kelly Parsons, the muscular Irish bartender, had started making them when he saw us coming in. Being regulars at this place means Kelly never makes us wait too long.
    â€œOkay, dish out all the dirt,” BJ says, flicking her napkin open with a snap and laying it on her lap. She is looking straight at me.
    â€œHuh? What dirt?”
    â€œYeah, Jennifer has so much dirt at her work, what kind do you want? Brake fluid? Grease? Oil?” Michelle laughs as she speaks.
    â€œI don’t mean actual dirt,” BJ says in her talking to a two-year-old tone. She turns to me. “I mean the dirt on Jamie.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou said in your email when he started at the garage that you didn’t want to talk about him, and I went along with that for a couple of weeks, but you can’t expect Jamie to be a non-subject for too long.”
    â€œYes, I can. There’s nothing to discuss. He’s working there. I hate it. End of discussion.”
    â€œDoes he still look good?” Michelle asks as the waitress brings us three more Caesars.
    â€œFrom the man at the bar,” the waitress says. A balding man, with his shirt open way too far, nods and waves. Winks at BJ. I’m pretty sure Michelle and I could be extra chairs at the table for all he knows.
    We all nod back at him. Michelle and BJ smile.
    â€œDid you hear that Jane Simon’s mom has cancer?” I ask.
    â€œNice try,” BJ says. “Topic is Jamie. No new topics until this one is finished.”
    â€œAre you the conversation police?”
    BJ just stares and I know there is no point in trying to