A girl, a paper route, and a stalker

Monday, April 20, 2009

Between the ages of 5 and 13, author Nichole McGill was forced to cope with a number of stalking situations "ranging from the absurd to the terrifying," she says. Now she has drawn on those experiences to empower the young protagonist in her new novel, Girl #3, published by Key Porter Books.

"Personal experience and childhood wisdom instructed me that dealing with those [stalking] situations on my own was preferable to letting the adult world know about them," explains McGill.

"This story is fictional, yet I used the character of Syd as a way to (re)explore why a young girl would choose to set off on such a brave yet perilous path rather than reveal 'the truth' to those who could help her."

Well known in Ottawa literary circles as founder of the durtygurls reading series and as literature curator for WestFest since 2008, McGill will read from Girl #3 on Friday, May 1 at Collected Works, 7:30.

Excerpts from Girl #3

The reason I may die today is because I saw Girl #2 last fall.

I’m not superstitious or anything. And don’t think I scare easily, either. I’ve dealt with plenty of creeps before… I may only be 13, five foot nothing, with stubby legs, but when I run in a track meet or circle the rectangular military grid of suburban houses that mark my ‘hood’, I surprise everyone.

…

Nothing Happens in Etobicoke

The game plan for me this morning was easy: Get up at 6 a.m., do my papers, be home by eight, eight thirty latest to get all dolled up by Mum, and get to the church in time for [the wedding] rehearsal at ten thirty. [I’m a junior bridesmaid – oh, joy!]

Super easy, right?

I didn’t get up right away. It probably had to do with going to bed way past midnight, kept awake by a new awareness that my only taboo fantasy could become flesh. And it was cold, the nighttime air whispering its message on the streets through the crack in my window: Winter ain’t gone, not by a long shot. So much for The Bride’s hope for a flowery, spring wedding.

...

The Paper Route

I turned onto Main. Ahead I saw a grey lump that resembled papers thrown outside the bus shelter and, directly across from the shelter, there was a car idling on the side of road. For a second, I thought it was roly poly Gord-O waiting with a box of greasy doughnuts and burnt coffee. Except, he drives that green minivan with The Carrier logo on it and as I biked closer, I saw that the vehicle (that’s really the proper way to describe these things), the vehicle was a car and it was dark blue.
…

Then, he called out over the empty road between us.

“Hu-LU-ow.” Transylvanian Taxi Man leaned his face forward out of the shadows. I saw a beak borrowed from an eagle and wiry eyebrows that could have, at any moment, taken flight and grabbed a rodent, soaring with it into the tall maples above us. ... What a freak.

…

The Usher

“This is Darek!” The Bride says, like we’ve been paired up since birth.

Darek is in grade twelve. I guess he’s attractive in a kind of underfed rock star way, except for the black bush of hairs sticking out of his nose. And he’s clearly not impressed he got stuck with “the kid.”

The Bride is yelling at us from the nave:

“No, no! Slow. With grace. Pause after each step.”

So, I pause, grimace-smile, step and peer at Darek’s massive nose-bush for distraction. I can’t believe The Bride will let that hairy monster appear in her wedding photos. Maybe, once Darek and I get to the front of the church, she’ll freak, whip a weed-whacker out of her pantsuit, and go to town.

This is good. Focusing on Darek’s hair issues is making me forget about Faceless Man (almost) completely.
…

Girl #2

It figures Girl #2 would lead me to the grove where I first saw her drawing circles in the air with her foot. And while I’m sitting there, shaking in the leaves, that’s when I see her, sitting on a stone not more than two metres away—so close. She’s all angles: toes pointed inwards, elbows on thin knees, red hair hanging past her pointed chin. But it’s the familiar leaf-green eyes, luminous and transparent, that pin me to the core.

You’d never guess she was a ghost.
…

Dead Truth

I was wrong. I know this like a dead truth in my heart.
…

Can you feel that?

A wind like an iced hand is inching up my spine. I’m in my ravine, wimpy Mimico, crouching in a bed of dead, mulched leaves. My skin puckers into goose bumps, my trembling thigh muscles on the verge of seizing from crouching too long in the same position. Only the adrenaline, the sweet adrenaline coursing from behind my bulged eyes to my chilled feet reminds me that I’m alive, so terrifyingly alive even as I strain not to move.

My brain is screaming. Can you hear it?

If you move, he might see you! And if he sees you, he’ll collect you…and if he collects you, you may never see anything ever again.

I won’t let him catch me. I won’t become Girl #3.

www.nicholemcgill.com