The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (14 page)

“I would like to see Mr. Dawson, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

This was always going to be tricky. Effective oral communication was vital, so I had written a variety of notes in advance to cover all eventualities. As you know, I am not comfortable with the spoken word when dealing with people for the first time. I sorted through the sheaf of paper in my hand and passed her a sheet.

No. But tell him Candice Phee is here. He will want to see me
.

This always works in movies. I have no idea why.

The receptionist glanced at the note and gave a look that said she thought I was at least one sandwich short of a picnic. Possibly an entire basket. I am used to this, so I ignored her. She looked me up and down and didn't appear impressed. Then she picked up her phone.

“Mr. Dawson? There is a young lady here who would like to see you. Her name is Candice Phee and she doesn't have an appointment.” I detected mockery in her pronunciation of the word
lady
, but she had a picture on her desk
of a small child smiling so I forgave her. She was obviously a loving and caring mother. If not, necessarily, a loving and caring receptionist.

She listened for a moment and then turned to me.

“What is it about?”

I shuffled through my sheaf of papers and found the right one.

It is a delicate matter which will test his litigious powers. I cannot be more specific at this stage, but it will be a case that will attract national and possibly international media interest. It will seal Mr. Dawson's reputation as a formidable lawyer. When he hears the nature of the case, he will, I am sure, offer his services pro bono. If he scratches my back, I will scratch his. I speak metaphorically. Unless he really does have an itch, in which case I can be flexible
.

I was pleased with the
pro bono
bit. It is Latin and means “for free.” Mr. Dawson would clearly respect a client with a firm grip of legal terminology. The receptionist read the letter, curled her lip, and spoke into the phone.

“She doesn't know, but she wants it for free.”

This was not fair, but I decided to hold my peace. Anyway, I didn't have a note to cover this eventuality.

“He will see you. Second door on your right.”

I gathered up my pile of papers and followed the instructions. I knocked on the door, waited for a mumbled “Come in,” and entered Mr. Dawson's office. He sat behind a large desk cluttered with briefs—by this, I mean
papers about court cases, rather than underwear. He glanced up as I came in.

Mr. Dawson was bald and his face looked like it had been slept in. Heavy jowls and a mournful expression. A picture came to mind of a bulldog on tranquilizers. This was exciting. I could imagine him in a white, powdered wig, addressing a jury, objecting to opposing counsel, and resting his case. I felt certain I had chosen the right person.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

I handed him a note and he peered at it over small rimless spectacles. This was a good touch, so he rose further in my estimation. He handed the note back.

“I'm sorry, I don't understand,” he said.

I read the note myself.

Sorry I haven't completed the assignment yet, Miss Bamford, but the matter is well in hand
.

No wonder he didn't understand. I'd given him the wrong note. Why had I brought that one along anyway?

I flicked through my sheaf, found the correct one, and passed it over. He read again, glanced up at me once, and then reread the note. I waited patiently and resisted the strong urge to hum. Finally, he put the note on his desk and peered at me over the top of his glasses. His expression was difficult to read.

“You want me to take legal action against your parents, so you are removed from their house and placed under local authority care? In effect, you want to divorce them and find foster parents?”

“Correct,” I replied. I trusted myself with that word and hadn't felt the need to write it down. “Certainly,” I added, which was a testament to my confidence.

Mr. Dawson gazed at me for a moment, took off his glasses, and rubbed at the corners of his eyes.

“You haven't been reading Jodi Picoult, have you?” he asked. His voice seemed tired. “
My Sister's Keeper
?”

Actually, I hadn't read the novel. I'd seen the movie and cried for two hours. It's about a girl who brings a legal case against her parents who use her as an organ donor for her elder sister, who suffers from a life-threatening disease. The girl hires a lawyer, who takes the case to court in a bid to win the right to refuse to continue organ donation.

It was the movie that had given me my brilliant idea. I didn't really want to divorce my parents, but I hoped the shock of receiving a court summons would bring them to their senses. There would be wailing, of course. But there would also be hugs and promises and family vacations and choruses of “The Wheels on the Bus.” All of this, however, was too complicated to explain and I hadn't brought notes covering this area, so I played it safe.

“Correct,” I said again.

Mr. Dawson sighed.

“You do know what kind of a legal expert I am, don't you?” he said. I shook my head. “Real estate,” he continued. “I deal with contracts related to house purchasing, rental properties, business premises. I do not go in front of judges. I do not address juries. I never shout ‘I object' or
‘I rest my case.' I do not have a powdered wig. I don't even have an unpowdered wig.”

I thought about this.

“Sounds dull,” I said.

“It is,” said Mr. Dawson. “It is very, very dull. But it is what I do.”

“I could probably provide the wig,” I said. I remembered there was one hanging up in the window at the party-hire shop where I had bought Miss Bamford's eye patch.

Dear Denille
,

I have questions and queries buzzing in my head. Queries and questions, questions and queries. Round and round they go
.

I'm sorry to burden you with them, but, frankly, I don't have anyone else to turn to. Under different circumstances I would talk to Earth-Pig Fish, but, as I have explained before, I worry she will interpret my attempts at communication with divine intervention, thus increasing her religious confusion. All I can do is hurl her fish food into the bowl from a considerable distance and beat a hasty retreat
.

This is not ideal for her (it makes big splashes) and not ideal for me (I miss her advice—and sometimes the bowl)
.

Question 1: Why are lawyers in New York City very young, intelligent, exceptionally well dressed, and bursting with enthusiasm?

