Gage tells me he doesn’t know what happened to the kid after that. We’re almost at my house and I know I can trust myself not to do something stupid but I wish I didn’t have the stupid ideas in my head in the first place. My cheeks are hot. I imagine what Gage would look like undoing my buttons. No, I’m not wearing any buttons. He could unzip my coat then. What does he look like under his jacket? I’ve never seen him without a jacket. Does he have basketball player arms?
George Clooney, Mr. Lapatas, and now Gage the drugstore customer with no last name. Thank God no one can read my mind.
CHAPTER NINE
~
MR. CUSHMAN IS IN a worse mood than usual. He lectures our class about how disappointed he is in our performance so far. The year has barely started and he’s already disappointed. Uh-oh. “I know not all of you will end up pursuing a science-related career but there’s a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the subject as a whole here that I simply can’t tolerate,” he complains, hurling one hand into the air. “And I’ve had more than enough of your incessant chatter while you’re supposed to be reading or listening to me.” His pointer finger shoots out like a semi-automatic weapon. “Is that clear, ladies and gentlemen?” He pronounces ladies and gentlemen with a sneer, and I have to agree with him about the gentlemen anyway. At least sixty per cent of the guys in my science class are more savage than civilized.
But still, our class shouldn’t have to suffer on account of Mr. Cushman’s separation. He should take his problems out on a licensed therapist.
“And if some of you feel you’re not getting anything from this class, perhaps you should question your presence here,” he continues with steely eyes.
“We need two science credits to graduate,” Jon Wheatley quips from the back of the class. “That’s what we’re doing here.”
Sometimes Jon gets away with his smart remarks because he’s not the delinquent type and tends to give the right answers in class, but this time Mr. Cushman glares at him like he’s waiting for Jon’s head to explode. Then Mr. Cushman pinches the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looks so tired of Jon and all of us, down to the bone exhausted with the way his life has turned out so far, that I get a lump in my throat. I know just how he’s feeling. That’s how my parents and I felt when Devin left in June.
Suddenly I want to get an A in science, just to show Mr. Cushman that he’s not wasting his time with us. The thought stays with me through second period but starts to ease off a little during third. I guess Mr. Cushman is right. I don’t really care about science class as much as I could. I don’t know what I want to do with my life (it’s hard enough for me to imagine next summer, let alone graduation) but I don’t think it will require an extensive background in science.
The good news lately is that most people are over Aya’s video. Between the four of us we’ve perfected our drop dead stares, and it’s gotten so that most of the guys who would’ve been inclined to aggravate us with their comments don’t bother anymore because they don’t want to listen to us get mean. They leave us alone and we leave them alone.
I know I’m not really a mean person at heart, though. I just don’t want to listen to people say nasty things about me or my friends. Mom let Devin say a lot of bad things to her last year, and I let Jacob say things I didn’t want to hear too, but I’ve learned my lesson. What bothers me about my mom is that it seems like she hasn’t learned anything; she’s just faded away. She pretends eBay and her Swarovski display are hobbies, but hobbies are what you do with your spare time.
She’s already getting professional help but I think she needs a new therapist. After Devin left Mom, Dad, and I went to see Doctor Berkovich together and for most of the appointment the doctor didn’t even say anything, just listened to my mother explain about Devin not being well. My ears kept zooming in on the tick-tock of the clock, like it was going to hypnotize me, and then Doctor Berkovich looked into my eyes and asked whether I wanted Devin to come back. I stared at him like he had three heads as I told him yes.
“There were lots of problems when Devin was around,” Doctor Berkovich declared. As if I didn’t realize. I didn’t want to go back to the therapist after that and neither did my dad. Mom still goes once a week but I can’t see that it’s helping her any; she’s the worst off of all of us.
When I get home from school there’s a package with a return address in Delaware sitting in the mailbox for her. I think about getting rid of the evidence and pretending it never showed up. What would she do? What if I intercepted every package addressed to Tessa LeBlanc from now on? Would it bring my mother back from her hiding spot of choice or would it send her into a full-out breakdown?
