earthgirl

by Jennifer Cowan

  earthgirl_

  earthgirl_

  Jennifer Cowan

  Text copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Cowan

  Published in Canada and the USA in 2009 by Groundwood Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801, Toronto, Ontario M5V 2K4

  or c/o Publishers Group West

  1700 Fourth Street, Berkeley, CA 94710

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Ontario Arts Council.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Cowan, Jennifer

  Earthgirl / Jennifer Cowan.

  ISBN 978-0-88899-889-7 (bound).–ISBN 978-0-88899-890-3 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PS8605.O9252E27 2009 jC813’.6 C2008-905688-4

  Cover photo by Tim Fuller

  Design by Michael Solomon

  Printed and bound in Canada

  For Alexander

  Acknowledgments

  For their encouragement, friendship and insights, huge thanks to Tim Smith, Stella Harvey and the Whistler Vicious Circle, Ann MacNaughton, Cynthia Macdonald, Anna Stancer, Robbie Rosenberg, Karen Freedman, Julie Lacey, Douglas Coupland, Amy Stulberg, Bronwyn Cosgrave, Rolph Blythe, Shelley Tanaka, Sarah MacLachlan, Patsy Aldana, the rocking team at Groundwood Books and the Ontario Arts Council.

  To Mutti for the typewriter, Grammy for the sense of humour, my dad for teaching me to kick ass, and my mom for letting him.

  one_

  It was just after the freakish summer of humidity and hailstones, around the time that the cows got mad again and the chickens went crazy. One of those September afternoons made for skipping the scarring effects of school and healing with your grrlz.

  Maybe even kick it up with some retail therapy, if you were so inclined.

  “Relax, Sabine, Somerville isn’t even here today, so it’s not like anyone will miss you,” Carmen Vanucci said in the conspiratorial shout-whisper that was my best girl’s trademark. As if shopping during school hours was actually something to be encouraged.

  “Except us if you don’t ditch, too,” Ella added with her best moony look perfected after years of staring into reflective surfaces (reflective, ha!).

  True to form, our moody English teacher Ms. Lesley Somerville was away again. No doubt another messy reaction to her latest meds. Or internet date. Or both.

  “You of all people know we’ll learn way more if we go to Kensington Market,” Carmen said. “It’s a seething petri dish of humanity, unlike this cesspool of losers.”

  “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass,” I said.

  “C’mon, Bean,” Ella sighed, tugging gently at my sleeve. “It won’t be the same without you.”

  “Yeah, who’ll give the running commentary on our every purchase?” Carmen mocked.

  “I rode my bike,” I said, as if that would qualify as a legit excuse to not ditch and head downtown.

  “So, get it on the way home,” Carmen said, leaning in close. “Besides, we don’t just want you there. We need you.”

  Ella beamed and nodded as they locked arms, stepped closer and ganged up on me. The tough-love slutz.

  “Tell you what. I’ll rep us for English and meet you at 4:30. By the burrito place,” I said, heading down the hallway toward class despite the magnetic pull in their direction. “Later, chiquitas.”

  •••

  I should have gone with them. Our perma-sub slug Mr. Mendoza’s incoherent ranting combined with the lack of air circulation in the class nearly left me comatose. Were it not for staring at the back of Shane McCardle’s beautiful baby-dreaded head and imagining myself gently combing out the gnar-gnar nest of tangles, all might have been lost.

  The second the final bell went, I bolted to hot-pedal it downtown.

  Within a few blocks, it was apparent I was a tad over-dressed in my reflective nylon cycling jacket. But as a safety-first kinda gal, I opted to sweat and be seen. And really there’s nothing quite like neon green and reflector tape to ensure you don’t blend in with the background scenery.

  The traffic was its usual snarly mess. Full-on rush hour, even though it wasn’t really rush hour. Actually, it seemed like there wasn’t even rush hour any more, just constant traffic tangles 24/7. Suddenly there were more and more cars occupying less and less space in the city. Then again, maybe trying to negotiate the mayhem without being squashed beneath the wheels of a semi or getting the door prize as someone winged their car door open into me made me more aware.

