Just J by Colin Frizzell Read Free Book Online Page A

than normal people. Not that he’s not normal…oh, this is awkward.
    â€œHello, ladies. Where would the two of you be off to today?” he asks.
    Oh God, maybe he’ll think I’m repulsed by him or some–thing, and that’s why I’m staring at the ground. I don’t know if I can look without staring, though. What a horrible way to find out I’m an idiot.
    â€œWe’re headed to Prince Edward County,” Aunt Guin tells him.
    â€œWhat a lucky coincidence! So am I. And what part of the county would you be going to?”
    The way they talk to each other, it’s as if they were put–ting on a show for me, mocking themselves as they speak, but they don’t seem to be paying much attention to me at all. They seem more interested in entertaining themselves, which is fine. It lets me continue to stare at my feet.
    â€œWhy, out near Sandbanks Provincial Park.”
    â€œThis is your lucky day indeed. That’s where I’m headed.”
    â€œMy name is Guinevere and this is my niece, Jenevieve, and we would be awfully grateful for a lift.”
    â€œGuin and Jen, lovely. I would be happy for the company. My name’s Arthur, but you may call me Art. Tell me, Jen, is there something particularly fascinating about the patch of ground at your feet or is it the shoes that are demanding your undivided attention?”
    Busted! I slowly look up and my eyes go to Aunt Guin first, to prepare myself or perhaps in hopes of rescue. She points to her eyes and then her mouth. I don’t know why, but I wipe both my eyes and my mouth, just to be sure.
    I look up at Art, and the first thing I notice is his mouth, which is curved up in the warmest and friendliest of smiles. Making my way up to his eyes, I find them gentle and playful with just a distant hint of sadness. I’ve never looked so closely at a person’s smile or so deeply into their eyes before, but as I do, all our differences disappear.
    â€œNice to meet you, Jen,” he says.
    â€œJust J,” I say, introducing myself properly. “And it’s nice to meet you too.”
    â€œHop in,” he says as he pops open the side door. As nice as he is, I still don’t feel comfortable getting into a stranger’s van.
    â€œIf you know him, why did you introduce yourself?” I whisper to Aunt Guin.
    â€œEvery moment is the beginning of a new journey and another chance to reinvent oneself. Every time you introduce yourself, you start fresh. It makes it easier.”
    â€œBesides,” adds Art, “think about how much stress and how many awkward moments could be avoided if you never had to remember anyone’s name.”
    Oh no, there’s two of them.
    The van smells like gasoline. In the back there’s a wall of freshly cut wood. They say that you can tell the age of the tree if you count the rings, so I count one of the rounds. It has close to thirty-eight rings. Maybe it was planted the year Mom was born. And died about the same time too. I try to picture the trees as they once stood, but I see only their dismembered bodies lying before me. As we make our way out of the city, the living trees can’t take away the images of the remains. Seeing a seedling on one lawn, planted next to a stump, almost makes me sick.
    The smell of dead trees overpowers the stink of gasoline and conquers my senses. It’s the smell of death, and yet it’s a pleasant smell—it’s Christmas.
    We used to make a big deal out of Christmas. Ours was always the largest tree on the block, and on Christmas Eve we’d invite the whole neighborhood over. The outside of the house would be covered in lights and the inside with tinsel and fresh-cut cedar boughs.
    We live near a golf course, and Mom would go there at night with Billy, me, a toboggan and a pair of clippers. She’d cut branches off the cedars that line the course and I’d pile them on and around Billy, who stayed on