and reaches down to her shoulder. The door opens, and she scrambles inside with all her belongings.
As I silently let myself in, I hear a fast-talking girl’s voice chatting to my mom, telling her news from up north. You can tell by the way she talks that she’s chewing gum. In between are greetings from this or that relative who sends their best and is really grateful that Mom can help the family in these difficult times. Mom occasionally drops something into the nonstop stream of words, saying things like “Bless her,” and “Oh, that’s no problem,” and “How is she, anyway?” before the girl continues her stories with her giggles and sighs. Before I know it, my ears have dragged me to the kitchen door.
“Now, this is my Josh,” Mom says happily. “Josh, you remember your cousin Gertrude,” she says, and looks me straight in the eye with a fake smile.
The girl turns to Mom and corrects her. “Trudy,” she says. “I want to be called Trudy.”
Mom is quick to realize. “Trudy, I meant to say. Now, be polite and greet her properly.”
The girl looks me up and down, and I stretch out my hand. She is obviously unimpressed. But I don’t care. The feeling is mutual.
“Hi,” she says. Her handshake is limp.
“Gertrude is going to stay with us until spring,” Mom says as if to emphasize that I accept the fact at once.
“Trudy,” the girl corrects her again.
“Oh, sorry, dear,” Mom says, and I realize that this cousin of mine is already some kind of favorite. Mom never uses this tone when she’s speaking to me.
I turn in the doorway and go up to my room.
“Oh, he’s becoming such a teenager,” I hear Mom say apologetically. I can feel all the nos inside me jump up and throng in my throat, getting ready to hurl themselves out in one instant. So, to do something, I slam the door behind me and throw my schoolbag into a corner.
Teenager. Is that’s how she apologizes for me to strangers? And what’s being a teenager? I know perfectly well what it is: it’s carrying your mom around on your back over thin ice that’s cracking with each step, and all the help she gives you is to tell you off for stepping too heavily on the ice. Teenager: that’s having no one. The only thing I have in all the world is this bed I’m lying on.
I’m like a shipwrecked man, clinging desperately to his raft, unable to see any land after drifting for thirteen years on the ocean. Now my cousin has moved in, and my room will become a kind of hallway for her. This arrangement my mom has made must be a breach of some kind of human rights. I’m sure there must be at least twenty million boys like me in the world that have seventeen-year-old cousins. Somewhere in China or Africa, there must be a boy like me who has a cousin like Gertrude. So why does this necessarily have to happen to me but not him? And why can’t Gertrude be a boy? Then at least I could imagine he was my older brother, and we could have fun together. But no; she had to be a girl. And it doesn’t matter what I feel about all this. No, I’m just “becoming such a teenager.”
The door opens, and Mom stands there with a warning look in her eyes and a stiff smile on her lips.
“Well, Joshua, dear, now we just have to go through here a little.”
“My name is Josh,” I mumble into my comforter, but she acts as if she doesn’t hear.
Gertrude follows her, dragging her suitcase and bag over the floor. She gives my room a glance. Maybe wondering why this isn’t her room. Yes, she’s probably thinking just that, the bitch. She shoots a glance in my direction and sends me a cold smirk. What’s the meaning of this? Is she making fun of me or is this how teenagers smile?
While they put all of Gertrude’s stuff in its place in her room, I leaf through a crime novel from my father’s library and sink myself into a juicy and horrible description of the methods of a murderer who stalks teenage girls. I read and I read in a burning rage until I
As I silently let myself in, I hear a fast-talking girl’s voice chatting to my mom, telling her news from up north. You can tell by the way she talks that she’s chewing gum. In between are greetings from this or that relative who sends their best and is really grateful that Mom can help the family in these difficult times. Mom occasionally drops something into the nonstop stream of words, saying things like “Bless her,” and “Oh, that’s no problem,” and “How is she, anyway?” before the girl continues her stories with her giggles and sighs. Before I know it, my ears have dragged me to the kitchen door.
“Now, this is my Josh,” Mom says happily. “Josh, you remember your cousin Gertrude,” she says, and looks me straight in the eye with a fake smile.
The girl turns to Mom and corrects her. “Trudy,” she says. “I want to be called Trudy.”
Mom is quick to realize. “Trudy, I meant to say. Now, be polite and greet her properly.”
The girl looks me up and down, and I stretch out my hand. She is obviously unimpressed. But I don’t care. The feeling is mutual.
“Hi,” she says. Her handshake is limp.
“Gertrude is going to stay with us until spring,” Mom says as if to emphasize that I accept the fact at once.
“Trudy,” the girl corrects her again.
“Oh, sorry, dear,” Mom says, and I realize that this cousin of mine is already some kind of favorite. Mom never uses this tone when she’s speaking to me.
I turn in the doorway and go up to my room.
“Oh, he’s becoming such a teenager,” I hear Mom say apologetically. I can feel all the nos inside me jump up and throng in my throat, getting ready to hurl themselves out in one instant. So, to do something, I slam the door behind me and throw my schoolbag into a corner.
Teenager. Is that’s how she apologizes for me to strangers? And what’s being a teenager? I know perfectly well what it is: it’s carrying your mom around on your back over thin ice that’s cracking with each step, and all the help she gives you is to tell you off for stepping too heavily on the ice. Teenager: that’s having no one. The only thing I have in all the world is this bed I’m lying on.
I’m like a shipwrecked man, clinging desperately to his raft, unable to see any land after drifting for thirteen years on the ocean. Now my cousin has moved in, and my room will become a kind of hallway for her. This arrangement my mom has made must be a breach of some kind of human rights. I’m sure there must be at least twenty million boys like me in the world that have seventeen-year-old cousins. Somewhere in China or Africa, there must be a boy like me who has a cousin like Gertrude. So why does this necessarily have to happen to me but not him? And why can’t Gertrude be a boy? Then at least I could imagine he was my older brother, and we could have fun together. But no; she had to be a girl. And it doesn’t matter what I feel about all this. No, I’m just “becoming such a teenager.”
The door opens, and Mom stands there with a warning look in her eyes and a stiff smile on her lips.
“Well, Joshua, dear, now we just have to go through here a little.”
“My name is Josh,” I mumble into my comforter, but she acts as if she doesn’t hear.
Gertrude follows her, dragging her suitcase and bag over the floor. She gives my room a glance. Maybe wondering why this isn’t her room. Yes, she’s probably thinking just that, the bitch. She shoots a glance in my direction and sends me a cold smirk. What’s the meaning of this? Is she making fun of me or is this how teenagers smile?
While they put all of Gertrude’s stuff in its place in her room, I leaf through a crime novel from my father’s library and sink myself into a juicy and horrible description of the methods of a murderer who stalks teenage girls. I read and I read in a burning rage until I
Similar Books