I set the package down on the kitchen table and blend myself a fruit smoothie. I’m still trying to be disciplined, so the yogurt is the low-fat kind. The good thing about feeling like crap was that I never had to be careful; now I crave things that I shouldn’t eat all the time. I don’t skip meals but it’s a struggle to keep them medium-small and to avoid snacking too much in between. A struggle that I’ve been winning. I’ve already lost three of the eight pounds I’d put back on. That only leaves another five to go.
The smoothie helps tide me over to dinner, but I’m hungry again by the time I hear the front door swing open at five-thirty. “Hey, Mom,” I call, bounding into the front hall with her. She’s unzipping one of her leather boots and says hi back. Gloom bunches around her mouth like it hung around Mr. Cushman’s earlier, making me feel fresh guilt for both lacking science class drive and imagining snipping my mother’s lifeline.
“Something came for you!” I add, turning to snatch the delivery from the kitchen. I rush over to my mother, feeling childish even as I do it — as though I’m looking for approval in the most obvious places — while she’s hanging her coat in the closet.
Our hall closet still has Morgan’s and Devin’s old winter coats in it; making space for your own jacket is always a battle, and it takes Mom a minute to cram her coat in with the rest. Finally free, Mom holds out one hand to take the package and I think she’s got it in her grasp when I let go. Truly, I do. This isn’t a continuation of the withholding the package from her idea. I sincerely thought she had it and that I was free to let go. I thought I was doing a good thing.
Wrong.
The package thuds to the floor. I don’t hear anything shatter — there’s just the subtle thump of cardboard hitting tile floor — but Mom yelps.
“Sorry,” I squeak. “I’m sure it’s in tons of bubble wrap anyway.” Someone wouldn’t send it all the way from Delaware without adequately packing it, would they? I bet I’d have to stomp on the thing to break it, and I bend to pick up the box and prove it to her.
“Stop!” Mom shouts. “I’ll get it, Serena.” Her cheekbones sharpen as she plucks her precious package from the hall floor.
“I can pick up a box, Mom. God.” I shouldn’t let her get to me; I should just walk away and let her obsess over her package to her heart’s content, but now I feel like a kid with chocolate milk spilt down the front of her best dress. Do you know what it’s like to feel invisible to your mother, except when she’s forced to deal with you? “Anybody can drop something once in a while. You were the one who didn’t take it in time.”
“You know how I treasure my things, young lady.” Mom begins walking away in her stocking feet. Her pantyhose have a run in them at the little toe. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Difficult?” I croak. “You’re calling me difficult?”
“Not now, Serena,” Mom barks, heading for the kitchen. “I want to make sure it’s not damaged.” I stalk into the kitchen behind her, my stomach growling in recognition of its regular feeding place.
Difficult? Really? Did I get myself hooked on drugs and sell off a couple of figurines I didn’t think she’d notice missing? Do I hide out in my room 24/7 trawling shopping sites rather than finishing homework and interacting with the ou
tside world? No and no. She must be mistaking me for someone else.
I lean in the doorway with my arms knotted in front of me. Mom pulls a utility knife from the bottom drawer and slices carefully into the package. My nostrils flare as I watch her.
Whatever’s inside the box is swaddled in masses of bubble wrap, just like I said it would be, and Mom rips through it swiftly with her fingernails. Then she cradles the glittering naked figurine in her palm and holds it up to the light. A small clear crystal bear offers a golden sunflower to the track lighting above us. He’s cute, but his dazzling perfection annoys me at the same time.
“I told you it wouldn’t be broken,” I say. “And anyway, it’s not like you don’t have a thousand of these things gathering dust in the den.”
“Serena.” Mom’s voice has wholly iced over. “Just because you don’t realize the value of my things doesn’t mean they don’t have any.”
“But it didn’t break.” I point to her palm. “You freaked out over nothing.”
