The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  I don’t want to wait, but I’m already feeling more conscious and less likely to say anything that’s the basic equivalent of I like you a lot. The last time I felt all excited about a guy he wanted me to suck face with Aya. I don’t think Gage is like that, but if I keep thinking the best of him it’ll be harder if he lets me down.

  “Hey?” Gage says. “You still awake, Serena?”

  I love the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth. It makes me picture myself as a better me.

  “I’m here. I think Thursday should be all right. I’ll call you if it isn’t, okay?”

  “Sounds good,” Gage says. “Go back to sleep. Night, Serena.”

  I say good night back, hang up, and smile into my pillow.

  ***

  The first person I see at school the next day is Jon Wheatley, and he acts like he hasn’t heard any nasty rumours about me, so maybe Orlando’s lies haven’t spread as far as I’ve imagined. Then I get to history class and Bryant Torres, the sophomore basketball team’s power forward, smirks at me as I pass his desk.

  “Heard you had a good weekend,” he says. “Spit or swallow?”

  My jaw drops. The guys sitting closest to him laugh loudly while the girls look various shades of uncomfortable as I slide into my seat.

  “He’s been working on that gem all weekend,” someone says sarcastically from behind me. I turn and glance at Dina Manzoor, who is destined to be a permanent resident at the top of the Laurier honour roll.

  I nod at Dina to thank her. Then I stare at Bryant Torres’s back like he and his buddies are so far beneath me that I might even pity them a little and say, “You left out bite, which I’m guessing is what usually happens to you.”

  Bryant smirks, but the other guys laugh out loud. “Does that trigger some bad memories, Torres?” one of them asks.

  Izzy zips into the midst of the laughter and glues her gaze to mine. I’ve already spoken to her so she knows the rumour’s a lie. “What’s going on?” she asks, stopping at my desk.

  “Rumours and lies courtesy of Orlando,” I say in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “And Bryant’s penile repair surgery,” Dina chimes in. Dina and I don’t usually talk that much but now I see that she’s her own kind of cool, which doesn’t have much to do with how a lot of other people define the word but is probably a good fit with a more highly evolved, non-savage-inspired definition.

  “And Bryant’s penile repair surgery,” I concur. “Which, as you can guess, he doesn’t really want to talk about in much depth.”

  “Nice deflection,” Bryant quips, then eyes his buddies. “But notice she never answered the original question.”

  “Notice how Bryant’s trying to bury the topic of his penis surgery. Uh-oh.” I fake concern. “Guess it didn’t go so well. Next time watch out for that third option, Bry. Teeth can do a lot of damage.”

  Bryant doesn’t have any time to regain the upper hand. Mrs. Vinicky plunks herself into her chair and takes attendance. The rest of the day goes better than I expected. Lots of people either don’t believe Orlando’s story or don’t care whether it’s true or not. I pass him in the hall with Jacob before last period, Nicole at my side. The four of us glare at each other until Jacob, in a level voice, says, “I never knew you were such a ho.”

  “Your friend’s a liar and you know it,” Nicole snaps. “Good luck with anybody getting with either of you now. The way you keep trashing girls no one will go near you.”

  Orlando focuses on Nicole, his eyes self-righteous and cocky. “It’s not trash if it’s the truth. Face it, your friend’s a ho. That’s not our problem.”

  “So you’ve got your version and we have the truth,” I say, contempt oozing out of my mouth as I continue. “Why don’t you guys just get a life already?” I pull Nicole away with me before the conversation can degenerate further. I still want to kill Orlando, but if he starts giving details about Gage and his car, I’m dead too. My friends could easily start putting two and two together.

