August
Tuesday, August 16th
Hi. Thanks for being here, Diary. My father is going to rip my head off. He says that all the time. Amy, he says, I swear I’m going to rip your head off! (He’s really going to do it this time.) And if he doesn’t, it’ll only be because the thought of spending the last third of his life in prison has made him change his mind. I cut off (cut, not ripped) part of the bottom of page 128 of a rare special edition of his favourite book — Écrire, by Marguerite Duras — and it’s just a matter of time before he notices. 4
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A day — maybe two at most, I’d say. I can already see him barging into my room without knocking and yelling with the entire weight of the world in his voice, Fanny ! J’ai acheté ce livre-là avant que tu sois au monde ! Amy, I bought this book before you even came into this world! In New York! Kids these days, you don’t have respect for anything! Amy this ... Amy that ... blah blah blah.” But to tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less. I COULDN’T GIVE A RAT’S ASS. My crazy pathetic father will do whatever he wants no matter what, right? I swear that when I’m not so mad (if that day ever comes) I’ll tell about the disaster that my life has become because of him . In the meantime, here’s what I found that’s going to cost me my head:
Marguerite Duras
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Rooting through my father’s bookshelves, I found that sentence and after reading it about twenty times in a row I got the idea of keeping a diary:
I know, you’re not supposed to ruin a rare 1975 edition that might even be from New York, but I didn’t want to forget that sentence (“To write is to scream without making a sound”), which was like a revelation to me, a life line, one last chance at survival in the face of the disastrous year looming on the horizon. 7
Because YES, ever since last night when my father told me that I have to move to Sainte-Lorette (wherever that is), I’ve felt like screaming.
(Explanations to come‌) So thanks for being here, Diary (and thanks to this Marguerite Duras person). Because I am truly all alone in the world at this moment.
ALL
ALONE. Bye, Amy xxx
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INTRODUCING AMY CLOUTIER
WHO I AM.
(After this, I promise I’ll explain why I have to move *** ALL BY MYSELF *** to a tiny town 265 km away from MONTREAL.)
My index and middle fingers have gone all white from holding my pencil too tight. I think when I press too hard the blood just stops flowing. Oh well. My pencil won’t budge. I knew it. Damn. I should have bought one of those good old Canada notebooks, not this pale pink hardcover journal that’s way too fancy. It looks like a novel. A book so beautiful that whatever I write in it has to be beautiful too. Things that are ... intelligent. The pages are way too white, too smooth. I’m afraid I’ll wreck something by writing in it. It’s like this diary isn’t even mine, like someone other than me might sneak a peak at it sometime.
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I think I’ll draw instead of writing. Drawing is what I do best in the world. I practically learned how to draw before I even knew how to talk. So, okay. Good idea.
Here you go, Diary. This is me right now. And on the left, that’s Albert, my ferret.
When I can’t find the right words, I’ll just draw what’s in my heart. Anyhow, it’s my diary, so I can do whatever I want.
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Oops. It happened again. I think that exactly one second ago, I actually forgot to breathe. – Again. It’s proof that I’m upset. I ALWAYS forget to breathe when I’m stressed out. And I have to say it’s become a real problem because I have lots of anxiety in my life. A million different things stress me out, but nobody knows about it. Nobody knows because I never really tell anyone about, you know, intimate stuff — except for Albert. Because with him, a secret always remains a secret.
So I’ll get started. 14
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My name is Amy Cloutier. I’m 14. (I’ll be 15 after Christmas, which is pretty soon, and I’ve never kissed anyone. End of parenthesis.) I live with my dad, Hubert, and my ferret, Albert (yes, they rhyme, I know), in a three-bedroom apartment on Saint-Joseph Street in Montreal. It’s a boulevard that goes on forever, running all the way across the city from east to west, full of cars and trucks that don’t seem to give a damn about ever getting home, even at four in the morning. I live with just my dad because my mother died when I was three, and ever since then my dad and I have been alone in the world (I’ll come back to this another time because it’s sad and I don’t want to start the first diary of my life with a sad story). My father repairs industrial sewing machines. Nobody dreams about becoming an industrial sewing-machine repairman, but my father’s always had a knack for understanding how things work. So (Because we’ve got bills to pay, Amy!) one day he found himself, like a lot of grownups, giving up his dreams for a real job that brings in just enough money to keep a roof over our heads 16
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and put broccoli on our plates. So five days a week, from sunrise to sunset, my father drives to these huge factories — so run-down that they practically look abandoned — and does whatever he can to breathe second life into machines that date back to the Second World War. My father is a complicated person who’s always afraid of losing what little control he has over things. You can notice this in stupid little details.
