Baygirl

by Heather Smith

“After the dance. She was no good for me, Kit. We’re finished.”

  My prayers had been answered. Amanda Shea didn’t exist anymore. I thought that would change everything. But it didn’t. The Elliot standing in front of me now may have been sweet and charming and kind, but the drunken, obnoxious Elliot from the dance was still fresh in my mind.

  I started finding poems everywhere—in my locker, in my coat pocket, in Iggy’s mailbox. I even found one taped to the glass display at Pelley’s. Seeing them signed “Anonymous” made me laugh every time. They were love poems, and they were lovely. If only Elliot hadn’t been drunk at the dance. Caroline didn’t understand why I wouldn’t forgive him. I couldn’t tell her that I’d feel like a hypocrite if I did. She didn’t know my dad was a drunk and that I would never forgive him in a million years. So how could I turn around and forgive someone I barely knew for the exact same thing?

  I wished I could talk about it with her. That was the good thing about Anne-Marie. She’d known from the time we were little. The first time she came to my house, it was obvious that my dad was different. My dad’s weird, I said, in an attempt to explain why he didn’t act like other dads, and she said, It’s because of that stuff in the bottles. It makes you crazy. And I said, My dad is crazy every day.

  A few years later she told me my dad’s craziness had a name. It’s called alky-hole-mism, she said. My mom told me. She said your dad is an alky-hole-lick. I liked that it had a name. I liked that Anne-Marie was the one who told me.

  I wanted Caroline to know the same way Anne-Marie knew, without me having to announce it. So I invited her to my house. After an afternoon spent ice-skating, we went back to my house for supper. Dad greeted us wearing a Santa hat and a deranged smile.

  “Dad,” I said. “It’s not even December.”

  He ignored me and shook Caroline’s hand. “I am ever so pleased to meet you,” he boomed.

  He was speaking with a British accent.

  “Come in, come in,” he said. “How about a nice cup of tea? It’s frightfully cold outside.”

  Mom pushed herself in front of Dad as if she could hide him. “It’s nice to meet you, Caroline. Come in and I’ll take your coat.”

  We sat in the living room listening to Dad tell us what a dreadful time he’d had putting a spare tire on the car after it went flat in the supermarket car park. He told us it was a most harrowing experience, considering the poor weather conditions, and the worst part was when he couldn’t open the boot. I felt like I was talking to Mr. Adams. He went on and on and on, then asked us to please excuse him while he went to the loo. That’s when I made my escape and took Caroline to the den to hang out.

  “You never told me your dad was British.”

  I could have told her then. The accent could have been the icebreaker. But I chickened out. “Oh yeah, that. I’m so used to it, I guess I just forgot.”

  “This is a cool room.”

  “Yeah, Iggy fixed it up for me.”

  “He is so cute, by the way. You never told me he was such a hottie.”

  “Gross! That’s my uncle you’re talking about.”

  “Tell me all about him,” she said. “What’s he like?”

  It was nice to have someone to brag about. I showed off his university degrees and dug out his blueprints of cargo vessels and oil tankers. I showed her the books about the hydroelasticity of ships and about structural design and marine hydrodynamics, the books that made me feel like I was in a home where smart people knew stuff, where people were going somewhere. I talked about Iggy until Mom called us to the table for supper.

  It was a nice civilized dinner for a while, but halfway through the meat pie Dad shouted, “Let’s have a shing-along!”

  This is it, I thought. Now she’ll know.

  “Oh, Phonse, we can’t have a sing-along now,” Mom said, as if sing-alongs were an everyday occurrence at our house. “It’s time to eat.”

  “But it’s Chrishmish!” he yelled.

  “No, it’s not,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Sure it is!” He burst into song. “Shilver bellsh, shilver bellsh, it’s Chrishmash time in the shitty…”

  He started another. “Have yourshelf a merry little Chrishmash…” He flung his arms into the air, sending some glasses crashing to the floor. I was horrified but relieved at the same time. The secret was out. Now Caroline would know, just like Anne-Marie.

  Caroline stood up. “Maybe I should go,” she said.

  “No, don’t,” I said. “Stay.”

  Iggy grabbed Dad’s arm. “Come on, Phonse, let’s go out for a walk. Get some fresh air.”

  “Right you are, my good man,” said Dad. “Shplendid idear.”

  Iggy took Dad outside, leaving Mom, Caroline and me looking at each other in silence. Then we all said, “I’m sorry” at the same time—Mom to me, me to Caroline, and Caroline to us both. Each of us gave a nervous little laugh.

  When Mom went to the kitchen to get the broom, I spoke. “My dad’s a drunk.”

  “Yeah. I figured that out.”

  “And he’s not British.”

  “I figured that out too.”

  We sat in silence.

  “Well, I should go.”

  I wondered if I’d lost my only friend in St. John’s.

  We said goodbye on the front step.

  Caroline wrapped her scarf around her neck. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Really?”

  “Um, yeah. Why are you so surprised?”

  “Because my dad…he’s an idiot.”

  “But you’re not.”

  I smiled.

  “So see you tomorrow?” she said.

