Quill & Quire
A young Toronto girl blossoms into adulthood in Lauren Kirshner’s sweet and touching debut Where We Have to Go. Like adolescence itself, the novel contains some moments of awkward fumbling, but wins the reader over with a masterful comic touch and a canny distillation of the painful experience of growing up different. The blossomer in question is 11-year-old Lucy Bloom, a serious cat fancier and devotee of the furry extraterrestrial TV puppet ALF. Lucy spends her days trying to survive the marital foibles of her parents, an ESL teacher mom preoccupied with the Y2K bug and a father who divides his time between AA meetings and a dead-end job at a travel agency. We follow Lucy’s quirky path from puberty to first-year university. Kirshner, a graduate of the University of Toronto’s Masters of English creative-writing program, has created a perceptive and likeable protagonist in Lucy. Her observations on growing up in a struggling Jewish family offer moments of laugh-out-loud hilarity. During her parents’ trial separation, for instance, she knocks on a neighbour’s door and is greeted by an unexpected “Kabuki divorce redramatization”: a surreal mass of men and women packed into a sunken living room, all of them wearing identical red and black masks. Some of the book’s arch comedic barbs feel unlikely coming from such a young protagonist, and at times the writing is too self-consciously clever, as if Kirshner herself is channelling an adolescent’s need for validation. But in an affecting section about Lucy’s descent into an eating disorder as a teen, the author demonstrates a finely tuned control of her talents. As the girl reaches the stage at which her bones are visible through her clothing, her sense of humour measurably increases in bitterness. But eventually, all the loose ends in Lucy’s life move toward tidy resolution, and the reader is gently eased into an overtly poetic ending. Kirshner captures coming-of-age rites – from touching another girl’s breasts to the shame and alienation of high-school gym class – with just the right combination of embarrassment and wonder. The theme of survival that drives Where We Have to Go is an evocative and compelling one.
--This text refers to an alternate
Paperback
edition.
Review
“[Where We Have to Go] wins the reader over with a masterful comic touch and a canny distillation of the painful experience of growing up different…. Kirshner has created a perceptive and likeable protagonist in Lucy. Her observations on growing up in a struggling Jewish family offer moments of laugh-out-loud hilarity…. Evocative and compelling….”
— Quill & Quire
“An impressive debut from a gifted writer.”
— NOW magazine
“Lauren Kirshner creates a first-person narrator you never stop rooting for. . . . [Where We Have to Go] highlights Kirshner as a new novelist to watch. A very strong, original debut.”
— Zoe Whittall, Globe and Mail
“Tenderly and meticulously rendered. . . . This novel is well worth reading. Lucy’s voice is smart and strong and clear, and like the young author who created her, it deserves to be heard.”
— Winnipeg Free Press
“Canadian authors excel at the precocious female protagonist, and Kirshner's character is a worthy addition to the bunch.”
— Chatelaine
“Lucy's circumstances are enough to break your heart, but they'll also make you bust out laughing — Kirshner's wry humour will see to that.”
— Canadian Living
“Kirshner has a lot of talent that occasionally reaches sublime heights, plus her comic timing is spot on. Some of the characters in this novel, such as artistic Erin, are quite unique literary conceptions who are not only compelling but borderline enchanting. ”
— Edmonton Vue Weekly
"[Where We Have to Go] is a novel about resilience, the human urge to overcome sorrow, trials and tribulations... Lauren Kirshner has created a world that is believable, touching and a reminder that the journey through life, while not always pleasant, can always get better with time, growth, and understanding."
— Owen Sound Sun-Times
"Combines rich and vivid characters with evocative imagery to tell a compelling tale of adolescence. . . . Kirshner’s whole cast of artfully drawn characters maintains consistently compelling voices. . . . Kirshner uniquely captures with levity and humour the familiar (and painful) experiences of growing up different."
— The Varsity
"Deeply emotionally resonant, Where We Have to Go celebrates the very real triumphs and tribulations of teenage years with understanding and love without letting the characters off the hook for their choices. You’ll recognize yourself and those you love while getting to know the brilliantly drawn characters unique to the pages of this book."
— The Advent Book Blog: Great Books Recommended by Great People
“[Lauren Kirshner is] fast emerging as one of Toronto's most talented new authors....”
— Toronto Star
— Quill & Quire
“An impressive debut from a gifted writer.”
— NOW magazine
“Lauren Kirshner creates a first-person narrator you never stop rooting for. . . . [Where We Have to Go] highlights Kirshner as a new novelist to watch. A very strong, original debut.”
