The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  “Wait!” Nicole exclaims. “That guy in the car! Orlando was telling the truth and you let me stand there and go off on him for no reason. You let us stick up for you, acting all self-righteous when you knew all along he was telling the truth.”

  “He wasn’t telling the truth,” I protest. “We were in Gage’s car but nothing happened. Seriously. Orlando could’ve spotted us together but he didn’t see anything else.”

  “That’s kind of beside the point anyway,” Genevieve says to Nicole. “Even if she did blow him in the car it doesn’t give Orlando the right to make her sound like a slut. You, of all people, should know that.”

  Nicole’s eyes blaze. “Me of all people? Who put you on your pedestal? God, Genevieve, you really think you’re miles above us all, don’t you?” This isn’t the kind of thing Nicole would normally say to Genevieve but she’s clearly pissed.

  Genevieve tosses her hair back and levels a don’t bother screwing with me look at Nicole. Then she slings her gaze back to me and says, “Did you just say Gage? Gage who?”

  “Gage Cochrane,” I reply, my fingers cold and my stomach sinking. “He used to go to school here. He graduated a few years ago.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Genevieve blinks steadily at me. “Do you know he has a kid?”

  “I know.” My stomach gurgles.

  Genevieve’s face crumbles like I’m beyond hope. “You know? You know the oh so amazing perfect gentleman you’ve been talking about has a kid with someone else and you don’t see that as some kind of issue?”

  “I never said he was perfect. But you don’t know him — he’s a really nice guy.”

  “I know you, and after Jacob I would’ve thought you’d know better than to hook up with someone that’s only going to dump a whole other set of problems on you.” Genevieve shakes her head. “A nice guy who barely sees his kid for years — uh, I don’t think so, Serena. Sorry, but it doesn’t sound like you have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know him,” I repeat, but now I’m not so sure. Genevieve and Gage would’ve had a year’s overlap in school and obviously she’s heard certain things. Bad things.

  “I don’t care about him,” Genevieve says. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

  Nicole wriggles abruptly in her seat, her forehead flushed. “I’ve heard enough. I’m getting out of the car.”

  “Nic?” I swing the door open and follow her. “Don’t be mad. I wanted to tell you earlier. I just … we’ve been so …”

  “We haven’t been anything,” Nicole says. “You’ve been off doing your own thing, which is … whatever … you still could’ve said something.”

  Genevieve catches up with Nicole and the two of them stalk off across the parking lot leaving me in the distance feeling lost and alone. Eventually I end up back inside the cafeteria where Nicole and Genevieve are sitting with Izzy and Marguerite, giving me heated looks.

  I scan the room for somewhere else to sit, knowing that I won’t be able to eat a bite. Aya waves at me from a table near the middle of the cafeteria, tossing me a life preserver, but I’m not emotionally prepared to spill my story all over again. I bolt into the hall and head for the only truly quiet spot I can think of.

  A clump of people are sitting near the library sign-out desk and I hurtle past them, grab a horror paperback, and plunk myself into a chair near a window. I knew telling Genevieve and Nicole the truth would be hard. I guess I even knew it could be this hard, but then I think about what Genevieve said about Gage barely seeing his daughter for years, and I have to wonder, once again, if I really know a damn thing.

  ***

  After school I curl up in the high-backed office chair in Mom’s den and stare at her army of Swarovski figurines. Maybe if I’m still sitting here when she gets home she’ll ask what’s wrong and I’ll actually tell her. I cradle a crystal Dalmatian puppy in my palm and try to imagine how possessing it, or hundreds like it, could fill the hole inside me.

  Some days the hole seems bigger than others. I used to think that if Devin came back it would seal up instantly, but now I think it was there before he left. I miss him, but he didn’t create the emptiness inside me. Maybe he just recognized it better than other people did.

