The Gladstone Hotel, Skim launch

East Indian woman, early 20s, with coarse hair, wearing wide-brimmed, black and white checkered baseball hat, black and white striped hoodie, and low slung skinny jeans with gemmed belt buckle.

Skim, Mariko Tamaki and Jillian Tamaki (Groundwood Books)



She stands at the edge of the bar nervously watching the girls around the pool tables suck their long necks and rack up another go round. She nurses a ginger ale in a short glass. Old trick. Her mother will pick her up in 47 minutes outside the Mars Diner. She'll have had a grilled cheese sandwich and too much coffee. That will explain the minty gum, the reason she wasn't there when her mother arrived, because she had to get gum, now get off my case, and let's just go home already.

Introducing "Daddy's Girl"

Caucasian girl, 12 or 13, fuzzy hair pulled back, wearing a purple ski jacket and green corduroy pants, cuffs tucked into winter boots. She doesn't read to pass the time, to avoid contact with others. She's a lifer, focused: an important distinction.

Magic Street, Orson Scott Card (Del Rey)

Page 71:

Quon said she was in competitions all the time, and she outswam and outdived girls two years older than her and people said she was so natural and quick in the water. "She just lives to swim."

In grade 5 she moved. In her old hometown, her old elementary friends learned the new ways, the new rules, of grade 6, 7 and 8. She spent the summer alone, thinking the rules would stay the same. She looked away from the girls in the street, ignored their attempts to befriend her. She would have new friends soon enough. She spent the months sitting in a woven sun chair under a new-old maple tree in her new-old backyard, outside her new-old house in a new-old town. Sitting in the locker room, two days into new-school, she changed into her shorts and two-toned cap sleeve tee, canary-yellow and pistachio-green, enough to cover her shoulders. But as the other girls stood in their bras she missed her old elementary friends more than ever before. They would have told her it was the summer they'd all started shaving.

Meet her again, for the first time.

Bloor Line, back pack pulling her shoulders straight.

South Asian girl, 14-15, wearing a bright red jacket with black stripe down each arm, and a black and red striped tuque.

Sunwing, Kenneth Oppel (HarperCollins)

Page 6:

The sound picture blazed in Chinook's mind only a fraction of a second, but was so sudden and so horrifying that he cried out and careened into a fir bough, dousing himself with snow.

There's the binders, the lunch bag, the thermos, and the gym shorts. The sneakers, the mittens, the ruler, and the pencil case. Side upon side, edging into folds, straining against the seams encrusted in random flecks left over from early high school, one damp gum wrapper bleeding into the nylon. The outer pocket lies open and empty, the corner pulled down in wait. Zipper on stand by to pull closed the chamber reserved only for the book.

Spadina streetcar, off at U of T.

Caucasian female, early 30s, wearing black jeans, black and white sneakers, and a worn brown suede jacket, headphone cords snaking up her back out of the side pocket of an orange courier bag.

Prozac Nation, Elizabeth Wurtzel (Houghton Mifflin)

About page 101:

Then one night, when I am babysitting for our neighbours downstairs, my father calls. Mommy must have told him where he could find me, which I think is a stunning display of maturity on both their parts since they can barely talk without hostility surfacing.

The jacket cost $20, bought across the border at an army surplus store. Heavy brown suede, the cuffs worn into a smooth crease from years of rolling. It zips up the front but not over her chest. It’s a man’s jacket, after all.

She adjusts the collar constantly, snapping it high even though it’ll fall limp almost immediately. It came with a receipt in the breast pocket, $5.00 of gasoline at a station one town over, and a crumpled tissue, inside a chewed up piece of gum, red, Big Red, and the filter of a Marlboro. A day’s worth of breath wrapped away.

Bloor Line, standing in the middle of the platform, back to the track.

Caucasian male, early 40s, wearing a blue checkered shirt under a collared sweater, his eyes a little tired, a little red.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, J.K. Rowling (Raincoast)

Page 212:

Fight it, he told himself, but he knew that he could not conjure a Patronus here without revealing himself instantly. So he moved forwards, as silently as he could, and with every step he took numbness seemed to steal over his brain, but forced himself to think of Hermione and of Ron, who needed him.