— Zoe Whittall, Globe and Mail
“Tenderly and meticulously rendered. . . . This novel is well worth reading. Lucy’s voice is smart and strong and clear, and like the young author who created her, it deserves to be heard.”
— Winnipeg Free Press
“Canadian authors excel at the precocious female protagonist, and Kirshner's character is a worthy addition to the bunch.”
— Chatelaine
“Lucy's circumstances are enough to break your heart, but they'll also make you bust out laughing — Kirshner's wry humour will see to that.”
— Canadian Living
“Kirshner has a lot of talent that occasionally reaches sublime heights, plus her comic timing is spot on. Some of the characters in this novel, such as artistic Erin, are quite unique literary conceptions who are not only compelling but borderline enchanting. ”
— Edmonton Vue Weekly
"[Where We Have to Go] is a novel about resilience, the human urge to overcome sorrow, trials and tribulations... Lauren Kirshner has created a world that is believable, touching and a reminder that the journey through life, while not always pleasant, can always get better with time, growth, and understanding."
— Owen Sound Sun-Times
"Combines rich and vivid characters with evocative imagery to tell a compelling tale of adolescence. . . . Kirshner’s whole cast of artfully drawn characters maintains consistently compelling voices. . . . Kirshner uniquely captures with levity and humour the familiar (and painful) experiences of growing up different."
— The Varsity
"Deeply emotionally resonant, Where We Have to Go celebrates the very real triumphs and tribulations of teenage years with understanding and love without letting the characters off the hook for their choices. You’ll recognize yourself and those you love while getting to know the brilliantly drawn characters unique to the pages of this book."
— The Advent Book Blog: Great Books Recommended by Great People
“[Lauren Kirshner is] fast emerging as one of Toronto's most talented new authors....”
— Toronto Star
About the Author
Lauren Kirshner is a graduate of the University of Toronto’s M.A. program in English in the field of Creative Writing, where she was mentored by Margaret Atwood. Kirshner lives in Toronto, where she is at work on her second novel. For more information, become a fan of Where We Have to Go on Facebook.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from Chapter 3:
Wednesday after school, Mom and I took a trip to the Salvation Army. I trolled after her as she pushed the cart, piling it high with “practical” items like military-style sweaters with sewn-in labels that read “Made Specially for You by Grandma,” no-name purple jeans with Popsicle stains on the crotch, and some large floral vests. She had it in her head that vests were really “in.” Mom wanted to buy me a new outfit so Dad could take photos of me in the backyard beside the tomato patch. Before it got too cold, she said, and all the plants died.
“But they’re already dead,” I told her. We passed the lamps section, where everything smelled burnt. “I can smell them stinking up to my window.”
“That’s the smell of regeneration,” Mom said. “Next year, we’ll have better tomatoes than ever.”
I was installed in a musty little changeroom, where I pulled off my T-shirt and stared at myself in the tiny mirror affixed to the pipe on the wall. The big mirror was outside and Mom always made me come out so she could decide for herself if the clothes were “working or not.” I channelled ALF from Melmac and transmitted a message: No sign of breasts. Please send immediately. Sincerely, Bony the Bug Eyes. Over and out.
“Lucy,” Mom called through the curtain. “How’s it going in there?”
“Okay, but I wish we could go to Zellers.” I wanted to sit at the speckled Formica luncheonette counter at Zellers and get served a hot chicken sandwich with fries by one of the glamorous waitresses who wore frilly uniforms in a shade of pink that reminded me of watermelon bubblegum.
“Don’t be spoiled. Some kids your age just wear shirts made from rat hair. When I was a kid in Bulgaria I wore a smock made from camel’s ass. Not so pretty.” Then, after a moment, Mom said, “Anyway, did you hear about the neighbour at seventeen? Her husband went out last week to get an attachment for their blender. He didn’t come back that day, or the next. On day three, she gets a priority letter. Guess what it is?”
“Bad news?”
“Yes!” Her voice rose with excitement. “Exactly.”
Mom loved shocking bad news, the reversals-of-fortune type that cheap tabloid news shows liked to feature. In Mom’s stories, someone was always getting divorced after thirty years of cupcakes. Someone was waking up paralyzed after running a marathon the day before. Someone was getting a routine checkup when his doctors find a cancer the size of a basketball in the stomach.
“He’d sent her divorce papers,” Mom continued. “The guy, it turns out, was a big homosexual type. The note he attached said, ‘I need to feel men on my skin.’ Can you believe that?”
“Gay,” I said through the curtain, “is what they like to be called.”
