ELGIN BIKES ALONG THE highway on the way back to the house. Each car that passes brings a wave of hot air on my bare legs. He pulls over onto the grass shoulder, says, “I have to take a piss.” I turn my back while he climbs into the brush along the side of the highway. A car honks as it drives by and my eyes follow unwillingly. Before I know what’s happening, Elgin races out of the bushes and onto the highway. He jumps up on the meridian and pretends to surf, like the cars are ocean waves or sharks or something. “Are you stupid?” I yell, across the stream of traffic. “Come on,” Elgin shouts back. He motions with his arms and almost loses balance. Something makes me think that if I am standing with him he won’t fall. Cars blare their horns and people shout out their windows, you idiot, get off the road, you’re going to kill someone. Their angry faces burst past in hot flashes. I wait for a break in the traffic and run across the highway. Elgin holds out his hands and helps me up onto the divider. “You’re really stupid.” I hold my arms out like a tightrope walker. Elgin takes my hands and we balance, grinning at each other.
“I love you,” I say, letting the words lose themselves in the traffic. The cars whip past us, sending gusts of warm air through my wet hair. It’s not how I imagined, not like flying at all.
~
PAUL’S TEACHING US SEX ED and whenever he says the word vagina I blush and hate myself. Most of our grade ten class is sitting on the gymnasium floor watching a slideshow with diagrams of deformed genitalia. Paul clicks through the pictures listing the STD that caused the damage — scabies, syphilis, gonorrhea. When a grotesquely swollen scrotum appears on the projection screen, some guy in the back row shouts blue balls and everyone starts laughing. Rana’s sitting beside me scribbling notes on my arm. She doesn’t seem to care that, from wrist to elbow, the only thing we’ve discussed is her hair, which now has pink streaks. Over the summer her parents separated and sold their house next to Mosquito Creek; her father moved back to Lebanon and Rana and her mother moved into a condo on the waterfront with a view of the city. The separation means Rana can get away with a lot more than usual right now (which is still hardly anything), but when she saw her mother crying at the kitchen sink this morning she decided she would wash the dye out tonight. I make tiny little braids with the streaks in the meantime. It keeps her from writing anything else on my arm.
Kate’s sitting in the front row, her hair pulled back in her usual swishy ponytail, and when Paul hands out bananas and condoms she’s one of the first to get one. The laugh that explodes from my mouth is a little louder than I intend. It makes Rana duck into her lap and Kate turn to scan the rows of heads accusingly. Paul gets fed up and says something like, “You guys better smarten up. This is part of your Career and Personal Planning mark.”
Between bells Rana and I head to the washroom along the main hall. Usually I avoid that washroom because it’s the largest one in the school and there are always long lines of girls waiting for stalls or standing at the row of mirrors. The place reminds me of a hive, but one littered with toilet paper and really bitchy honeybees and a constant buzz of gossip over the stalls. While Rana pees I stand at the mirrors fixing my hair and wait for the right moment. “Ran,” I call in a clear voice over the top of the stall, “did you hear Kate lied about sleeping with Elgin? She’s still a virgin.” The bees pause for an infinitesimal second before resuming their activities. The stall door swings open and Rana comes stomping over to gape at me in the mirror. I use the word pathetic and Rana’s laughing, hand over her mouth, going holy shit, that’s too good.
As we walk down the hall we pass right by Kate’s locker. She’s pulling textbooks out and stuffing them in her backpack. Rana mutters the same word I used, pathetic, but it sounds harsher from her mouth. The strange thing is, Kate doesn’t look at Rana — she looks right at me.
THE RAIN COMES DOWN hard so I stand under the awning, waiting for Carlie’s blue Nova as the school empties around me.
“You look like shit,” Carlie says, as soon as I buckle my seat belt. She’s always pissed when she has to drive me to the mall. “When’s the last time you brushed your hair?”
“I can’t brush my hair.”
“You can’t brush your hair?” She taps her fingers on the steering wheel and throws herself back into the seat with a sigh whenever we hit a red light and I ignore her and watch the scenery: the condos, the gas stations, the antique stores. “How are you getting back?” she asks, putting on mascara while we wait at a light.
“I’ll take the bus.”
