That call set me free from the anxiety that Jason had shown up to my old place and missed me, and not known where I live now. And had forgotten my number, and all our mutual friends’ numbers, so hadn’t had any of my new contact information. That call had shown me what a selfish asshole he is. It was liberating. Li-ber-a-ting. So like any twenty-one-year-old woman whose boyfriend has run away from a seven month relationship with no hint or preview, I am doing what is best for me: Moving On. Drinking myself silly until the sharp edges of my emotions grind down enough to live deep in my heart without stabbing me with every breath I take.
Most women get a makeover after a breakup, but I’m pretty low maintenance and set in my ways. Besides, my dark brown hair has just grown out from a disastrous haircut into shoulder length shaggy layers that actually look good. I almost dyed it blond to spite Jason who had “loved the contrast between my light grey-green eyes and dark hair,” but didn’t. That felt a little too much like letting him win in some way.
Instead of a makeover I really threw myself into smoking pot. The weed gave me little parcels of time where I forgot about everything. Little presents of an hour or two, where I could gap out and giggle and forget. He was still gone, but for those brief snatches of time, so was the pain. But the weed started to affect my short term memory, and I started waking up with a cough every morning. Work noticed something was up, but I couldn’t blame my sudden brain farts on being tired forever.
Not wanting to be boyfriendless and jobless, I switched to liquor. It’s been better on my lungs and memory.
Some strange side effects though as my brain cells fire up again.
I’d decorated the living room ten days ago while stoned. Neither of my roommates, who are also my best friends, know the details about Jason’s leaving. They know we broke up, I told them last week just before the party, but they thought he was out of town for work. Extended business trip, putting out fires for the other city’s office.
They think the break up was mutual and I just don’t want to talk about it. I’d hate to see the look in their eyes as they wonder what I did wrong to drive him away. No one could believe that we hadn’t fought. Ever. If we were so perfect why did he leave? They probably wouldn’t judge me as the guilty party, but I just can’t think about it anymore. They’d ask the questions I ask myself and have none of the answers to.
So. The living room. To remind myself of how I change when I give into smoky temptation, I have left it exactly as I made it. Stoned Me had needed something bright and cheerful as a distraction to how dull and dark I’d become inside. The living room was my victim, my scapegoat. The carpet was a deep primary green already. I painted the four walls, each in a different primary colour; red, yellow, blue, and orange. The ceiling, I slicked with a fresh coat of white paint to enhance the effect.
We’ve been living in a Rubik’s Cube ever since.
Chapter Three
Saturday afternoon I reach under the counter and pull out the defiled Coupland book. Time for a little investigating. One little scan, a mouse click, and I pull up the file of the last patron to have this book out, before myself obviously. Okay, yes, what I’m doing is technically not allowed. Looking up someone’s personal information is definitely a no-no, but I am not being nosy for personal reasons. No, I am looking the information up to see who defaced the book and if we want to charge them for the damages.
The answer will be no, as it’s just pencil and pencil can be erased, but in the meantime I’ll get to satisfy my annoyance at the mystery identity of the douchebag, and prove to myself that I am nothing like them. I scan the book and see the last user’s name. Him. Mister Jareth Williams. Wait, oh my god, Jareth? His name is Jareth? As in the goblin king from Labyrinth? Great, now I’m picturing David Bowie’s character in those tight pants and white blouse underlining the library book with one hand while contact juggling crystal balls in the other.
I had a giant crush on David Bowie because of Labyrinth. He was hot, especially in the dance scene. The one at the masquerade ball in the hallucination, not the one where he threw the baby around.
But this patron is not the goblin king. What else is there about this inferior Jareth? Twenty-six years old, about four years older than me. He doesn’t have either senility or youthful capriciousness on his side. Diabolical. I shake my head. 42 Karac Drive. That’s in Cabri—the trendy, upscale part of town. Must be nice. How about using some of that wealth to buy your own goddamned books to write in? Asshole.
