The History of Hilary Hambrushina Read online

  We’d been given our report cards at the graduation ceremony, but Lynn had insisted we wait until today to open them. It was hard for me because I desperately wanted to know what my marks were.

  I was especially anxious to see my mark in art. Our teacher had given us a big project at the end of the year. We had to create a collage about our lives. Each of us got a giant piece of cardboard, and we could paste anything we wanted on it. While most people taped family photos or pictures from magazines on their cardboard, I went wild. I glued, nailed, pressed, smushed. Feathers from an old Halloween costume, empty pop cans, tickets to movies I’d been to. Whatever I could find that had anything to do with my life, I put on the board.

  And when the board got full, my dad helped me build a sculpture out of a broken lampshade and an old record player. I stuck more stuff on the sculpture. By the time I was finished, my hands were raw, but it was worth it. My collage had bright colours, fun shapes, and different materials. It was way more interesting than anyone else’s collage. And when I set it up at school, everyone loved it.

  “Oh my God, Hilary! That’s amazing!” Heather Banks said when she stopped to look at it.

  Heather was the closest thing we had to a cool girl at Susanna Moodie. She wasn’t friends with me or Lynn. In fact, she’d been kind of rude to us the whole year. So when she told me she liked my project, I knew she meant it.

  But I still wanted a high mark.

  Lynn snorted.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I got sixty-three in math.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  She shrugged. “Math’s stupid. What do I need it for anyway?”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Fingers fumbling, I unfolded my report card. The first mark that jumped out at me was my art mark. Ninety-three! I told Lynn.

  “That’s great, Hil. What did you get in math?”

  A cold, wet feeling like a melting ice cream cone spread through my chest. “Sixty-five.” The rest of my marks were all in the eighties and high seventies, except for gym, which was even lower than math. I was going to tell this to Lynn, but she’d already put away her report card and grabbed a packet of photos.

  “Want to look at the graduation pictures?” she said. I nodded eagerly.

  We spent the next half hour looking over the pictures Lynn’s dad had taken of our graduation. Pictures of Lynn and her parents, Lynn and Morgan, Lynn and me. She’d been wearing a short pink sleeveless dress, which looked perfect with her long blond hair. I had to wear a sailor suit in navy blue, a colour I thought should only be seen on a sofa in a funeral parlour. But my mother had insisted that sailor suits, especially in navy blue, were classics that never went out of style. Probably because they were never in style, I retorted. The suit my mom chose made me look even shorter and stumpier. I looked like a diseased tree standing next to a vibrant flower.

  I adored Lynn’s dress. Partly because it was beautiful. But mostly because it came from The Limit. The Limit was the coolest store in the world. It had amazing clothes. Anyone who was anyone shopped at The Limit. Of course Chanel Winters bought all her clothes there. Lynn was allowed to buy some stuff (“within reason,” her mom said), and Morgan worked there. But was I allowed to shop there? What do you think?

  Once, when my mom had been in a good mood, I’d taken her to The Limit, hoping she might become more open-minded when she saw the clothes there. After all, surely even my mother couldn’t deny how stylish Limit sweaters and skirts were and how essential it was for someone who was almost in junior high to be stylish. But when she stepped into the store, it was like she’d wandered into some strange dream world. She frowned at the thumping rock music, as if it was being transmitted by aliens. She looked around her as if the leopard-print stretch pants were dripping ectoplasmic goo and the see-through tank tops were giving off toxic gases.

  I had to admit, some of the clothes were a bit freaky. There was a leather skirt so short that, according to Lynn, only a prostitute would wear it. But I thought that the clothes I wanted were perfectly “within reason.” I showed my mom some torn jeans and a deep V-neck shirt, but she frowned. When we left the store, she said I wasn’t going to shop there until I was at least fifteen. I tried to explain to her, in a nice tone of voice, that everyone shopped at The Limit. She refused to be conquered. I begged, argued, and bargained with her. When nothing worked, I threatened to spend my allowance buying clothes there, and she forbade me to wear anything from that store without her permission. Which I had no hope of getting. Which meant I couldn’t wear Limit clothes.