As the mall comes into view, Carlie accelerates, screeching around the corners in the parking lot like we’re on a racetrack. She slams on her brakes for an old lady who is nowhere near the crosswalk, but almost hits two girls in tight white jeans trying to cross an intersection, honking at them as they run across the street. They give her the finger when they’re safely on the other side. “You should buy yourself something,” Carlie says as she pulls up to the curb. She motions to my head. “A hairband or a scrunchie.”
“Shut up, Carlie.” I get out of the car without saying goodbye and Carlie drives away before I’ve even closed the door.
The smell of sweet and sour pork, drugstore perfume, and new leather makes me dizzy as I walk through the revolving doors. The mall is dead, full of outdated stores selling greeting cards, sunglasses, and baby clothes. There are two stores selling vacuum cleaners, as if one isn’t enough. Everything smells like greasy Chinese food or preteens or the elderly. Escalators lead nowhere and people either move way too fast or way too slow. At the lingerie store I dig through the sale bins and find three matching sets of bras and panties in my size. Through the window, I catch sight of Kate drifting by like a ghost, sucking on a giant Orange Julius. I duck behind one of the bins and the sales lady sneaks up behind me and asks me what I’m doing, as if I’m planning to stuff a bunch of thongs in my pockets.
I take the long way to the Bread Garden where Rana and I planned to meet up, strolling through some empty corridors and across the Bay so I’m sure not to run into Kate. The restaurant is nearly empty, rain streaking the windows, the sky fallen dark, and I pace at the glass display case while a pimply kid from my school waits unblinkingly for me to make a decision. I want to yell at him, Blink, god dammit, but I feel sorry for him too because his shift looks somewhat like eternal damnation. In the end I get nothing, deciding to wait for Rana to see if she’d rather split a cinnamon knot or a chocolate muffin. I take a seat next to the windows and while I’m dusting cookie crumbs off the table, Paul walks in. Something has happened to him; it’s as though outside the school walls a metamorphosis has occurred that’s broken him free from his cocoon of bad footwear and pitying gestures. As he stands at the counter with a newspaper tucked under his arm, ordering his coffee and picking out a danish, he seems like someone relaxed and cool and utterly unlike Paul. He’s still wearing jeans, but he’s also wearing a leather jacket and expensive-looking boots. It suddenly occurs to me that the Birkenstocks may be meant to connect with students, as though baring his gnarled toes shows some kind of vulnerability. When he turns to find a table, I’m staring right at him with a dopey grin on my face. “Paul!” I shout across the restaurant like it’s been years since I’ve seen him instead of earlier this afternoon. Right away the image of a banana encased in latex flashes in my brain and I start to sweat.
“Studying hard, I see,” he says, standing over my table, taking a sip of his coffee and balancing his danish on a plate in one hand.
“You can sit down,” I say, pushing one of the chairs from the table with my foot.
Paul looks around the empty restaurant. “For a minute,” he says, sitting down and folding his danish in half, taking a large bite. From across the table even his smell is different — pearly soap and forest sap. I watch him chew. He swallows and asks, “How are you doing? I assume better, since you haven’t been to my office this week.”
“Much better,” I say, straig
htening my shoulders. “Really a lot better.”
“You’re attending all your classes?” Paul’s chin dips to one side and he raises his eyebrows.
“Yep,” I lie with a smile.
“Can’t have a repeat of last year.”
“Last year was really abnormal for me. It was an anomaly.”
“Good word.”
In the mall, outside the restaurant, I see Kate and Adrienne walk by together. Kate’s oblivious, but Adrienne does a double take when she sees me and Paul. I watch them walk out the front doors, their coats pulled up over their heads against the rain. Something tingles inside of me as Paul stuffs the last bite of pastry in his mouth. “I should get going,” he says, standing with his coffee. I walk out of Bread Garden with him and we stand under the awning, looking at the rain. I pull my jean jacket closed, trying to look especially cold and miserable, as I secretly scan the parking lot for Kate and Adrienne. “Do you have a ride?” Paul asks.
“Nah, I was going to take the bus,” I say, looking over at the empty stop.
As I’m getting into Paul’s car, Rana’s coming up the street toward me, looking pissed and giving me a half-hearted wave. I pretend not to see her, bending down in the front seat to retie my shoes.