“Okay,” Mom said. “So now you’re an expert?”
I slipped on a pullover vest embroidered with dogs wearing glasses. The glasses were attached to the dogs’ heads with real mini strands of pearl. Mom had raved about this piece when she’d plucked it off the rack, insisting that “they” — her unnamed group of fashion experts — would be wearing ones just like it come next week. I came out of the changeroom and stood in front of the crooked mirror. Mom came and stood beside me, taking me in distractedly.
“Having your husband leave you, just like that,” she continued, “it must be pretty devastating. Especially when it’s for another man. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. I wanted to change the subject. “But I’ve heard of worse. Like the girl at number eleven who got a bad thought in her head and didn’t know what to do. Her family was very rich but never home.”
Mom handed me the next outfit. A matching pants-and-top set with a pattern of electrocuted cats. Behind the curtain, I took off the vest and threw it into the “passable” heap. I’d made three piles: Passable, Disgusting, and Ultra Grotesque.
“So this girl,” I continued, “she’s the type of person who naturally has a lot on her mind. But now she’s not coping. Her parents are totally absent. She’s so upset that she stops watching TV. That’s serious, isn’t it?”
“Lucy,” Mom sighed, “are you making this up?”
“Listen. One day out of the blue, she starts collecting sticks and dirt. Like, she starts going hunting, like a hound, and for what? For sticks. And all over the place — schoolyards, sandboxes, squirrel lots. The whole bit.” I tightened the drawstring of my pants. “All this dirt makes her feel a bit better. She’s suddenly got jars of it stacked in her room. Buckets of mud —”
“Her rich parents didn’t notice buckets of dirt in the house?”
“They had a cleaning lady,” I explained, “who was used to how rich people act weird. Anyways, this girl’s got a room filled with dirt. Rocks, sticks, mud, fibres from animals. Disgusting stuff. When she starts building the free-range ant farm, her parents wise up. They make her sit down with a shrink.”
“I would’ve just made her clean it up. And sent her to one of those science camps for special people.”
“Mom,” I sighed. “You’re missing the point. This girl was sick. She had a disease in her brain. You can look it up. It’s when you can’t stop collecting dirt and everything that’s in it. It’s a coping mechanism. Geraldo did a show on it.”
“Well, please don’t invite this girl over is all I can say. I have enough problems in the house as it is.”
I came out of the changeroom.
“My turn now,” Mom said. “But don’t think I’m crazy.”
I revolved in front of the mirror. “I won’t.”
“Your dad,” she began, “I think he has another woman.”
I remembered Dad in his hunting scene sweater, his face frozen in concentration as he stood in the entrance of the church basement, where he’d stopped to watch her — Crashing Wave, in her blue plastic heels, laying her hand on another man’s shoulder. I remembered how they had laughed. She’d given me her lipstick and told me “You and I have that natural Twiggy figure.” But Dad said they were just good friends.
Mom stared back at me, her mouth open, her hands folded over the shopping cart. Once upon a time she’d been Miss Sophia West, the beauty queen of suburban Bulgaria. She’d worn peacock feathers and posed in front of gold curtains, smiling with shiny red lips. Now she wore huge tortoiseshell glasses and had hair in her armpits. Now she wore lipstick only on special occasions, because she said it was boiled pig fat marked up 1,000 per cent. It belonged with all the other “rip-offs” — hairspray, leather shoes, and fashion magazines — she didn’t need now that she was “out of that game.”
“Lucy?” Mom said. “Did you hear what I said? Do you think he’s seeing another woman?”
I didn’t understand why Mom was asking me these questions. Or why she had so many doubts and worries. If she spent less time worrying, maybe we could do more fun things, like eat hot chicken sandwiches at the Zellers luncheon counter, instead of hanging around this changeroom wearing other people’s clothes and talking about crazy things.
“No,” I said, “Dad wouldn’t do that.”
Excerpt from Chapter 9:
When I was fifteen, I spent the summer working with Dad at the Sun and Waves travel agency. I couldn’t imagine Holden Caulfield ever working at a travel agency. But then it was also hard to picture Dad working in one. He’d probably take his time to help some blonde book a cruise, but more likely he’d just thrust a couple of airline tickets at an old lady with blue hair and tell her, “Here. You can go now.”
Sun and Waves was located at the far end of the Lawrence Plaza, one of those concrete bottomless squares that Dad said was built in the 1960s, when no one cared if buildings were ugly. At the south end of the plaza was a bus stop and a shoe repair shack that always smelled like horse shit, but Dad said that was actually the boot cleaner the shoe guy had to use for police shoes. On one side of Sun and Waves was a nails supply place, and on the other was a store that was completely empty except for some old chewing gum racks.
