“Yeah.” Gage crinkles his nose. “I still can’t believe you’re in eleventh grade. I feel like I’m robbing the cradle.”
I freeze up again, and Gage slides his hand up to my bare back and strokes it, sensing he’s upset me. “Hey, you know I don’t really care. It’s just weird when I think of you still going to school. I feel so far removed from that part of my life now.”
The fact that he thinks he’s done something wrong makes me feel guiltier still.
“It’s not that,” I say in a quivery voice. “I hope this doesn’t really matter because it’s only a few months but …” Gage has pulled his hand away from my back, and I grab his fingers and hold on. “I’m going to be sixteen on April seventeenth, not seventeen.”
Gage’s frown is the polar opposite of his smile. You’d think life as we know it was about to screech to a halt.
“I’m in tenth grade,” I continue. “Not eleventh. That’s the truth. The rest of it really shouldn’t make any difference. In a couple of months I really will be sixteen.”
“Serena.” This is the disaster vibe Gage gave off when he stormed out of the back seat on our first date. The line between his eyes is so deep that an expedition of explorers could be lost in there and never heard from again. “Shit.”
He wrestles out of my grasp and sits up on the couch, glaring fixedly across the room. “That’s not something you should’ve lied about. I mean, look at us.” He motions to my naked chest. “You’re fifteen.”
I reach over the side of the couch for my top, thrusting my arms into it and speeding my way through the buttons. “I’m two months younger than you thought I was. That’s all.” I feel like crying.
“I wasn’t really cool with sixteen,” he snaps. “And now I find out you’re not even that.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a kid right away!” My finger slips on the top button. I leave it open and leap to my feet. “And if my age was such a big deal maybe you should’ve asked how old I was before showing up at my house to take me to dinner. Did you ever think of that?”
“You look older,” Gage says with an accusing look. “You must know that.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about; I look roughly the same age as Genevieve or Nicole. “Why does it even matter?” I ask. “We’re talking about two months. Why do you have to be so …” My arms slice the air helplessly.
“So what?” Gage asks.
“It’s like that night we first went out. You just … you overreact.” I’m not trying to fight with him, but he needs to see how ridiculous he’s acting. “You could’ve just told me to stop, you know. You didn’t have to leap out of the car.”
Gage locks his hands around his neck and shakes his head. “We already talked about that. You don’t need to bring it up again and make me feel stupid.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel stupid. I’m just saying you need to keep things in perspective. It’s two months!” I’m shouting, afraid he’s going to break up with me for the sake of sixty stupid days.
“Can you be quiet for two seconds?” Gage demands, his angry eyes freezing me in place.
Gage sits back, his body low on the couch like I’m wearing him out. He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again I’m still staring back, waiting for him to continue.
“I was fourteen when Christabelle got pregnant,” he says. I’ve only heard him refer to Akayla’s mother by name a couple of times, and suddenly I know that I’m going to come out of this conversation feeling even worse than I do right now. “She was fifteen. I don’t know if you can imagine how fucked up that really was.” The colour drains from Gage’s face. “And I don’t want to be in that situation again. Ever. But I especially don’t want to be in that situation, or anywhere close to it, with someone who’s only fifteen years old.”
I blink at him and feel a lone tear fight its way down my cheek. We were never going to be in that situation together, but I can’t stand here and tell Gage he’s being paranoid after what he’s been through. I turn my face away and bend to pluck my bra from the beige carpet.
With my fingers looped around one of the straps, I head for the bathroom. I lock the door behind me, undo the buttons on my top again, and fasten my bra into place, more tears wetting my skin. I splash warm tap water onto my face and lean against the counter, patting my skin dry. Akayla’s Little Mermaid toothbrush holder set grins manically at me as I realize I left my phone in the family room with Gage and that I have no idea who to call anyway. Anyone I’d want to pick me up doesn’t know of Gage’s existence — my parents aren’t an option.
Suddenly there’s a tentative knock at the bathroom door. “Serena? Are you okay?”
I’m almost sixteen, which doesn’t seem to be okay enough.
“You don’t have to hide out in there,” he says. “Come out and talk to me.”
The suggestion that I’m hiding makes me mad. Am I supposed to root my feet to the family room carpet until he’s ready to stop guilting me for something I can’t take back or change? “I’m not hiding,” I tell him, my angry tone already losing strength. “I’m getting myself together to leave.”
“You don’t need to leave. Just come out. We can talk.”
I don’t want to listen to him talk anymore, but I can’t stay locked up in his bathroom forever. I unlock the door and stride determinedly past him, Gage trailing me down the hall saying, “Have you really heard anything I’ve been trying to say?” We stand in front of the television, facing each other, Gage’s hands in his pockets. “I can’t act like it’s good news that you’re fifteen. I had second thoughts when you said were sixteen, more doubts when you ragged on me over the phone that time, and now … I don’t know.” He shakes his head like this is the final straw.
“Two months,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not touching you again until you turn sixteen, so don’t ask me to. We can hang out but no …” He motions to the couch, his wrist flipping sideways in aggravation. “I’m just not.”