  “Definitely.”

  “Christmas shopping?”

  I laughed. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

  “Early?” said Caroline. “No way! After all, it is Chrishmash time in the shitty.”

  We laughed so hard and loud that Mr. Adams opened his side window and told us to shut the bloody hell up.

  Dad came back from his walk with Iggy and passed out on the couch. I waited for him to wake up. As soon as he opened his eyes, I attacked.

  “When are you going to quit drinking?”

  “What?”

  “Drinking. When are you going to stop?”

  “I’m not doing this right now, Kitty.”

  “Why? Do you have other plans? Going to get a drink, are you? Must be hours since your last one, you poor thing.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Don’t sing stupid drunken Christmas carols to my friends.”

  “I was in a good mood, that’s all.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “That’s enough, Kitty, I don’t have to listen to this.”

  He started to leave the room.

  “I hate you,” I said quietly.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  He waited for a response. But I didn’t give him one. I just stared at him until he turned around and walked away.

  For two weeks straight, the poems showed up daily. I had to hand it to Elliot: he was really trying. And when I found “The Best Poem Ever” taped to the inside of my science binder, I knew it was time to forgive him. Because, actually, it was the worst poem ever, and I spent the entire period trying not to laugh.

  I blew my chance

  Of romance at the dance

  By being a boozer

  A liquored-up loser

  I don’t blame you for leavin’

  When I started heavin’

  Upchucking and spewing

  Is no way of wooing

  But I have paid dearly

  Been punished severely

  Nauseous for days

  In a
hung-over haze

  I was death’s doorish ill

  But suckier still

  Is the fact that you hate me

  And might never date me

  But I hope that this ditty

  Will change your mind, Kitty

  Cuz this poem’s for you

  And all of it’s true

  I didn’t avoid him at our next writing group. In fact, I sought him out, waiting for him afterward outside the classroom. He looked surprised.

  “You’re usually long gone by now,” he said. “Like a bat outta hell.”

  I held up the poem. He blushed.

  “Suckiest thing I’ve ever read,” I said.

  “Suckiest thing I’ve ever written.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  “It did?”

  “You get a second chance, Moptop.”

  His face lit up.

  “But that’s it. I don’t do thirds.”

  “You won’t need to,” he said. “Promise.”

  “Good.”

  He smiled. “So are you going to say it?”

  “Say what?”

  “You know…those three little words?”

  “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?”

  “No, the other ones. You know, the thing you say after you accept someone’s apology?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine,” I said. “I forgive you. There, I said it. I. Forgive. You.”

  He took both my hands in his. I got really nervous and started rambling. “But if you start going on about prisoners and forgiveness and being set free, I might reverse my decision.”

  He beamed. I could have dived into his dimples, they were so deep. And his eyes…it was like they were dancing.

  “I won’t say a word, Kit. Promise.”

  We stood there, just looking at each other. His hands were soft. It was awkward and lovely at the same time. “Want to go to a movie?” he asked. “Tomorrow night?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Great.”

  More staring. “I think the bell might ring soon,” I said.

  “Yeah, I should probably head back to school,” he said, but he didn’t let go of my hands.

  I was wondering if he was going to kiss me when I saw Amanda Shea walking toward us.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Elliot. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “It’s Amanda,” I whispered. “And she’s coming this way.”

  “So?”

  “So, she’s probably going to have a fit.”

  Elliot rolled his eyes. “Who cares?”

  Amanda came up behind him. “You’ve certainly lowered your standards, Elliot.”

  “Actually, I raised them,” he said.

  She made a noise as if she was choking and then stomped off in a huff.

  Elliot smiled at me. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I guess not. But I have to share a homeroom with her. And she hates me enough already. She thinks I’m a stupid baygirl.”

  He squeezed my hands. “You may be a baygirl, but you’re definitely not stupid.”

  “And you may be a townie, but you’re definitely not a snob.”

  He rubbed the tops of my hands with his thumbs. “The baygirl and the townie, a love story.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like a movie.”

  “We’re a modern-day Romeo and Juliet,” he said.

  The bell rang. Elliot leaned in slowly, and my heart raced. But he didn’t kiss me; he just touched the tip of my nose with his. It was the most adorable thing ever. “Bye, Kit.”

  “Bye, Moptop.”

  I floated from chemistry to math and from math to art, and after school I floated all the way to Iggy’s.

  Mr. Adams poked his head out his front door. “How was school, lass?”

  I looked at my watch. Three fifteen on the nose, like clockwork.

  “It was great!” I said.

  He looked surprised. Suspicious, even. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Mr. Adams pumped his fist in the air like he’d just scored the winning goal in a football game. I think he might have even raised his heels a tiny bit in an attempt to jump.

  And it was weird and surprising, but my eyes filled with tears. A fist pump. Just because I had a good day at school.

  And things got even better when I got home and Mom told me that Ms. Bartlett had pulled some strings and got Mom her job back. And there was a small parcel on the kitchen table with my name on it. I opened it up. Turkish delight. Ms. Bartlett strikes again. I popped a piece of the chewy candy into my mouth and thought of Elliot. Things were looking up.