Is it just that they are American? I ask because I visited a lawyer yesterday in an effort to divorce my parents.
I made little progress, in part because the lawyer in question was more interested in real estate
.

Based upon my television viewing (such as it is), it seems you can't throw a stone in New York City without hitting a lawyer prepared to take on a juicy case like the one I presented. My lawyer might have been intelligent, but he was missing the other characteristics (youth, a stylish suit, enthusiasm, and United States citizenship). This is not surprising. If he was all of those things he would certainly be in New York City, which never sleeps, rather than in Albright, which does little else
.

He showed me the door, Denille
.

I don't mean he pointed out all the interesting characteristics of the door (if there were any), but rather that he asked me to leave. I did, after giving him my home phone number should he change his mind. His body language did not leave me feeling optimistic
.

Follow-up Question 2: Why do American television lawyers look like surgically enhanced eleventh graders?

Over here, it takes years and years to become a lawyer. Over there, most seem to get a license to practice when they hit puberty
.

It is possible I am mistaken, so please correct me if that is so. Anyway, none of this is relevant. So, better yet, don't correct: ignore
.

I wanted to divorce my parents because they failed to rally round after I escaped a watery death only through a birthday gift of inflatable breasts. I trust I make myself
clear. I felt the threat of divorce would focus their minds. This is no longer an option
.

Question 3: If kisses are so wonderful, why are they sloppy, messy, and involve exchanging bodily fluids?

I believe you will be a fount of information on this subject because, being American and called Denille, I assume you spend much time at school lip-locked with football players (and possibly baseball players)
.

To place this question in context, I should explain that Douglas Benson from Another Dimension kissed me after I escaped death. This was the first time I had been kissed, but, as it turned out, not the last
.

Yesterday, I went to his ravine, as always, in case he tried to transport across dimensions by throwing himself off the edge. He turned up, which gave me quite a start. In my worst nightmares I see him blurring across my vision and plummeting to oblivion. Instead, he sat next to me
.

“What are you doing here, Candice?” he said. This was, under the circumstances, a reasonable question
.

“I'm here to stop you killing yourself,” I replied
.

I am addicted to the truth, Denille, which occasionally causes problems. I explained my reasoning
.

“You mustn't worry,” he said. “I won't jump off the ravine. I promise.”

I was relieved, but needed further information
.

“Why?”

“Because if I don't go back to my own dimension,” he replied, “it will be no great tragedy.”

My last question had been an overwhelming success, so I tried again
.

“Why?”

“Because I love you,” he said. Then he kissed me. For the second time
.

Now I know that you are meant to close your eyes when a boy kisses you (or a girl, I imagine. I don't see why it should be gender-specific), but I was fascinated by the close-up of his face, which the situation afforded. I saw his pores, a couple of which were clogged and on the fast track to zits. This wasn't romantic, as I understand the word. Apparently, the pressure of lips is also meant to be pleasurable. Tingles are supposed to run down your spine. My spine was tingle-free. I checked
.

His tongue then pushed through my lips. It was large and the texture of certain meats that my mother used to try to get me to eat when I was younger. I resisted it then and I resisted it with Douglas. I am not altogether comfortable with my own spit. Swallowing someone else's did not fill me with desire
.

And love? Everything I have read suggests the emotion of love is so intense it cannot be mistaken. Stomachs plummet. Blood races. Heartbeats quicken
.

My stomach stayed stationary. My blood plodded. My heartbeat slowed because it was keeping pace with my blood. Obviously I cannot comment on what was happening to Douglas Benson from Another Dimension's body
.

The point I am making is that kissing is supposed to be nice. This wasn't. It was messy. And that leads me to:

Question 4: Am I weird?

One positive from all this was that when Douglas Benson from Another Dimension had finished trying to find my tonsils with his tongue, he leaned back and a worried expression swept his face
.

“The thing is, Candice,” he said, “I must get back to my own world. I simply have no option.” He ran his hands over the knobbly contours of his head. Then he lowered his voice. “Even if it breaks your heart.”

“Oh, okay,” I said
.

“But I will find you—the alternative you—in my world. Is it too much to expect that we could be soul mates across different dimensions?”

“Probably,” I replied, but I don't think he heard me.

“Then again, we might be destined to remain star-crossed lovers.”

“Righty ho.”

Anyway, as you can imagine, all this was exciting in a distasteful way and I felt I had made a dramatic start to my teens (I have just turned thirteen—don't worry about sending a card). I supposed this made Douglas Benson from Another Dimension my boyfriend, rather than just my friend who is a boy. There is a big difference, it seems, though I cannot explain it
.

But then everything became
really
exciting
.

“I have a solution for the goldfish problem,” he said. This struck me as an abrupt change of subject, but that was fine by me. I wasn't getting along very well with the old one
.

“You've made an automatic feeder for Earth-Pig Fish?” I guessed
.

“No. Much better. A simple solution. I'll come to your house tomorrow and show you.”

Exceptionally exciting. If Douglas Benson from Another Dimension could pull this off, I'd be prepared to let him kiss me again. I just wouldn't like it
.

Best wishes
,

Your pen pal
,

Candice

Douglas Benson from Another Dimension insisted on holding my hand when we entered Miss Bamford's classroom the following morning. It was better than getting up close and personal with his tongue, though his hand
was
slightly clammy. Why is romance so wet?

Jen Marshall choked on her gum.

“Hey,” she yelled. “Get a load of this, guys.” She shrieked with laughter. “The retards have got together. Oh. My. God.” She fell to the floor and rolled around, clutching her belly. There is always something dramatic about Jen. You have to admire her.