one May 1993

Overall, Sherrie Duffy has Imogene quite a bit drove.

Sherrie purses her mouth around the straw in her White Russian so to not smudge her lipstick. She has sculpted her hair around her face so the sides fan out like stiff butterfly wings. The symmetry is impressive, even to Imogene.

“Guess who I saw the other day at Sobeys?” Sherrie says. “Mr. Rowe. He had, like, ten packs of Hungry Man dinner in his cart. My guts hurt at the sight of him.”

“He looks like a Hungry Man dinner,” Maureen says.

“So gross, bleh.”

Imogene sips her beer. It dribbles down the side of her face. Someone at the bar laughs hard. She wipes it and rests her chin on her hand, like she meant to do it all along.

“Remember the time he called Jeremy an asshole?” Sherrie says.

“Oh my God, yes. What a racket.”

“Jeremy went to the principal and Rowe denied it. Said he told him he was a ‘hassle.’” When Sherrie tosses her head for emphasis, her hair wings flap.

“I guess they can kind of sound the same,” Imogene says.

“Imogene, did you meet Jeremy at Christmas?” Maureen says. “He was home from Montreal then.”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“He’s such a laugh.” Sherrie sips her drink. The last time they were out, she told Imogene if you drink White Russians before anything else, you won’t get sick because the milk coats the stomach. Then she threw up in the cab on the way home.

“Remember that time Rowe was trying to remind us to draw a name for Secret Santa and said ‘Don’t forget about the Christmas draw,’ and Jeremy was like, ‘Yes, let’s all get together for a Christmas draw?’ Kicked him out of class. What an arsehole.”

“Rowe was our homeroom teacher in grade twelve,” Maureen says.

“Oh, sorry, Imogene,” Sherrie says. “Maureen and I get on our memory lane kicks all the time.”

“It’s okay.”

Memory lane can’t be that long if the memories are less than a year and a half old. Imogene picks at the label on her beer. Two men with bellies and ball caps sit at the bar. One makes eye contact with her. He drinks and licks his lips. She looks away. There’s a bulletin board in the porch of the pub, a natural focus point. She can just read the notices and wait for Sherrie’s guts to be sufficiently coated.

Back in September, Imogene would have never had predicted how much time she would spend doing this very thing—reading bulletin-board notices. Large bulletin boards grace almost every landing of every building on campus. They beckoned to her: look at all our options. Here are other people’s lists for you.

Party at the Dining Hall.

German Society Mixer.

Books for Sale.

Participants needed for Psychology Experiment.

Tutoring service available.

Toastmasters’ Course.

Looking for Carpool.

Looking for Babysitter.

Looking for Love.

Imogene stood before them, her new MUN backpack firm on her spine, craning her neck to absorb the plethora of goings-on. She tore off tiny tongues of phone numbers for later. She shoved them in the change pocket of her wallet, like doing so would transform them into something monetary.

During those first weeks, she invested in high-quality bond paper and delivered her résumé to every business from the square to the mall. Maggie and Robert agreed to pay for tuition, but stressed that Imogene and Nan had to cover textbooks. She scoured lists of used ones for sale like Uncle Kenneth instructed. She did the math and realized it was cheaper to photocopy anything slim and return it: Othello, Folklore 1000 readings. “Now there’s a way to save money for the weekend,” the guy behind her said when she hauled out the crinkled packet in English 1080.

But by Thanksgiving weekend, there was still not a single phone call or interview. “Now that the cod is gone, everyone’s just hiring their cousins,” Rita said. “Especially in town.” Which Rita can say easily as Uncle Eli gives her whatever shifts she wants at the club, whatever matches her schedule when she’s not in school. “I bet some people back home are crying nepotism behind your back,” Imogene said and Rita didn’t know what nepotism meant and Imogene made sure to roll her eyes.

By Halloween, bulletin boards just pointed out the range of experiences Imogene lacks—she’s never written a review for a school paper, she’s never participated in a French conversation language exchange, she’s never sung in a choir. Volunteering at the radio station meant she would have to learn about actual good music, things she might know if Nan hadn’t refused to get cable. She remembers Violet’s disdain at her musical taste. She is crippled when it comes to trying to access and play what is acceptably cool. There are audition calls for small plays. Theatre arts was never offered out home. Meanwhile, it seems every townie got that shit done in some Christmas concert. Maureen says the drama clubs cast the same bunch all the time anyway, most aren’t even students, just local actors who don’t want to move to Corner Brook to study theatre.