  I sighed. “You’re so lucky your mom lets you buy clothes from The Limit.”

  Lynn wrinkled her nose. “It’s only because Morgan works there. And even then there are things I can’t get.”

  “Yeah, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “At least you don’t dress like Marcia,” said Lynn, holding up a photo.

  The photo showed a slim girl with her head cast down. She was scurrying away from where Lynn was standing, smiling, outside our school gym. The girl was wearing a long white shapeless dress that trailed on the ground.

  “I heard her mom buys her clothes at the Salvation Army,” Lynn sneered. “But what do you expect from someone who’s on welfare?”

  I frowned, thinking back to things I’d seen on the news. “You mean Marcia’s mom doesn’t have a job?”

  Lynn smiled a knowing smile. “That’s what she says.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A lot of people on welfare pretend not to have jobs just so they can collect welfare money. But most of them have secret jobs, and some of the women, well, they’re the kind of women who buy those leather skirts at The Limit.”

  My eyes widened. “You mean Marcia’s mom is a prostitute?”

  “Maybe. Anyway, it’s true about people on welfare. I read it in the newspaper.”

  We looked at the picture of Marcia.

  “She’s such a loser,” said Lynn.

  “Yeah,” I said. Marcia did look weird in that dress, like she was too cheap to buy a real dress and had used a bedsheet instead. Her blond hair was stringy and tangled. Had she even washed it for graduation? And if it was true about her mom … no wonder hardly anyone talked to her. But I kind of felt sorry for her, too. The way she was bowing her head reminded me of how I’d been bowing my head not too long ago. I shifted uncomfortably.

  The door opened and Lynn’s mom came in. She smiled … until she saw how many suitcases were open and how many clothes and shoes were on the floor.

  “Is this all you’ve done, Lynn?”

  “Yeah,” said Lynn guiltily, trying to hide the pictures under a pillow.

  “Well, you’d better hurry up. Dad will be home from work soon, and he won’t be happy to see this mess. I know you two girls are having a good time, but I think maybe it’s time for Hilary to go home.”

  “But, Mom, she’s helping me!”

  “Lynn,” said her mom in that special tone. She gave us a look and closed the door.

  We stood up. “Well, have a great trip,” I said.

  “Thanks. I’ll e-mail you.”

  We looked at one another. Then at the same time, we leaned forward to hug each other.

  “I’m really going to miss you,” I said. I didn’t try to stop the tears this time.

  “Oh, Hil, I’m going to miss you, too.” When we let go of each other, I saw that she was crying, as well. We both laughed.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll find something to do,” she said.

  “I guess I could always hang around with Marcia,” I joked, wiping my cheek.

  She just laughed. “Hey, I know. Now would be a good time for you to go biking or something. That way, you could lose weight for junior high.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” I said, smiling.

  Lynn’s tears had dried up. I hugged her again. “Have a great summer, Lynn.”

  After I got on my bike to ride home, I tied the handles of my bag tog
ether so my report card wouldn’t fly out. But not even my ninety-three in art made me feel any less like I had a giant tennis ball stuck in my throat.

  -3-

  A Sanguine Meeting

  Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if Lynn hadn’t gone to California. We would’ve spent the whole summer together, hanging around the mall, suntanning in her backyard, and discussing whether Damian Sámos looked hotter in a leather jacket or a jean jacket. That much I’m pretty sure about. But what would’ve happened in the fall, when we went to Mackenzie? Would I have become a different person than I am now? I’d like to say no, but I can’t be certain.

  Sorry, I’m getting off track. The day Lynn left, I woke up and heard this odd sputtering noise, like a car in need of a tune-up. When I was having breakfast, the sputtering started again, and it was louder and closer. I asked my mom what it was, and she told me it was coming from next door, where the new neighbours were moving in.

  “What new neighbours?” I demanded.

  Mom was peering out our front window. “The ones who are moving into the house on the right. I guess it’s finally been sold.”

