My Daily Schedule

I am the only one who doesn't mind getting up early, and so the morning part of Martin Phoenix's day is my responsibility. We have a regular routine that we follow here at the villa. Alan Phoenix has washed and shaved by the time Martin Phoenix finishes his meal, and usually they go out into the yard looking for ripe figs while I do the dishes: theirs and mine from breakfast, and anything left over from last night when the five of us—Alan Phoenix, Luke Phoenix, Martin Phoenix, my mother, and I—had our bedtime snacks. Five of us can use a lot of dishes, even just at bedtime.

After Alan Phoenix goes next door to work with Madame Colombe, his partner in an art project he is working on here in France, Martin Phoenix and I go for a walk anywhere that his wheelchair will allow, or else we play checkers, or work on paintings of our own. Martin Phoenix can paint with his fingers and I print the title of his work underneath. His painting this morning was called Garden Poop and consisted of various splotches of brown. In the corner of the page was a large gray figure that I thought was a pigeon but he said was his brother, my friend Luke Phoenix.

I met Luke Phoenix last fall in a biology class at the University of Saskatchewan. We are the same age because I failed kindergarten and he failed a different grade after his mother died and his brother was born with cerebral palsy and had to be taken to various clinics all over the United States. Although Luke Phoenix is my friend, he could also be my brother someday if my mother and his father get married, but even though we are the same age we would not be twins. If my mother and his father get married, that would make Martin Phoenix my brother as well. If Martin Phoenix were my brother, I could not put this babysitting/personal care job on my resumé because you can't get a professional credit by working for your own family. I hope that my mother will not make any changes to our group dynamics until we get home to Canada and my work here is finished. Otherwise, my resumé will be ruined.

Usually Alan Phoenix comes back home for lunch and by this time my mother is awake and Luke Phoenix has returned from his tennis lesson. We all have bread and cheese— there are many kinds of cheeses here to choose from—and sometimes my mother and Alan Phoenix even have wine, which is not appropriate for lunch. They defend themselves by saying it is customary in France to have a small glass at noon. I did not know wine habits could be different between two countries.

We also have olives and fruit for lunch, as they grow all through the Luberon Valley. Peaches are in season and sometimes there are figs. I do not like the olives or peaches, but the figs are quite pleasant, with centers rather like blueberries when they are neither too sour nor too sweet. Luke Phoenix likes to eat olives and then spit the pits at his brother. He has a surprisingly good aim. When a pit hits Martin Phoenix he wriggles in his chair and then Luke Phoenix says, "Hot cross buns!" and Martin Phoenix calls Luke Phoenix bad names using his Tango, just as he has done before. I don't know what hot cross buns have to do with anything.

Sometimes, while we are eating, there are silences, and my friend Luke Phoenix usually fills those silences with quotations. Sometimes he talks to the cuckoo we hear in the trees, calling out to it: "'Sing on there in the swamp/O singer bashful and tender. I hear your notes, I hear your call, I hear, I come presently, I understand you …' Walt Whitman, 1865." I don't know why he does this. The cuckoo cannot understand him.

At other times when there are silences, my mother fills them by trying to give me advice. She is continually telling me what to do. Lately, she has been talking a lot about my jean dress. My jean dress, she says, is disgustingly old and should be thrown away. She has also been talking a lot about cooking classes. She thinks I should take a cooking class and learn some professional skills. She also thinks that I should get a card for the public library in Vaugines and see if they have any film nights where I would meet nice young people. Film nights? Nice young people?

I told her that Martin Phoenix and Luke Phoenix were nice young people and that I was happy associating with them. That's when our conversation got kind of confusing. My mother said that because she and Alan Phoenix were a couple, even though they weren't married, Martin Phoenix and Luke Phoenix were kind of like my brothers.

"Not really my brothers," I clarified, because I want to put the job of personal care assistant on my resumé.

"They are not really your brothers," she said. "But they could be someday. So I don't want you getting ideas about Luke Phoenix, even though he is your age and you like him and spend a lot of time with him. You should be out meeting lots of other teens your age."

I do not know what she meant about Luke Phoenix, so I am specifically writing that part down here. Maybe I will be able to figure it out if I think more about it. I wonder if my mother should be out meeting more people her age. Is consistency of age an important quality among friends? Sometime at lunch or dinner I will ask my mother about that. I like to ask her questions at lunch or dinner so that if she starts to talk too long, she will get hungry and stop talking. My mother seems to like the food here a great deal.

The deli ham is disgusting—all slimy and full of fat. Also disgusting is the baking that comes from the markets where there are flies and other bugs. I saw a wasp crawling out of a hole in a honey pretzel just before someone bought it. Once Alan Phoenix brought home pigeon eggs, but I did not eat them. Pigeon eggs would be especially disgusting. I have seen what the pigeons eat around here.

In the afternoons I usually go for a walk or a bike ride, but sometimes we all go sightseeing instead. One afternoon we drove through the Luberon Mountains to Apt and then over to Isle sur la Sorgue, and then to Fontaine de Vaucluse where there was supposed to be a special fountain, but it wasn't very interesting.

We ate in a restaurant and I had crepes with butter and sugar, even though my mother tried to get me to order something containing a vegetable. Alan Phoenix and my mother had onion soup, and Luke Phoenix had duck basted with honey, garlic, and thyme, as well as creamed zucchini. Alan Phoenix asked him if he had brought his wallet. Martin Phoenix had chef's crepes, which had cheese, ham, and an egg on top, and then he had pistachio ice cream with a hair in it. The waitress told us that she came from a family with eight brothers and four sisters and she was proud to say that they all worked in restaurants. She herself has two children and is very happy with that number.

"Mais vous semblez très heureuse avec trois enfants, Madame," she told my mother, holding up three fingers. My mother got all red and flustered. She had understood enough to know that the waitress thought Martin Phoenix, Luke Phoenix, and I were all her children. That would only be true if my mother and Alan Phoenix got married, and all I can say is that this better not happen this summer.

"Do you offer cooking classes?" my mother asked the waitress in English and then Alan Phoenix translated it into French. I can see the scene now as if it is a movie replaying in my head.

"Non," says the waitress, shaking her head.

"Too bad, because my daughter would like to take one," my mother says.

"No, I would not!" I say, with my voice loud enough to be in the red zone. But sometimes it is as if my mother is stone deaf.

"We'll see," she says.

The room starts to look white and I feel hot with my anger. But I think about sending the anger down through my body, away from my head and into my feet. This takes the whiteness away with it, and I can see in colors again. I do not like to cook. I have never liked to cook. And I am not going to learn to cook French food!