Dad worked with only one other person at Sun and Waves, and that person was his boss. Dad’s boss was a man, but his name was Marg Nutter. I think that’s why he was always in a bad mood, because he had a woman’s name.
Marg Nutter sat at the front of the store so he could greet his customers as soon as they walked in. But I think that’s another reason why Marg Nutter was always in a bad mood, because nobody ever came into the store. The customers were mostly phone-ins, old people who wanted to go to Boca Raton, Fort Lauderdale, Palm Springs, or, if they were looking for something more exotic, Varadero, Negril, or Guadalajara. Sometimes the old people got mixed and instead of “Guadalajara” they’d say “Guantanamo,” and then Dad would have to explain that it wasn’t that kind of resort.
Marg Nutter had offered to pay me less than minimum wage to deliver flyers to the high-rise apartment buildings surrounding the plaza. The only part of the job I was looking forward to was the exercise ...
Wednesday after school, Mom and I took a trip to the Salvation Army. I trolled after her as she pushed the cart, piling it high with “practical” items like military-style sweaters with sewn-in labels that read “Made Specially for You by Grandma,” no-name purple jeans with Popsicle stains on the crotch, and some large floral vests. She had it in her head that vests were really “in.” Mom wanted to buy me a new outfit so Dad could take photos of me in the backyard beside the tomato patch. Before it got too cold, she said, and all the plants died.
“But they’re already dead,” I told her. We passed the lamps section, where everything smelled burnt. “I can smell them stinking up to my window.”
“That’s the smell of regeneration,” Mom said. “Next year, we’ll have better tomatoes than ever.”
I was installed in a musty little changeroom, where I pulled off my T-shirt and stared at myself in the tiny mirror affixed to the pipe on the wall. The big mirror was outside and Mom always made me come out so she could decide for herself if the clothes were “working or not.” I channelled ALF from Melmac and transmitted a message: No sign of breasts. Please send immediately. Sincerely, Bony the Bug Eyes. Over and out.
“Lucy,” Mom called through the curtain. “How’s it going in there?”
“Okay, but I wish we could go to Zellers.” I wanted to sit at the speckled Formica luncheonette counter at Zellers and get served a hot chicken sandwich with fries by one of the glamorous waitresses who wore frilly uniforms in a shade of pink that reminded me of watermelon bubblegum.
“Don’t be spoiled. Some kids your age just wear shirts made from rat hair. When I was a kid in Bulgaria I wore a smock made from camel’s ass. Not so pretty.” Then, after a moment, Mom said, “Anyway, did you hear about the neighbour at seventeen? Her husband went out last week to get an attachment for their blender. He didn’t come back that day, or the next. On day three, she gets a priority letter. Guess what it is?”
“Bad news?”
“Yes!” Her voice rose with excitement. “Exactly.”
Mom loved shocking bad news, the reversals-of-fortune type that cheap tabloid news shows liked to feature. In Mom’s stories, someone was always getting divorced after thirty years of cupcakes. Someone was waking up paralyzed after running a marathon the day before. Someone was getting a routine checkup when his doctors find a cancer the size of a basketball in the stomach.
“He’d sent her divorce papers,” Mom continued. “The guy, it turns out, was a big homosexual type. The note he attached said, ‘I need to feel men on my skin.’ Can you believe that?”
“Gay,” I said through the curtain, “is what they like to be called.”
“Okay,” Mom said. “So now you’re an expert?”
I slipped on a pullover vest embroidered with dogs wearing glasses. The glasses were attached to the dogs’ heads with real mini strands of pearl. Mom had raved about this piece when she’d plucked it off the rack, insisting that “they” — her unnamed group of fashion experts — would be wearing ones just like it come next week. I came out of the changeroom and stood in front of the crooked mirror. Mom came and stood beside me, taking me in distractedly.
“Having your husband leave you, just like that,” she continued, “it must be pretty devastating. Especially when it’s for another man. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. I wanted to change the subject. “But I’ve heard of worse. Like the girl at number eleven who got a bad thought in her head and didn’t know what to do. Her family was very rich but never home.”
Mom handed me the next outfit. A matching pants-and-top set with a pattern of electrocuted cats. Behind the curtain, I took off the vest and threw it into the “passable” heap. I’d made three piles: Passable, Disgusting, and Ultra Grotesque.
