by Karen Rivers
Zara, he starts.
Go, she says. Whatever. I don’t care. Just go.
She has to be making it up, he”thinks. He wants her to be making it up. But while she was talking, he felt like she was carving out his insides. She was too accurate. He knew it was true. In a way that he can’t quite articulate, he’s scared of her. She’s still Zara but... It’s science fiction. He’ll call Sin on his way to pick up Gigi. Sin will know what to do. Maybe Sin can fix it. Somehow.
But what can she do?
It’s crazy. Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought.
Once he’s in the car, feeling fuzzy, he changes his mind. How can he possibly call Sin and say, Gee, Zara is having a problem with mind melding. Please help. He’d sound like a jerk. A crazy jerk. He’s not the crazy one. But is she crazy? Zara? He can’t decide.
He drives with the radio turned up loud, like that will drown out all his other thoughts. He wonders if he can just choose — choose — to not believe her. He can’t believe her. It’s too ridiculous and too freaky and too surreal and in turn that would make her ridiculous and freaky and surreal and somehow, some way that would mean that he, too, was ridiculous, freaky and surreal. Like a ripple effect, ruining everything.
But he can’t do that. Can’t dismiss her out of hand. And she’s right, he can’t tell Maman. Who can he tell?
No one. No one would understand. How could they? He doesn’t understand. Zara doesn’t understand.
It’s too much.
He turns the radio down when he stops for Gigi, and her blank, somewhat nervous chatter takes over. He wants to reach over and shake her, wants to tell her about Zara at the same time as knowing he can’t tell her. Of course, he can’t tell her. Her face would scrunch up as though Zara had done something distasteful. She’d dismiss it as craziness. She’d talk about psychiatrists. She’d make him feel bad, like he was the nut.
He glances at her mouth moving, making shapes, sounds. Her white teeth flashing. She’s the most irrelevant person he’s ever met. Yet he wants to ... he wants her. He wants to make her stop talking with his mouth.
Which makes him feel guilty. But why should he? He’s supposed to want his girlfriend, isn’t he? Except the bad part is that he only wants her. He doesn’t want to listen to her. Not now.
Not really ever.
She’s talking about prom. Isn’t prom almost a year away? he wants to shout. But he lets her go on and on because it’s easier than interrupting. Easier than pointing out that there’s no guarantee they’ll be together by that time next year, no matter what she’s planning. He can’t imagine it. Can’t imagine that there won’t be someone else by then, someone real. Someone who he can maybe even love. She is just his holding pattern until he ...
Doesn’t she see that? Sense it?
The lake is calm and unrippled, dark and slick like an oil spill in the sunlight. Except for the occasional ski boat that rips past, throwing up a wake that perilously rocks the over-filled dinghy. There’s giddy laughter, which Axel couldn’t feel further away from even as he feels the vibration of it on his skin. Even as he’s a part of it, a tinny laugh coming from somewhere inside him that feels out of his control.
He sits in the bow with Gigi on his knee. She’s so light he can hardly even feel her there and, besides, he’s a million miles away. Wick is rowing, his girlfriend (girlfriend!) perched on the floor by his knees.
What an asshole.
So he’s gay, so what? But so what for Chelsea. Who can’t know. Or maybe she does know? Maybe Axel is the only one who didn’t. Chelsea’s been friends with Des and Wick forever, too. Maybe she’s like a cover-up for the truth. Maybe there’s something in it for her, somehow, that he’s not getting.
He feels totally oversaturated. Too much. Sick.
He can’t take it. He stares into the water; which is bottomless. Opaque. Angry. Like at any second an alligator or crocodile (whichever are found in lakes) might leap out of the water at him. He leans forward into Gigi’s back. She smells good. She’s starting to smell familiar to him. Comfortable enough in that familiarity. The initial charge he got from her strangeness is gone. She’s still talking but she’s talking away from him so it’s not that easy for him to hear.
Totally stole it from my dad, she’s saying. He won’t miss it.
Great, says Des.
He has cases in the garage, she says.
