“act more ladylike.” Hank had short black hair she’d chopped herself, which had earned her a two-week grounding, during which time she’d not been allowed to spend time with me—which she’d found ways to do anyway, sneaking out of her bedroom window while her mother was watching television.
“She’s afraid I’ll just cut it again if she makes me grow it long,” Hank said with satisfaction when her hair started to grow back, ragged as a chrysanthemum. “She’s letting me keep it short as long as I promise to let her take me to her hairdresser when it needs trimming.”
Hank could cycle faster than any boy I knew, and she liked to catch tadpoles in the spring with me in the creek. When she’d asked me to call her by a boy’s name, I readily agreed. It seemed a very small concession for friendship, especially in light of the fact that she looked like a “Hank” and not remotely like a “Lucinda,” and we quickly became inseparable. We spent hours together building tree forts. In the spring, we caught tadpoles. In the fall, we threw ourselves into piles of leaves. In the winter, we tracked small animals by their prints in the snow, or pretended to be Arctic explorers.
We had no secrets from each other, except for the one I kept: I never told Hank about Amanda, the little girl who lived in my mirror, the little girl who had my face and spoke in my voice, but who was someone else entirely.
When I was seven years old, I’d begun speaking to my reflection in the mirror the way some children made up imaginary playmates. I named my reflection Mirror Pal and began to think of it as a separate entity.
I told Mirror Pal about my days at school, my teachers, the games I played at recess. When my mother was angry with me—and she was angry with me a lot—I told Mirror Pal about that, too. I spoke back to myself, pretending that my own voice was Mirror Pal’s voice, giving the response I wanted and needed at any given time. For instance, if I brought home a drawing with a gold star on it and my parents told me how good it was, Mirror Pal rejoiced with me. If I was sad, Mirror Pal was always sympathetic and agreeable that I was the aggrieved party, no matter the circumstances.
It was a lighthearted game of imagination and mental magic of the most innocent and childlike sort. At least until Amanda appeared a year later, when Terry Dodds stole my new red bike and had the accident.
I had learned to ride a bike the previous year on a battered and rust-veined green Roadmaster cruiser of my father’s that had been stored in my grandparents’ garage at the time of my grandmother’s death. In addition to its sentimental value, my father thought it was the perfect bike to teach me to ride. Learning to ride a bike is usually a painful process for any child, but my sense of balance was remarkably bad. In the beginning, my father held the bike as I pedalled, keeping me steady, running beside me as I wobbled along the sidewalks of our neighbourhood.
The first time he let go of the seat, I crashed badly, skinning both knees. I burst into tears. The pain from my kneecaps was like fire. They were bloody and there were tiny bits of dirt and concrete dust in them. My father held me and let me cry against his shirt. Then, gently, he insisted I get back up on the bike.
“It’s important, Jamie. You need to get back up now. I’ll clean off your cuts and put some Bactine on them when we get home, but right now you need to climb back up and pedal.”
I sniffled. “Why? I don’t want to. It hurts, Daddy. My knees sting. Look,” I added with dramatic flourish. “They’re
bleeding
.”
“Because you need to show the bike that it didn’t win, Jamie. That’s why.” His face was grave, that deeply serious expression he always had when he was imparting something vitally important. He rubbed the bridge of his nose where the horn-rimmed glasses he wore always left a red mark. “If we go home now, it will have beaten you.
“She’s afraid I’ll just cut it again if she makes me grow it long,” Hank said with satisfaction when her hair started to grow back, ragged as a chrysanthemum. “She’s letting me keep it short as long as I promise to let her take me to her hairdresser when it needs trimming.”
Hank could cycle faster than any boy I knew, and she liked to catch tadpoles in the spring with me in the creek. When she’d asked me to call her by a boy’s name, I readily agreed. It seemed a very small concession for friendship, especially in light of the fact that she looked like a “Hank” and not remotely like a “Lucinda,” and we quickly became inseparable. We spent hours together building tree forts. In the spring, we caught tadpoles. In the fall, we threw ourselves into piles of leaves. In the winter, we tracked small animals by their prints in the snow, or pretended to be Arctic explorers.
We had no secrets from each other, except for the one I kept: I never told Hank about Amanda, the little girl who lived in my mirror, the little girl who had my face and spoke in my voice, but who was someone else entirely.
When I was seven years old, I’d begun speaking to my reflection in the mirror the way some children made up imaginary playmates. I named my reflection Mirror Pal and began to think of it as a separate entity.
I told Mirror Pal about my days at school, my teachers, the games I played at recess. When my mother was angry with me—and she was angry with me a lot—I told Mirror Pal about that, too. I spoke back to myself, pretending that my own voice was Mirror Pal’s voice, giving the response I wanted and needed at any given time. For instance, if I brought home a drawing with a gold star on it and my parents told me how good it was, Mirror Pal rejoiced with me. If I was sad, Mirror Pal was always sympathetic and agreeable that I was the aggrieved party, no matter the circumstances.
It was a lighthearted game of imagination and mental magic of the most innocent and childlike sort. At least until Amanda appeared a year later, when Terry Dodds stole my new red bike and had the accident.
I had learned to ride a bike the previous year on a battered and rust-veined green Roadmaster cruiser of my father’s that had been stored in my grandparents’ garage at the time of my grandmother’s death. In addition to its sentimental value, my father thought it was the perfect bike to teach me to ride. Learning to ride a bike is usually a painful process for any child, but my sense of balance was remarkably bad. In the beginning, my father held the bike as I pedalled, keeping me steady, running beside me as I wobbled along the sidewalks of our neighbourhood.
The first time he let go of the seat, I crashed badly, skinning both knees. I burst into tears. The pain from my kneecaps was like fire. They were bloody and there were tiny bits of dirt and concrete dust in them. My father held me and let me cry against his shirt. Then, gently, he insisted I get back up on the bike.
“It’s important, Jamie. You need to get back up now. I’ll clean off your cuts and put some Bactine on them when we get home, but right now you need to climb back up and pedal.”
I sniffled. “Why? I don’t want to. It hurts, Daddy. My knees sting. Look,” I added with dramatic flourish. “They’re
bleeding
.”
“Because you need to show the bike that it didn’t win, Jamie. That’s why.” His face was grave, that deeply serious expression he always had when he was imparting something vitally important. He rubbed the bridge of his nose where the horn-rimmed glasses he wore always left a red mark. “If we go home now, it will have beaten you.
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