Flirt: The Interviews Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Lorna Jackson
about going into a real place; Iâm speaking figuratively, Iâm using a metaphor. Itâs like you people have a secret club and you donât want heathens to know what goes on there.
âI know what metaphor means. Answer this: in the playoffs, when they call us warriors, is that a metaphor or a direct comparison?
âItâs a cliché, I know that much.
âMaybe look it up and get back to me.
âLet me think about it.
âYou donât believe in God, is that what Iâm hearinâ?
âHereâs what happened. Iâm fourteen and I have a terrible crush on Davy Jones of the Monkees.
âHe dated a Swiss actress. Ursula Andress. My father had her in a James Bond poster rolled up in his closet. I spent a lot of time in there.
âOkay. Iâm fourteen and youâre almost born, and Iâve been writing letters to Davy for a couple of years, trying to get an answer. First, hereâs a question: Why do kids do that? Why do they want to communicate with guys like you? Why isnât it enough to watch the games or, in my case, listen to the records. Why the letters? Hey listen: foghorn. Kind of redundant.
âI think thereâs reasons. I think itâs an emptiness â maybe just a small hole, nothinâ to worry about â that theyâre tryinâ to fill. You had an emptiness to fill. You were lonely in a way that friends and family couldnât fix. You probably should have gotten serious about soccer and entered some tournaments â round robins are really great for kids and you donât need expensive equipment â but pop music isnât a terrible choice. Do you want me to name all the members of ABBA?
âMy sister was dieing; she was twenty. Do you have any idea where shore is right now?
âAt fourteen, that would leave sore spots, for sure. Letâs stop here until the wind takes the fog. I can feel the sun. It wonât last long. Lay your paddle across my boat.
âSo one day, my sisterâs on the loveseat, sick from chemo or radiation, I canât remember which.
âWhat cancer are we talkinâ about?
âHodgkinâs Disease.
âLike Mario.
âRight. But when my sister had it, nobody survived it or bought hockey teams or skated again or made dekes or trick passes through their feet. So sheâs home and somehow I know that todayâs the day the letter from Davy Jones is gonna come. I know . Weâre in the living room in June. There are antiques â a little George V walnut desk â
âNice.
ââ under the window overlooking the peony bed in the back garden, gold velvet loveseats, a turquoise-blue Chinese carpet stained by our spaniels but still smooth, 1914 oak floors, a fireplace tiled in blue-green, teak cocktail tables.
âThis house was in what style?
âGeorgian.
âNice.
âNot fancy. My father was an auctioneer so he found stuff.
âSimple is often the most beautiful. Those birds?
âBuffleheads.
âI like the shape of their heads and how they all dive together. I wonder how they know to all go at the same time. Drink some of this; rest your hands.
âSo itâs this day and Iâve decided to stay home from school because Iâm sure the letter from Davy Jones is going to come and itâs early June and Grade 9 is almost done anyway. And I play double solitaire with my sister and sometimes she has to lie back on the velvet loveseat. She eats green grapes and drinks ginger ale to settle her stomach. She looks like shit, once lovely with black hair and twinkling eyes and smooth pale skin, freckles provocative and sweet across her small nose. She was entering a series of last stages. Sheâd been sick for six years, was supposed to last only two but science was moving fast and dragging her along. Not fast enough, obviously. But still.
âFamily support?
âSupport?
âWho were you talkinâ to about
âI know what metaphor means. Answer this: in the playoffs, when they call us warriors, is that a metaphor or a direct comparison?
âItâs a cliché, I know that much.
âMaybe look it up and get back to me.
âLet me think about it.
âYou donât believe in God, is that what Iâm hearinâ?
âHereâs what happened. Iâm fourteen and I have a terrible crush on Davy Jones of the Monkees.
âHe dated a Swiss actress. Ursula Andress. My father had her in a James Bond poster rolled up in his closet. I spent a lot of time in there.
âOkay. Iâm fourteen and youâre almost born, and Iâve been writing letters to Davy for a couple of years, trying to get an answer. First, hereâs a question: Why do kids do that? Why do they want to communicate with guys like you? Why isnât it enough to watch the games or, in my case, listen to the records. Why the letters? Hey listen: foghorn. Kind of redundant.
âI think thereâs reasons. I think itâs an emptiness â maybe just a small hole, nothinâ to worry about â that theyâre tryinâ to fill. You had an emptiness to fill. You were lonely in a way that friends and family couldnât fix. You probably should have gotten serious about soccer and entered some tournaments â round robins are really great for kids and you donât need expensive equipment â but pop music isnât a terrible choice. Do you want me to name all the members of ABBA?
âMy sister was dieing; she was twenty. Do you have any idea where shore is right now?
âAt fourteen, that would leave sore spots, for sure. Letâs stop here until the wind takes the fog. I can feel the sun. It wonât last long. Lay your paddle across my boat.
âSo one day, my sisterâs on the loveseat, sick from chemo or radiation, I canât remember which.
âWhat cancer are we talkinâ about?
âHodgkinâs Disease.
âLike Mario.
âRight. But when my sister had it, nobody survived it or bought hockey teams or skated again or made dekes or trick passes through their feet. So sheâs home and somehow I know that todayâs the day the letter from Davy Jones is gonna come. I know . Weâre in the living room in June. There are antiques â a little George V walnut desk â
âNice.
ââ under the window overlooking the peony bed in the back garden, gold velvet loveseats, a turquoise-blue Chinese carpet stained by our spaniels but still smooth, 1914 oak floors, a fireplace tiled in blue-green, teak cocktail tables.
âThis house was in what style?
âGeorgian.
âNice.
âNot fancy. My father was an auctioneer so he found stuff.
âSimple is often the most beautiful. Those birds?
âBuffleheads.
âI like the shape of their heads and how they all dive together. I wonder how they know to all go at the same time. Drink some of this; rest your hands.
âSo itâs this day and Iâve decided to stay home from school because Iâm sure the letter from Davy Jones is going to come and itâs early June and Grade 9 is almost done anyway. And I play double solitaire with my sister and sometimes she has to lie back on the velvet loveseat. She eats green grapes and drinks ginger ale to settle her stomach. She looks like shit, once lovely with black hair and twinkling eyes and smooth pale skin, freckles provocative and sweet across her small nose. She was entering a series of last stages. Sheâd been sick for six years, was supposed to last only two but science was moving fast and dragging her along. Not fast enough, obviously. But still.
âFamily support?
âSupport?
âWho were you talkinâ to about
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