“Hey, Ellie, what are you looking at?” Mary-Margaret’s voice comes from over my shoulder. Gah!
I close the window. “Oh, I got this book out and someone has written in it! So I’m seeing who had it last.” It’s the truth. Technically.
“Oh. Well good, we’ll probably have to charge them. Some people...” she trails off looking stern.
“Yes. Well, it is only in pencil.”
“Oh. Then just erase it, no big deal.” She waves her hand dismissively.
“Okay.” I keep my tone agreeable enough and grab an eraser, but I’m annoyed. Not only did Jareth ruin my reading experience, now I’m the one that has to flip through the entire book erasing his handiwork! Yeah, rub that salt into the wound, I love it! Harder! Sigh. My hand nearly tears the paper, I’m pushing so hard. I lighten up and make quick work of the rest of the book. There. It’s gone, but I still can’t read the book now. The lines are gone but my outrage hasn’t faded. Maybe in a month or two.
“Something’s wrong with the system.” Mary-Margaret vigorously clicks the mouse and sighs. “Ugh. Aurora is down.”
I groan. Aurora is the computer program that we use to check books in and out, and it’s the database for all patron records. It doesn’t go down often, it hasn’t happened during one of my shifts, but I’ve heard stories. Instead of just scanning the patron card and then the book, we’ll have to open a word document, type the patron’s name, type the barcode from the book—which is usually sixteen digits long, and then copy paste all of that info when the system is back online. Superstitious guilt twitches through me, as if my abusing the system has crashed it. It hasn’t, it’s headquarters’ server that has the malfunction.
Still, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. This means extra work for us. At least it didn’t happen on a Tuesday, our busiest day. Saturday isn’t a bad day for Aurora to go down, except for the teenagers going off on tirades because the computers are down as well—no internet. Honestly, were we all like that as teens, filled to the scowling eyes with undeserved entitlement? Twenty-two in a couple months and I feel so much older than they are. I commiserate with them, and because I look younger than my age they don’t relegate me to the “can’t understand teen angst” category, but inside I’m thrilled that they might pick up a book until the internet comes back online.
I offer to recommend something, but they refuse saying they’ve already got stuff to read, which makes me happy. Then they all pull manga out of their backpacks and I feel sad and old. They’re reading cartoons. I’d like manga more if it had fewer pictures—some of the stories are all right, but the actual writing is so slim. If they’d expand them into novels without pictures, I’d be happy, but then again kids probably wouldn’t read them. It’s like technology has sucked away kids’ innate imaginations. Sure, books are external as well, but at least we use our imagination to create our own version of the characters and world they live in.
***
My shifts at the library are noon to eight, so everyone’s usually at home by the time I get back. Driving with my condition is pure misery, so I tend to stick to public transit where I can at least wear noise-cancelling headphones and tune everything out. That’s frowned upon when you’re driving, as is plugging your ears when an emergency vehicle with a blaring siren shrieks by. Not that I’ve ever done that. More than once. The train is my friend now.
I walk up the three chipped cement stairs and unlock the front door. As I shut and lock it, my eyes are drawn to the words painted
in gothic letters beside the door. Nick painted them on the wall after a friend’s religious mother mentioned that she smelled like beer and pot when she left here after our house warming party. It wasn’t the first time the mother had remarked upon it. “Welcome to the Den of Iniquity” greets our visitors now. Can’t say we didn’t warn you.
I remove my boots and giant headphones and head to the living room.
“Hey, Elle.” Kennedy greets me from the smooshy black leather couch. Her short blond curls are teased into a pompadour. She reminds me of Marilyn Monroe—if Marilyn had a pierced nose and was built like a gymnast with boobs. We met at college. She took fashion design and marketing, I was taking library tech. Nick was enrolled in marketing and various art classes, though his major changed a few times with his focus.
“Hey.” I lucked out with Kennedy and Nick—I’m always genuinely happy to see them.