  “Why’d you do that?” Nicole asks once we’re a safe distance from Jacob and Orlando. “We should’ve lain into him about his creepy mention of videotaping — asked if he was stalking you now or what the fu—”

  “I could just see it wouldn’t go anywhere,” I interrupt. “I didn’t want us all screaming at each other in the middle of the hall while everyone listens in. Besides, I just …” I clasp my hands together and fold them under my sweatshirt, skin against skin. “I’m just tired, you know? Orlando’s a piece of shit and I want to break all his fingers but what’s the point? It’s not like he’s going to admit it’s a lie. We’re better off spreading that news around ourselves.”

  Nicole’s hands scrunch into two fists. She glances at the ceiling, her face heavy with frustration. “It just doesn’t seem fair. We should be able to make him take it back if it’s not true.”

  “Life isn’t fair.” That’s something I’ve heard my father say countless times over the years but not, now that I think of it, since Devin left.

  Nicole and I are going in different directions, and I thank her for backing me up before we split up at the library. I have to write half a page on who I relate to most for civics tomorrow: Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, or Terry Fox. That will mean Internet research later, and thinking about research makes my mind land on Gage, who knows about good libraries. I’m already looking forward to seeing him again on Thursday.

  I’m not, on the other hand, looking forward to being back at home, awash in chronic toxicity. I leave my iPod and speakers on in my bedroom so my parents will know I’m back, but pray that they’ll leave me alone. Of course, that’s not what happens. My mother raps at my door at 5:40 and then sticks her head in.

  I’m sitting at my computer, in the middle of typing up my paper on Terry Fox. He was only twenty-two when he died, which makes him easier to relate to than Martin Luther King or Mother Teresa. We watched a movie about Terry in grade school. He lost his leg to cancer and then ran across the country to raise money for research. I don’t think I could ever be that brave. If I really think about it, it makes me want to cry for this guy who has been dead for almost thirty years.

  Seeing my mother’s face at the door makes me want to cry too, but for entirely different reasons.

  “You’re back,” she says, her hands hanging limply at her sides as she steps inside my room. She used to rub cream on her hands to fade the age spots but you can still see them.

  “Please stop with the silent treatment,” she says as she stares back at me with big eyes. “I’m so sorry about Friday. Whatever you may think, I do worry about you.”

  “Mom —” I try to stop her.

  “Maybe you could come see Doctor Berkovich with me next time. We could talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk to Doctor Berkovich. You’re the one who did something wrong here, not me.”

  “You were out till all hours on Friday, Serena.” The pitch of Mom’s voice rises. “We had no idea where you were. None of your friends knew where you were.”

  “One time, that happened. One single time. I’m going to do things you don’t approve of now and then.” My own voice is nearly a shriek. “Are you going to have some crazy new reaction every time? Because I can’t deal with that on top of everything else.”

  Mom presses two fingers against her forehead. “Serena, please. Calm down.”

  “How can I be calm, never knowing when you’re going to go off on me?”

  “That’s never going to happen again.” Mom grits her teeth and stares past me. “Your father’s going to deal with you in those situations from now on. Obviously I just can’t … handle the stress.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t be pissed off with my mother for not being able to deal with Devin’s disappearance, but the truth is I’m so tired of it. Why does she get to be fragile when I still have to pull myself together?


  “Mom.” I start out tentative because even with everything I’ve just said, I don’t want to be the one to kick another dent into what’s left of her armour. “Can we just have some dinner? I don’t want to talk about stress or Doctor Berkovich or Devin. Can’t we just …”

  Mom nods readily. She doesn’t do much homemade cooking anymore but that’s obviously something she can handle, when she has to. “What would you like? I have the ingredients for that tuna and leek casserole you like.”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  Mom stands in my room, nodding. I hate her, desperately want her to get a grip, and would do almost anything to avoid making her cry, all at the same time. Feelings should be more cut and dried than that.

  Mom goes off to make dinner, and when my dad gets home we sit down to eat together and pretend we’re a regular family. Dad doesn’t talk about Friday night or make any reference to my absence; he just asks how school was. I humour him and talk about Terry Fox. My father reminds me that I have a special edition dollar coin with Terry’s image on it.

