by Katia Rose
“Well maybe tonight will be good for you. It’ll be nice to get out of the house, blow some of that six grand...”
“I still feel used,” I joke.
“Like I said, get used to it.”
He gives me the details for tonight before hanging up.
I put an upbeat playlist on and crack down on my work for the day, doing my best to feel as psyched as I should be. Paige emerges from her lair while I’m making pasta for dinner a couple hours later, and she accepts my invitation to have some. She seems genuinely excited when our small talk leads to me telling her about the six grand, and my mouth nearly falls off my face in shock when she gets up after we’ve finished our pasta and asks if I’d like an ice cream sandwich.
“Do I really deserve that honor? It’s only six grand.”
She treats her ice cream like it’s worth double that.
“I’m not giving you an ice cream sandwich because of your accomplishments,” she says like it should be obvious. She pushes up the sleeves of her hoodie and pulls the box out of the freezer. “I’m giving it to you because you just made more money than you’ve ever made before, and you still look so fucking sad.”
Well then.
“So this is a pity offering?”
“It’s a ‘get on with your life’ offering.”
I make a show out of wincing. “Wow. Ouch, Paige”
“Just telling it like it is.” She shrugs as she hands me the sandwich. “You’re too smart to sit around waiting for things to change or fix themselves.”
“You sound like a very wise fortune cookie.”
“Hey!” She glowers at me. “Just because I’m half Asian!”
“Oh, shit. Right. Uh, I didn’t mean—”
She starts chuckling. “Got you.”
“Oh, whew.” I pretend to wipe some sweat off my forehead. “I actually am leaving the house tonight. I’m hanging out with Dylan and Renee from the bar. One of Renee’s friends is coming, and it is not a double date.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh, okay.”
I feel my face flush. “I just, uh, I don’t want anyone to think that I’m...”
“Moving on?” She doesn’t let me answer. “I like DeeDee as much as the next person, but…it’s like I said: you can’t sit around waiting for things to fix themselves.”
And with that, she disappears as quickly as she arrived, fading away into the black hole of shadow and mystery and EDM that is her room.
I keep her words in mind the whole way over to the bar in the Quartier des Spectacles Dylan gave me the name of. The streets are crawling with people enjoying the warm evening, wandering the sidewalks and sipping drinks on patios. I find Dylan, Renee, and the third wheeling friend seated on one of said patios, string lights draped over the table and a big pitcher of what seems to be sangria sitting between all three of them.
“Zach!” Renee calls out.
Greetings and introductions get made all around. Even in my apparently evident state of moping, I can admit that Renee’s friend, Salma, is pretty—stunning, even, with billboard model cheekbones and jet black hair so straight and shiny that the light from the bulbs overhead makes her look like she’s shimmering every time she moves. The only empty seat is right next to her. I settle myself in the chair as Dylan pours me a glass from the pitcher.
“I thought you requested beer for tonight,” I remind him.
“Change of plans. The girls wanted to be festive.”
“We have to make the most of this warmth,” Renee defends herself. “I refuse to drink sangria in the winter.”
That’s Montrealers for you: already thinking of the winter ahead when it’s only the beginning of June.
During the first few minutes of conversation, I learn the movie we’re going to is a tiny independent screening put on by a club Salma’s in at school.
“It’s about Persian heritage in North America,” she explains, “which I know probably sounds like it’s going to be some stuffy documentary, but it’s actually really funny and unique. It was up for best foreign film at the Oscars this year. I’ve seen it four times already.”
“It sounds very cool,” I assure her, and she gives me a grateful smile. “Do you study film?”
She shakes her head. “I thought about it, but I’m in anthropology at McGill.”
The two of us get into a conversation about movies while Renee and Dylan have a passionate debate about the appropriate seasons in which to drink sangria.
“That reminds me of this one meme,” Salma says after I bring up something that happened at the Oscars last year.
“Oh, no way.” I set my drink down on the table. “Tell me you’re thinking of this one.”
It’s only after I’ve pulled my phone out and we’re both laughing at the screen that Dylan and Renee call it quits on their argument.
“Zach, are you showing her a meme?” Dylan asks. “You’ve only known the poor girl for five minutes.”
“She brought it up!” I accuse.
Salma raises her hand. “Guilty.”
“Let’s see it then,” Renee orders.
She and Dylan peer at the image and then at each other.
“Do you get it?” he asks her. Renee shakes her head. “Me neither. You two are weirdos.”
Salma nudges me with her elbow. “Looks like we’re freaks.”
I laugh along with her, but this time it’s forced.
Here I am, a single twenty-two year-old guy having drinks with a beautiful, smart, and funny girl on what is, for all intents and purposes, a double date. I should be thrilled to have her flirtily bumping me with her elbow. I should be nudging her back, showing her I’m as interested as she is—but I’m not.
I don’t want a girlfriend. I don’t want someone to lay on the couch and watch movies with. I don’t want to share lazy Sundays and busy weekdays and all the joy and stress and laughs and sobs and the millions of moments that make up what it is to have a life together with just anyone.
I want it with DeeDee, and I don’t know how to stop wanting it with her.