“Nick’s making cookies.” Kennedy folds up a pattern for a garment yet to be made.
“Sweet. What are you making now?” I nod at the pattern.
“Thought I’d try a floaty handkerchief dress, bold pattern and colour, in a silk charmeuse fabric. I’ll need you tomorrow for a fitting. Go light on the carbs for supper.” It would sound bossy and rude if I didn’t know that her directness is borne of passion. Kennedy goes through obsessive phases with materials, the latest being silk charmeuse.
“Why am I the only roommate roped into these fittings?” I joke.
“Because you’re the perfect size.”
“Nick is thin as well.”
“Yeah and six-two. And, you know, guy shaped.”
“So am I.” I point to my small boobs.
“You’re built like a model with an ass. You’re every woman’s dream.”
I sigh enviously. “I wish I had your D-cups.”
“I do too—then my back wouldn’t hurt.”
“Awww, let’s take a moment to cry for the woman with epic boobs.”
“Careful, or I’ll stuff you into something tiny and rubbery.”
I zip my lip and grin. It’s become less embarrassing over the years as I’m desensitized to parading around in strange outfits for her, though I’d never leave the house in some of them. She went through a recycled rubber phase where I wore a lot of stiff, smelly pieces that were better in concept than reality. More art than fashion.
Truly, I’m glad I can help her out. She makes me clothes from time to time and those outfits put the rest of my clothes to shame. My ass never looks better than when in a pair of jeans she’s made just for me.
“So I’ll be modelling a handkerchief dress?” I pass by on the way to my room to change.
“No, you’ll be modelling a corset dress,” her voice hits my back. I cringe a little, but keep walking. I normally stick to jeans and t-shirts—I’m not generally into vampy clothes. Ah well. I continue through the kitchen and check on Nick’s progress.
He’s spread the cookies out into the shape of a Christmas tree on the counter. Not sure why, as it’s only September, but it’s never a linear journey when interpreting the artistic mind.
“Hey, Ellie, what’s shakin’?”
“Not much. You?”
“Sold a painting,” he says with a sheepish pride.
“Dude! That’s awesome! Hey, Kennedy—”
“I know right?” she exclaims from the living room.
“Which one was it? The one with the books?”
He nods and I shriek happily. The painting was sort of my idea. He’d painted a bunch of books that seem to be stacked haphazardly, but if you look closely, the titles of the books make a really beautiful short poem that Nick also wrote. The books are sitting in front of a window, and outside the window is a street view on a rainy day. There are raindrops dripping down the glass, and it’s so realistic it could be a photograph. He made me a print for my birthday; I refused the original because I knew it would sell. And now it has!
“That’s awesome! Congratulations, Nicky, I’m so happy for you!” I give him a hug.
“Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off and grab a cookie. “Did they ask for another one?” The gallery he works at part time let him put up a painting and it sold. They asked for another, and now it’s sold as well. People like making money; I can’t see them not wanting more of his work.
“Nope. They’ve asked for three more!”
I squeal, and Kennedy comes running in from the living room, and we all start Led Zeppelining. Led Zeppelining came about one day when we were really, really high. It’s a dance move brought into existence by a large quantity of weed one winter’s day. It sort of looks like the chick from Natural Born Killers’ dance style, but less sexy and more slinky, and your feet don’t break contact with the floor. It’s become a default victory dance. I’m really not sure why we called it Led Zeppelining, but we all get the reference somehow.
“I need to change. Be right back.” I walk down the hall from the kitchen, just past the bathroom to my bedroom. Tossing my purse onto my bed, I grab a pair of yoga pants and a tank top. Stripping down to my undies, I sit on the bed and dig through my purse for my cell. No missed calls. No missed calls from Jason. Not that I expected him to make contact; it was just barely a flicker of a thought, noticing he hasn’t. Bad habits die hard. Sigh.
“Ellie?” Kennedy calls. Shit.