  “Why are they making that noise?”

  Mom craned her neck to get a better view. “It looks like they’re trying to start up some sort of machine in the middle of their driveway… My goodness, it’s an old-fashioned washing machine. Like the one we saw at the ROM a couple of years ago. You know, the kind where you have to pull the clothes through the wringer to squeeze out the water? I wonder what they’re doing with it.”

  I didn’t care. “Well, I wish they’d stop. They’re giving me a headache.”

  After breakfast, I marched up to my bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed, with my arms folded. I thought that if I sat there, the neighbours would somehow know that they’d offended me and stop making noise. Of course it didn’t work, which only made me angrier. I got up and began pacing.

  I spent the entire weekend pacing. My parents suggested that we watch a movie, thinking it would cheer me up, but I just told them I had a headache and stamped up to my room. The only thing that cheered me up was creating wild stories about what Lynn was doing in California. Lynn was very pretty, so I figured she might get snapped up by an agent and become a big star. I imagined her on a reality TV show, crawling through snake-infested mud and eating slimy bugs in hopes of claiming the top prize. I knew she’d probably kill me if she found out I was thinking anything like that. But, I told myself, she doesn’t have to know.

  Sometimes I figured in these daydreams. If Lynn did become a star and move to L.A., I’d go visit her. Maybe some of her movie star friends would give me a makeover. They’d rub hormone-boosting creams in my hair to make it grow longer. They’d put cleansing oils on my face so I’d never get a pimple again. Best of all, they’d give me a new wardrobe, clothes so cool even my mom would let me wear them. I’d arrive for the first day of school at Mackenzie in a BMW driven by a hot chauffeur… Brett Filburn would swoon over me… Chanel Winters would want to do lunch and a movie…

  Of course I had no idea what Lynn was really doing. And every time I remembered that, especially after one of these daydreams, I felt like the mud she was crawling through.

  To take my mind off things, I decided to try something Lynn had suggested: exercising. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Certain kinds of exercise were O.K., like swimming or biking. But I thought that if you really wanted to lose weight, you had to do the kind of stuff they do in a gym, like running on a treadmill or riding one of those bicycles that don’t go anywhere. My dad had one of those bikes in the basement, so I figured I might as well try it.

  And so … well, this is pretty embarrassing but I have to finish the story because otherwise you’ll wonder how it turned out… I put on a sweatband and sneakers and brought down a water bottle. My plan was to pedal non-stop for an hour. I figured I could do it, since I was used to riding my own bike, and how different could this bike be? I should lose at least one pound that way, I told myself. So if I use the bike every day, in fifteen days I’ll have lost the weight I want to lose.

  I stepped over boxes and piles of books to reach the bike, which sat in a dark corner. This corner had a musty smell, like an old church that hadn’t been dusted since Queen Victoria was my age. A fake raccoon-fur hat someone had given my dad as a joke hung on the wall nearby.

  The bike seat was too high for me, but I couldn’t move it because it was screwed in place. Gripping the handlebars for support, I tried to heave my leg over the seat several times without success. I was becoming angry and sweaty, so I started breathing deeply, like I was having a baby, to calm myself down. “Hoo hoo hoo.”

  “Hilary!” shouted my mom. “Why are you making monkey noises?”

  I froze. I knew that if I said, “It’s nothing,” she’d come down, and I didn’t want her to think I needed help getting on a stationary bicycle. So I called, “I’m just playing a game.”

  I managed to lift myself on to the bike. I had to stretch to reach the pedals, but I finally did and started pumping. It was O.K. at first, but soon, my muscles felt like some psycho was using them as rubber bands. And some people actually do this for fun! What’s wrong with them, I thought. I reached for the water bottle and tried to squirt some water in my mouth. Nothing but air came out. I’d forgotten to fill the bottle! I threw it away and continued to pump furiously. Objects on the wall began rattling, and I was making so many strange noises my mother must have thought a whole pack of monkeys was performing a conga line in the basement. I began to have visions of monkeys in spangly pink bikinis kicking up their heels (did monkeys have heels, I wondered) on stage at the Princess of Wales Theatre.