  I get restless waiting for Mom and slip my cell out of my knapsack to check for messages. Nobody’s called, and for the second time in less than a week I dial Jimmy on impulse. “Hey you!” he says brightly. “You know, I was just thinking we should have you over for dinner soon. What’s your favourite food?”

  “Italian stuff I shouldn’t really be eating,” I tell him.

  “You can indulge for one night. I’m not going to be pushy and suggest you bring Gage but how’s that going?”

  I bite my nails and repeat my earlier conversation with Genevieve and Nicole, complete with Genevieve’s comment about Gage hardly seeing his daughter for years.

  “Oh dear!” Jimmy says. “They’re incensed you didn’t share with them earlier.”

  “Just a little.” What would I do without sarcasm?

  “But about his daughter,” Jimmy begins. I hear another voice in the background, and then Jimmy says, “Morgan just came in. Have you told him any of this yet?”

  “It’s like I said before, we just don’t talk like that, Jimmy. He knows I’m seeing someone, but I haven’t shared the details.”

  That’s the moment when my mother strides into the den and stares down her nose at me. I’m holding my cell in one hand and her precious crystal Dalmatian in the other and I glance at her displeased expression, pull the phone away from my ear, and tell her I’ll get out of her way. “Here,” I say, pressing the Dalmatian into her hand.

  I feel like crying as I walk away, which is how I’ve been feeling on and off for the past few hours only I’ve made up my mind that I won’t let myself break over a difference in opinion. If my friends are my friends they’ll get over their anger, and if they don’t, they never really were. And if Gage isn’t the person I think he is all the hoping and wishing on my part won’t change him. Maybe being a better version of myself means caring less about all of them and how they see me.

  “You’ll come over, though?” Jimmy asks. “If I suggest having you over for dinner to Morgan?”

  “I’ll come,” I promise, taking the stairs to my room two at a time. “But please don’t do Italian food unless it’s chicken breasts or salad, okay? I’ll only eat too much and then be mad at myself later. And don’t tell Morgan anything about Gage.”

  “I won’t breathe a word! And we’ll be good and have low-fat everything if that’s what you want.”

  Apparently that’s what I want. Maybe I should be okay with being fat again too, should that happen, but I’d really rather not. I’m not sure whether the hole inside me is a result of being chubby for years and feeling people judge me for it or vice versa. When you spend so long inside a situation the facts surrounding it blur and swirl so that all you can see is haze.

  I tell Jimmy goodbye, and when I turn around my mother’s standing in the hallway in a long burgundy cardigan she bought on sale last winter. “Are you all right?” she asks, studying my face. Mom’s already put on her cozy slippers and I stare down at her feet and nod. Aside from her ever-expanding crystal collection she hasn’t bought anything new for herself since June. Doctor Berkovich should advise her to go shopping.

  “You’re not still angry with me, are you?” she ventures. I spy the apprehension in her eyes, and I can’t remember the last time I gave my mother a hug for no special reason. Surprising myself, I step into the hall and wrap my arms around her back.

  She sensed I was upset and followed me out of her den today. That’s occasion enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ~

  IZZY SIDLES UP TO me as I leave history class the next day and asks when I was planning to tell her the ne
ws. She says she knows we’re not as close as before I started hanging out with Nicole and Genevieve but she thought we were still friends.

  Of course we’re still friends. At least, I hope so.

  I spend most of the day wishing I’d kept my relationship with Gage under wraps. Marguerite ignores the topic entirely but acts like she’s semi-pissed with me anyway. When I try to talk to Genevieve about it she tells me she doesn’t think there’s any point because the subject will just make us fight, which is true but doesn’t make me feel better because the strain between us is just as strong as it was yesterday. Nicole’s communication with me is as minimal as possible, and even Mr. Cushman, who couldn’t care less who I’m dating, is extra mean to me, complaining that I’m obviously a million miles away and that he’s tired of seeing the “keen disinterest” in my face day after day.

  “What did I just say?” he demands. “Would you care to prove me wrong and quote what I said to your classmates while you were zoning out moments ago?”

