Fever pitch
I've been fairly busy the past few days. At least now with exams things will slow down. On Saturday I went to Toronto with Duncan and his parents to Barbados on the Water. On Sunday I got my grade 9 notes out for Duncan and settled in to study for my chemistry exam with my mother's help. Charles Wallace gave me a few tips for my pre-calculus exam on condition that I help him rework a speech from the play he's in. The rehearsal on Friday for it was interesting. I met Charles Wallace in front of his school, and he said, "Try to look like an agent."
"What do agents look like, anyway?" I asked. He didn't say anything but gave me a pair of sunglasses that I distinctly recall having been mine once (from a Burger King Kids meal circa 1998). I put them on and the two of us went to the rehearsal, which was being held in the library.
The director looked very familiar, and he started when he saw me. I glared at him and then walked purposefully to the non-fiction section where he went to hide.
"Mr. Mirabell, that's a really bad disguise. My uncle has better false moustaches, and he shops grey market."
"Well, what do you expect? I can't go back to work under my real name after that debacle. I'm reduced to midwifing that buffoon's semi-literate platitudes."
"With my brother in the lead." At that point Mirabell groaned.
"I can't get away from that damn family of yours, can I? Your uncle lends me substandard machinery, you manage to get fog poisoning, and now your brother is in this wretched excuse for a play."
"And I'm his agent," I said. Mirabell groaned again. "Don't worry--don't tell anyone why I'm here and I won't tell the school board you're here." He agreed. The students in the play sat at a table with their play scripts while Mirabell led the run-through, and I sat behind Charles Wallace. I thought the play read badly, but it sounded worse. Only Charles Wallace read without stumbling over any of the words. Three hours later Charles Wallace and I were able to go home.
Fortunately he didn't have a workshop today: I had two exams today and couldn't face the words of Michael Patterson after all that. When I got home I saw that my grandfather was back from Oshawa. He had decided that since England was playing tomorrow, he needed quality time with his grandchildren. He convinced my mother to take Charles Wallace out of school for the afternoon (cultural experience, he said) to join him, and me (I didn't have any exams scheduled) at the Waltzing Weasel for the game.
"But grandad, you hate the Waltzing Weasel," Charles Wallace said.
"No matter, lad, it's got a high definition big screen television and cheap bar snacks during the game. It's an important part of your ethnic heritage." My grandfather went out to get the paper at that point. Charles Wallace looked alarmed.
"Just look at it as a kind of school trip," I said.
"But it's sports," Charles Wallace whined.
"Sports, and important parts of our ethnic heritage like cheap bar snacks and beer," I reminded him. He cheered up a bit. I was happy since I was pretty sure there'd be little, if no, chance of Arne leaving his barstool at the Three Kronen for the game.
"What do agents look like, anyway?" I asked. He didn't say anything but gave me a pair of sunglasses that I distinctly recall having been mine once (from a Burger King Kids meal circa 1998). I put them on and the two of us went to the rehearsal, which was being held in the library.
The director looked very familiar, and he started when he saw me. I glared at him and then walked purposefully to the non-fiction section where he went to hide.
"Mr. Mirabell, that's a really bad disguise. My uncle has better false moustaches, and he shops grey market."
"Well, what do you expect? I can't go back to work under my real name after that debacle. I'm reduced to midwifing that buffoon's semi-literate platitudes."
"With my brother in the lead." At that point Mirabell groaned.
"I can't get away from that damn family of yours, can I? Your uncle lends me substandard machinery, you manage to get fog poisoning, and now your brother is in this wretched excuse for a play."
"And I'm his agent," I said. Mirabell groaned again. "Don't worry--don't tell anyone why I'm here and I won't tell the school board you're here." He agreed. The students in the play sat at a table with their play scripts while Mirabell led the run-through, and I sat behind Charles Wallace. I thought the play read badly, but it sounded worse. Only Charles Wallace read without stumbling over any of the words. Three hours later Charles Wallace and I were able to go home.
Fortunately he didn't have a workshop today: I had two exams today and couldn't face the words of Michael Patterson after all that. When I got home I saw that my grandfather was back from Oshawa. He had decided that since England was playing tomorrow, he needed quality time with his grandchildren. He convinced my mother to take Charles Wallace out of school for the afternoon (cultural experience, he said) to join him, and me (I didn't have any exams scheduled) at the Waltzing Weasel for the game.
"But grandad, you hate the Waltzing Weasel," Charles Wallace said.
"No matter, lad, it's got a high definition big screen television and cheap bar snacks during the game. It's an important part of your ethnic heritage." My grandfather went out to get the paper at that point. Charles Wallace looked alarmed.
"Just look at it as a kind of school trip," I said.
"But it's sports," Charles Wallace whined.
"Sports, and important parts of our ethnic heritage like cheap bar snacks and beer," I reminded him. He cheered up a bit. I was happy since I was pretty sure there'd be little, if no, chance of Arne leaving his barstool at the Three Kronen for the game.
posted by Zandra Larson at 7:46 p.m.
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