Off Limits

by Robert Rayner

  He knocked softly.

  The door opened.

  Amber was in the clothes she wore to perform, with a long, see-through gown over it and the buttons of her white shirt undone. She held a glass filled with a brown liquid and ice.

  For a second she looked at him as if she didn’t know who he was, her eyes blank.

  At last she said, “Birmingham!”

  She said it in a way that Birmingham couldn’t tell if she was pleased to see him standing there, or just surprised.

  He couldn’t speak. He silently cursed his stupidity in coming and making such a fool of himself.

  She repeated, “Birmingham,” now sounding thoughtful.

  He managed a weak, “Surprise!”

  What a stupid thing to say.

  “You’d better come in.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me visiting. You said —”

  “I remember. I just never thought you’d actually do it!”

  She waved him in. The TV was on, the live feed showing the Horny Owls at the Showcase. Birmingham looked for Geoff and the girls but couldn’t see them.

  She asked, holding up her drink, “Would you like one of these?”

  He thought it was whisky. He wanted to say no, but was afraid he’d seem like a kid.

  “Thank you.”

  She poured half a tumbler and added ice. She held her glass toward him and said, “Cheers!”

  “Cheers,” he replied.

  He took a sip, first setting his face so it wouldn’t betray that he didn’t often drink. The liquid burned going down his throat and his eyes watered. He tried another sip. It went down easier than the first.

  Amber was nestling against the pillows on the bed. She said, “Pour yourself another drink. Then come and sit with me.”

  Birmingham was surprised to find his glass was empty. As he refilled it, the Horny Owls finished their set and were replaced by Marie Castelnuovo, an Acadian singer he liked. Her first song was “La Lune et L’Amour.”

  He sat beside Amber on the bed.

  She said, “I love this song.”

  “Me too.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him toward her. At the same time she slid forward so that she was half lying on the bed.

  If he’d been with Jenna, he’d already be in danger of exploding. But with Ms. Flood, nothing was happening down there. He reminded himself again that it didn’t matter. He wanted only this — to be alone with her, sharing music, gazing at the soft look on her face.

  It was enough.

  She rolled toward him and put her hand on his thigh. She breathed, “You really are a very cute young man.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Amber struggled up from the bed, stumbling as she crossed the room. Birmingham shot into the washroom and closed the door.

  He heard, “Hi, Ms. Flood! We came to see the Horny Owls but caught your set, too. Thought we’d drop by to tell you how much we liked your performance.”

  Geoff.

  “Hi, Ms. Flood.”

  Two voices in unison — Jenna and Trish.

  “I’m flattered,” she said. “Do come in.”

  He heard the door close as Amber went on. “How did you find me? They’re not supposed to give out room numbers at the desk.”

  “I saw your drummer in the lobby and told him we were big fans, as well as students of yours,” Geoff explained. “He told me your room number but told me not to tell you how we found out.”

  Ms. Flood laughed. “Well, now that you’re here, what can I do for you?”

  Trish said, “Would you sign my program? I already got the Horny Owls.”

  “I’d be honoured,” she said.

  “Jenna and I thought you’d be dead boring,” Trish went on. “But you weren’t bad.”

  As Ms. Flood signed Trish’s program, she said, “Make yourselves comfortable, all of you.”

  “Thank you, but we’re in a hurry,” said Geoff. “We’re staying with Trish’s aunt, and she has a curfew.”

  “It was very kind of you to visit,” said Ms. Flood.

  “Can I use the washroom before we go?” Jenna asked.

  Birmingham was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. He leaped into the shower and pulled the curtain across. He heard Jenna come in and pee. When she left, he sank onto the edge of the bath and listened as his friends said their goodbyes to Ms. Flood. He opened the bathroom door and peered out.

  Amber said, “How did you manage that?”

  “I hid in the shower.”

  She fell back on the bed, laughing. Marie Castelnuovo was singing another romantic song. Amber patted the bed. Birmingham sat beside her, carefully avoiding a Showcase program left on the bed. She reached up and pulled him down. She burrowed against him.

  An ideal love needs no more than this.

  There was another knock at the door.

  Amber said, “Jesus Christ.”

  She marched to the door and flung it open before Birmingham could move.

  Trish said, “I forgot my pro—” Her eyes widened. “Well fuckadoodledoo. Look who’s here.”

  Chapter 9

  The first person Birmingham saw at school on Tuesday morning was Trish. She was lounging in the main entrance.

  She said, “Fucking pervert,” and walked away.

  He continued down the hall. Two girls, friends of Jenna, were talking by the pop machine. He tried lifting his hand in a little wave but they ignored him. He heard them laugh as he passed.

  Further along, Ms. Flood and the principal were talking, standing close. Ms. Legate watched him as he passed, her face expressionless. Ms. Flood looked away.

  Birmingham found Geoff in his usual morning position, slouched against his locker outside their homeroom. Geoff seized Birmingham’s arm and dragged him into the science lab across the hall.

  He kicked the door closed and snarled, “You must be out of your fucking mind.”