  When I finally got my licence, I’d be a way more conscientious driver than these wingnuts.

  I was pretty close to exhausted, not to mention beyond sticky and damp, when I cleared the intersection at College and Spadina. What was I thinking, riding down here after another hellish day of school? Though I was salivating for a spicy yam and chicken burrito.

  So, even though I knew it wasn’t proper cyclist etiquette, I decided to head south on Augusta, which yes, I know, is one way north. But hey, it’s not like I’m not cautious and nimble on my two wheels. I would watch for pedestrians, as per the rules of the road, especially since, well, I was going the wrong way.

  And really, was my wrong-way pedal more offensive than, say, that suburban she-monster in the scrunchie idling her champagne-colored minivan up ahead in the clearly marked No Parking zone? I think not. Ever heard of greenhouse gas emissions, lady? The disappearing glaciers and ozone? And really, I’m no slave to fashion, but let’s not even start on the eons-over scrunchie.

  Beside the stupid minivan, Carmen and Ella were already at the burrito place, hanging out the swing-out window, meaning they hadn’t waited for me.

  I took a quick glance down at my watch. It wasn’t even 4:30. Now I’d have to eat and walk as they did their –

  THWACK!

  There was a sharp popping noise and suddenly something soft, dark, gooey and wet was dripping down my face onto my jacket and top.

  “Geez!” I huffed as I squeezed my brakes too hard, nearly taking a header over my handlebars.

  What had just happened? Had I hit something? Or someone? Won the door prize? Been shot?

  I looked around me with that strange super-fast yet ultra-slo-mo sense that seems to take over in situations like this. Up at the cloudless blue sky, at the sidewalk where a pocket dog in a plaid jacket was yapping wildly, down at the brown slime across my chest, then at the ground where I saw crumpled nugget and fry boxes and a drippy synthetic sauce container.

  In the minivan beside me, scrunchie skank was wiping her mouth with one of those industrial strength napkins and redoing her lipstick.

  And then what had hit me, hit me. The bitch had beaned me with the debris of her McFatty meal!

  Almost instinctively, I picked up her crap from the pavement and tossed it back through her open window.

  “Excuse me, ma’am? I think you dropped something,” I heard myself say in a calm, not the least bit hostile or sarcastic voice.

  Wiping the goo of leaked plum sauce off my fingers, I was about to ride away toward Carm and Ella when the littering lunatic flew out of her car and pushed me. And despite, or maybe because of, my bike being straddled between my legs, I keeled over. Right on my butt!

  “Now that was not very nice,” I screamed, boiling up with a rage
I’d never felt before. A rage so big I could feel it in my belly, fingertips, toes and even my ears.

  “Look what you did! You got grease and sauce on my interior,” she huffed back. “This car is two months old and you ruined it!”

  “You threw garbage at an innocent passerby. I think you ruined it yourself, you nutcase,” I hollered back, looking around at the street signs and slowly building group of gawkers. “And besides, this is a Loading Only zone and I don’t think that means loading your face with food in your big fat polluting car!”

  “For your information, mouthy girl, you weren’t supposed to be there,” she said, pointing at the One Way sign.

  “And that makes throwing your crap into the street okay? The world is not your garbage can, lady. And how could you not even see me? I practically glow in the dark here. And then you push me? There are witnesses, you know. I could have you charged with assault, you and your big stupid truck car,” I wailed, feeling enraged and exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time.

  “Oh, you little radical, riding your bicycle so smug and healthy. You think you’re better than me? That you can judge me?” she howled, climbing back into the minivan and slamming her door. “You and your people disgust me!”

  And then she floored it, bombing straight through the Stop sign and was gone.

  “You could have killed someone, you crazy crazy-person!” I screamed into the air after her.

