I was talking to Chantal on the phone the other day, and she told me I hadn’t updated my blog. I admitted to this accusation and thought to myself, “I can’t let my older sister down. What SHOULD I write about?” Who was I inspired to write about other than the person from whom I once received a letter with the return address containing the name “Chantal the Magnificent.”

Yup, Chantal is the subject I would like to address. I feel like I have an insider’s knowledge of this woman. Probably because I do. Since she is one of my best friends, I think I have some license to discuss her at length. Our relationship started when she told God that she would give up her blanket if she could just have a little sister.

While basking in the knowledge that my sister wanted me enough to give up her favorite blanket, all of a sudden, my mind raced back to a time when I was sitting in a chair. Chantal was in front of me, and we were playing “test tasters.” The game goes something like this. You sit in the chair while your sister gives you food to eat, and you have to guess what she is feeding you. At first she started out with brown sugar and apples and flour, but slowly the samples developed into butter and lemon juice and somehow evolved into—cat food. Yes. She fed me cat food.

To add to this animalistic treatment, rumor has it that initially she was obsessed with my fingers. Quite odd really; but who am I to judge what other people find interesting? Well, apparently, my fingers could bend all the way backward when I was a baby. She bent my fingers backward so much that I can still bend my pinkies back to my wrists to this very day. So I can also blame a deformity, malleable fingers, on Chantal as well.

The flood gates of memory were opening, and another flashback came to me after the first two thoughts raced through my mind: one day Chantal told me that she had a gift for me. I was thrilled! How nice of her. It was in a tin box and looked SO cool. What could it be? Since when did I ever receive gifts from my older sister? It must mean that she loves me. I sat on the edge of my bed and pried it open. Little did I know that Chantal had made little paper springs out of ripped-off edges of our computer paper, so when I opened the box, I saw little pieces of popping out at me. Chantal laughed a sardonic, mischievous laugh.

The memory of Chantal’s laughter somehow connected me to another memory. I would like to title it “jail time”. Chantal and Alyssa, a girl from the neighborhood, were so cool. Man, I wanted to be like them, so I would follow them around; unfortunately, my little legs couldn’t keep up with them at times. On this particular day in question, I saw them run into my house and slam the door. I came in a minute later, panting. The phone rang and Chantal answered it. Let’s hear what happened in her words:

“This is the police? For Ginette? Because she is the only one in our family with blues eyes? Yes, Officer, we’ll hold her until you get here.”

With that, she slammed down the receiver and came after me to “hold me down until the officer got there”. As I shrieked my mother came up the stairs and asked me what was wrong. When I told her she laughed, which of course threw me into convulsive crying fits because that meant she wanted me to go serve jail time too! Cruel and unusual punishment—need I say more?

Now I want you to know, reader, that I could continue on with plenty of other stories, but you’ll have to take my word on this one. It is my contention that Chantal Methot was not in fact praying for a little sister for companionship or even friendship; it was for the simple reason of sharpening her mischievous skills on an unsuspecting victim—me.