Art by Mike Webb
I’m an eleven-year-old girl named Amy Kadmon. It’s not a very good name, I think, but I told my friends that I love their names, and they said they hate them. Maybe it’s an unseen curse that makes no one like their own names. Or maybe – and this is what I really believe – we were all supposed to name ourselves, but our parents wanted to feel like they owned us. My parents don’t seem all that evil, except when they fight, but I can tell that when I do something really good, they become proud – it's the same with my brother. I’m proud of my drawings because I created them, and I own them. So there’s that, the ownership thing; my friends thought I was crazy when I told them, so I stopped telling people. Everyone says I'm quiet now and they don't know why. Throughout my life everyone has said that I have crazy thoughts, but they say it in a nice way: they say I have ‘imagination.’ It could be true. When I grow up, I’m going to let my children name themselves whatever they want.
The first time my friends came to my house, they all said my family was rich. I had never thought about it before then, even though my friends all live in either apartments or townhouses. Suddenly I began looking at my house differently; it felt like the answer to a math question that I once knew but don’t know anymore. Solving it was going to be the key to my comfort, so I went through each of the rooms with my friends, looking for what made my house feel so much like home. The deeper we went into my house, the more my friends said I was rich, and began making jokes. I started to feel really bad so I asked them to leave, making up a lie that my uncle was coming over soon to pick me up. “To go to the castle?” asked Sarah, who had been my reading buddy in grade three. The other girls giggled with her; by that time I couldn’t help myself from crying, and they left of their own will. I haven’t really talked to them in a while, but I still think they’re my friends. But am I really rich? A thought came to me a few days later, where I considered that they might just be poor, but it seemed a very mean thing to think, so I stopped the thought in its tracks. After all, everything I think is crazy.
The most I see my parents is around dinnertime. My dad is a doctor and my mom is a nurse, but they didn’t meet in a hospital; from what my grandmother tells me, they met in a library, searching for the same medical book. Their hands touched it at the same time and they fell in love at first sight. I’m pretty sure I saw that in a movie before, and I asked my grandmother why the hospital didn’t have the medical book, but she got this really strange look in her eyes and just stared out the window. My grandmother lives in a retirement home, which is filled with a lot of other old people who get this same look. I wonder what they see. Anyway, my parents work a lot, but they still take care of us. There’s always a lot of food in the fridge for me to make sandwiches out of.
My brother’s name is Adam. He’s sixteen and spends a lot of time in his room studying, and when he talks it’s almost always about school; I find it very boring, so it’s good that he rarely talks directly to me. Sometimes I feel invisible . . . but that has nothing to do with Adam. In his room are a lot of scented blue gel things. I’m not really sure what they’re called; just air fresheners, I guess. When I go into his room to borrow books, and he doesn’t have the gel things replaced, it smells of sweat. It can be pretty gross. High school books are a lot more interesting than the books I read in public school; the characters seem more real to me. When my brother is working on a reading assignment, I try to read as much of the book as possible before he brings it back. I’d go to a library, but there are just too many books to decide from, so this is a lot easier. Adam says that when I go to high school, he’ll tell me everything that I need to know. I love him.
Right now I’m sitting on my bed by the window; the pattering rain sounds like a hundred tiny fingers tapping the glass, trying to get in. And I would let them in, too, because I love the feel of rain, but mom will just tell me to shut it again. The sky is a dark green like the lake where I go swimming, and all of the houses and trees look very black and grey. I wish the rain would keep coming down, and down, and down until the streets were filled with rainwater, and I could just dive out my window into it. All of the cats would become catfish and all of the dogs, dogfish. I’ve always wanted a cat but I’m allergic to them, and dogs scare me because I was attacked by one when I was six years old; there’s a tiny scar below my right eye, but it’s not really noticeable. The rain is really soothing, and I climb atop my bed and hug my knees, listening intently.
The light blue pyjamas I’m wearing were given to me last Christmas by my grandmother, who knows my favourite colour, and pretty much everything else about me. This year’s Christmas vacation just started, so I have an entire two weeks of freedom from school, only I don’t know what to do with them. Video games actually seemed like a tempting present to ask for, but I get bored quickly whenever I play them. There’s no substitute for the entertainment of a good book, which is something no one my age will ever say, except for the really smart kids I see on tv. When I watch movies, my favourites are always the cartoon ones, because they’re the most imaginative. It’s hard to imagine that the grownups who think I’m odd are the same grownups who make movies about talking animals who travel the world. I think I might get a DVD for Christmas, if anyone in my family has been paying attention – and I’m always surprised to learn that they usually are. Presents aren’t much of an exciting topic for me unless it’s something that I really, really want, and what I really, really want is to be noticed without being made fun of.
I’m actually trying not to think of it all the time, but it seems impossible. So I try to empty my mind and just listen to the rain, but even that is hard; I can’t stop thinking. Down the hall comes the sound of my mom’s light footsteps, giving me something else to focus on. My door opens, and she says good night to me before turning off my light and shutting the door, leaving me in ocean blue darkness. I feel like I’ve been buried underwater with a broken submarine for a coffin. While my mom must’ve thought that I’m ready for bed, I actually need to pee, so I wait for the household’s night time sounds to quiet down before heading to the bathroom. I don’t need to describe this to myself, so I just finish before washing my face, and look at it in the mirror. My hair is black like my mom’s, but shorter than hers; it barely touches my shoulders. I have my dad’s blue eyes, while Adam has his blonde hair and our mom’s eyes, which are a very pretty green. Before turning away, I stare at the tiny scar below my eye. It shouldn’t matter, but I can’t help myself; for some reason I need to look at it every time I’m near a mirror.
I return to the darkness of my room, the rain outside never skipping a beat, and the sound my bed makes as I climb in is that of a creaking ship. A stuffed animal rolls onto my face when I lie down – Milton, the cat I’ll never have. Hugging him, I curl into a tiny ball and shut my eyes, trying to push away the thoughts of loneliness with those of Christmas.