I excuse myself to the washroom, and on the way back to the table, I get a text from Hope, confirming the time we’re calling tonight.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I forgot about that. She’d understand if I moved the call to another night—she’s already cancelled once this week herself—but neither the prospect of courteously flirting with Salma or somehow turning her down in a way that won’t be awkward for everyone sounds appealing enough to keep me here.
“Guys, I’m really sorry,” I announce after taking my seat again, “I’m going to have to leave in about twenty minutes. I have a video call with my sister scheduled that I forgot about, and I really can’t miss it.”
Renee and Salma both sigh.
“That is so sweet,” Renee declares, and Salma agrees.
“Here.” She digs out some kind of pamphlet from her purse. “We do regular screenings all through the summer. That’s the schedule for the next few months.”
“Thanks.”
I fold it up and tuck it into my pocket. I don’t know if this is the part where I’m supposed to ask for her number or something, but I let the three of them carry the conversation for the next few minutes. It’s only when I’m getting up to leave that Dylan remembers why I asked to meet for drinks in the first place.
“I forgot to tell you all Zach is a rich bitch! He made six grand this month!”
I accept everyone’s congratulations and settle back into my chair as they insist on getting the whole story. I explain the basics of ecommerce before leaving enough cash on the table to cover the pitcher, but I don’t stay for another round, no matter how much they beg and tell me it will be a quick one.
“Not even one for the road?” Salma prods.
I fight to keep my face under control, even as the words hit me like a punch to the gut.
DeeDee’s signature phrase.
“Alas, no,” I manage to choke out. “Have fun at the m
ovie, guys.”
I can’t tell if I want to punch something or just sit down on the sidewalk with my head in my hands as I make my way home.
“As our mother would say, you look like a sad sack of potatoes.”
“Well thanks, Hope.” I shake my head, but I can’t help grinning at her face on my laptop screen. “I don’t know why she says that. It doesn’t even make sense.”
Hope runs a hand through her hair, and I try not to let the sight of the teal strands DeeDee dyed make me an even sadder sack of potatoes.
“I learned long ago not to question the ways of our mother.”
I settle back onto my pillows in bed. “Well you certainly questioned her rules every chance you got growing up.”
“And you were a goodie two shoes,” she shoots back. “You were like Mom’s disciple, always carrying food to the neighbors and putting others before yourself.”
She says the last part with an extra pious expression and her hands poised like some sort of yogi.
“What’s wrong with that?” I demand.
“Nothing, except you and Mom are like, extreme about it. You both bend over backwards for everyone else until you collapse. You have zero boundaries.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Wow, Hope. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m sorry.” She pushes away from her laptop a little, swivelling in her desk chair. I can see a huge framed photo of her lacrosse team on the wall behind her, along with a very hipster-looking macramé plant holder. “I just get very passionate about this. You’ve always been there for me, helping me reach my goals, and I want to help you do that too. Speaking of, tell me the news!”
I spill the beans, and she, predictably, flips her shit. She pulls out an actual air horn from somewhere in her room and starts blasting it while dancing around.
“Hope, that’s hurting my ears,” I complain. “Your roommates are probably about to murder you.”
She just prances away off camera, and I hear her door open before she shouts, “My brother is a rich and successful businessman!”
“How did you find people willing to live with you?” I ask after she settles back down in her chair.
“Oh, they’re all even louder than me. We’re lacrosse players. We hit people with sticks for fun. Rowdiness is in our blood.”
“Are you actually supposed to hit people with the sticks?”
She pauses. “Technically no, but it’s hard to avoid. So, what are your big plans now that you’re making all this dough?”
“Well...” I trail off and sigh. “To be honest, I don’t feel as ecstatic about it as I thought I would.”
Hope’s face softens, and she wheels herself closer to her desk so her face takes up most of the screen. The sight of her blue eyes behind her glasses, the eyes everybody says are the exact same colour as mine, makes me wish she was here so strongly it’s a physical ache in my chest.
“You’re not doing well, are you, Zach?”
“I want to be doing well,” I admit. “I know I’m doing the right thing. She...she needed to do what she did. I believe that, but...everybody keeps telling me I need to pay more attention to what I need, and I know it sounds stupid and sappy and maybe even pathetic, but I really feel like I need her. I didn’t care about the labels or the details or how long it was going to take. I would have taken whatever she had to gi—”
“Brother.” Hope cuts me off, holding one hand up in the universal sign for ‘stop.’ “I am going to halt you right there and ask you to think about what you’re saying.”
I indulge her and sit in silence for a few seconds.
“Okay. I’m thinking about it.”
“Do you realize what bullshit it is yet?”
This time my offence isn’t even fake. “Why is everyone being so mean to me today? First Paige, now you. I’m pretty sure even Dylan wanted to tell me off for being moody. I just lost the girl I waited three years to have. I’m allowed to be moody!”
“Yes!” Hope starts clapping like I’ve just finished piecing a puzzle together. “Exactly! You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to want things.”
“Uh, okay?” I scratch my beard. “I’m not following.”