Then there are the society mixers, all with hand-drawn photocopied signs: Labatt’s products, NABs available. She imagines having to talk with interest about the mandatory history requirement with classmates who expect passion and in-depth knowledge. Then getting too drunk in the spirit of overcompensation and being patrolled out by MUN security. She refuses to be in any situation where there is a possibility she can be humiliated or branded. This is not what her life is now.

But the Alumni Association call centre didn’t need experience. For almost a month, she spent evenings phoning former graduates for donations. There was a script on how to begin with a one-hundred-dollar request and work in how just twenty dollars gets the donor’s name published in the alumni magazine.

She hated it—with every call, she fought the impulse to say goodbye and escape. But Maureen’s name was high on the list of top callers. Imogene recognized her from English class where she’d admired her hair from afar, her dark, slick bob with one frontal stripe dyed blond running along the edge of her face like a strategic checkmark of approval. At the call centre, Imogene watched Maureen smile into the phone to change the contour of her voice. Off the phone, her natural expression is set on sullen, but that’s just her face. Witnessing it turn from flat to fake sincere entertained Imogene.

And then, the MUN library saved Christmas. A student assistant dropped out, could she start right away? It’s mostly putting things back where they belong. Potential to carry on into the winter and spring. Yes, no problem, Imogene said on the phone. Thank heavenly fuck.

On her last day at the call centre, Maureen said they should celebrate. At the Breezeway, Maureen knew the bouncer and he looked the other way. She ordered tequila shots and retrieved two take-out packets of salt from her purse. “You’d be surprised how many bars don’t have salt,” she said. “How do you do tequila with no salt?” Later, they went to an after-hours party. And the following Friday, after their last class, they met up at the Breezeway again. Draft was on for seventy-five cents a glass. They carried on regularly for the rest of fall and over Christmas break. They both liked evenings with loosely made plans. They appreciated the element of not knowing what the night had in store. And then, in February, Maureen’s friend Sherrie Duffy ended it with some guy named Rex and decided she wanted to go out with girlfriends again.

The light flashes off the Plexiglas box over the pub’s bulletin board. Thursdays, 2 Molson Special Dry for $5.00. A flyer for a local band, Joyful Noise. These days, live music stirs her curiosity. She and Maureen went to a show in late January, a fundraiser for a local artist whose house burned down. The floor was slick with melted snow and salt muck from a crowd of stomping winter boots. Maureen gyrated her hips in her boy-cut jeans, christening Imogene’s head with a pour from her Blue Star. Imogene woke up the next morning with sticky hair, her stomach muscles sore from laughter.

“My father has the VIP booth at the stadium tonight,” Sherrie says. “There’ll be a crowd downtown once the game lets out.”

“Better get over to Benders quick”

“That place is gross, bleh. I say there won’t be much of a lineup at The Sundance in a half hour.”

Maureen stirs the lime around in her vodka and soda. “We’ll see,” she says. “My cousin might pop in.”

Imogene has not known Sherrie long, but she’s noticed how many of her sentences start with “My father” and onto whatever he has or says or gets. My father has a new stereo picked out for our Mazda Miata. It’s going to sound great with the top down. My father says he has a friend who can get me a work term at Scotiabank. Guaranteed, she’s never had to question what a great guy Daddy is. Or if her mother might prefer she didn’t exist. Or have to clean up her grandmother’s vomit.

She’s also noticed that when Sherrie doesn’t like something, she makes sure it’s known. You’re doing folklore and English? Too much reading, bleh. You like this song? Too dark and depressing, bleh. And always that little “bleh” sound at the end, a guttural punctuation made by jutting out her tongue. Doesn’t matter if it’s something you happen to like very much. If you’re eating cheese and she doesn’t like cheese, you’re going to hear all about how cheese is gross. Everything in restaurants gotta have cheese on it now. I had chicken tetrazzini last week, sure I would have never ordered that if I’d known there was a bucket of cheese roasted over the top of it, bleh.