1. Like the fact that he has a coffee cup and tie for each day of the week. 2. Like the fact that he sets his alarm for 6:22 every morning (even on Sundays) just because his lucky number is 10 and if you add 6 + 2 + 2, you get 10.
He’s the one who ALWAYS says this. 18
RI-DI-CU-LOUS 19
3.
Like the fact that he’s invented a super-weird system for keeping different fruit and vegetable seeds alive (without letting them grow). So we have this kind of irrigated garden in our bathroom, where not a SINGLE vegetable ever sees the light of day! (My dad says, If disaster comes, Amy, we’ll be ready, we’ll have enough food! And you’ll thank me then!)
My father used to dream about becoming an inventor. He wanted to revolutionize something, leave his mark, a mark, any mark on the world. I know, because one room in our apartment is full of his old inventions, none of which will ever be finished. A room full of ideas ...
Whatever... Maybe so, but while we wait for your hypothetical disaster, Dad, I can’t invite anyone over, because I’m afraid they’ll think we’re crazy. The truth is, I know my father has not always been this ... practical analytical or... scared.
S U ELE
I think he got like that after my mother died. Scared. Yeah, that’s the word that comes to mind, Diary, what can I say ... 20
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S
S.
I’m not allowed to set foot in there. When my father says we live in a three-bedroom apartment, I snap back, No Dad, we live in a two-bedroom, and you know it. // P.S. // It’s all very well, but none of it excuses what my father just did, uprooting me. I’ll tell you all about that tomorrow (see next page).
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Wednesday, August 17th
“How it all started.” Basically, I had no idea my dad had the power to turn my life completely upside down with just a handful of words:
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I was so naive. I never saw it coming. Even though it’s so obvious now! I should have suspected something when bushels of mail started pouring down on our doorstep in the past weeks, or when I heard the phone ringing late at night after I brushed my teeth! But, no ... I NEVER SAW IT COMING. So I wasn’t prepared to react well (meaning to counter attack) when my dad walked into my room the day before yesterday, his Monday coffee cup in his hand and his eyes fixed on my old Adele poster.
- “Well, it’s just that ...” - “Spit it out, Dad! It’s like you’re going to tell me you got a girlfriend or something.” - No, nothing like that, Amy. It’s just that I ... I’ve been selected to take my jellyfish findings to the Inventors of the 21st Century Competition. Remember? I’ve told you about it a million times! My theory about the Turritopsis jellyfish? I’m trying to prove that through them we can ...” - “Stop the aging process! Yeah, I know, Dad. But isn’t it a bit ... pointless? I mean, there are eight billion human beings on the planet. Can you imagine the mess if we all lived forever?”
(SILENCE)
My dad looked offended when I said that (even though it’s the truth). - “The Japanese don’t think my idea is that crazy.” - “The Japanese?” - “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Amy. The competition is in Japan. In Kyoto.” - “So… what’s your point?” - “The point is that I’m going to have to go there for a while. Just long enough to prove my theory. A couple of months, sweetie.” “Uh, going to Japan isn’t really in my plans, Dad.”
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has (Nickname my dad started calling me when I was five, and which .) been impossible to break him of, even though I have tried EVERYTHING
- “I need to talk to you, Amy-banny.” - “Stop making that face, Dad. What’s going on?”
- “But you wouldn’t be coming, Amy, so you don’t need to worry.” - “I’m not going to stay here all by myself, am I?” - “No, you ... you’re going to Sainte-Lorette. To your mother’s sister’s place.” I could not believe what I was hearing. I grit my teeth — and my father knows very well that when I do that, it means NO WAY. - “Amy, listen to me, before you get all worked up over nothing. Your mother ...” - “She would NEVER have abandoned me like this.” - “Let me finish! I’m not abandoning you! I’m sending you to be with family.” - “What? But you’ve always said we have no family!” - “Well, we do. Technically, we do have family.” -… - “Are you going to listen to me, Amy? Yes or no?” - “It’s not as if I actually have a choice, Dad.”
At that, my father took a huge breath, as if he was getting ready to launch into some crazy speech that he had already memorized. “Your mother had a sister named Lorette. And Lorette had a son named Henri. He’s a year younger than you ... Hey, kiddo, are you following me? You look as though I’m about to leave you in the middle of the Sahara Desert!”