  Suddenly my sweatband fell over my eyes. I didn’t stop to fix it, though. You’re going to pump for the full hour, not for fifty-nine minutes, I ordered myself. Instead, I tried nodding vigorously to get the sweatband to fall under my chin. It fell over my nose and I couldn’t breathe. Then something dark and furry leapt on my head, covering my eyes and tickling my face like a bunch of feathers. I screamed, batting at the thing with one hand and pumping frantically, as if I could escape that way. I soon realized it was only my dad’s hat, but I still couldn’t get it off. Finally I stumbled off the bike and yanked the hat’s tail away from my eyes.

  I had no energy left to remove the hat, so I left it on and trudged upstairs. I passed my mom, who took one look at me and started to snicker. Ignoring her, I went into the kitchen to check the clock. I’d been on the bike five minutes.

  So that was the end of my experiment with exercising.

  The next morning, I was back to moping. But by now, Mom was becoming irritated.

  “Hilary, I wish you’d find something to do instead of just hanging around.”

  That morning my “hanging around” consisted of watching her paint the kitchen table. When she came in to paint, I was sitting on the cool tiles of the countertop, staring out the window. I threw an annoyed look at the back of her head. I don’t know what irritated me more: the fact that she was painting the kitchen table blue when our curtains were green, or the fact that she was there period.

  The past few months, it seemed like my mom was always around. Everywhere I went, she went, bugging me, asking me silly questions. She hadn’t done that when I was younger. At least, not that I could remember. I wished she’d get a job. Then she’d have something else to focus on, instead of obsessing about me 24/7. And my dad didn’t follow me around. I mean, he paid attention to me, but he didn’t go crazy about it. He helped me with my math homework and fixed the handlebars on my bike when they were twisted. We went swimming together on family vacations. Mom couldn’t swim, so she always stayed on the shore. We wouldn’t be doing any of that this year, though.

  “It’s not my fault there’s nothing to do,” I said. “It would be different if we were going on vacation. Then I’d have something to look forward to. But Dad has to work for the whole summer, and it ruins everything.”

  “Dad doesn
’t want to work for the whole summer, but planning the conference is a big opportunity for him. It’ll really help him at work if this conference goes well. Maybe his boss will finally appreciate him.”

  I squirmed. “But can’t you talk to him? Convince him to take a week off so we can go somewhere?”

  “He and I have already discussed this, Hilary, and we agreed it would be better to stay in Toronto.” She turned back to her painting.

  “But what about me? I might perish of boredom!” I wailed, placing my hand on my chest. “How hard is it to plan a conference anyway? What does he have to do, make sure they order the right kind of coffee? He could take a week off. Why don’t you tell him that?”

  Mom frowned. “I don’t tell him how to do his job. And you shouldn’t complain. You’ve been lucky enough to go on big holidays for the last few summers. Some people never get to go anywhere …”

  Blah blah blah. I’d heard all this before. She just doesn’t care if I’m bored, I thought angrily.

  “… should be able to keep yourself entertained. Why don’t you write a story?”

  I felt like I’d been zapped by a mini lightning bolt. I liked writing stories even more than I liked doing art. At least I used to. But this past year, I’d lost interest in writing. It was O.K. when I had to write something for school, but I felt uncomfortable writing on my own. Whenever I tried, my stories weren’t fun and crazy, like they used to be. They were forced, like someone being squeezed into a suit of armour. But I figured it didn’t matter because when I complained about this to Lynn, she said writing stories wasn’t cool anyway.

  Lynn was right. Writing was something from my past. Something I used to be good at but wasn’t anymore. Something I no longer needed.

  So I told my mom, “That’s boring. I outgrew that a long time ago.”

  Mom sighed. “Well, Hilary, I wish you had some other friends. Lynn is a very nice girl, but I think you’re too attached to her. You can’t expect that one person will always be there to keep you company. You should try to be more outgoing and make some new friends.”