  “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

  “You lied.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s too fucking late for sorry. Anyway, it’s Jenna you need to apologize to.”

  “I’ll make it up to her.”

  “Good luck. Will that be before or after she’s dragged you into more shit than you can imagine?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean she’s going around school telling everyone that you and Ms. Flood are banging the bejesus out of one another. And you know what? She’s right.”

  Birmingham thought of Jenna’s friends laughing, and the way Ms. Legate had watched him. He thought it was strange that gossip reached the teachers almost as quickly as it reached the students.

  “It’s just because she’s mad.”

  “She’s mad all right.”

  “But what she’s saying is crap. Ms. Flood asked me to visit her at the Showcase after we’d already arranged to go. I didn’t like to say no.”

  “I’m not surprised, with the prospect of getting your brains screwed out.”

  “I keep telling you — all I did was visit her. To talk.”

  “Is that what you were doing when Trish walked in on you? Talking? And you just happened to be lying on the bed?”

  The door opened and two students carrying pipettes and flasks took a few steps into the lab.

  Geoff growled, “Piss off.”

  They retreated.

  “We were just talking,” Birmingham insisted. “That’s all we did. I had a few drinks and . . . and . . .”

  “And what?” Geoff demanded.

  What happened after Trish walked in on them came back to Birmingham in vague, flickering images.

  Amber pouring him anot
her drink without asking, and having another herself.

  Amber talking about the shallowness of teen love, and how most people never discover real love until much later in life. Her asking if he knew how lucky he was to have discovered it at his age.

  Another drink.

  Marie Castelnuovo, singing about love again.

  Maybe another drink. He couldn’t remember.

  Amber nestling against him. Asking if he was too hot.

  Her hand, groping . . .

  The room spinning. His eyes closing. The room spinning faster. Opening his eyes then and fixing them on the light in the middle of the ceiling.

  Waking in the dark.

  Amber snoring softly beside him, fully dressed.

  Waking again. Still dark. Amber in the bathroom.

  Waking again. His mouth like a blocked toilet. Groggy. The bedside clock saying it was five a.m. Amber beside him again, but under the covers now. The sheet pushed down to show bare skin as far as her breasts. Her clothes in a heap at the foot of the bed.

  His head throbbing.

  Stumbling to the door. Glancing back.

  Amber sleeping.

  “. . . And . . . and . . .” Birmingham stammered.

  “And what?” Geoff repeated.

  “And nothing,” said Birmingham. “I fell asleep. When I woke up she was asleep and I left. End of story.”

  He had dragged himself to the bus station and caught the first bus to Back River. When he got home, he’d gone to bed and stayed there the rest of the weekend. He had assured his mother nothing was wrong, he just didn’t feel good, and ignored at least three telephone calls from Geoff.

  “It won’t be end of story if Jenna has her way,” said Geoff. He paced backward and forward across the room. “Jesus, man. I can’t believe you gave up a weekend of banging with a chick like Jenna so you could ‘visit’ your substitute music teacher.” Geoff waved his fingers in the air, making quotation marks around the word “visit.” “I hope whatever you were doing with the old hippie was worth it, because you’re gonna be in some serious shit unless you can get Jenna to shut up fast.”

  “I’ll calm her down.”

  “Good luck.”

  The door flew open.

  Jenna snarled, “You shit-brained weasel. Did you think you were going to get away with throwing me over so you could play teacher’s pet with the fucking hippie?”

  “I didn’t throw you over. I had an appointment with Ms. Flood after the Showcase. I couldn’t get out of it and it was too hard to explain.”

  “You had an appointment all right. An appointment to get your brains screwed out.”

  “No.”

  “You think I’m some brainless chick you can treat like dirt? I told you we had the house to ourselves for the whole weekend. How could you forget a date like that — with me?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Birmingham was almost relieved. “Okay. But you can’t go around saying I’m having it off with Amber.”

  “Oh, it’s Amber now, is it? You’re having it off with Amber.”

  “I said you can’t go around saying that. It’s . . . slander.”

  “It’s the fucking truth. How else would you explain how the two of you ogle one another all the time in class?” Jenna acted it out, her head on one side, her eyes wide open, and her tongue lolling out. “And you went to see her at the Cellar Club . . .”

  “I was there with my folks.”

  “. . . And you hang out with her — the two of you alone — in the music room after school. And you’re so out of your mind, like guilty or something, when you come out you almost run me over. Then you spend the weekend screwing her when you could have been with me. You’ll be toast around here, you scumbag, by the time I’ve finished with you.”

  She raged out, slamming the door.

  “I warned you,” said Geoff.

  The door opened again.

  Ms. Legate said, “May I ask what that was all about? I could hear Jenna out in the hall. In fact, most of the school could hear her.”

  “Just a tiff,” said Birmingham.

  “Are you sure that was all?”

  Birmingham nodded.

  The principal pursed her lips and started to leave. She stopped and looked back. “Be careful, Birmingham.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” She looked at Geoff. “Talk some sense into your friend, please, Geoff.”