Mom folds the bear back into the safety of his bubble wrap box. “I’m going to change out of my work clothes. Would you mind sticking some of the chicken breasts from the freezer in the oven? The temperature’s on the box.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I might break them or something.” I want to stomp my feet and scream so she’ll really look at me. Devin isn’t dead — he’s just gone — and I’m still here. She could notice me for a change.
Mom yanks up the box from the kitchen table and shoves it towards me, the cardboard scraping against my arm. “Take the damn box, Serena. Balance it on your head, if that’s what you want to do.”
That’s not what I want to do. I really don’t want to make her mad either. A lump squeezes down my throat for the second time today. I don’t want to sit at the kitchen table for dinner if she’s going to be mad at me.
“Calm down,” I tell her, projecting equal parts attitude and regret. “I don’t want the box.”
Mom’s eyes are lined with a tender-looking pink. She holds the box against her stomach and says, “These are my special things. I just want people to show a little care. Is that too much to ask?”
It’s not about me dropping the box anymore; it’s about me not being wonder girl. Devin was wrong about not being a golden boy. He must’ve been. Because now that he’s gone it seems obvious that the world revolved around him. My parents and I are just hanging around like movie extras, waiting for the main action to crash back onto the set.
***
I’m glad to be out of the house during dinner the next day. I smile extra hard at everyone, even the grumpy guy with wispy bits of grey hair growing out of his ears who complains that the copy of The Notebook that he bought for his wife keeps freezing in their DVD player. “If you bring it in with your receipt we’ll exchange it for you,” I tell him in the sincerest tone I can muster. Irritable customers are easier to deal with if you make their problems sound important, and let’s face it, The Notebook should not skip. I’m sure his wife doesn’t want to miss any quality Ryan Gosling moments.
And, you know, Ryan Gosling — not a real live person, so I can stream The Notebook from Netflix again after work if I want to. I can cry and lust at the same time; one doesn’t preclude the other.
Michael Bublé’s voice is bouncing through the air around me as the grumpy guy pops the upset stomach pills he just bought into a Whole Foods bag and mumbles that he supposes he’ll have to rummage around and find the receipt. “Have a good day,” I tell him.
I think I know all of Michael Bublé’s lyrics off by heart now. He seems to be Total Drug Mart’s favourite person. I wonder who’s made more girls cry — Michael Bublé singing “Lost” or Ryan Gosling in The Notebook?
The next girl in line has really cool purple hair and tons of piercings. She sets a package of Monistat and a bottle of conditioner in front of me, opera music leaking out of her earbuds. As I’m scanning her Monistat my eyes zing in on a male form sauntering over with a big bag of Doritos. He’s back. And this time he’s wearing a black wool coat, unbuttoned and hanging open. He smiles when he sees me notice him. Why am I always noticing him? It’s good that he has a winter coat on, though, and he did give me a ride the other night so I should definitely thank him. It’s only polite.
I throw the purple-haired girl’s things into a plastic bag as Gage gets into line behind her. Thinking his name makes me tingle. Gage, Gage, Gage. It doesn’t sound like a name I’d like — it’s too short, weirdly functional — but I like it on him. What would he do if he knew I was standing here thinking his name over and over? Would he be all over me in no time? Would I even mind?
“Hey,” Gage says as the Monistat girl moves away from the counter. “How’re you doing?” He points at my name tag. “I feel like I’m cheating but I honestly did remember your name was Serena.”
“Liar,” I tease. Yes, I’m flirting, but that doesn’t mean anything. It only counts if our lips touch.
“I’m serious,” he says, the strength of his grin making it impossible for me to avoid grinning back. “Why would I lie? I actually …” He drops his voice, his expression turning slightly sheepish. “I noticed before you told me.”
“Uh-huh, you committed it to memory the minute you saw me, huh?” I’m kidding, but I’m also glad that my skin doesn’t happen to be breaking out and my hair hasn’t decided to do anything weird today.