“So this girl,” I continued, “she’s the type of person who naturally has a lot on her mind. But now she’s not coping. Her parents are totally absent. She’s so upset that she stops watching TV. That’s serious, isn’t it?”
“Lucy,” Mom sighed, “are you making this up?”
“Listen. One day out of the blue, she starts collecting sticks and dirt. Like, she starts going hunting, like a hound, and for what? For sticks. And all over the place — schoolyards, sandboxes, squirrel lots. The whole bit.” I tightened the drawstring of my pants. “All this dirt makes her feel a bit better. She’s suddenly got jars of it stacked in her room. Buckets of mud —”
“Her rich parents didn’t notice buckets of dirt in the house?”
“They had a cleaning lady,” I explained, “who was used to how rich people act weird. Anyways, this girl’s got a room filled with dirt. Rocks, sticks, mud, fibres from animals. Disgusting stuff. When she starts building the free-range ant farm, her parents wise up. They make her sit down with a shrink.”
“I would’ve just made her clean it up. And sent her to one of those science camps for special people.”
“Mom,” I sighed. “You’re missing the point. This girl was sick. She had a disease in her brain. You can look it up. It’s when you can’t stop collecting dirt and everything that’s in it. It’s a coping mechanism. Geraldo did a show on it.”
“Well, please don’t invite this girl over is all I can say. I have enough problems in the house as it is.”
I came out of the changeroom.
“My turn now,” Mom said. “But don’t think I’m crazy.”
I revolved in front of the mirror. “I won’t.”
“Your dad,” she began, “I think he has another woman.”
I remembered Dad in his hunting scene sweater, his face frozen in concentration as he stood in the entrance of the church basement, where he’d stopped to watch her — Crashing Wave, in her blue plastic heels, laying her hand on another man’s shoulder. I remembered how they had laughed. She’d given me her lipstick and told me “You and I have that natural Twiggy figure.” But Dad said they were just good friends.
Mom stared back at me, her mouth open, her hands folded over the shopping cart. Once upon a time she’d been Miss Sophia West, the beauty queen of suburban Bulgaria. She’d worn peacock feathers and posed in front of gold curtains, smiling with shiny red lips. Now she wore huge tortoiseshell glasses and had hair in her armpits. Now she wore lipstick only on special occasions, because she said it was boiled pig fat marked up 1,000 per cent. It belonged with all the other “rip-offs” — hairspray, leather shoes, and fashion magazines — she didn’t need now that she was “out of that game.”
“Lucy?” Mom said. “Did you hear what I said? Do you think he’s seeing another woman?”
I didn’t understand why Mom was asking me these questions. Or why she had so many doubts and worries. If she spent less time worrying, maybe we could do more fun things, like eat hot chicken sandwiches at the Zellers luncheon counter, instead of hanging around this changeroom wearing other people’s clothes and talking about crazy things.
“No,” I said, “Dad wouldn’t do that.”
Excerpt from Chapter 9:
When I was fifteen, I spent the summer working with Dad at the Sun and Waves travel agency. I couldn’t imagine Holden Caulfield ever working at a travel agency. But then it was also hard to picture Dad working in one. He’d probably take his time to help some blonde book a cruise, but more likely he’d just thrust a couple of airline tickets at an old lady with blue hair and tell her, “Here. You can go now.”
Sun and Waves was located at the far end of the Lawrence Plaza, one of those concrete bottomless squares that Dad said was built in the 1960s, when no one cared if buildings were ugly. At the south end of the plaza was a bus stop and a shoe repair shack that always smelled like horse shit, but Dad said that was actually the boot cleaner the shoe guy had to use for police shoes. On one side of Sun and Waves was a nails supply place, and on the other was a store that was completely empty except for some old chewing gum racks.
Dad worked with only one other person at Sun and Waves, and that person was his boss. Dad’s boss was a man, but his name was Marg Nutter. I think that’s why he was always in a bad mood, because he had a woman’s name.
Marg Nutter sat at the front of the store so he could greet his customers as soon as they walked in. But I think that’s another reason why Marg Nutter was always in a bad mood, because nobody ever came into the store. The customers were mostly phone-ins, old people who wanted to go to Boca Raton, Fort Lauderdale, Palm Springs, or, if they were looking for something more exotic, Varadero, Negril, or Guadalajara. Sometimes the old people got mixed and instead of “Guadalajara” they’d say “Guantanamo,” and then Dad would have to explain that it wasn’t that kind of resort.
Marg Nutter had offered to pay me less than minimum wage to deliver flyers to the high-rise apartment buildings surrounding the plaza. The only part of the job I was looking forward to was the exercise ...