* THE REAL STORY I’m flipping out and it would take too long to explain. But basically, my father has been telling me for as long as I can remember (so for a VERY VERY LONG TIME) that we DON’T have any family. That we are DIFFERENT. But that we’re BETTER OFF LIKE THAT. With just the TWO of us as “the best mini family in the world.” Right. Okay. Back to my story.
And that’s when I totally lost it. - “But that’s pretty much what you’re doing, Dad! School starts in less than two weeks! - “I’m telling you to stop worrying! They have a school in Sainte-Lorette.” - “What??? You’re leaving in two weeks?!” - “One ...” - “You are really sick in the head.” - “Amy, stay polite! If I don’t go now, they’ll ask someone else. It’s the chance of a lifetime! You must understand that, kiddo! And the Japanese are super strict!” - “It’s LAME to blame the Japanese for this, Dad. You are the most selfish person in the entire world. No, the entire universe! Get out of my room.”
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- “Amy, calm down.” - “GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”
SO.
***
That’s the last real discussion I had with my father. It’s been exactly forty-eight hours. Since then our conversations have gone something like this ...
(Dad) “Do you want a glass of milk, Amy?” (Me) “No, I’m not thirsty.” (Dad) “Have you done your homework, sweetie?” (Me) “It’s August, Dad. There is no homework.” (Dad) “Would you like for us to look at your new school’s website together?” (Me) “Um, no. Definitely not.”
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My father is so obsessed with getting ready for his trip I simply don’t exist anymore.
Thursday, August 18th
In a desperate situation, you do stupid things. Like this morning, I pretended to be in a deep coma when my dad came to wake me up at 7:21 on the dot. 7 + 2 + 1 = 10 What did I tell you! I figured it couldn’t hurt to let him think that this whole business about moving had affected me to the point of getting me sick, but it did absolutely no good. After shaking me briskly for, what, a good ten seconds (Amy! Wake up! It’s 7:21!), my dad left as quickly as he’d come in, going back to his room and leaving me to my fake sleeping. 30
IN 72 HOURS, I HAVE BECOME TRANSPARENT, invisible, DISPOSABLE. No, worse. I’ve become an ORPHAN. Come to think of it, I should put up notices around the city, like people do when they lose a cat. o put up t 73% of the people wh By the way, I read thafind their missing pet. notices never actual ly
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If my calculations are correct, and unfortunately they are, … there are only 4 days left before I am exiled to Sainte-Lorette. I kind of have this tendency to act first and think second
In protest, I got the idea last night to throw out (yes, throw out) this brand new cheesy suitcase covered with flowers that my dad bought me for Christmas last year (a totally pointless present, since he normally never takes me anywhere). At 10 h 10. I want to get up and make myself two pieces of toast with peanut butter and strawberry jam and a big glass of milk, but my stupid pride keeps me nailed to my bed. I’m all alone with Albert, the only witness to my misery. He is buried under my covers and he’s clutching my toes as though he knows that we’re about to leave, like he wants us to forget he’s here (he’s a really smart ferret, by the way).
To put my plan in action, I first waited all night for the garbage truck to come by. As soon as I saw it coming down the street, I jumped up and ran down the stairs with the suitcase (did I mention I live on the third floor?) and threw it on top of a big pile of garbage. To make double sure it was really on its way to the dump, I hid behind a tree to see what would happen.
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Sure enough, two short minutes later — mission accomplished! The garbage man didn’t notice any difference between the mound of black garbage bags and my tacky flowered suitcase — he just threw it into the truck! I watched it land right on top of a black banana peel and dirty diaper.
(Yuuuuuuuck!) The result? An hour later, my father (who had come into my room to tell me to start packing) realized what had happened. He started SCREAMING a million things at me, each one as predictable as the next: I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! How old are you, Amy? Six? What do you think, I’m just going to go back to The Bay and buy you a brand-new suitcase? Oh, you are going to learn the value of money! Then, silence.
(short truce) I watched my dad head towards the kitchen and return almost immediately holding three black garbage bags, which he threw on my bed. Then, looking disappointed, and with a bunch of new wrinkles on his forehead, he left my room like a gust of wind. In February. When the weather is really bad. I admit that at the time, the idea was so ridiculous that I didn’t quite grasp what my father had in that big nutty inventor’s head of his. -
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Dad!” “No, I’m not kidding.” “I’m not going to carry my stuff in garbage ...” “Oh yes, yes you are, Amy!”