  “Sir, we weren’t listening either,” Jon Wheatley quips.

  Most of the class laughs, but the most I can manage is a smile, which I direct at Jon Wheatley as a kind of thank you.

  By the end of last period I’m so drained that I could curl up at the foot of my locker and take a nap, either that or devour a six-slice Bacon Chicken Mushroom Melt pizza solo.

  Aya’s leaning against my locker when I get there, which means the napping idea is out. “Hola,” she says with a smile.

  “Hi.” I haven’t had the Gage discussion with Aya yet, and I wish we could skip it entirely.

  “I just thought you should know that Joyeux and I are going out this Saturday,” she says. “So you’re not the only one who hasn’t reformed herself.”

  “You and Joyeux? Are you serious?” I flash a smile back at her. “What are you going to do about the height differential?” I knew something was up when I saw them together yesterday. They looked abnormally happy in each other’s company.

  “What can I say, I like tall guys.”

  “You and Joyeux,” I repeat. “That’s good news. You see?” I bump her arm. “You’re not bitter.”

  “I think I still am a bit,” she confesses. “Just not with Joyeux. And you” — she raises one eyebrow — “you can really keep a secret, can’t you?”

  “It looks that way. Did you hear about Gage’s daughter and everything too?”

  “From Nicole,” Aya tells me. “She wasn’t badmouthing you or anything, just filling me in.”

  “Hey!” someone booms from behind me. I know the voice too well to be pleased to hear it address me. Aya’s eyes sharpen as she casts a cutting stare behind me.

  Jacob leans his shoulder against the locker next to mine and lowers his voice. “With all the shit I’m hearing about you lately, I don’t know where your head is at. But I didn’t think you were the type who liked to share, so maybe you want to talk to your boyfriend about his habit of hooking up with his ex.” Jacob smirks, pushes his weight off the locker, and struts away from us.

  “I’m sure that’s complete B.S.,” Aya tells me. “Jacob’s been mad at you ever since you dumped him. He probably doesn’t even know Gage.”

  “I know. I just wish everyone would stay out of my business.” I realize how that could be misconstrued and backpedal. “I don’t mean you. I mean people who want to tell me what to do.”

  “Like me with my cousin the other day,” Aya says wryly. “Sometimes people are just concerned. Not Jacob, obviously!”

  “Obviously,” I repeat. I’d never take Jacob’s word for anything, and I hate to admit it, but doubt is lining the bottom of my stomach. How do I know Gage hasn’t hooked up with his ex recently? He sees Christabelle all the time. Her brother is his very best friend. But would they still be best friends if Gage hadn’t seen his daughter for years? That doesn’t seem likely. At least some of what I’m hearing has to be a lie.

  ***

  Work’s the best cure for my racing head. The weekend shifts can get pretty crazy, and on Saturday Ki jokes that they should provide us with free adult diapers so we can skip bathroom breaks. “And hook us up to an IV,” I suggest. “That way they can eliminate the concept of breaks altogether.”

  Mr. Lapatas shows up in my line in mid-afternoon and buys paper towels, mouthwash, and echinacea. “I didn’t know you worked here,” he says, smiling like he’s glad to see me. He’s got what has to be at least day-old beard growth on his chin, and it looks good on him.

  “Since before Christmas,” I tell him, holding up his echinacea. “Are you getting a cold?”

  “It feels that way, but I’m not giving in without a fight.” As he grabs his bags he adds, “I’ll let Nicole know I ran into you.”

  “Tell her I say hi.” I could call her anytime myself — I don’t think she’d hang up on me or anything extreme — but I don’t want to have to fight my way through her disappointment in me.

  My Total Drug Mart shift’s over at eight, so it’s still early when Dad picks me up. Gage and I aren’t seeing each other until tomorrow, and I haven’t made any other plans. I lie on the couch and watch Mamma Mia on MuchMusic. In the movie nobody really cares that Meryl Streep slept with three different guys within the space of a few weeks and therefore doesn’t know who the father of her daughter is. Everybody dances and sings while looking blond, gorgeous, and like they know with absolute certainty that everything will turn out okay in the end. If Nicole were watching with me she’d make me get up and dance too.