  Chapter 10

  For the next few days, no one said anything. But it seemed to Birmingham as if everyone in the school were looking at him — students grinning, teachers frowning and shaking their heads. He kept clear of the music room except for music class, when he was careful not even to look at Ms. Flood.

  Jordan Stokes confronted him one morning. “You moved on from Jenna, eh? Looking for greener pastures among the elderly?”

  Sam and Cory snickered behind him. A cluster of girls, Jenna and Trish among them, stood watching.

  Birmingham muttered, “Piss off.”

  “I’ve never done it with an old lady,” Jordan persisted. “So what’s it look like on Ms. Flood — loose and saggy, or leathery and wrinkled and all dried up?”

  Birmingham snarled, “Shut the fuck up.”

  Jordan’s hand shot out. His thumb and forefinger squeezed Birmingham’s chin, forcing Birmingham to meet his eyes. “Shut the fuck up or what, perv?”

  Birmingham tried to knee Jordan between the legs, but Jordan saw it coming and swung sideways, kicking Birmingham’s leg from under him. As Birmingham toppled backward, he glimpsed the group of girls. They were laughing. Jenna seemed to have disappeared. Jordan and his friends stood over him. Jordan said, “Pervs like you shouldn’t be allowed out.”

  Birmingham tried to scramble up, but Jordan pushed him down. “Why don’t you go home and fuck your grandmother?”

  Then Jordan’s legs buckled and he collapsed.

  Geoff, standing over Jordan, said, “Time to run along, boys.”

  Cory took a step toward him. Geoff looked at him and shook his head. Cory stopped. Sam hauled Jordan to his feet.

  Jordan put his face close to Geoff’s and said, “I’ll remember this.”

  Geoff smiled. “But you won’t do anything about it.”

  Birmingham watched Jordan and his friends shuffle away. He turned to Geoff and said, “Thanks. I’m lucky you were around.”

  “I wasn’t. Jenna came looking for me.”

  Birmingham stared at Geoff, who nodded. “Told you already. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  By noon, Birmingham was tired of everyone looking at him and decided to leave. He was planning on sneaking out early anyway, because Winter Flood had e-mailed another invitation.

  Birmingham didn’t know if he was going to the cottage to see Winter or in the hope of seeing Amber.

  Would she even want to see him, after what happened at the hotel?

  As soon as the bell rang, he headed for the classroom door. He heard Geoff call him, but he said, “I’ll give you a call later.” He kept going, his head down. On his way past the office, one of the secretaries called him in and passed him a note. He stuffed it in his pocket as he ran from the school grounds and made for the riverside trail. When he put his hands in his pockets as he sauntered along, he found the note: Please see me about music class. AF.

  He stared at it. What did it mean? Was it an excuse to see him, for her to play the piano for him again while he stood close? Or did she really want to see him about music class? He hadn’t been paying attention lately in class, or getting any work done. He was tempted to return to school right away to see her, but he didn’t think he could face everyone else. Anyway, it
was harder to sneak into school than out, and he didn’t want to risk being sent to Ms. Legate. He decided he’d either see Ms. Flood at the cottage or in the music room after school the next day.

  He walked on.

  An hour later, he found himself at the edge of Manor Farm Estates. He wandered slowly through the houses, pacing himself to arrive at the cottage at exactly three o’clock. He knocked on the door and walked in. Winter was in the kitchen, silently counting down the minutes until the tea was brewed. He poured — the blue jay for Birmingham, the owl for himself — and said, “Let’s sit in the study.”

  As they made their way to the attic, Winter asked, “How was music class today?”

  “Er . . . good, as usual,” Birmingham lied.

  It had been horrible, as usual. All the time he could feel his classmates’ eyes on him and Ms. Flood, looking for a sign that would confirm Jenna’s accusations.

  “Amber always looks forward to seeing you,” said Winter.

  A suspicion crept into Birmingham’s mind. Were the invitations coming not from Winter, but from Amber? Had she persuaded Winter to invite Birmingham so she could see him alone?

  Or were both Winter and Amber using him — Winter to lure Amber closer to him, Amber to lure Birmingham closer to her? Was he a pawn in both their hands?

  It was all getting too weird. For a few moments, the cottage turned into a place of conspiracy and intrigue.

  Birmingham shivered.

  “Are you all right?” Winter asked.

  Birmingham forced his suspicions away. “Yeah.”

  They settled themselves in the attic, and Winter said, “I hope you won’t get in trouble, missing school again.”

  “Nah. Kids do it all the time.”

  Winter grinned. “I was out of school more often than I was in. My parents ended up sending me to a special school, where I could come and go as I pleased. In many ways, it was my ideal school.” He sipped his tea before asking, “Do you think we’re all searching for the ideal, in everything we do?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “I think we are, but most of us don’t realize we’re doing it. It’s probably a good thing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when you realize you’re never going to find your ideal, it makes life a series of disappointments. And that’s hard to take.”