Culture | Lit supp part 7

nicholas cameron

Anthems of a seventeen-year-old girl (an excerpt)

January 14th, 2008

I’m not really sure how to start this. I mean like – I’ve had a bunch of these journals but I’ve always scrapped them halfway through. I get bored or don’t have enough time to write down all my thoughts and I lose track. Over time, I guess I just lose interest. But don’t worry. I promise I won’t lose interest in you.

Then again, that is what I said to Beatrice. Beatrice was my last journal. She was a black, hard-covered notebook I bought at Pages, just like you are. I like to imagine Beatrice had a snappy attitude, and one of those “you go, girl!” voices. Every so often, I would imagine her snapping her neck from left to right while shouting a “mhmmm” or a “that ain’t gone pay mai baills,” to the different things I wrote.

She: Sing it again, sista!

Now that I think of it that might have been Lashanda not Beatrice.

Oh, right!

Beatrice was the one who came before Lashanda. Wait, that’s impossible because Lashanda never existed. So who was after Beatrice then?

Try to figure that out, smart-ass! Enjoy figuring out who you are while you’re at it.

January 16th, 2008

It’s 7:50, Wednesday and I’m on the streetcar, headed toward school. Since I’ve already skimmed through the Metro, and having read the Celebrity reports, I’m writing. Thank god for you. Otherwise I’d have to endure the useless thoughts that go through my head every day:

Is this sweater too thin? Does that woman notice the cookie crumbs around her lips? I wonder how the streetcar driver chose to be a streetcar driver. I hate how this guy has brought his dog on the streetcar and expects everyone to smile and ask about it. I don’t care if it’s a rare breed; tell it to stop humping my leg.

January 24rd, 2008

Wednesday was the most insane night of my life.

My friend Jim’s band played a concert. Ok…the band’s not necessarily good but whenever they play a show it’s always at Jeff, the singer’s, house. His parents want to be supportive.

Allowing a house party in the middle of the week with drinking for underage high school kids makes all our parents detest the Lalondes. But to the rest of us, they are golden, pious liberators from boredom.

So, Jeff was having this party. By like, 11:30 I was buzzed because Imogen, Erin, and I did our usual Wednesday night routine of mixing vodka into three coke bottles in a Starbucks bathroom.

When we arrived at the party we were immediately offered a bottle of wine from Mr. & Mrs. Lalonde, which we graciously accepted. Erin was too drunk to function so Imogen tended to her while I went and danced. In my drunken state, it felt like I was listening to the messiahs of rock. I was dancing like mad.

Imogen, Erin and I had already arranged an elaborate plan to stay out all night.

I told my mom I was staying at Imogen’s.

Imogen told hers she was staying at Erin’s.

Erin told hers that she was staying at mine.

That way we can just crash whenever and wherever we want. Usually we just all go home at 3 or 4 a.m., and if our parents ask the next day why we are back from the person’s house and came home in the middle of the night, we just say that Katie called us a slut, and we broke down crying and needed to come home. When they ask us why we didn’t call them to pick them up we just say that we love them too much, and wanted them to sleep.

HOW GENIUS IS THAT!?

I’m the one who thought of it! We all use it! Every single month! And Katie doesn’t even exist.

Oh man. I don’t know where we would be without Katie.

Ok, anyways.

A lot of people had gone home, but the band was still playing. They started doing covers, of songs I don’t really remember but I know that they were covers. So I’m dancing, dancing, dancing, and this guy comes over. I didn’t see anything wrong with him. He was handsome and seemed nice and he wasn’t too aggressive or anything. After four, maybe five songs he leaned in and kissed me.

Now, I don’t remember much about the sex. I don’t really see how I could after what happened next. Here’s the deal. He thought I was someone who he knew that was on the pill… or I was on the pill or something… and I thought he was wearing a condom.

So, after the sex, when I came back from the bathroom, and he hadn’t gone yet to throw out the condom, the conversation went a little like this:

Me: Aren’t you going to go throw it out?

He: Throw it out?

Me: Yeah. What, are you going to keep it as some kind of memento?

He: What are you talking about? The roach?

Oh, I forgot to tell you, we smoked a spliff. I didn’t think it was that important but now I feel like if I didn’t tell you about the weed I would be lying to you… or something.

Me: Ok, well, like, his parents want people out soon and you should get rid of the condom so just go flush it and we can go downstairs.

I turned around to see his mouth ajar, his face white and his dilated pupils bulging out of like some sort of insect.

He: What condom?

Me: What!?

He: I didn’t use a condom! I thought you were on the pill.

Me: No! Why would you think that!?

He: I don’t know! I thought you were this girl who’s on it.

Me: You thought I “was this girl?”

He: Yeah.

Me: You are so fucking retarded! We’ve got to fix this!

He: How?!

I didn’t really know. All of a sudden all these words rushed through my mind.

Teenage pregnancy.

Condoms.

The pill.

Wedlock.

Birth.

Pregnancy.

Morning-after sickness.

Bloated.

Eating for two.

Me: I know! We’ll go to the drugstore, we’ll get the pill. The morning-after pill.

He: It’s past my curfew.

Me: If you leave me now, not only will I kill you and chop your balls off but I’ll tell your parents you tried to leave a drunk teenage girl, who you just impregnated through unmarried, unprotected sex, to carry your child and walk home alone in the middle of the night.

He: Ok, ok! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Let’s go.

We took the night bus to Yonge St. from Runnymede Station. Something weird happened on the way there. We started to hold hands. We didn’t talk, we didn’t argue, we barely made a noise.


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