“Be right there!” I sling my phone back into my bag, slip into my clothes, and am back in the kitchen with a joint rolled in under thirty seconds. Nick pours me a glass of wine while I roll for them. It helps relax me, and makes me feel like I’m still part of the circle which I especially need after this Jason fiasco, but before then as well.
My condition sort of isolated me, so when social situations would come up I wanted a way to talk to people without being awkward or smothering them. Kitchens are usually quieter, but get a lot of through traffic—people stop by to get a drink, or snack, then leave. Works for me—I can get overwhelmed by too many voices at a party. This way I get to meet people a few at a time. Plus the counter is better for rolling joints—though that is going to be in my past, other than for Kennedy and Nick.
It’s like being a social butterfly, but with everyone coming to me instead. We share little moments beside the stove, separated from the party in the other room. It’s more intimate and definitely more my style. After a while I feel way more comfortable going into the party having met nearly everyone already. Side note, it helps me weed out people whose voices irritate my synaesthesia.
“So.” I watch them pass the joint back and forth a few times. “What are you going to do to celebrate your painting selling? How about we go all out, you guys have a mad bong session, we can order some food...” I pause at the careful expression on Nick’s face.
He looks at Kennedy and back to me. “I already made plans to go out to that new club ‘Treachery.’” Apropos name.
“Oh.” My pity party is cut short as I see the genuine regret on his face. “Of course, it’s okay. Go—have a blast! Kennedy wanted me to fit a pattern anyways.”
“Actually, I’m not really going to have time tonight. I’m going too.” She makes a regretful face. “We were waiting for you to get back, before taking off to dinner and the club with everyone.”
I was a bit late tonight, having stopped at the ATM after work. And everyone’s going out to celebrate. Everyone except me. Another Saturday night alone because of my stupid condition making clubs unbearable.
“Ah. That’s okay, we can always do it another time.”
“You sure?”
“It’s fine.” I fake a smile a bit too well—they look relieved and rush off to finish getting ready. I swirl the glass of wine in my hand. A couple sips left which I dawdle over.
By the time I’m done, Nick and Kennedy are gone. The house is silent. If I’d told them the truth all along about Jason and me they would have stayed and I wouldn’t be alone. They’d know why I need friends around me. But the
n they would have felt bad and Nick’s celebration would be marred by my truth, and I don’t want that. Besides, it’s not like it just happened. It would be weird for everyone to drop their celebration for a months-old dull ache.
Chapter Four
Some days just belong to children. One runs up and down the short aisles of the children’s area, shouting monosyllabic nonsense. It’s not only me who feels twitchy and murderous from the sounds chirping from the boy; everyone is glaring at the mother. Based on her immunity to the piercing shrieks, I can only assume the woman next to the little boy is the mother. My eyes feel like they’re going to explode.
Getting a kid to be quiet in a library is like herding cats. Jan gives me a look. I quirk an eyebrow and head over to the kid. I make sure my nametag is prominently displayed for the mother’s sake; my cause will be harder if she mistakes me for a crazy baby snatcher. It’s only happened once—but once was more than enough. Honestly, you try to recommend a book to a kid and... well, never mind.
I nod and smile at the mother as I pass her, not that she notices. Slowing my pace, moving on my tiptoes, I squat down in front of the boy who, thankfully, ceases his squawks.
“Hi,” I whisper. “My name is Elle. What’s your name?”
“Jacob!” He taps a book with his hand as he swings his shoulders back and forth.
“I see.” I whisper a bit softer. “Can you tell me how old you are Jacob?”
“I’m four,” he replies, quieter than before. Psychology 101, bitches. “Why are you whispering?”
“Well, we have to whisper because the books are sleeping,” I say in a stroke of genius.
“But it’s before supper!”
“They woke up extra early.”
“Oh. I got up really early once—” I put my finger to my lips and hiss a shhh. His voice had risen with excitement.
Just Breathe Page 2