30 secondes
30 seconds seconds of silence. silence. 34
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Amy Cloutier, your brainy ideas have done it again, eh? Looks like you’re going to be making your grand entrance in Sainte-Lorette carrying all of your things in GARBAGE BAGS!
) h g g g g g g g g g g g r r r r (A P.S . Any suggestions to get him to change his mind will be given due consideration.
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Saturday, August 20th
fore : Number of days be my departure.
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Two more nights before I leave. I don’t want to say how many hours that is. It would be way too depressing. I hope you won’t be disappointed, Diary (weird how I talk to you like you’re alive), but this is the last time I’ll write before I leave. I want to leave enough space to describe what happens when I get to Sainte-Lorette. I think I’m going to need to confide in someone. In the meantime ... I’m sad. I’m scared. I’m not eating.* I’m not sleeping. I don’t know what to say except that I’m really not doing super great.
*
Well, OK, the truth is that I am still eating, but I’m writing this in case my father reads parts of my diary. Maybe he’ll be worried about me for once? 40
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But, no. Be realistic, Amy.
+
It’s not going to happen.
KYOTOTHE
+
NTION THE INVE ITION JAPANESE COMPET
are the ONLY things that matter in my father’s life right now. Amy xx
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Hey, we can sell lemonade
Saturday, August 20th (continued)
Sophie, damn it. Answer for once! Before I stop writing for real, I just want to say that I got into a big fight with Sophie. She’s my best friend. I wanted to tell her about everything that’s happened in the last few days so I got on Dad’s computer and tried to Skype her. I needed to talk to her SO MUCH! I needed to hear her voice, to hear her say anything, like ...
OK. We’re going to make a plan, Amy. I’m here for you! We’ll run away to the end of the world,
on a beach in Thailand (to survive) and hide out until we’re 18.
But Sophie NEVER picked up. I know that her mother (who works insane hours at a law firm and who’s always exhausted) spends her time yelling at Sophie and so sometimes she doesn’t hear the Skype ring or isn’t allowed to answer. But this time I don’t think it was her mother’s fault. No. This time I think Sophie deliberately ignored the screen when she saw that it was me calling.
just the two of us.
That’s because we had a fight last week. And I honestly don’t know whether we can fix it. I say that because I read this thing in Psychology Life
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magazine (I was in the waiting room at the dentist, and I’m afraid of the dentist, so when I’m there I take my mind off my predicament by reading the magazines). Anyway, I read that relationship break-ups are often caused by stupid little spats that end up setting off a tsunami of pent-up emotions between two people.
THE RESULT?
Sophie has a wardrobe like the ones you see in chick flicks (shoes in every colour, blah, blah, blah).
Basically, the tsunami between Sophie and me was set off on a perfectly ordinary morning when she showed up with a new pair of Nikes (you know, the classic white ones with the blue swoosh on the side?). Her mother Suzanne works all the time (like I said) and Sophie knows she feels guilty, so she’s always asking for new clothes and Suzanne gives in because she does feel guilty (it’s an endless cycle).
AND oK, OBVIOUSLY I’m not proud of it, but I bought myself ...
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towards her through the food court with a tray of Vietnamese soup, and I knew perfectly well she would notice my shoes! What did I expect?), she said something like ...
This is the last straw, Amy! !
Eeesh
At the time I thought Sophie sounded just like her mother, all prim and proper, her hands on her hips, looking like an old lady in her forties, but I didn’t say anything because I knew, deep down, that she had every right to be mad. ... the SAME SHOES as her.
So, long story short, when Sophie saw me walking into the shopping centre last week (I was walking
Because, yes, I copy Sophie a lot. All the time, in fact. But I can’t help it! I hate shopping. Whenever I go shopping without Sophie (which means by myself, because Sophie is my only real friend), I end up buying a lumpy, shapeless sweater, usually grey and too big, that makes me look like some pathetic housewife in the middle of doing her spring cleaning. The result? Six days later, give or take, the clothes I buy by myself (without copying
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The exact same shoes, sure, but in size 6 because my feet are smaller than Sophie’s. I thought they actually looked better on me. But I’m not an I-D-I-O-T. I didn’t brag about it or anything.
Sophie) end up at the back of my closet, on top of a mountain of other boring clothes. Sophie, on the other hand, always finds a way to look fabulous and magnificent and TOTALLY ORIGINAL. She knows stuff about fashion. Like she always knows what the trendy colour of the season will be BEFORE anybody else does. How does she do it? If I only knew! “Next summer
it will be mint green.”