That’s my girl, says Axel, lazily drawing with his finger on the back of her tank top. He feels like he’s watching someone else’s hand. He feels like he’s over-acting the scene. What’s wrong with him? He needs his brain to calm down. He takes a drink from his Slurpee cup, which is filled mostly with rum. That’s better, he thinks. A bit better, anyway.
The evening is hot and still. The air is humid with the trapped heat of August and filled with mosquitoes that buzz in and out of his ears. In the other boat that’s also wobbling its way to the island, he can see Sin squished into the bow with a bag of food. Sin is wearing a sundress that looks like it’s made of an orange flame. It must be silk or something, he figures. Probably it will get wrecked by wearing it to the lake. What was she thinking? Why does he care about the fabric? It just looks wrong, somehow, out of place, or maybe he’s just mad because it’s making him look. He wishes he didn’t want to touch it. Because, well, that’s creepy for one thing. And for another thing, Gigi would kill him. And then he’d lose her. Maybe he’s not ready for that. Not yet.
And Zara would kill him. Would she?
And what does he want with Sin anyway?
Nothing, nothing. She isn’t right for him in any way. They wouldn’t fit together. She’s not his type.
He can hear her laughing. She’s always laughing. Her laughter billows like smoke, always hovering around her. There’s something about her that he wants to get closer to. He wants to sink into her. He wants to ...
No he doesn’t. He touches Gigi’s knee. Her skin is cold. He sighs and takes a sip of the beer that Gigi is clenching in her left hand. He just can’t get enough to drink, he’s so thirsty. Her nails are bitten to the quick. Again. Her cuticles are getting worse and worse. They look like hamburger. It’s possibly the grossest thing about her. That and the other day when she had something hanging out of her nose and didn’t notice and he just helplessly stared at it while it moved around as she spoke. He thought he was going to be sick, but he wasn’t. Everyone has snot, right? He can’t exactly hold that against her.
But he does. The beer is warm and makes him think of urine, which makes him need to pee.
Finally, the boat grinds to a slow stop in the mud around the island. Everyone out! says Wick. Even his voice sounds gay suddenly. Lispy. Too light. Why hasn’t Axel ever noticed that before? Is he deaf?
He grabs the oars from Wick and heaves them up onto the shore, practically knocking Wick backward into the water.
Watch it, says Wick, rubbing his chest where the oar bashed into him.
Sorry, says Axel.
Try to keep it together, mumbles Wick.
What? asks Axel. What did you say?
Wick shrugs. Nothing, he says. Relax.
You relax, says Axel.
I don’t have a problem, says Wick.
Neither do I, hisses Axel.
He throws the oars toward the scrub, hard. One of them somersaults end over end and knocks into Gigi, who almost falls over.
Hey, she says. Don’t.
Sorry, says Axel. Sorry, sorry, sorry, everyone. It’s all my fault.
Hey, says Des. Take it easy, man. We’re here to have fun, right?
Yeah, says Axel. Right.
He gives Des a look. He can’t explain why it feels like so much more of a betrayal on Des’s side of the equation than Wick’s. Maybe he’s always figured Wick — even with a girlfriend — was maybe not straight. But Des ...
He’s slept with Des. As in slept, not anything else. But a few times, they’ve shared a bed. In hotels or whatever when accommodation was s
carce. Was Des thinking about trying something? Was Des attracted to him? Did he ... well, did he look? He might have seen Axel naked, yeah, sure he had. Was he getting off on that?
Fuck, he says out loud. His knuckles ache to make contact with something. Someone.
Instead, he kicks his shoe into the ground, stubbing his toe hard into the dirt. There’s no beach to speak of; it’s really just dirt and grass and some mangy-looking trees. Still, it’s far away from the shore and feels private. Feels like a place where they can have a party and no one will care.
Taking what’s left of his drink with him, Axel sneaks behind the biggest of the three trees to take a leak, and a break. A mosquito lands on his hand and he smacks it hard against the tree trunk, bruising his hand more than hurting the mosquito. It buzzes away. Figures. Probably spreading West Nile virus or worse, he thinks, inspecting his hand for damage. He’s startled by Sin in her weirdly inappropriate dress poking her head around the tree at him.
