Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,36
the door.
The door opened, and her campaign manager peered into the room.
“It’s time, Laura,” he said with a wide smile.
“I’m ready,” she said, finding that her nerves had settled now that she knew her place.
With a confident walk and slightly smeared mascara, President-Elect Laura Daniels walked out towards the inauguration ceremony outside the Capitol building. She was ready to change the country, to muzzle every dog and ban every last vacuum cleaner that could ever interrupt a mid-morning catnap. She’d let no one stand in her way as she finally implemented the strategic catnip reserve, and she knew she had the strength of character to risk her second term on the Open-top Aquariums Act.
She wasn’t sure she’d make America better for anyone other than the cats... she didn’t know the first thing about health insurance, or social security, or why the creepy guy at the airport always insisted on patting her down. But that was what Vice Presidents are for, aren’t they? Surely Newt could give her a few pointers.
But really... so what? So what if she wouldn’t actually make things better?
Standing at the podium, Laura raised her right hand and prepared to repeat the oath, knowing to the depths of her being that she really couldn’t make things any worse.
The Raven's Head Dagger and the Custom of the Seas
SUNDAY
BRECCAN HATED the young boys of Skidegate most of all. I thought it was cute how awkward they were.
A handful of the native kids circled us a few times while we were walking along the beach, their gaze squarely aimed at her see-through stockings and the ink-blot tattoos underneath.
“Little perverts,” she’d called them. She liked to forget that the way she dressed brought a similar response from most guys. It’s probably the number one reason we’d been invited along on this trip in the first place.
And the reason Breccan gets a lot of things in life...
We left port just before lunch, since it makes sense to stock up on groceries at the Co-op and eat en route, rather than spend another meal at one of the handful of restaurants in Queen Charlotte City, which is about as much of a city as Darrel is a sailboat captain.
That is to say, Darrel sucks at it. Or blows chunks, as we used to say in junior high.
Darrel took us down the coast of Moresby Island and the smaller islands beside it, tracing in and out of the inlets in the rain and fog. Seeing that made everything else worth it. You forget about how much people can get on your nerves on a small boat when you’re looking out at the edge of the world.
We saw the sun come out just as we were thinking about dinner, so Jon and I made some sandwiches so we could go ashore for a final picnic in Haida Gwaii. Jon made a couple extra for himself, as usual; he’s a big guy, and it’s not all muscle.
Darrel found our way to Hotspring Island, radioing the Watchmen for permission to drop in. They told us it had been pretty quiet for a weekend in late August, and invited us ashore.
One of the Watchmen met us as we clambered onto the beach after anchoring offshore, dressed in a red rain jacket with a round hat made from tree bark. He looked a little younger than us, which surprised me, and to be honest I had trouble telling if he was anything other than just another white guy from Coquitlam or wherever.
“Hello,” the man said. “I’m Paul. Sánuu dáng gíidang? How are you doing?”
He seemed to be looking at me more than anyone else. I walked over and offered my hand. “Hi... I’m Steph. Thanks for letting us visit.”
“It’s always good to have visitors in Xaadala Gwayee. Keeps me busy.”
“We brought a picnic,” Breccan said. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“That’s fine,” Paul said. “There’s a great place up the trail I can show you.”
“You’re coming with us?” Breccan was already going full on bitch mode. “We didn’t pack enough sandwiches for you.”
“Breccan...” I said quietly, hoping she’d just stop talking.
The Watchman didn’t seem to be bothered by it. I guess Breccan is a certain type of girl we’ve all gotten used to. I’ve lived with her since we started at UBC; I don’t notice it most of the time.
“My mother grew up in Masset,” Darrel said.
“My family is from there,” Paul said. “I live in Vancouver the rest of the year.”