I part my lips and rub my left eye, which has started leaking again.
Gage reaches for my cheek, skimming his thumb across it and absorbing any dampness I’ve missed. “That’s just the way it has to be for now, end of story.”
I don’t think most nineteen-year-olds would see much difference in having a sixteenor fifteen-year-old girlfriend, but Gage does, and I wish I could’ve stayed calm through this whole scene so he wouldn’t guess just how important it is that he doesn’t break up with me.
“So what’s that mean exactly?” I mumble. “You want to be friends?” No more lying on his couch? No more kisses or holding hands? I feel both starved and grateful at the suggestion. If we’re friends I’ll still be able to see him, at least.
“Being friends is good, isn’t it?” He shrugs, his pupils growing as he stares at me. “Friends can be a lot of things to each other.”
That’s true, but once again I don’t know what his definition permits and what it forbids.
Gage picks up on my confusion and reaches out to hold my hand. “I bet you wish you never walked into this. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
I’m too confused to even answer, and Gage’s smile is almost sad as he says, “Maybe I am. You probably have no idea how hard it is to have all these limits when what I really want to do is …” He stops, his smile disappearing into his tired face. “But that wouldn’t be a good idea anyway. You’re so young.”
“I’m not as young as you act like I am.”
“Why?” Gage asks, cocking his head. “Because you gave some guy before me a blow job? Believe me, you’re young, and I wouldn’t want to grow out of that too fast if I were you. I mean, no matter what, even if we broke up now and you hooked up with some other guy.”
“Don’t talk about me hooking up with some other guy.” My free hand lands on his waist, squeezing in punishment. “That’s not going to happen.
I’d sworn off guys before you. You’re like … you’re my downfall.”
This isn’t a good thing to say to Gage, who already seems to see himself this way, but it feels partially true. My friends wouldn’t be happy if they knew we were together and they know me better than he does. Or maybe I should say they know parts of me better than he does. There are other parts — the snuggling up with him on the couch and feeling like I’ll starve to death if I never see him again parts — they don’t know at all.
“Not in the way that you think of it,” I continue. “Not because you have a daughter, which makes your life more complicated. Not because you got somebody pregnant five years ago. You wouldn’t let that happen again.”
“Not on purpose.” Gage threads his fingers through his hair. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He begins to tell me about the girls he’s seen before me, some of whom were on the pill and some who weren’t. He freaked out a little every time he slept with one of them, pouring water in the condoms after the fact to look for leaks and tracking girls’ periods when he could. He says the worry was exhausting and that it reached a point last spring where it didn’t seem worth it anymore unless he was really serious about someone.
“And potentially that could be even worse,” he points out. “Like with you, I don’t want to have to worry about what could happen if a condom broke on us or something else went wrong.” By this time the two of us are back sitting on the couch together and he looks spent but maybe a little relieved to be able to be so blunt with me. “So unless someday, in the future, you’re on some kind of hormonal birth control thing too we won’t be together like that. It’s really important that you know that.”
“I know.” I nod with my eyes, trying to reassure him that I really do get it.
“Okay.” Gage nods too. “I sound like a broken record. So you …” He rests his hand on my thigh. “Why’d you swear off guys? Did somebody” — he drops his voice like it’s a big deal to ask — “break your heart?”
“He didn’t break my heart. We just weren’t right — he wasn’t right.” I explain about Jacob, the party at Wyatt’s and Aya’s clammy hand on my knee. I’m careful to keep my voice level, even as I insult Jacob and his friends. If Gage feels too sorry for me I might start to tear up again.
“That’s really fucked up,” Gage comments, his face serious. “On so many levels.”
“I know.” I keep Nicole and Genevieve’s bad experiences to myself but mention Orlando’s gossip porn rumour about me and some of the other shitty stuff that contaminates the atmosphere at Laurier.
“I didn’t know you were dealing with any of this shit,” Gage says, frowning. “I don’t know why people bother talking trash about other people. It’s not right. I wish you told me before.”
“There was nothing you could’ve done anyway. You know how it is. School’s just like that.”
“I know.” Gage pinches his ear. “Doesn’t mean I can’t drop by and throw my weight around. Make the assholes eat their words.”
Gage is past the point of high school fights. I can’t see that happening at all, but I still like him saying it.
“Defend my honour?” I smile at him. “It’s okay. My friends got there first.”
“Those are the kind of friends you want to have,” he says with a slow nod.
Absolutely, but they’re also the kind of friends who would disapprove of the two of us. From what Gage said earlier I know he doesn’t really approve himself, and I have to wonder if there’s anyone on the planet who would see us as an honest to God good idea. Even I, with my baby blue scooter future, have doubts, but I’m so glad that we’re sitting together on his couch, being friends or whatever you want to call it, that I’m nearly positive every last one of us is dead wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY
~
WE’VE PRETTY MUCH CALMED down, Gage and I, and are sitting on the couch watching Ghost Hunters with none of our body parts touching when his phone rings. On TV the TAPS teams are hanging out in a former morgue where several people claim to have spotted the ghost of a young boy in Victorian clothing. The real life noise makes me jump, which in turn makes Gage smile and touch my shoulder as he reaches for the cordless on the coffee table.