But right now I have bigger problems than Sophie Tremblay, and I won’t forget for a long time how she blew me off when I needed her most. Bye, Sophie. When you realize two weeks from now when school starts that you’ve lost your best friend over a pair of white Nikes with the stupid swoosh on the side, you’ll feel pretty superficial and stupid.
( Yes, superficial, I said it.) As for me?
That’s what she told me the other day, in the voice of someone who had just discovered a vaccine to wipe out some rare disease and save an entire population from certain death. Sophie just goes for it. I wish I could be like that sometimes too — be daring. And feel like I look pretty when I leave the house every morning. 50
... I won’t be there to listen to your apologies. Goodbye, Diary. I’ll write again the day I leave. I promise Amy xx
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Monday, August 22nd
D-Day has arrived..
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he’d had on his face ever since the day he decided to screw up our lives. O o f .
w a s
T h at
o n
g l o n
(So. Not exactly a popular destination, Sainte-Lorette. Things are not starting well.)
e
There were only three passengers on the bus that I took to Sainte-Lorette this morning. Three (not counting Albert my ferret, who was hidden in the pocket of my jean jacket, shhh). There were 57 empty seats.
s
e
n
te n c e .
Yes, today was D-Day, as they say.
It was the first time we’ve argued, my dad and I. The first time we’ve had a real fight, I mean.
I swear, Diary, I had to fight the urge to rip off my father’s head with MY BARE HANDS this morning, when he had the nerve to say, Amy! It’s the big day, honey! He was insisting on coming with me — his flight for Tokyo wasn’t taking off until eleven p.m. — but I told him I would rather make the entire trip on foot (I think I even said in flip flops, if memory serves), than put up with two more hours of that look of guilt and smug jolliness 54
A fight without the possibility of making up any time soon.
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Well, I just have one thing to say:
Yes, too bad for you, Hubert Cloutier, if you can’t leave for la belle vie in Japan with a clear conscience. (And that’s enough about that.)
Weird driver with snooty accent: - You see here, on your right, the superrrbe St. Charles River, and just here, the faaabulous water tower that was built, listen to this, in 1852! Over 150 years ago! We will be arriving at our next stop soon, everyone. Now is the time to check that you have all of your belongings with you. And no sticking gum under the bus seats! Thank you for choosing Vio-Route!
te Oops, too la J for the gum
I thought, what would be my least worst option?
*** The driver gave us a hyper-enthusiastic description of the (fairly boring) landscape that rolled past the dirty bus windows. I was envious of the twohundred-year-old woman beside me who had quietly pulled out her hearing aid so she didn’t have to listen to the nasal voice of our driver/selfappointed tour guide.
A) Stay on board this depressing bus? B) Meet my “future foster family” for the first time?
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The bus had stopped right in the middle of an enormous and completely deserted parking lot. I looked around, but saw no one.
NOBODY!
I kept saying to myself ... AM I DREAMING OR WHAT? Did my fake foster family really ... forget me? And as if to add to the stress of the moment, I realized that the old lady, the chubby guy with the freckles and the driver were all staring at me, wondering whether I was ever going to get off the bus. I was clearly the only person
The driver, her two hands clamped on her steering wheel, called out, - “Aren’t you getting off here?” - “Um, yes, but are you sure this is the right stop? I mean, isn’t there another stop in Sainte-Lorette?” - “No, this is the only one. For sure sure. Okay, now make up your mind because we’re not spending all day here, kid.” I looked outside one last time. I would have given anything to see a car drive up! A car with a whole big family in it that would have pulled up at top speed with the tires squealing (screeeeeech, just like in an action movie). Everyone in the car would be trying to tell me their version of some crazy, barely believable story about what had happened to make them late. And that would have made everything (a bit) better.
getting off at Sainte-Lorette.
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NOW WHAT DO I DO?
BUT THERE WAS NO CAR NO FAMILY NO CRAZY STORY. ?
I quickly resigned myself to the situation. I half-heartedly grabbed the two garbage bags that were my luggage and I left my seat, dragging my feet. (yes, my dad always keeps
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his promises and he never did go back to the Bay to buy me a new suitcase)
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I watched the bus pull away. Leaving me abandoned in this suburban wilderness a hundred times sadder than the girl in the nightmares I’d been having over the past days. 60
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OK, I’ve officially gone crazy (or else I’m the only girl left in the world). I’m talking to myself.
(I AM A DI SASTER .)
My life is a disaster.
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To be continued...
For more information, contact us! Margot Cittone, Foreign Rights Manager : mc@lesmalins.ca 64