Tonight his children will eat with their mother alone. She's promised a take out bucket of chicken, creamy coleslaw and, if they've finished their homework, a trip for ice cream, maybe a whole banana split. The futon has been pulled out in the guestroom, ready for his return home, back from his father's who will not have understood at his age of 78 how his son, his only child, could be a pervert.

Withrow Park, beach blanket limbo

Caucasian male, late 20s, wearing a blue t-shirt and cargo pants. Caucasian woman, late 20s, wearing a green spaghetti strap tank top and faded jeans rolled to the knee. They lie on a blanket, head-to-head, going through the motions together. As they've done before, seven books over their seven years, they each get a copy and share their weekend, toe-to-toe, knee-to-knee, side-by-side, sharing. Once finished, a copy finds its home on their bookshelf, the other into the eager hands of their next-door neighbour's young daughter.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling (Raincoast)

About page 55:

As the curses came shooting across the intervening space again, Hagrid swerved and zigzagged: Harry knew that Hagrid did not dare use the dragon-fire button again, with Harry seated so insecurely. Harry sent Stunning Spell after Stunning Spell back at their pursuers, barely holding them off.

He wants to suggest that with the end of this era perhaps they, too, should end their tradition. If he's honest with himself, he's happy to let this go, as nice as it was while it lasted. The playfulness is spent. He's not sure he could endure another series. He's beginning to find it childish. He knows she'll be upset. Her attachment to the girl next door has been growing. He makes a mental note to pick up a gift card from Book City. Leave it in the neighbour's mailbox.

She wonders how long she can go without telling him, absentmindedly rubbing her belly, already certain.

Bloor Line, content.

Caucasian woman, mid 50s, wearing a red-checkered shirt, sun hat and large, round sunglasses.

Airborn, Kenneth Oppel (HarperCollins)

Page 171:

The wind had a voice and it was howling and cursing, and whenever it died down for a moment I would pray that this was finished, that it had spent itself, but then the rain would crash down with renewed hatred, and the wind would shriek again as if all the heavens were its bellows, aimed at our island.

Some days are better than others. Today, for one. Her underwear didn't pinch at the waist. That flip in her hair cooperated. Coffee didn't ache her belly. She'd managed, somehow, to get away with a crueller for breakfast. The train had come on time. Space had opened up. She'd settled in the middle, hitting every curve of that track like she was a sixteen year old boy riding the curl of a Maui wave. Then she'd turned the page and the "wind has a voice and it was howling..." That's all it took. Her mother dead. Her alone. Playing out days in cups of coffee and doughnuts; her book, her best friend.

The Harry Potter Post

When I first started Seen Reading, I knew I would write this post. I talked myself in and out of it a dozen times. The effort ranged from riding transit all weekend to sitting in one spot and letting Harry pass me by. I decided to simply stay in my neighbourhood, not changing a thing, just going about business as usual.

I got two words for you. Holy. Hanna.

I knew. We all knew. But I’m not sure to this degree. Say what you will about Harry Potter and it’s author, J.K. Rowling, that’s not the point of this post. It’s about impact. The impact of readership. Marketing. Celebrity. Word-of-mouth. How books are sold and how books are made. Ultimately—and call me a softy— to my mind, it’s how this series has impacted hope. Harry Potter became something more than a cultural touchstone, he was a belief system.

To that end, I’ve put aside the formula of a typical entry. I can’t even begin to (want to) write to the possible realities of each of these readers. They’re all in one magical place, together. That’s the ultimate impact of Harry Potter.

So, here we go.

Location: Transit, Danforth Avenue, Withrow Park, sidewalks, bookstores, patios, coffee shops and one hair salon.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling (Raincoast)

The book went on sale at midnight. I was rumbling home from a dinner when…

21 Saturday, 1:11 am (Bloor Line)

1. Asian male, late teens, steps on at Yonge Station, calling back to a young woman sitting on a bench about to open the book, “I want spoilers!”