“I don’t normally give my students rides,” Paul says, shifting the car into reverse and pulling out of the parking spot. We drive slowly down Marine Drive, the rain enveloping everything and the wipers thwacking across the windshield. There’s something about being in a car when it’s pouring that makes conversation uncomplicated. Words are muffled, all the sharp edges softened and the empty spaces filled. We talk easily and for the first time about things other than school, about music and the best place for sushi on Lonsdale. I give Paul directions that take us out of the way, and when we finally reach my block I feel disappointed. I point out my house and Paul drives a little further, stopping behind a tall hedge. “Thanks,” I say, as I get out of the car.
“Anytime,” Paul says, smiling at me. The dead tooth could ruin everything, but for once it doesn’t.
As soon as I get to my room, I call Rana to apologize. All she says is, lucky slut.
AFTER DINNER I GO to Elgin’s to watch TV. We fall asleep on the couch, but when I wake up I’m alone in Elgin’s bed and it’s dark and I have no idea what time it is. I can hear his mother in the living room talking about me as I fumble for my clothes, quietly slipping them on under the sheets. She’s talking about feeding me, asking why she has to work to put food in my mouth, and I can hear Elgin mumbling, but I can’t make out the words. I try to find my socks, but give up and slip my bare feet into my sneaks. Their voices get louder, like they’re right outside the bedroom door. “Why don’t you sleep at her house?”
“Mom.” Elgin’s voice cracks. “Stop!”
“Let me in there. I’ll tell her myself.” I stand frozen at the edge of the bed, waiting for the door to swing open. There’s a scuffle outside the door, then a slap, and Elgin shouts, almost growls, “Leave me alone.” I’ve never heard Elgin like that before, like the angry words are being ripped from his guts. “I hate you. You fucking bitch.” I hear spit flying and their bodies struggling against the door. His mother cries out and I open the window, highway noise flooding the room. As I hop out, and just before the bedroom door opens, I can hear Elgin sobbing, saying over and over, “I hate this house.” I run across the backyard without looking back. Out the window his mother shouts, “Are you running, you little slut?” Next door a porch light flips on and I squeeze between the blackberry bushes, scratching up my arms.
At the edge of the highway, I tuck my hands in my T-shirt for warmth. I forgot my coat, but the rain has stopped, the night unexpectedly clear — moonless and cold. I wait for a break in traffic before running across the highway. Cars without drivers whip by on the dark road. I walk along the drainage ditch with my thumb out, hoping to God Carlie’s blue Nova will magically appear. No one picks me up for a while, and by the time a red minivan stops on the side of the road, I’m shaking I’m so cold. A rosy-cheeked lady leans across the passenger seat, the door still locked, and sticks her head out the window. “You shouldn’t be hitchhiking.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s a bad idea.” She sits in the car, exhaust spiralling up toward the stars. It doesn’t look like she’s going to let me in, so I start to walk down the highway to find another ride. The horn toots lightly and I walk back. “Get in,” she says. “It’s too cold to be standing out here with no coat.” I open the door, letting the car swallow me into its warmth. There’s classical music playing from the radio and a churchy feeling swells up inside me. “I’d like to take you right to your house,” the lady says. “I don’t mind if it’s out of the way. Just make me a promise you won’t hitchhike again. It’s not safe for girls.” I tell her the address and buckle my seat belt.
“That’s not too far,” she says cheerfully. She’s either plump or bundled in too many layers of clothes. The buttons on her coat look like they’re going to pop. “A long way if you’re walking though.” She looks like a mother. I know she’s a mother.
“Thanks a lot,” I say. She nods her head and puts on her turn signal, checking her blind spot twice before pulling out onto the empty highway.
I close my eyes and fall asleep.
THE WOMAN DROPS ME off at the entrance to the subdivision and I walk through the dead-quiet streets lined with identical homes. A mist comes up from the canyon and I get lost in all the cul-de-sacs before I find Kate’s house. I walk around to the backyard and sit on the edge of the trampoline, trying to figure out how to get up to Kate’s window. Someone passes back and forth behind the curtains like they’re pacing or tidying up. The window casts a square of light on the grass and the air has that crackly electrical feeling like the static in my hair when I pull off my toque. A light is turned off in the room and replaced by a dimmer one, a bedroom lamp. Sitting in the middle of the trampoline with my knees pulled up to my chest for warmth, I cup my hands around my mouth and whisper, “Kate.”
The room goes dark. It almost feels cold enough to snow.