She starts swivelling her chair around again. “It just makes me so mad to hear you say you’ll be satisfied with whatever someone is willing to give you. You are this smart, funny, sweet, and amazing dude, and you are worth something—something more than just the scraps of what other people are willing to give you.”
I start to protest, but she cuts me off again.
“I know DeeDee gave you more than just scraps. I know she gave you whatever she could, but let’s face it. Even she saw she couldn’t give you everything you needed, and that’s what I want you to see for yourself. It’s still sad and it’s still gonna hurt, but I just—”
She starts choking up, and I realize a few tears have started seeping down her cheeks. I’ve seen Hope get emotional before, but never over me.
“Aww, Dopey Hopey.”
I try to make her smile with the childhood nickname she always complained about, but the memory only makes her cry even harder.
“I just—I just—” She fights to get the words out. “I just wish you would care about yourself even a fraction of how much I care about you. You know how much I adored DeeDee, but even if she showed up at your door right now swearing she was ready to give it another shot, you better make damn well sure she means it, because you’re wrong, you know? People don’t just need each other exactly as they are. I know that sounds romantic and shit, but that’s not how relationships work.”
She shifts to the side and points at her lacrosse photo.
“Being part of a relationship is like being part of a team. My team picked me because I had everything they wanted during tryouts, but the work doesn’t stop there.” Her sniffles fade, and her voices starts to ring with the courage and pride I’ve always admired in her. “I prove myself every single day. I have expectations for my teammates, and they have expectations for me. Sure, sometimes we fuck up. Someone will miss practice or forget their gear or screw up what should have been a perfect pass, but we don’t lower our expectations, even when we forgive people and give them another shot—even when people really want to meet those expectations but they just can’t and we have to let them go. That’s not cruelty or selfishness. That’s recognizing what it takes to have a successful team.”
She’s panting when she finishes, eyes still glassy as they bore into her laptop camera. I give her a moment to pull it together before I reply.
“That’s...That’s really wise, Hope. I don’t mean that sarcastically. Really. I’m...Thank you for sharing that. It makes a lot of sense...but there’s still stuff I spent my whole life being taught about patience, about love—”
“Of course you can be patient and loving!” she cuts in. “You can’t date someone without being patient and loving, but you also need limits. You need boundaries of what you can and cannot take.”
She is clearly not in a mood to be contradicted, so I stay silent and let her words sink in. I let them repeat themselves in my head, and as much as I want to protest or deny what she’s trying to tell me, I force myself to let her advice settle without my own beliefs pouncing on it.
“Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Hope pleads.
I nod. “I will. Really.”
“Okay, good.”
A few more moments pass. She swipes at her eyes, and soon we’re both laughing at nothing in that particular way only siblings can.
“So...” she says with a sly lilt in her voice after we’ve got ourselves under control. “Considering you now have six G’s coming in every month, I just wanted to draw your attention to the fact that my birthday is coming up...”
Twenty-Four
DeeDee
NEAT: a liquor that is served undiluted and unaccompanied by anything else
I tip back the last sip of my drink where I’m sitting in a very hipster coffee shop a few blo
cks away from Taverne Toulouse. I’ve been in here typing away on my laptop for so many hours my fingers are sore. I’m all jumpy and shaky from having two iced lattes and one lemonade, and I’m sure the staff here think I’m a maniac, but if I don’t get this all done in one go, I know I’ll chicken out and put it off until it’s too late.
Applications for the fall term at Cheveluxe close on June fifteenth.
As in, today.
My details are all submitted. My statement of experience has been uploaded. I’ve paid the fee. I just need to attach my letter of intent, and I’ll be done.
I hover my mouse over the ‘Save File’ button.
Click it. Just click it.
My finger starts shaking from more than just the caffeine.
“Merde,” I curse under my breath before opening the document to read it one last time.
I’ve read it ‘one last time’ five times already. Even though it’s written in French, I’ve still run it through a grammar checker twice. I could probably recite it off by heart at this point, but I scan the words again.
Dear Admissions Officer,
The first time I dyed my hair, I was fourteen. My maman helped me pick out a drugstore combo pack of bleach and blonde dye. It came with one of those really low quality highlighting caps that ripped as soon as we opened it. We taped it back up and put it on my head, tying it under my neck like a plastic bonnet. My maman sat there for half an hour, pulling pieces of my hair through the little holes with a crochet hook.
Then we put the dye on, and there was no going back.
I spent that whole year of my life looking like I dumped a pile of spaghetti on top of my head. I had all these skinny little bright blonde noodle streaks on top of dark brown hair. It was like frosted tips, but worse.
I had never been happier.
That’s the thing about hair: when it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter how it looks. It doesn’t matter if your bob isn’t the right shape for your face, or if strawberry blonde ‘isn’t your colour,’ or if you’re really not the kind of person who should have gotten a crew cut. (Side note: is anyone the kind of person who should get a crew cut?) It doesn’t matter if you keep rocking a middle part no matter how many people tell you it’s not cool. It doesn’t matter if you want bangs that are ‘so totally not in this season.’ It doesn’t matter if you want to razor cut your waist-length hair and give yourself a big old skunk stripe like it’s 2009 and emo kids still exist.