2. Caucasian male, late 30s, rail thin, in a suit and tie, wearing glasses.

3. Black woman, early 30s, with close-shaved head, wearing a black linen dress.

4. Asian woman, early 20s, sharing the book with her boyfriend, his finger turning the pages, her legs swung over his lap.

5. Caucasian male, early teens, mother beside him, scanning the pages for questionable content.

6. Caucasian girl, 9/10, bags under her eyes, hair disheveled, clutching the book to her chest, head into her father’s shoulder.

7. Caucasian male, mid 20s, wearing khaki pants, brown dress shoes and an indigo blue polo shirt.

8. Caucasian twins, late teens, both wearing green t-shirts and jeans. One holds the book in her lap, hand placed on top like it’s a bible. She can’t breathe. She turns to the last page and her sister rips the book from her hands. She places the book between them and opens it to the beginning.

1:23 am (Danforth Avenue, street level) Standing still at a stoplight.

9. & 10. Cyclists

11. Pedestrian

To recap, that's a travel time of 17 minutes and 11 sightings. Of the 20 subway passengers I counted, 8 had purchased the book.

Page 9:

The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s chests; then, recognising each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction.

‘News?’ asked the taller of the two.
‘The best,’ replied Severus Snape.

The following day:

Big breath…

12. Caucasian male, mid 40s, balding, short grey beard, wearing glasses, blue t-shirt and khaki shorts. Stands outside Book City reading the first few pages until another man joins him, rubs his shoulder and they jaywalk across to The Second Cup.

13. Caucasian woman, mid 30s, with short curly black bob, carrying the book like a football, her step light, an excited grin on her face.

14. South Asian woman, late teens, wearing pink linen shirt, white shorts and long necklace.

15. Asian girl, 13, wearing glasses, yellow sweatshirt and matching headband.

I’m starting to notice that most people’s bookmaker is a bill, yet they have no bag, proudly displaying the book like a badge.

16. Two boys, mid teens, sitting side-by-side, wearing baseball caps and jerseys. They each rest the book in their lap, leaning forward, curled away from the crowd, chins palmed.

17. Caucasian male, mid 50s, wearing a burgundy t-shirt, grey shorts and sandals.

18 –21. Four girls, early teens, sitting on blankets in a loose circle, propped up on pillows. At the centre, discarded crusts sit absent-mindedly in an empty Pizza Pizza box. A bag of Ruffles remains unopened. One girl is picking through some jellybeans.

22. Caucasian woman, early 20s, with long black wet hair, wearing a black t-shirt and black pants, sitting at a picnic table surrounded by a day’s worth of food.

About page 156:

Harry felt as though a brick has slid down through his chest into his stomach. He remembered: he had even handled the thing as they passed it round, each trying in turn to prise it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy…

23. & 24. Two Black girls, both wearing skinny jeans and tank tops. One wears flip-flops, the other Puma sneakers. They’re sharing a pair of headphones. They look up at the same time and sing. “Ma ma se Ma ma sa Ma ma coo sa, Ma ma se Ma ma sa Ma ma coo sa…”

I don’t know about you, but I think this J.K. Rowling is going places.

25. Caucasian male, late 20s, with spiky, bleach blonde hair, wearing a white v-neck t-shirt, black jeans and white sneakers. His leather wallet threatens to fall out of his back pocket. Holds the book in one hand, an obviously hot coffee in the other, stubbornly rocking in the centre of the car, rather than sit.

26. Caucasian woman, 20ish, wearing snug jeans and red sleeveless t-shirt. A tattoo swirl sits at the base of her spine just above the pink thong peaking out. She hikes, self-consciously, and turns her back to the subway door.

27. Caucasian woman, 16-25, it’s hard to tell, with shaggy, brown hair, tight decal tee, skinny jeans, black studded belt and black high tops. Her cuffs are rolled high, the thighs caked in fingers of paint or clay.

28. Black woman, late 30s, wearing a purple t-shirt, green scarf and flowing skirt. Her wrists jingle with dozens of thin hoops.

Page 288:

He tried to return her watery smile, then turned his attention to the book. Its spine was stiff; it had clearly never been opened before. He riffled through the pages, looking for photographs. He came across the one he sought almost at once, the young Dumbledore and his handsome companion, roaring with laughter at some long forgotten joke.

