new shoes on her feet. She looked pretty good.
I took her in the car. Luckily the theater isn't too far away, because I only have the one snorkel. Before I left I got a piece of paper and I rolled it into a cone shape and put it in Grace'smouth. I curled her hand into a fist around it, but she wasn't having a bit of it. I put the snorkel in the glove box.
When I was buying the tickets, Grace was standing at the edge of the entrance area, looking out at the pinball parlor across the corridor. She was standing there on the ugly carpet they always have in the foyer at cinemas.
While I was standing in line, I kept turning around to check on her. She just looked like a normal person lost in thought. People were bustling about around her and she just stood there with her arms by her sides. That's sort of what she is like—someone who is lost in thought all the time.
I'm being served. I poke my money through the little hole in the glass at the counter. As I turn around, shoving the change into my purse, I can see a teenage boy, probably about fifteen, walking toward Grace. He's about as far away from her as I am, coming from the opposite direction. I can see the aggression in the way he is moving. His chest is puffed out and his face is really hostile.
“What are you staring at?” he yells at her from five meters and closing. I walk toward Grace, fast.
“I'm talking to you.” He's pointing at her. I can see the muscles in his shoulders and arms tense. “What are you staring at?”
I reach her and grab her by the shoulders. The boy stands still when he sees that she is not alone.
As I turn her around, the boy is backing away. “You dumb slut!” he yells over his shoulder as he disappears back into the pinball parlor.
“Well, that was unpleasant, wasn't it?” I say to Grace as we walk away. I'm trying to keep calmness in my voice, but I'm shaken.
I'm wondering what brought that on? I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been there. Would he have hit her?
What was his problem? I think it must be some kind of prehistoric pack mentality surging through in the hormones, the same kind of survival of the fittest thing that I observed so often in the schoolyard.
Weak person! Weak person! Attack! Attack!
I can feel my blood pulsing through my veins. I'm trying to relax.
I hand in our tickets and we take a seat in the middle of the theater.
We watch the latest animated offering. Not exactly highbrow. I have always taken my brother to see those movies to disguise my desire to see them, but he's a bit old for that now. He's too cool. He doesn't mind coming to see the computergenerated animations—purely for academic reasons, of course.
Grace has provided me with a new excuse.
I love those movies. I love cartoons. I love how the lead character just breaks into song and they all do a little dance and everyone knows the steps, knows the chorus. I love the fact that in these movies everyone
can
sing. Wouldn't the world be a wonderful place if everybody could sing?
Just once, I would like to be in a shopping center, or waiting in a queue or some other ordinary situation, and have someone start singing and have everyone join in and start tap-dancing. There is definitely not enough spontaneous tap dancing these days.
… … …
We drove home again, and I changed Grace into a tracksuit and sat her out on the front veranda in one of the big comfy chairs.
I walked into her bedroom and opened the long cream curtains. Then I sat in the study with my back to the desk, looking through the wardrobe and through the bedroom window to where Grace was sitting. I lifted the lid off the spooky box and read.
I was so angry. I was driving home and I was filled with rage.
How dare you!
I was driving like a lunatic. Might have nearly killed several other people and myself.
How dare you!
You do this to me all the time. It makes me so angry. I can feel my anger rising up inside me and I can feel my heart beating. Do I say
I took her in the car. Luckily the theater isn't too far away, because I only have the one snorkel. Before I left I got a piece of paper and I rolled it into a cone shape and put it in Grace'smouth. I curled her hand into a fist around it, but she wasn't having a bit of it. I put the snorkel in the glove box.
When I was buying the tickets, Grace was standing at the edge of the entrance area, looking out at the pinball parlor across the corridor. She was standing there on the ugly carpet they always have in the foyer at cinemas.
While I was standing in line, I kept turning around to check on her. She just looked like a normal person lost in thought. People were bustling about around her and she just stood there with her arms by her sides. That's sort of what she is like—someone who is lost in thought all the time.
I'm being served. I poke my money through the little hole in the glass at the counter. As I turn around, shoving the change into my purse, I can see a teenage boy, probably about fifteen, walking toward Grace. He's about as far away from her as I am, coming from the opposite direction. I can see the aggression in the way he is moving. His chest is puffed out and his face is really hostile.
“What are you staring at?” he yells at her from five meters and closing. I walk toward Grace, fast.
“I'm talking to you.” He's pointing at her. I can see the muscles in his shoulders and arms tense. “What are you staring at?”
I reach her and grab her by the shoulders. The boy stands still when he sees that she is not alone.
As I turn her around, the boy is backing away. “You dumb slut!” he yells over his shoulder as he disappears back into the pinball parlor.
“Well, that was unpleasant, wasn't it?” I say to Grace as we walk away. I'm trying to keep calmness in my voice, but I'm shaken.
I'm wondering what brought that on? I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been there. Would he have hit her?
What was his problem? I think it must be some kind of prehistoric pack mentality surging through in the hormones, the same kind of survival of the fittest thing that I observed so often in the schoolyard.
Weak person! Weak person! Attack! Attack!
I can feel my blood pulsing through my veins. I'm trying to relax.
I hand in our tickets and we take a seat in the middle of the theater.
We watch the latest animated offering. Not exactly highbrow. I have always taken my brother to see those movies to disguise my desire to see them, but he's a bit old for that now. He's too cool. He doesn't mind coming to see the computergenerated animations—purely for academic reasons, of course.
Grace has provided me with a new excuse.
I love those movies. I love cartoons. I love how the lead character just breaks into song and they all do a little dance and everyone knows the steps, knows the chorus. I love the fact that in these movies everyone
can
sing. Wouldn't the world be a wonderful place if everybody could sing?
Just once, I would like to be in a shopping center, or waiting in a queue or some other ordinary situation, and have someone start singing and have everyone join in and start tap-dancing. There is definitely not enough spontaneous tap dancing these days.
… … …
We drove home again, and I changed Grace into a tracksuit and sat her out on the front veranda in one of the big comfy chairs.
I walked into her bedroom and opened the long cream curtains. Then I sat in the study with my back to the desk, looking through the wardrobe and through the bedroom window to where Grace was sitting. I lifted the lid off the spooky box and read.
I was so angry. I was driving home and I was filled with rage.
How dare you!
I was driving like a lunatic. Might have nearly killed several other people and myself.
How dare you!
You do this to me all the time. It makes me so angry. I can feel my anger rising up inside me and I can feel my heart beating. Do I say
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