THE WINTER I WAS in grade eight, it snowed for the first time in what felt like years. All night the fat flakes fell from the sky. Kate called my house all excited. She talked to my dad for a while about when the last time was it snowed like this — if ever — and my dad told stories about how they used to go skating on Lost Lagoon when he was a kid, how the water never got cold enough to freeze solid anymore. “Maybe we can go outdoor skating,” Kate said breathlessly when I grabbed the phone.
The entire city shut down. I had to walk home from Lonsdale because the bus driver wouldn’t venture off the main roads. Carlie and I stood in the garden grinning like dummies. In my head I kept hearing the words winter wonderland, winter wonderland, like I was high on drugs or something. We didn’t want to move our feet the ground felt so precious. The cat came scooting by us headed straight for the door, his legs taking exaggerated leaps through the snow. I was so disappointed when Dad came barrelling through it all, dragging Carlie and me into the powder with him. The patches of grass showing through the white were so ugly. But I accepted it as something that happens — nothing could ever stay that perfect forever.
The next morning Kate called early and I was still in bed watching the snowflakes twirl madly down onto my skylight. I could hear my dad outside, the scrape of the shovel as he cleared the driveway. Kate came over and we put on winter clothes, even ski pants that we tucked into our boots. I loved the feeling of being untouchable, wrapped in wool and nylon; nothing could get to me, not the snow or the cold. I rolled around on the sidewalk, crawled through the street, lay on my back with my mouth wide open, eating the flakes like a two-year-old. “It’s a perfect day,” Kate said. She let herself fall in the snow, arms above her head, but for some reason she didn’t look happy. The buses still weren’t running and there were almost no cars on the road. Occasional
ly we heard an engine revving far off, but all the sounds were muffled, everything travelling long distances, as though sounds were coming right across Burrard Inlet.
We walked the whole way to Mosquito Creek. It took us almost an hour. Kate wanted to have a winter picnic. She had everything we needed in her backpack: a thermos of hot chocolate, ham sandwiches, and peanut butter cookies. The only people we saw on the way there were a group of kids near Grand Boulevard sliding down a hill on garbage bags, and an old person crossing 13th Street holding a broken umbrella with a perfect mound of snow collected on top. I kept suggesting other places we could stop for our picnic — we passed six or seven parks along the way — but Kate was determined. As we trudged up Lonsdale through the snow, she clenched her teeth, her jaw drawn in a tight line.
Once we got to Mosquito Creek, I took her mitted hand. The longer we walked, the more her enthusiasm for the day drained from her. By the time we reached the creek, she looked like she was ready to drop into a snow bank. She tried to pull her hand away a few times, but I hung on to her and we walked carefully over the boulders and rocks until we found a flat spot under the cover of some heavy evergreen branches. There was a fine dusting of snow on the ground under the tree, like someone had sprinkled icing sugar all over the pine needles. We spread out the blanket Kate had brought and unwrapped our sandwiches. The branches created a small cave of shelter and we chewed quietly, watching the snow pile up around us. “It’s like a church,” Kate said, pouring the hot chocolate. “I guess,” I said, but I’d never been inside a church. When I looked at churches from the street, passing in a car or walking by, this was close to what I thought was inside — a quiet white perfection, something so simple and obvious. I imagined if we stayed there all day, the snow would seal up our cave and we would have our own confession booth. Kate smiled when I told her this, then she looked away, up into the tree. “My dad left this morning,” she said.
For the past couple of nights, Kate told me, her mom had been sleeping in her bed. Every night, her dad came home after they’d fallen asleep, like he’d been waiting, watching from his car for the lights to go off. It didn’t matter because Kate woke up every time the front door opened. Last night Kate’s mom woke up too and she and Kate stared at each other for a second before her mother closed her eyes and Kate understood she should do the same. Kate pretended to sleep, but listened to her father open her bedroom door and stand there, staring at the two of them. She could hear his breathing and smell booze. Eventually he closed the door, so quietly and slowly Kate thought it might take him all night. Almost as soon as the door was closed, he opened it again and walked right into the room. Her father picked her up out of bed like she was a young child and shook her. He didn’t say anything. He kept shaking her, Kate staring at him silently, and as he carried her out of the room, she saw her mother’s eyelids flutter. In the living room her dad set her on a chair while he made up the couch for her to sleep on. “He was just drunk,” Kate said. “But this morning he was gone and there was all this snow.” It was the first time I realized Kate’s life wasn’t perfect.
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