Gage tilts his head, his grey eyes shining like high gloss marble. “I’m not really good at this, but when are you getting off?”
Not good at this? Yeah, right. When you look like Gage you’re automatically good at macking on girls. Everybody knows that.
“Do you want to pay for that?” I ask, motioning to his Doritos. A second ago he had me believing his shy-boy expression but he ruined it with that last line, overplayed his hand. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s another Jacob; it was obvious from the first time I saw him.
Gage hands over his Doritos without a word. I scan them in and recite the after tax total. “So …” He presses a five-dollar bill into my hand, looking as though he’s holding his breath. “Is your dad picking you up tonight?”
“Uh-huh.” I look him in the eye, all business. “So I don’t need a ride if that’s what you were going to say.” I know that’s not exactly what he was going to say, but this is my way of telling him to stop, that I’m not going to be an easy target for him.
Okay, I know twenty seconds ago I was having fun, but if he thinks he can drive me home later and get lucky it’s better to let him know he’s wrong straight away. I was on the verge of repeating a mistake and caught myself just in time.
I haven’t given Gage a bag or anything. He’s stuffed his receipt into his pocket and is holding the Doritos in his right hand. An old woman in a brown knit hat’s standing behind him, her basketful of items on the floor in front of her. Gage leans over the counter, blinks, and bites down on air. He’s probably wondering why I went cold on him all of a sudden, and if I was judging solely by his expression I’d feel a little sorry about it all, but then again, I made a promise to myself that I’d be different.
“Okay,” Gage says at last. “Then … do you think I could get your number?”
The old woman behind Gage smiles at me like we’re sharing a private joke: aren’t men funny, the poor dears, putting their delicate egos on the line for the sake of a telephone number? I glance back at her, smiling automatically because it’s what I’ve been doing all day. Your total is whatever, whatever. Smile. The item you’re looking for is near the back of aisle four. Smile. Have a good day. Smile.
But underneath my autopilot smile, I feel a mix of sympathy and satisfaction. Gage is standing in front of the two of us asking me this thing and I could easily say no. I could say it nicely or I could be cruel about it and make him feel stupid and insignificant. This isn’t the kind of power you should enjoy, probably, but I a
m.
“Are you really sure you want it?” I ask, my voice dancing and my lips grin-shaped. Heat floods my face and my heart speeds up. I can make him ask me again. This doesn’t need to be easy, it could be difficult for him and he might still want it.
“Only if you want to give it to me,” he says, not quite smiling back. “I don’t want to tread on any toes or …”
There aren’t any other toes involved, but I nod and go back to being normal Serena. It’s not like me to make guys jump through hoops. I’m not exactly used to guys wanting my number. It’s a confusing thing. Good and bad. I can’t get a handle on it at all.
“Let me just …” I grab our weekly flyer from behind me and tear off a corner. Then I print my number on it without my name, which Gage should remember if he really wants to call me.
“Thanks, Serena.” He sounds so grateful that I feel a bit sick. He folds the small bit of paper into his wallet next to the glittering pink heart with the “A” on the back. “I’ll call you.” He lopes off with his Doritos still in his hand and leaves me staring at the old woman in the brown knit hat.
“You made his day,” the woman tells me.
My polite smile sticks to my teeth. “He probably has a hundred numbers. I bet I’ll never even hear from him.”
She winks at me from across the counter, curly silver hair spilling out from under the edges of her hat. “Oh, I bet you do.” It’s exactly what I wanted her to say, and my real smiles bursts out from behind the forced one and lights up the entire store. Who needs The Notebook when you have real life?
CHAPTER TEN
~
EVERY TIME I HAVE the dream feels like the first. I think I’ll die or that someone or something will hurt me. Normal life has disappeared, taking with it all the grass, flowers, birds, and sunshine. All that’s left is darkness, dread, and the thing that’s chasing me. Whatever it is, it’s gaining, and I know I’ll never be able to run fast enough to escape it.
The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing Page 7