Ha, she said. Thought I’d catch you in the act.
Is she flirting?
Uh, he says, zipping up hurriedly.
Anyway, she says in a low conspiratorial voice, did you go through Zara’s stuff? Did you find anything?
No, he says. I didn’t look. I don’t want to talk about it now, okay?
For a second, he imagines confiding in her, but how the hell can he do that? Now with the distance of the drive, the lake and the alcohol, the shock of what she’s told him is hazier. Less distinct.
Has he exaggerated it to himself? What really did she say? Did she ask him not to tell anyone? He wouldn’t know how to say it without sounding ten kinds of crazy, anyway.
I’ll look later, he says. Tomorrow or something. I’ll get to it.
Oh, she says. Sure. When you can.
She backs away and right away he’s sorry. He wants to keep her there but can’t think of anything else to say. Five metres away, Wick and Chelsea, heads together, are building a fire out of an empty pop box and some logs someone must have brought from home. It sparks and smokes, but not much heat comes off it. Wick shrugs and laughs, sits down. Des has a sparkler and is writing in the air; but the sparkler is moving too fast to make out what it says. Axel doesn’t want to think about Zara. He walks away from Sin and squishes in between Wick and Gigi. Trying not to feel weird that his leg is touching Wick’s. Does Wick notice?
He takes another drink.
Don’t drink too much! hisses Gigi. There isn’t that much for all of us to share. Her eyes goggle at him, big and blank.
Sorry, he says, but he gulps the rest of the can anyway. It makes him feel better. He needs it. It makes him not notice how Sin is staring at him through the thick rising smoke. Something’s going to happen. He knows it. It’s like he’s going to do something that he can’t stop himself from doing.
Who wants to swim? he asks.
Too cold, shivers Gigi. You’re crazy.
I’m going, he says. Who’s coming?
The island slopes up on the other side into a craggy shelf, about fifteen feet above the water. The water there is super deep. They dive off that rock all the time.
No way, man, says Des. I’m not getting wet. And mess up this hair?
Wimp, says Axel. He thinks about punching and wrestling Des like he might have once done, but suddenly that seems weird and completely wrong. He doesn’t think he’s homophobic, it’s just different now. It just is.
Wick, you coming? he asks.
Nah, says Wick.
I’ll come, says Chelsea.
Cool, says Axel. Even though it’s not, really. It’s not a girl thing. Cliff diving is for boys, it always has been. Oh well, at least he won’t be alone.
He turns and runs the hundred feet or so to the diving spot, not bothering to wait and see if she’s following. The ground hurts his bare feet. At one point, he’s sure he steps on glass, but when he checks, there’s no cut. At the highest point on the rocks, he strips off his shirt and leaves his shorts, shouts GERONIMO! and flings himself into the air. It seems to take a while before the water grabs him, pulls him down. He points his toes, just to see how far down he can go, his ears popping from the pressure. Then just when it feels like his lungs might explode, he lets himself bob back up to the surface, just in time to see Chelsea flinging herself into the space above his head.
Hey! he yells, diving deep to get out of the way.
You almost got me, he says when she comes up. You could have landed on me.
Sorry, she says. It’s not such a big deal. You could move.
Yeah, he says, floating on his back. I did move.
So? she asks. What’s the problem?
No problem, he says, letting the water fill up his ears. No problem at all.
They swim for a while without talking, lazily breast-stroking out around a waterlogged tree that somehow seems like the closest thing they have to a destination in the water.
I like this, she says, grabbing onto the tangled roots of the tree. Reminds me of when we were kids.
He looks over at her. She still wears her hair in pigtails. She actually looks exactly like they looked when they were kids. He’s suddenly surprised to realize that he’s known her for most of his life, but still he doesn’t know her at all. He feels kind of uncomfortable, treading water there, like he should say something sympathetic about Wick. What must that have been like to find out your boyfriend is gay? It can’t have been good. She must know, mustn’t she? But the words don’t come out; instead he dives deep again, angling back toward the island. When he surfaces, she’s still dangling there like she’s waiting for help.
Race you back? he calls.