At first he sounds normal. Then his voice tenses. “So she’s gone already? When did all this start?”
Gage looks at me as he listens to the voice on the phone. “Yeah, of course you can,” he says. “It’s just … I have someone here right now, but of course. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes. Call me later when you know more, all right? Bye.”
Gage drops the cordless back on the coffee table, his eyes sombre. “Christabelle’s on her way over with Akayla. Her mom was having really bad stomach pains, burning up with a fever. Her dad just drove her over to the hospital and now Chris and her brother are going too.
“I won’t have time to run you home first,” Gage adds. “We’ll go when she gets here.”
I bob my head and tell him that I hope Christabelle’s mom is okay.
Gage bites his lip and grabs for the remote to switch off the TV. “Me too.” His focus has shifted to a group of people I’ve never met. I don’t really know how close he and Christabelle still are but I can’t let myself start being jealous about someone who will be part of his life forever. If we’re ever going to be more than friends again I need to be mature about his life and I guess that means starting now.
“Is there anything we should do before they get here?” I ask. “Is Akayla’s room all ready?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” he says absently. “We don’t have to do anything.” He fumbles around in his pocket for his cell and starts tapping out a text message. “I’m just asking Chris’s brother, Damien, to keep me posted too.”
I’ve heard Gage mention Damien before — he’s one of Gage’s best friends — but I didn’t realize he was Akayla’s uncle. There’s so much I don’t know.
Less than ten minutes later Gage’s doorbell rings and he sprints upstairs, leaving me on the couch with butterflies in my stomach. I hear voices upstairs, but when Gage comes downstairs again less than a minute later only Akayla is with him, stepping in my direction in white socks. She’s wearing two-piece yellow pyjamas under her open pink coat and carrying a pale purple knapsack in her arms while Gage has a large pink and green duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
“We’re just going to dump your stuff in your room and then drive my friend home,” he says, reaching down to put his hand on her hand. “You okay, sweetness?”
Akayla nods and looks me over. “Are you the girl from the store?” she asks.
“She is.” Gage answers for me. “This is Serena.”
“Hi,” I say, smiling at Akayla but trying not to stare too much. She seems tall for four, but when was the last time I knew someone who was four? I really want her to like me and that chases all the words from my head.
“We’re going to drive her home and then put you to bed, okay?” Gage repeats, walking ahead of Akayla and motioning for her to follow.
As they disappear into the hallway I hear Akayla ask, “Dad, is that your girlfriend?”
“She’s just a friend, sweetness,” he says after a short pause. “Like you have friends who are boys at daycare.”
“Only one,” she reminds him, and then I can’t hear them anymore.
When they come back a few minutes later I notice Gage has put Velcro running shoes on Akayla’s feet, probably because it’s easier than pulling her boots back on. She yawns as she shuffles by me and I wonder if Christabelle had to get her out of bed to bring her over. The three of us pile into Gage’s car, and as we back out onto the street I turn to look at Akayla. “You okay in the back?” I ask.
She kicks out one of her feet in front of her and nods suspiciously.
“Dad,” she says loudly. “Dad?”
“Quiet voice,” he ad
vises. “I’m right here. What is it, Akayla?”
“What’s wrong with Grandma?” she asks, her face long.
“We don’t know yet,” Gage replies, his eyes on the road and his tone patient. “They’re going to check her out at the hospital and find out. Then they can fix her up and your grandpa will bring her home again.”
“Tomorrow?” Akayla asks.
“Soon,” Gage says. “As soon as she’s better.”
Akayla doesn’t have any follow-up questions for now. I watch her turn her head to gaze out the window. “Will you call me tomorrow and give me an update?” I whisper to Gage.
“If you want,” he replies. “Sure” would’ve been a better answer, but he must be stressed out. Me being fifteen is the least of his problems tonight.
Soon we pull up in front of my house and I unbuckle my seat belt, peer into the back seat, and say, “Bye, Akayla. Nice to meet you.”
Akayla points her big brown eyes at me. “Bye.”
“See you,” Gage says, looking at me like my presence isn’t really registering. “Thanks.”
For what? I don’t ask. “See you,” I say back.
I trudge towards my house, my head spinning with everything that happened tonight. Inside I kick off my boots and wrestle my coat into the closet. Some older, unused jackets are piled in a messy heap on the closet floor. Maybe this is as close as my mom got to the idea of cleaning out our closet.
I hear TV voices and discover my father lying on the living room couch with a glass of red wine beside him on the coffee table. An egg cup full of green olives accompanies the wine, and somehow this makes me sad. My dad’s big treat for himself is an egg cup of green olives. Shouldn’t there be more? Maybe he should have an affair. Live a little.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“In bed,” he says, hoisting himself up on his elbows. “One of her headaches. How was your night?” He smiles like he’s in the mood for company, but it’s Genevieve or Nicole I really need to talk to.
The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing Page 17
