which were twisted with success.
âYes, I ate it all.â
âYou ate it all,â I said sadly.
He repeated himself. âYes, I ate it all.â
I was determined that Ray was not going to win this time.
âLook, why donât you drop Treena. She wants to go home.â
âCool,â said Treena, skipping out towards the car. Ray ground a cigarette into the floor with his boot and then followed Treena out, not saying another word. I tapped Drew on the shoulder and asked if he wanted a drink. He jumped a bit when I touched him and then backed out of the room, facing me, as youâre supposed to do when being menaced by a shark.
âThank you, Viva, but no thank you. Iâve got a fanzine interview to do.â He motioned to a tall, scraggly seventeen-year-old girl with pale blond hair and watery blue eyes. She didnât look Jewish, thatâs for sure.
âWell, should I wait for you?â
He smiled with two muscles. Youâre supposed to use eight. âIâm a little tired.â The girl tugged at his arm. He didnât flinch. He must have been very drunk.
âOh, okay. Well, Iâll see you soon.â But I knew I wouldnât.
Chapter Eight
When I think about Drew, I feel so alive that I want to die. His hair, his skin, his cuts. It hits me like a blast of hyperlife. It knocks me sideways so I canât get up. I am six, learning to roller-skate, falling on my coccyx again and again. But itâs worth it for the five seconds Iâm on wheels, not holding on to the railings, my pink ra-ra skirt blowing above my waist, kneepads strapped to my black leggings. I always fall over just as the mad old man from the next street turns the corner. My body is throbbing with the pain of concrete on butt and the mad old man is whispering obscenities right up close against my ear. I can smell the cabbage and scotch and pornographic magazines oozing from his pores. I canât get up. I canât get away. I canât tell Manny.
I have to stay in bed with a satin eye-mask on my head and eat white grapes with the skin peeled off. I donât think Drew would eat the skin, although Iâm not sure. I am certain he pulls the string off the banana flesh before biting it and spits the pips out of apples and folds them neatly in a tissue. I canât stand people who eat apple cores. Itâs like saying, âHi! Iâm just too much. I will eat your head if you let me.â
If he partakes in chocolate, it would be Kit Kats, which are a great favourite of the neurotically inclined: you not onlyhave the four chocolate walls to bite off per finger, but also four individual wafer layers, which you can pull apart like an airline drink mat if youâre very skilful. I like Smarties. When I was little, I liked to arrange them in patterns around the toilet seat for Manny to find. And he was always very appreciative and made a big fuss about how artistic and talented I was and how I was going to be the next director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When I became director, we would be moved to New York and we would buy back the old family house in Brooklyn plus an apartment in Manhattan, probably a TriBeCa loft next door to Robert De Niro. I bet Drewâs favourite Smartie is the yellow one. If you like Sartre, youâd like the yellow one. I just get that impression.
I sense he might have a penchant for olives. His breath is ever so slightly metallic and jagged. If you drink that much, you only have time for bar snacks: mini-pretzels and stale crisps and olives. People who eat olives, who actually like them, are by nature perverse. Because olives do not taste nice. They make you gag the first, second, third, and fourth time you try them. You really have to work at it to start liking them. You have to like pain. Really like it. Because the acrid oil lines your palate for days. Even when you brush it away, the taste comes back to haunt you on those hot, restless
âYes, I ate it all.â
âYou ate it all,â I said sadly.
He repeated himself. âYes, I ate it all.â
I was determined that Ray was not going to win this time.
âLook, why donât you drop Treena. She wants to go home.â
âCool,â said Treena, skipping out towards the car. Ray ground a cigarette into the floor with his boot and then followed Treena out, not saying another word. I tapped Drew on the shoulder and asked if he wanted a drink. He jumped a bit when I touched him and then backed out of the room, facing me, as youâre supposed to do when being menaced by a shark.
âThank you, Viva, but no thank you. Iâve got a fanzine interview to do.â He motioned to a tall, scraggly seventeen-year-old girl with pale blond hair and watery blue eyes. She didnât look Jewish, thatâs for sure.
âWell, should I wait for you?â
He smiled with two muscles. Youâre supposed to use eight. âIâm a little tired.â The girl tugged at his arm. He didnât flinch. He must have been very drunk.
âOh, okay. Well, Iâll see you soon.â But I knew I wouldnât.
Chapter Eight
When I think about Drew, I feel so alive that I want to die. His hair, his skin, his cuts. It hits me like a blast of hyperlife. It knocks me sideways so I canât get up. I am six, learning to roller-skate, falling on my coccyx again and again. But itâs worth it for the five seconds Iâm on wheels, not holding on to the railings, my pink ra-ra skirt blowing above my waist, kneepads strapped to my black leggings. I always fall over just as the mad old man from the next street turns the corner. My body is throbbing with the pain of concrete on butt and the mad old man is whispering obscenities right up close against my ear. I can smell the cabbage and scotch and pornographic magazines oozing from his pores. I canât get up. I canât get away. I canât tell Manny.
I have to stay in bed with a satin eye-mask on my head and eat white grapes with the skin peeled off. I donât think Drew would eat the skin, although Iâm not sure. I am certain he pulls the string off the banana flesh before biting it and spits the pips out of apples and folds them neatly in a tissue. I canât stand people who eat apple cores. Itâs like saying, âHi! Iâm just too much. I will eat your head if you let me.â
If he partakes in chocolate, it would be Kit Kats, which are a great favourite of the neurotically inclined: you not onlyhave the four chocolate walls to bite off per finger, but also four individual wafer layers, which you can pull apart like an airline drink mat if youâre very skilful. I like Smarties. When I was little, I liked to arrange them in patterns around the toilet seat for Manny to find. And he was always very appreciative and made a big fuss about how artistic and talented I was and how I was going to be the next director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When I became director, we would be moved to New York and we would buy back the old family house in Brooklyn plus an apartment in Manhattan, probably a TriBeCa loft next door to Robert De Niro. I bet Drewâs favourite Smartie is the yellow one. If you like Sartre, youâd like the yellow one. I just get that impression.
I sense he might have a penchant for olives. His breath is ever so slightly metallic and jagged. If you drink that much, you only have time for bar snacks: mini-pretzels and stale crisps and olives. People who eat olives, who actually like them, are by nature perverse. Because olives do not taste nice. They make you gag the first, second, third, and fourth time you try them. You really have to work at it to start liking them. You have to like pain. Really like it. Because the acrid oil lines your palate for days. Even when you brush it away, the taste comes back to haunt you on those hot, restless
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