Sure thing, she calls back.
And then the splashing and swimming and kicking erases their need to talk.
Back on the island, the others have almost finished the alcohol. They’re laughing, like the kind of laughing you do when you realize someone sees you and you want to look like you’re having fun. Axel plops his wet self down again, beside Sin. Getting her dress wet. Wrecking it himself.
Hey, she says.
Hey yourself, he says. He leans into her a bit. She’s so comfortable. So familiar. So ... easy. He grabs what’s left of a can of beer and polishes it off, trying not to think about whose spit is in it. The fire is hot now, really hot, the flames leaping and billowing thick white smoke that feels suffocating. A loud crackle showers sparks down on them, a few of them melting tiny holes in the silk fabric of Sin’s dress.
Hey, he says again, quieter, and this time without much thinking about it, he puts his hand on her leg and sort of leaves it there. He’s not sure if anyone else notices. He’s not actually sure if she does.
SIN
Chapter 9
HE TOUCHED YOUR LEG. So what? Who cares? Zara touches your leg all the time and that doesn’t make you “in a relationship.” It just is what it is. They are just touchy- feely people. Axel and Zara. A and Z.
He touched you.
You have to stop thinking about it or it will drive you crazy. After he touched you, he touched Gigi a bunch more. He made out with her. In front of you. Like he was trying to tell you that it didn’t mean anything, his touching your leg. And so it didn’t.
You can still feel his hand there. Warm. Convincing.
You have to let it go. He’s chosen Gigi. He won’t choose you.
Obviously, it was nothing. His girlfriend was sitting right there! He was just being friendly. Brotherly. Casual. Or it was an accident. Or just a fleeting thing, like that day in the store when you suddenly found Wick irresistible. You force yourself to put it out of your mind.
To put yourself back in the moment.
The music in the club is loud. So loud that the speakers are bursting with occasional feedback like a million fingernails on a chalkboard, making your skin leap and twist. Zara is dancing. Her eyes are closed. Like she doesn’t even want to look at you. You want to grab her and say, Why did you make me come? Look at me!
But you don’t
. You’re not even sure of your own diagnosis of drugs anymore. If Axel found something, he would have told you. If he looked. And now, since the leg incident, you’re way too jumpy to call him and ask.
In a while, Zara’s going to sing. She says she sings here “all the time.” It bugs you that “all the time” she does something that you haven’t been a part of and it’s your place. Well, your uncle’s place, but more yours than hers. And you didn’t even know.
You’re messed up, you know it. Your feelings are confused about Zara. Is she pushing you away? Are you unwanted? Are you making excuses because, after all, you love her? You are turning into your mum and being almost possessive, or at least overly judgemental. And you don’t want to be like that. But you can’t help it. You’ve always kind of looked out for Zara. You’ve always kind of looked after her.
Maybe she’s outgrown you, or doesn’t want you in her business, doesn’t want you to care. Or worse.
You look over at your friend. Her eyelids glitter with some kind of metallic eyeshadow you would never have figured that she’d wear. She’s changing into someone else. Like, literally. She’s costuming herself. It’s totally weird, is what it is. You want to grab her and shake her and yell at her and ask her.
But you don’t.
You dance awkwardly. You feel like one of those hippos in a tutu from that old Disney cartoon. Thump thump thump. Your balance is off.
Hamster catches your eye and smiles. Or, really, smirks. You smile back in a way that hurts your teeth. He feels like someone you used to know, like Axel simply touching your leg has removed Hamster from the equation altogether. Like you barely remember him. What’s wrong with you? He’s still your boyfriend even though, since that first time, he hasn’t actually made a move to touch you.
Not that you want him to. You’d reject him if he tried; you just sort of want him to try so that you feel okay. So that you feel pretty.
Boy, you’re a mess.
Hamster is wearing a green-and-blue checkered shirt that looks like it was styled for a toddler. His shoes are orange Adidas with white stripes. His pants are at least two inches too short, which doesn’t make sense as you’re sure he must have to get them hemmed. He’s so tiny. How can his pants be too short? Maybe they are capris and they are just too long. It’s hard for you to tell.