  “With her garbage? Gross, but not exactly deadly,” Carmen said as she and Ella suddenly appeared through the small crowd that had gathered, handing me a damp, grotty-looking rag.

  “No, running the Stop sign, being a selfish idiot.” I plunked down on the curb beside my bike. “Not caring. And what’s with the my people crap?”

  “See, if you’d come downtown with us like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened – or at least not to you, anyway,” Ella said, inspecting the spot on my shirt. “I hope that glop didn’t wreck your top. I love that color on you.”

  “You’re right,” I realized. If I’d skipped with them, I’d have already eaten my burrito and the loon would have chucked her crap on the street uninterrupted. Unwitnessed. Unaccountable. And this whole fabulous fiasco might never have even happened.

  Except it did.

  “Hey, way to go,” a guy with a soul patch and a bull piercing said, giving me props as he walked past.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” an older woman dragging a grocery-stuffed bundle buggy nodded. “You certainly told her. Sadly I don’t think she was listening.”

  “Thanks,” I smiled, feeling a little awkward and a lot chuffed that these total strangers were congratulating me.

  “That was totally insane!” Carmen laughed as she slapped me on the back. “If I didn’t video it, I’d have never believed it.”

  “Yeah, you were pretty great,” Ella agreed. “Hey, lock your bike and come inside. We have the best table ever.”

  “Front row seats, though I doubt anything as exciting will happen now,” Carmen said as they hooked arms with me and pulled me to my feet.

  •••

  “I might be too revved up to eat,” I said as we stood at the counter. I was feeling very zingy and a tad odd, a mix of adrenaline and anxiousness.

  “Don’t be stupid. You should celebrate,” Carmen said. “With extra hot sauce.”

  The burly counter guy with full arm tats handed me a burrito. Even before I said what I wanted.

  “Yam and chicken, right?” he smiled. “My treat, for nailing that whack job out there. My customers can do without sucking back car exhaust.”

  “Thanks,” I beamed. I mean, recognition and free food? It was almost like being a celebrity or something. And all for simply doing the right thing at the right time. Wow.

  “We ordered for you before,” Ella leaned in to whisper, snatching away my fleeting moment of glory.

  “That was so awesome, Bean,” Carmen giggled.

  “Yeah, you were so crazy, I thought you’d kick her car or slap her or something,” Ella said, her eyes widening.

  “Me, too,” I answered while stuffing my face. So much for too hyper to eat. I was suddenly famished. “I hate when people are so obviously wrong and act like what you did was more wrong than them to take the heat off or excuse it!”

  “You were riding the wrong way on a one-way street,” Carmen pointed out unhelpfully.

  “So, I was on a bike. Besides, that’s not as bad as hurling garbage out your car window at an innocent stranger. Not even close.”

  “Maybe not exactly,” Ella said calmly. “Still, they’re both sort of wrong, illegal even, and who’s to say what’s more wrong, especially when you decide you’re the one who is right? I mean, of course I’m on your side, Bean, but wrong is wrong, right?”

  I stopped chewing for a split second to look at my friends. My supposed best friends on the entire planet.

  First off, I couldn’t believe that such sentient words and ideas were coming from shiny happy Ella of all people. They were actually almost deep. And secondly, I was amazed at how quickly I’d gone from being the shit to being subjected to a stupid debate on morality. That hardly seemed fair considering I was the one covered in plum sauce. And all they did was stand on the sidelines with their fresh, crispy loot and sparkly new cellphones.

  “Wrong, shmong, who cares about any of that? Look at how amazing the picture is on this phone. The resolution rocks. I’m so glad I bugged my mom to buy it for me,” Carmen announced. “Check this, you can practically see steam come out of your ears when she pushed you over. Unbelievable.”

  “What a cow,” Ella laughed, leaning into Carmen’s shoulder to watch on the minuscule screen. “And in a scrunchie and sweats! Ewwww.”