“Rowe once told me I was doing sweet fanny Adams in class,” Sherrie says. “I didn’t know what he meant at first.”

“What does it mean?” Imogene says.

“Doing sweet fuck-all.”

“Sweet fanny Adams sounds dirtier.”

“It really does,” Maureen says.

When the three of them go out, Sherrie likes to sing “Hey Everybody, Get Laid, Get Fucked,” at the top of her lungs when dancing to Billy Idol’s version of “Mony Mony.” Twice, Imogene has mentioned a particular place to see a band and Sherrie has complained about the way people dress there. Two weeks ago, on Sherrie’s suggestion, they attended a “Free ’til You Pee” special where all drinks were free until someone went to the bathroom and Imogene believes she might have permanent bladder damage as a result. All this is fun to Sherrie, who likes to point out Imogene’s West Coast dialect and how she drags out the Os in words like road and coat. And calls Imogene Crunchy Granola because she wears fake Doc Martens from Aldo and likes The Clash. Drove. Sherrie’s got Imogene drove.

The door swings open to a blast of outside air and a peal of laughter. It is as if someone is singing a belly-laugh and Imogene smiles on impulse without knowing the joke. The laugh enters like a cool breeze slicing through the room’s drunken muddiness. In the Plexiglas box she can see part of the laugher’s reflection: dark hair, big smile. He places a cigarette pack in the breast pocket of his jean jacket, still laughing at whatever was said or happened. Well now. He is a Joyful Noise indeed.

He looks over at their table and his face shows recognition. He waves. Maureen waves back. “My cousin’s here,” Maureen says. “He’s best kind.” She removes her purse from the chair next to her.

The Joyful Noise hugs Maureen before flopping down neatly in the seat. He exudes cool air and something cozy and radiant, like he contains an inner furnace that churns out charm.

“Hi, Sherrie,” he says. “I guess they let any old riff raff in here.”

“Har-de-har.”

“You sound like your dad,” Maureen says. “Riff raff and sleeveens.”

“That’s the name of my band, actually.”

Sherrie snorts. “Should call it the Village Mall People.”

“Either that or Jigs and Streels.” The Joyful Noise leans back in his seat. He looks at Imogene and his smile is immediate, like a springboard. She grins back so big and automatic she can feel her top lip peel back from her gums.

“Hello, red-haired girl.”

“Hi.”

“I’m Jamie.”

“I’m Imogene.”

“Sorry,” Maureen says. “This is my cousin Jamie.”

“So rude, Maureen. Who raised you?”

“Your father’s sister.”

Sherrie stands up. “I’m getting another drink.”

“I’d love a rum and coke,” he says.

“That’s nice.” Sherrie’s hair fans out as she makes her way to the bar.

“My god,” Jamie says. “The attitude.” He turns back to Imogene. His eyes are dark mischief. “I feel like we’ve met before.”

“Yeah, you look familiar too.” It’s gotta be him.

“Where are you from?”

“St. Felix’s.”

“Oh my Jesus. I was out there before. I think I stayed at your house, sure.”

“You did! You’re Jamie. From the wrestling tournament.”

“Holy crap, what a small world,” Maureen says. “And Imogene’s a laugh too.”

“She is. I remember.”

Imogene flushes. She knows the exact location of the photo he sent her, in the shoebox under her bed. It’s in there with Maggie’s locket. And her money, of course. She and Jamie, posing right before a brief make-out session. Does he remember that too? She thinks it would be great if he remembers.

Sherrie returns with her White Russian. “What’s on the go?”

“Turns out Imogene and I go way back. I was out her way once.”

“And she remembers? Must be a small place.”

“Don’t mind Sherrie,” Jamie says. “She gets lost in Mount Pearl. If you blindfolded her and dropped her off on Commonwealth Avenue, she’d ask what currency to use.”

Sherrie smacks him in the arm. He doesn’t look at her. “Imogene, you live in St. John’s now?” he says.

“Yes, we moved here last summer. Me and my nan that is. My mother is in real estate and she bought a house as an investment property, so we take care of it and rent out the basement. Mag—my mom lives in Ontario.” Imogene is an overturned file cabinet, information spilling out on to the floor.

“You going to MUN?”

“Yeah, just General Studies this year.”

“You like it? What are you going to do?”