  After dinner I search out the coin, among the various other collector coins my grandmother and grandfather send me for every birthday. I should have a special case for them but instead they’re lumped up inside a pine photo box. Terry’s dollar coin is near the top, like he knew I’d be looking for it soon and placed it there himself. He’s immortalized in mid-stride, golden with fir trees behind him. I slide the coin into one of my wallet side pockets, without knowing why I’m doing it.

  By Wednesday no one at school’s even mentioning the rumour about me anymore. Mom takes one more shot at trying to convince me to visit Doctor Berkovich with her and then goes back to her normal cloistering-herself-in-the-den routine. I’m not grounded, as far as I know, which is pretty much what I say to Gage when he calls on Wednesday night.

  “Do they know we’re going out tomorrow?” Gage asks.

  “I haven’t exactly mentioned that yet. I thought I’d wait until the last minute. Give them less chance to get upset.”

  “The last minute might make them more upset,” Gage points out. “Promise me you’ll tell them tonight. It’s so much easier hanging out if we don’t have them against us.”

  I sigh into the phone. “Okay, you’re right.” As soon as we’ve said goodbye I march downstairs to talk to my father, the one who’s been officially appointed to deal with me in these matters. He’s sitting in the living room, his feet up on the coffee table, reading a history book that has John F. Kennedy and some other guy on the cover.

  My left knees brushes against the arm of the couch. “Dad?”

  He looks up from his book.

  “I just thought I should let you know I have plans with Gage tomorrow night,” I continue.

  Dad’s bottom lip bulges. He closes his book and sets it down next to him. “A date?” Dad clarifies. “At least spare me the shtick about men and women being friends this time.”

  “All right … a date, yeah.”

  “If we have any repeats of Friday night, you have to know there’ll be repercussions, Serena.” He pushes at his reading glasses. “What was this guy’s name again?”

  I told Dad that last time but the info’s obviously already been forgotten. Typical. “Gage Cochrane,” I reply, with no hint of attitude in my voice.

  “I want you to give me Gage’s home phone number, address, and his cell,” Dad says. “And if you’re not back here by eleven, I guarantee you’re going to have a problem with me that won’t be resolved by walking out and spending a couple of nights at your friends’.”

  “There won’t be any problems,” I promise. Eleven is my normal weekday curfew. On the weekends I get an extra hour, but it’s not like my parents were really keeping track until last Friday. If I’d lied to them from the start and told them that I was going to a party and wouldn’t be back until late they wouldn’t have had a problem with it. The last time I was at a party with Jacob they gave me until one o’clock, but Dad barely noticed me when I came home and Mom was already up in bed.

  I have to text Gage to ask for his full address, which I didn’t pay close attention to last Friday, and then jot the info out for my dad on a pink Post-it. The next evening, I’m dressed and hanging out by the front door five minutes before Gage said he’d be here so that he won’t be subjected to questioning from my newly conscientious father.

  I’m out the door a second after he rings the bell, skates in hand because Gage has suggested we go ice skating at Raeburn Park. The park’s really pretty in the winter, a wide ring of ice surrounding the gazebo and green and blue lights lacing the trees and overhead arches. My skates are tight because I’ve almost outgrown them the same way I’ve outgrown my Rollerblades, and Gage skates twenty times better than me, but we have fun. He tries to teach me how to cross over properly when I turn (something I’ve never gotten the hang of) and at one point I go down with a smack and lose my breath.

  Gage reaches for me with both hands and gets me on my feet again. “You all right?” he asks, leaning in to press his lips against my eyebrow.

  Better now, thanks. “I’ll live but ouch.”

  “You want to take a break and get some hot chocolate or something?” he asks. “There’s a diner across the street. They have great chili cheese fries.”

  We unlace our skates and head for the diner where I sip hot chocolate and watch Gage eat chili cheese fries, munching on a grand total of three myself. “Have some more,” he coaxes, pushing the plate in my direction. “You’ve hardly touched them.”