  “You filmed all that? Lemme see,” I said, grabbing the fuchsia cellphone from her perfectly manicured mitts. I was curious to see how I looked on the teeny tiny monitor, especially since this was a permanent document and all. Who knew, if it were any good, it might even be worth YouTubing. To enlighten and inspire everyone out there in the big wide world.

  I seriously hoped I looked kinda cute and a bit hot.

  b e i n g h e r e

  [ September 26th | 10:39pm ]

  [ mood | determined ]

  [ music | PJ Harvey — Good Fortune ]

  Yeah, yeah, it’s been a while for the Bean. Grand apologies all around. I just didn’t want to bore you with the minutiae of the minutiae. Guess I was waiting for something epic and explosive to report.

  And today that *IT* happened!!

  Riding my bike through Kensington Market I got PELTED by some soccer-mom-she-ho and the detritus (thx Mr. Thesaurus) of her mccrappy meal. I FREAKED, as would any normal sane person, since getting pelted with garbage isn’t just gross, it’s profoundly NOT ON.

  What followed was a blur of bad words (mostly mine!), hoots and shouts from bystanders – all caught on video by my girl CV. Click the YouTube link below!!!!

  It was a shocking, unnecessary and profoundly horrible event. One I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And yet I emerge from it not only unscathed (save for a nasty brown sauce stain) but strangely enriched. Empowered even.

  To do better and be better because clearly there are a lot of people out there who need role models and guidance.

  And maybe just maybe this happened because I’m the one to inspire the confused, misguided and/or slovenly masses to better, kinder interactions with their fellow beings and beans. Here’s to trying anyway.

  Inspiringly yours, Sabine the being.

  link post comment

  www.youtube.com/watch/W3515z.garbageassault

  two_

  “Honey, I was thinking, I’m just not comfortable with you posting your picture all over the web for the whole world to see,” my mom said at breakfast the next morning.

  “Relax. It’s not a porno site. It’s just video sharing, like that creepo Australian hug-me guy you thought was so adorable,” I said.

  My mom Rachel, unfortunat
ely, was actually vaguely tech savvy, having somehow, despite her vintage, mastered the skill of text messaging to stay on the down lo with my stupid sister Clare. That and she worked in PR and marketing and was now totally into web stuff. The future of all interaction and communication, her colleagues liked to say, as if they had actually invented it or had a clue and weren’t led by the hand by their way more clever kids.

  “I don’t care, I don’t like it. Take it down, please,” she said with a that’s-final-so-don’t-argue-with-me tone.

  “C’mon, Mom, maybe Sabine just wants some free hugs,” Clare goaded. “It could be her only chance to get a cuddle.”

  “Shut up,” I snapped, realizing I was definitely touchy about my neverending boyfriendlessness thing.

  “Don’t overreact, Rachel,” Dad said as he filled his car cup with coffee. “It’s not like anyone’s going to bother to watch her have some boring argument with someone. People are busy.”

  “Gee, thanks for the support,” I huffed. “I have a life-changing encounter that might actually be of value to other people and all you do is knock it.”

  “We’re not knocking anything, sweetie,” Mom said, now pulling out her sensible-mom voice. “I just don’t see the necessity of making an uncomfortable personal exchange with someone into some big public tirade. It’s nobody’s business but your own.”

  “Did you even hear a word I said last night? This uncomfortable exchange, as you call it, is about something much bigger. It’s like a metaphor for the way people crap on the planet and each other and the animals, on the air, on everything! And it has to stop. Someone has to make it stop.”

  “Someone has to make this stop. I’m trying to eat the most important meal of the day and this is really annoying,” Clare groaned as she shoveled back a mouthful of cereal and made a face at me.

  Typical. My supposedly supportive family stomping on my moment of glory. I was actually amped to get to school for once to see how my epic exchange was shaking down in my own personal peer-mediated universe. Who knew, maybe this would surpass Alexis Shaw and her eating disorder in the Northern Collegiate food chain of daily dish.