LITMIR.BIZ

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that I don’t have to go, but it will probably be really fun and maybe I should go, even for just a little bit. She says that maybe it’s time for Martin and me to be friends again.

      And maybe I should just take a bowl of ice cream up to my room and think about it.

      My mom gives me a ton of tissue and a huge bowl of chocolate ice cream. But as soon as she hands me the ice cream my tears stop, honestly just like a little kid.

      Weird. Very weird. I haven’t cried in ages, I think I said that. I haven’t cried in so long, I can’t really remember the last time.

      And then, boom, I do a little night flying, I get my period, an old friend from when I was a kid shows me some kindness and invites me to a party, and I’m crying all over the place.

      I couldn’t say exactly why, but that cry in the kitchen with my mom hugging me made me feel better. My mom dries my eyes and says mom stuff like I’m a great kid, and it’s hard changing into a teenager, and everybody feels uncomfortable and weird and different at this time in their life.

      If she only knew how truly weird and different I am.

      I take my backpack, my ice cream, and the tissue box and go up to my room. I take the handbook out and stow it safely under my bed, under some clothes so no one can see it. Then I open my cupboard and start to think about what I’m going to wear.

      Which poses a whole new set of problems and makes me want to cry again, but for a different reason. My wardrobe isn’t exactly brimming with this year’s latest looks, if you know what I mean.

      But more importantly, just what, exactly, does a Night Flyer wear to a party?

      I need help, fast.

      TWENTY-THREE

      I need Jez. But I forgot: she’s at a family barbecue.

      Rats. What am I going to do? I’m on my own.

      I stand in front of my open closet. Lots of brown corduroys and black leggings. My shirts are all purple and dark brown. There are some horrifying cutesy dresses that I stopped wearing a few years ago but haven’t gotten around to moving into Christine’s closet.

      My wardrobe looks like a giant bruise. When was the last time I went shopping for clothes? I do a mental memory check, and it doesn’t really compute. It must have been over a year ago. Apart from a few essentials, lately I’ve been mostly borrowing Mom’s stuff.

      I’m just about to go down to the kitchen to see if Mom can help when she knocks on the door. She’s been doing that a lot more lately, knocking instead of just walking in.

      “Come in,” I say.

      She walks in with a box with a ribbon on it. Ribbons don’t figure particularly large in our lives, not even at Christmas, so I’m suddenly a little edgy and worried.

      She laughs. “Don’t panic, Gwennie. It’s not a pink satin dress or anything. I bought this for your birthday next month, but you might want to try it out tonight.”

      My mom takes the lid off the box, and there inside is the most beautiful long swishy shirt I’ve ever seen. It’s dark green with white pearl buttons up the front, and I think it’s made of silk or something really soft.

      I instantly love it and pick it up and rub it against my face.

      Night Flyer or not, my mom does know me a little, I guess.

      “Thanks, Mom,” is all I can say. She nods and gives my shoulder a squeeze.

      “You can borrow my leather sandals, too, if you like,” are her parting words as she turns and vanishes through the door.

      Her leather sandals cost $150 at the store in the big town down the highway. They were a special gift to herself last summer. They are great sandals. I sometimes sneak them on, but I’ve never worn them outside the house.

      “Okay,” I say, silently really thankful that I had that recent growth spurt and my mom and I now have the same size feet.

      First time I’ve been happy that I grew so much. I sit on the bed for a long time, looking at my reflection, just hugging my new shirt.

      Who is that girl in the mirror, anyhow?

      TWENTY-FOUR

      It takes a while for me to get ready. I try on too many pairs of pants and leggings with the new green shirt. I try on so many that I actually work up a sweat, but I finally decide that I should wear the newish black leggings I got at Christmas. I put on some deodorant (which is the newest thing I own) and pull on the green shirt.

      I brush my hair out straight, which is tricky because when there’s even a breath of humidity it curls in giant waves, so I look like a little kid. Mental note. I’ll have to keep bugging Mom for that hair straightener. Now she’s given me my shirt, I guess there’s room for a new present in time for my birthday.

      Ever hopeful.

      I slip downstairs quietly and slide my feet into Mom’s expensive sandals. I take a peek at myself in the hallway mirror.

      I’m not sure what I expect to see, but there’s definitely something different about me. I’m certain that I look a lot older and a lot more refined in my green shirt. It’s sure not like wearing torn old jeans and beat-up T-shirts, although I have no problem with those most of the time.

      At that moment the front door opens and the Chrissies run in, armed with squirt guns. My mom runs in behind them, and before they can get any ideas she grabs the guns off them.

      They both stand stock still and stare at me with their mouths open. I swear I can hear their little brains working together to say something smart, but they surprise me and stay quiet.

      Christine speaks first. “You look pretty, Gwennie. I like that shirt.” My brother just stares at me and finally says, “What happened to you?”

      It could have been much worse. I actually think they may turn into real human beings one day. I smile at them both. They lose interest pretty fast, though, those two. Once I smile and don’t react, they wander away to watch TV. Not reacting is a new trick I’ve discovered when dealing with them, and it seems to work in my favour every time.

      My mom is not so easy to shake, though. She is standing between me and the door for a few moments. She says, “You look really great, Gwen. Be home by ten, get someone to walk you or call if you need me to pick you up. Have fun!”

      That’s it. I head out the door and into the early evening.

      I’m Gwennie Golden. I’m a Night Flyer, and I’m going to my first real party.

      TWENTY-FIVE

      Parties aren’t what I expected.

      I walk to Martin’s house, and when I get there, Martin doesn’t even say hello to me. His mom does, though, like a person who hasn’t seen you in a long time then realizes that they completely forgot that you existed. She actually says “Oh!” when she sees me, then continues with a brave face by saying my name really slowly, as it comes to her.

      I’m polite, though, and do a little bow, which seems to make her more nervous.

      I say “Hi, Mrs. Evells, remember me? I used to play here with Martin every day … when we were little….” She is looking at me and I can’t quite place the look. Is it confusion? Amnesia? Horror? I’m not sure, so eventually I just walk away because there doesn’t seem to be anything more I can do for her. I do catch a glimpse of her as she hurries back inside her house. She looks upset for some reason.

      I wander around to the backyard. A lot of kids are there when I arrive. Most of my class. Most of the grade nine class. There are a few kids I don’t recognize, who must be Martin’s friends from out of town, because it’s impossible not to know everyone in a small town like ours. Shelley Norman and the other giant grade nine girls all laugh when I walk in, but they might have

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