  “They’re good,” I assure him. “I just don’t want to eat too much.”

  “You’re not on a diet?” he says as though that would be a crazy idea.

  “Not really.” Always would be a more honest answer. “I just try to stick to eating when I’m hungry so that way I don’t end up eating a lot of junk.” A week ago I wasn’t shy about going down on Gage, but talking about food with him makes me want to blush. Dumb.

  “I try not to eat too much junk either now, especially when Akayla’s around.” Gage pauses and drums his fingers on the table. “Chili cheese fries are one of my greatest weaknesses.”

  “So what are the others?”

  Gage’s cheeks stretch to make room for a melt-in-your-mouth gorgeous grin. He picks up his fork and sticks it into a chunky French fry.

  “What?” I urge, kicking him under the table as I smile back. “What’re you thinking?”

  Gage is chewing on a cheesy fry. He washes it down with a swig of hot chocolate before saying, “Just about you.” His smile’s back full force. “I want you to stick around for a while, so the only weaknesses I’m going to admit to are things like chili cheese fries. Sorry.”

  “I think I know another one already,” I tell him. “Girls in need of a ride, whether they’re hanging out in front of a drugstore or screaming at you on the phone.”

  “That wasn’t even close to screaming, believe me.” Gage leans over the table and whispers, “Besides, it was worth it.” That’s what I said to him when he called on Sunday and it’s nice to hear it aimed back at me. “You could probably even get away with worse, but I guess I shouldn’t tell you that.”

  “Because I might take advantage of the situation?” I say, cheeks bursting with another smile.

  “You could.” His eyes twinkle. “You could devour all these fries and I wouldn’t even complain.”

  “Well, that situation is easily fixed. You could always order more.”

  “True. But again, I’m not going to point out the worst case scenarios and give you any ideas.”

  “C’mon.” I pout at him in what I hope is a sexy way. “I can’t believe you’d think things like that about me.”

  I can’t remember anyone, ever, smiling at me in as concentrated a way as Gage has been for the last couple of minutes and I wish we didn’t have this table between us. I want
a second helping of last Friday night.

  “I don’t,” Gage says, suddenly sincere. “Not really. I only think good things about you.”

  Our eyes lock and hold, and I know Gage is a nice guy but there’s no mistaking the expression on his face; he’s wishing that table would disappear too.

  “So.” He breaks the spell by checking his watch. “It’s only ten after nine. You want to hang out here a bit longer after we’re finished or maybe go someplace else?”

  “Is that some kind of trick question?” I ask. “Because you know we’ve had trouble with that one before.”

  “No, I know.” Gage’s voice is quiet. “You’re right. But we have some parameters, right? Because it’s not that I don’t want …” Our brassy-haired waitress swishes by and he glances sideways at her, stopping mid-sentence.

  “Can I get you something else?” she asks, misinterpreting his look.

  “We’re fine,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Gage and I don’t resume that particular conversation until we’re back at his place, making out against his kitchen counter while he’s supposed to be getting me a drink of something cold. He lifts me up onto the counter and fits himself between my legs. Then he concentrates on my neck, which I never realized could feel so amazing. He kisses and nibbles until a sound escapes from my throat. It’s like something you hear in a dirty movie only quieter and for a shorter duration, because I’m not used to making noises like that. It happened a few times with Jacob but never with all my clothes on. Gage slides one of his hands over my breasts, which feels good too, and I stick both my hands under his shirt and spread them across his chest.

  Things don’t go the way they did with Jacob, there’s no predetermined end to what we’re doing, just Gage burying his face in my shoulder and saying he’ll be back in a minute. I nod, hop down from the counter, pour myself a drink, and take it into the family room. Today the only sign of Akayla is a red and white beaded bracelet on top of the TV. The beads are flower-shaped and I stare at the bracelet, amazed at how small her wrist is and that Gage is partially responsible for keeping this miniature person healthy and happy.