Friday, November 15th, 1974

So many tests, so little time to write in this journal anymore... But today, the barrage of suffering from our teachers has finally stopped, meaning I have the wrist energy to write as much as I need to!

These days, Christopher and James are always sticking together, but those two are a little odd with each other. Sure, we all still talk in the hallways, eat together, and act as if last month was a blur. But there seems to be a little atmosphere of guilt with both boys that just won’t completely go away. Every time I don’t insert a joke into the conversation, or the two don’t talk about school, there’s always this awkwardness that fills the air with an unnatural feeling.

Then again, James still doesn’t know that Chris is set to leave by next month, and I know that nerd has recently taken on a more cautious attitude. But can’t say I don’t blame him, considering he got beaten up in secret while I was distracted and James was busy isolating himself. I myself would have tried to tell James what had happened to Christopher, but my nerdy friend begged me to keep quiet about his arm bruises and his future absence. I felt like a shitty friend, but then again, so was James.

After dinnertime, the other Canadians planned to visit the library to return some books. 

“Wanna join us, Basil?” The Québécois asked with his usual chill attitude. 

“Nah, I’m heading out instead. Gotta walk off the calories of that sweet lasagna.” I grinned. 

“Alright, but if you run into trouble, let me know. I’ll gladly kick ass.” James ever-so-slightly grinned back as he and Chris walked in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, I thought walking circles around the Chapel would be a brilliant idea. 

… 

Closing the door behind me, I let out a sigh of relief and walked up to the podium. Though I wanted to be committed and walk off the food, I thought tomorrow morning’s exercise would burn calories anyway. So, I stood behind the podium and carefully looked around. No one was here, just the company of lit candles and empty wooden pews. I smirked with delight as I improvised a comedy routine, as if I were on late-night television.

“Man, oh, man, do I miss being back home! I miss my igloo house! Riding my moose on the way to school! Hell, I even miss that one French restaurant that served me rock-hard croissants that one time.” I pretended a crowd of laughter had erupted as I smiled at the imaginary audience. “If you’re missing French cuisine of all things, then something’s clearly wrong… But! If there’s one thing I don’t miss, it’s my Mama’s comments about the damn light bills!” 

I spun around the podium and dramatically shook my head. “Aah, geez. Every time my sisters and I would turn on the lights, my Mom would always suggest we use candles to light the way… We were living like some medieval peasants, I tell ya.” Clearing my throat, I mimicked a posh English accent and used my right hand to portray myself. “Mother-dearest! I cannot see my cheese and crackers in the dark! Spare us some light from the light bulb, will you please?” 

With my left hand, I portrayed my Mom with an Argentine accent. “Mija, if you keep asking, I will feed you to the feral Canadian geese outside! Pendeja!” 

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at my own joke, and I hugged my stomach from the giggling. It took a couple of moments to pause before I continued my fake-comedy routine. “My Mom ain’t like that, don’t worry. She feeds us, loves us, and is at least alive, unlike my Dad. Yeah, I know. I lost my Dad when I was only ten… Fathers across the nation play catch with their sons, while I’m over here playing catch with a cardboard cutout of him…” 

A wave of sadness washed over me as I realized that “ joke” pierced a little too deep. But I didn’t want to stop my routine: I was enjoying myself far too much, so I kept going. “... That reminds me! I never told anyone about how I felt the day we heard the news of my father’s passing. I can remember it now, 10 AM on a Sunday. Mom opened the door to a man who didn’t know us, and we didn’t know him. The man said my Dad had died in an accident, off the coast of Rome… Mama mia...” 

I broke into a mixture of laughter and sniffling, silently admitting I could no longer do my planned routine. Even talking about my Father in a comedic light only brought me nothing but a whole lot of resentment. My old man was like a best friend who never gave up on me, and when he was around, it was like Christmas. Hell, it was better than Christmas. Fuck the presents and the decorations.

My Dad would always lift me out of the worst moods and show me comedy specials that made me laugh until I was rolling around like a damn animal. He was a great listener, an amazing storyteller, and he made me into who I am today. No offence to my sweet Mama, but the last time I showed her Robin Williams, she just awkwardly nodded along and didn’t like it when he told more adult jokes.

No matter how much I tried to ignore it, a part of me was still infuriated at my father’s mysterious death. With an expression filled with bitterness, I looked up at the statue of the cross. Barely holding back my tears, I silently whispered, “W-why the hell did God take you away from me when I needed you the most?”

I spent a good hour in silence alone behind the podium, afraid to show the World that I was just a terrified teenage girl who cried for a father who would never return to her.

… 

After cooling down by 7:40 PM,  I had quietly made my way to the washroom near the back of the ground floor. Thankfully, the hallways weren’t too crowded around this time, and I don’t think anyone noticed that I was crying; at least I hope not. Examining my face in the dusty mirror of the empty washroom, I was relieved to see that I was only slightly pink in the cheeks and I didn’t look like a mess. But what wasn’t a relief was the sound of a sniffle coming from one of the stalls. 

“Perché mio fratello gode sempre del rispetto di nostro padre? Non è giusto, dannazione…”

That was Amadeo’s voice, quietly sobbing from the last stall. Though it was none of my business to even try to talk to him, I could only understand like four words out of that sentence. Out of fear of him getting in trouble, I knocked on the stall. “Hey, it’s almost curfew-”

“Lasciami in pace, Basil!” 

“Sorry, what’d you say?” 

“I-I said, leave me alone, Basil!” The older twin cried out with pain in his voice.

Understanding that Amadeo wasn’t crying for no reason, I could only shrug off the comment and lean against the side of the off-white stall. “Hey, that’s no way to talk to someone who doesn’t want you to get in trouble.” 

“S-so? I don’t care if I get an extra 20 push-ups as punishment!” 

I raised a brow and leaned against the stall. “Is your Godfather really willing to let you get away with ignoring curfew?” 

“... Um, Y-yes?” 

Holding in my chuckling at his obvious lie, I emitted a shaky sigh and thought of a way to make Amadeo feel any better. As bratty as he was, hearing him cry just didn’t sit right with me. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t tell anyone about this… I’ll leave you be, Amadeo.”

“... Grazie, Basil.” He solemnly whispered.

I nervously looked at the clock, striking 7:56 PM, and raced back to my dorm.