  At the movies on Friday night, Elliot held my hand from the trailer to the credits. Our palms got real sweaty, but he didn’t seem to mind. Every so often he’d let go to wipe his hand down the leg of his jeans and then he’d take my hand again. He took me downtown afterward. We walked on the harborfront and looked at the boats. A cruise ship had docked for the night. It was massive, the biggest ship I’d ever seen. A sailor on a Portuguese fishing vessel whistled at me. I laughed and said, “Creepy!” But Elliot didn’t find it funny at all. He put his arm around me, scowled at the guy and muttered, “I should punch his lights out.” We walked along George Street, passing groups of laughing, singing, tipsy people. Live fiddle music danced out from Bridie Molloy’s, and Elliot performed a spur-of-the-moment jig on the doorstep. I cracked up.

  We went up Duckworth Street, where the shops were decorated with multicolored Christmas lights and people bustled by with bags full of holiday treasures.

  “I’m gonna get you something really special for Christmas,” Elliot said.

  “You are?”

  “Yep.”

  I started to think about what I could get him.

  “Let’s go in here,” he said. I looked in the window of the kind of coffee shop we don’t have in Parsons Bay. Modern light fixtures hung low from the ceiling over dark wooden tables. One wall was brick, and the others were painted a deep red. It looked warm and inviting.

  A blast of warm air and the hiss of espresso machines greeted us as we opened the door and went inside.

  “Wow, this place is blocked,” I said.

  At Cathy’s Café and Corner Shop back home, you’d only ever see a handful of people, usually men in coveralls and old women in flowery dresses. But here, everyone was wearing trendy black clothing and carrying hip messenger bags. They were sipping drinks I’d never heard of and talking with so much expression I wanted to pull up a chair and hang on to every word. I’d never seen so many amazing people in one room.

  “Um, hello?” said Elliot, waving a hand in front of my face. “Anyone home?”

  “Um, excuse me? Can I help you?” I said. “You’re interrupting my people-watching.”

  “So why don’t you watch me instead?”

  “I’m not sure you’re interesting enough,” I said. “No piercings, no tattoos…not that I can see anyway.”

  “Well, we’ll let that remain a mystery, shall we?” he said, reaching across the table and taking my hands. “For now anyway.”

  We ordered hot chocolate and talked for ages. He told me about his grandfather and I told him about Nan. We talked about our next writing-group assignment. We had to write a poem about a special object, and Elliot said he was going to write about his grandpa’s pocket watch. I had been so busy trying to think of my own special object that I hadn’t thought of borrowing someone else’s.

  I told him all about Parsons Bay. He got a great kick out of Fisty Hinks.

  “Why do you call him Fisty?” he asked.

  “Because every time a kid went on his property or made a racket in front of his house, he stuck his fis
t out the door and shook it.”

  Elliot laughed. “Just his fist? Did he ever stick his face out? Did he ever say anything?”

  “That depended on how fast you could run past his house.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the little kids who couldn’t run very fast got the whole Fisty on the doorstep, complete with the fist shake and the I’ll getcha, ya little buggers. Older kids got just the sight of his arm and fist sticking through the door and an I’ll getcha, ya lit and some really fast runners got just the fist with an I’ll getch. Janice Dooley, who was the fastest runner in town, was lucky enough to get by with just the knuckles and an I’ll.”

  Elliot was killing himself laughing. “What about if you were older?”

  “Oh, kids over fourteen didn’t run at all—they just moseyed by and pretended they weren’t scared at all, but if you watched real close, you would see their steps quicken when Fisty appeared.”

  Elliot took my hand. “You’re hysterical.”

  When we’d drained our drinks, we strolled home from downtown. As Elliot walked me to my front door, snow started to fall. It was like a scene from a romantic movie.

  “Well, see ya,” I said.

  “Yeah, see ya.”

  Neither of us moved.

  “I should go in now, Moptop.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  We stood staring at each other.

  “Well, this is awkward,” I said.

  Elliot leaned in, so I swallowed quickly and closed my eyes. And then it happened. It finally happened. He kissed me. His lips were unbelievably soft.

  “Bye,” he whispered.

  I turned to go in, and as I reached for the doorknob, I caught Mr. Adams watching me from his side window. The moment we locked eyes, he looked away.

  That night I wrote Anne-Marie another letter. Three pages. About Elliot. And as I addressed the envelope carefully and neatly, I hoped that this time I’d get one in return.

  After that first kiss, Elliot and I were inseparable. I no longer spent lunchtime alone in the cloakroom. Instead, I’d meet Elliot at a hamburger joint not far from school. We’d buy a couple of drinks, so we couldn’t be accused of loitering, and stay there for most of the hour, holding hands across the table and talking. We’d meet again at three and hang out until suppertime, walking through the streets of downtown or sharing a tin of drink and a kiss behind Pelley’s. The only afternoon I didn’t spend with Elliot was cleaning day at Mr. Adams’s. He told me he’d missed seeing me walk past his house on my way home from school and asked what I’d been up to.