29. Caucasian woman, 30ish, pregnant, leaning into a park bench, resting the book on 8 months of belly.

30. South Asian male, late teens, wearing black long sleeved t-shirt and jeans, removing the dust jacket and forcefully cracking the spine, an audible snap with each bend.

31-42. Standing in line: counting change, holding young hands, trying not to look at the last page, jiggling, snapping gum, considering the mints, contemplating a cd, doing calf lifts, sipping a Starbucks, shuffling mindlessly, talking on a cell.

43. Hispanic woman, early 20s, swiveling in the salon chair next to her co-worker’s 2:30 cut and blow dry.

44. & 45. Two women, early 40s, wearing matching wedding bands, sit on a Timothy’s patio, plates of half-eaten pastries pushed to the side, a tube of sunscreen at the table’s centre.

Page 364:

Someone yanked Harry up by the hair, dragged him a short way, pushed him down into a sitting position, then started binding him back-to-back with other people.

46. This is heartbreaking. She’s crying.

22. (Early evening.) She’s still there, solid, unmoving.

47. I imagine her still, sitting in her wicker chair in the sunroom. She looks out over the ravine. Have the rabbits been digging in her garden again? She pads her thumb over the cheese tray, leaving nothing to waste, and finishes her port. She recalls the children. Quiet down now. Eyes front for the national anthem. She bumped into one the other day, grown and married. Did she know she’d been her favourite teacher? She struggled to recall, settling on a memory that could have been any number of students. Thank you, she’d smiled. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. She puts the book aside, beside the others and decides tomorrow she’ll donate them to the local library.

Spadina Station, waiting for an emptier car.

Asian female, 14-16, tall and thin, wearing a pink t-shirt, jean skirt with black leggings, black mesh shoes and a silver anklet. A long, red ribbon is tied through her hair.

The Amulet of Samarkand: The Bartimaeus Trilogy Book 1, Jonathan Stroud (Miramax Books/Hyperbion)

Page 77:

A thousand fishhooks seemed to embed themselves into me. I was pulled in several directions at once. Resisting too long risked tearing my essence, but I had no interest in delay. I wished to hand over the Amulet and be done.

The platform is three rows back. A car has stalled somewhere down the line. We're all rethinking our wardrobe. The girl itches the back of her knee, tugging at the leggings, the material snapping back too close to her skin. I pull at the back of my collar, adjust the strap of my bag, envy the man next to me, his linen shirt loose against his chest. The girl runs the back of her hand against her forehead. Mirroring the need, I inadvertently transfer ink and a rushed scribble onto my sweaty cheek.

Yonge Line, last car, facing the back window.

Hispanic girl, 15, with curly hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, wearing a salmon pink jacket and fuzzy pink socks, holding an electric blue sucker.

Truth About Forever, Sarah Dessen (Speak)

Page 1:

Jason was going to Brain Camp.

The Young Lovers were crammed into the doorway. She looked paler than ever, her blue eyes popping neon. He was struggling to pull the bottom of his black and red ski pants over the top of his boots. He circled his shoulders, bundled too tightly inside his winter gear, his body cramped. His hair was growing out fast, itching under his tuque. He flexed his ears, bobbed his brow, trying to get relief without having to raise a hand. It was unbearable.

He shuffled his weight, foot to foot, rocking between her and the passenger behind him, a fey gentleman pressed sharp from head to toe, his cologne crisp and clean, the pointed tip of his black dress shoes extending inches past his natural toe. The boy had already smiled sweetly once, when the car came to a sudden stop, halfway through the tunnel. The man had lurched forward placing the pads of his index and middle fingers against the boy's lower spine. The boy had turned, their faces within breathing distance. And then the soft, forgiving smile as he tried to take in something otherworldly about the man. He'd turned back, his eyes meeting hers, quizzical. As his glasses slid down his face he imagined a barbell piercing the bridge of his nose, frames held in place with magnetic pull. Then it hit him. Seeking the man's reflection in the glass doors he saw the shimmer of something embedded in the man's eye. Two metallic implants.