“Folklore, I think. It’s what I’ve liked the most so far. You in school?”

“Working at West Side Charlie’s to save money. My folks won’t help me out unless I decide to do science or engineering.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Maureen says. “I told them I was doing political science. They said I’d end up with a McJob.”

“So, where’s your new house?” Jamie asks. His face is flawless except for that blue freckle near his hairline and a tiny scar, an indentation on his bottom lip. Imogene wonders if she could feel the scar if she ran her finger along the edge of his mouth. Or if the edge of his mouth ran along her.

“Cook Street. Rabbittown,” she says. “Is that Rabbittown? I’m not sure.”

“Rabbittown ends at Merrymeeting Road,” Sherrie says.

“No, Cook Street is part of Rabbittown,” Jamie says.

“There should be a kiosk in the mall where you can find out,” Maureen says.

“Ask a townie.”

“That’s a good idea,” Jamie says. “Sherrie, you could work there as long as no one asks about anything beyond the Avalon Mall.” Sherrie gives him the finger.

“So what are yous at tonight?” he says. “There’s a show at The Loft.”

Sherrie rolls her eyes. “The Loft, bleh,” she says. “We want to dance tonight, not stomp around.”

Jamie places his hand on top of Sherrie’s. “Oh Sherrie,” he says. “I’m sure someone will ask you for a stomp.”

“Pack off, Jamie. You’re just going to smoke up and sit on your arse all night. Some people like to do fun things. We’re going to The Sundance.”

“Forty minutes in a line-up to pay five dollars for dance music,” Jamie says. “What a fun thing. I’m leaving now the once anyway. My buddy Darrin wants to meet up for a draw.”

He glances at Maureen, then raises his eyebrows formally and gestures to all of them with a sweep of his arm. “Do we all enjoy cannabis?”

“Look out, Imogene,” Sherrie says. “Jamie’s a pothead, you know.”

She takes a smug sip on her straw. Why does Sherrie assume Imogene shares her views? She’s worse than Rita. At least Rita didn’t get uptight about a draw.

“Who cares, Sherrie?” Maureen says. Sherrie’s lip starts to protrude, but she sucks it in.

“I’m only joking,” she says. “Do what you want. I just don’t want to be taking care of anyone tonight.”

They finish their drinks and walk to the steps connecting Duckworth to George Street. Jamie’s friend Darrin is there, a lanky guy with a soft face and a combat jacket. They discreetly smoke a joint, which Sherrie refuses. Darrin and Maureen give each other sidelong smiles. Jamie arriving at the pub was a maneuver to get them together. Imogene thinks this is good of him. It’s the kind of thing a friend does.

They end up going to Darrin’s place on Queen’s Road for drinks. They sit around the kitchen table while Darrin fixes them all rum and cokes with one of three two-litres of Pepsi in his fridge shared by him and his roommates. Imogene watches Maureen try not to smile as he sits next to her.

But then Sherrie starts in on how she wants to go dancing. Darrin and Jamie want to go to The Loft to see Dread Heavy. Maureen will want to go with Darrin. “Imogene,” Sherrie says. “C’mon. You and I can go to The Sundance.”

Darrin’s kitchen has a back deck with a sliding door. Imogene ducks out for a smoke and a brood. Why does she have to be the one who helps out Sherrie? Jamie appears behind her. She offers him her lighter.

“Sherrie Duffy, hair big and fluffy,” he says. “She’s always got to yuck your yum.”

“Yuck your yum?”

“Like, judge your tastes.”

“Oh. Good one.”

“Her whole family’s like it, really.” He flicks ashes off the deck.

“I don’t know any of them.”

“You aren’t missing much. Are you going to The Sundance?”

“Honestly? I’d rather be kicked.”

“Well, come with us then.” Jamie smiles. Right at her, right for her.

“I want to, but it might turn into a thing. She really wants to go. We haven’t known each other very long.”

“Hold on.” Jamie sticks his head into the house. “Sherrie. We’re all going to The Loft. You coming?”

Imogene can’t hear what Sherrie says, but it is shrill and ends with a “bleh.”

“Well my dear, we all want to go and majority rules,” Jamie says. “You’ll have to get used to living in a democracy.” The sliding door makes a satisfied sigh when he shuts it.