  Even without her, Mamma Mia puts me in a good mood and I’m sure I sound happy when I answer my ringing phone. “You must be watching Much,” Morgan comments. “I can hear Abba in the background.” I guess my brother knows the MuchMusic schedule by heart.

  “They’re not bad,” I tell him.

  “Of course they’re not bad, Serena. They’re Abba.” Morgan chuckles at my adolescent ignorance. He probably figured out Abba were good just after he stopped wetting the bed. “Listen, Jimmy was suggesting we have you over for dinner, but I was wondering if we should try to rope Mom and Dad into coming along too. You know, get them out of the house for a change. Hit a restaurant in Yorkville or something.”

  “Sure, if you think you can convince them to go.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot. Unless you’d rather keep them out of it. How’re you getting along with them these days?” Morgan and I had a similar conversation about ten days ago, during which I explained that my parents and I were back on an even keel, but now my assurances are followed by a more challenging question. “And what about that guy — you still hanging out too?”

  I tighten my grip on my cell. “That’s kind of a nosy thing to ask, don’t you think?”

  “I’m just making conversation, Serena. Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t want to talk to me.”

  Poor baby. Excuse me if I don’t idolize Morgan the way everyone else seems to and make things feel like work for him from time to time.

  “You’re touchy today,” I tell him, my voice brightening so he’ll sound like the one with the problem instead of me. “If you really want to know, I am still seeing him. I even met his daughter the other day.” I’ve decided to go with the casual approach, as in doesn’t everyone have a kid with their ex these days?

  “His daughter?” Morgan repeats. “How old is this guy?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Okay,” Morgan says after a moment. “Is that weird? I mean, for you?”

  “I haven’t really seen her much.” My palms have broken out in a sweat. “She’s not with him all the time.” Time to bail out with a little white lie before the questions can get any tougher. “Anyway, Morgan, I should get off the phone. My friends are on their way over to pick me up. Let me know what’s going on with the dinner plans.”

  “Yeah … will do,” Morgan says, like he’s still trying to catch up
with the conversation.

  I hang up and evaluate Morgan’s reaction. It was light years better than Genevieve’s and Nicole’s, but still, why does everyone have to get weird about Gage being a father? It’s not like he’s setting me up to be Akayla’s stepmom or something. We’re only hanging out with each other a couple of times a week max, and no one but Jimmy knows how I really feel about him.

  I’m not altogether sure I know how I feel myself. Everything’s so confusing that part of me wants to stop thinking about him period. That same part wants to call Genevieve and Nicole to come pick me up like the past few days never happened.

  Then there’s another part that makes me drag Gage into the house to meet my parents when he rings the doorbell on Sunday afternoon. Up until now I’ve made sure I was the one to answer the door every time, and if I subtract sex (which we pretty much ruled out after the first date) so far it seems as if most of the angst has been on my side. I haven’t even told Gage what my friends have been saying about him because I haven’t worked out a way to soften the negativity.

  On the upside, Gage is good with my parents. He shakes my father’s hand and says that it’s really icy on the road today. Mom says that she hates the way winter gets into your bones, and Gage agrees that it’s awful and says he thinks the entire country must have a mild form of seasonal affective disorder. Dad wants to know if Gage has snow tires, and they start discussing things like treads and stopping distances. That could go on forever, and after a few minutes I’m forced to interrupt and say we should get going.

  We’re only heading over to the mall, but I don’t want to thoroughly turn Gage off with overexposure to my parents. I’m pretty quiet in the car, but when we’re crossing the parking lot Gage starts talking about how hungry he is because he overslept and skipped breakfast. Seems like he was at Denny’s half the night with Damien and some other guys, eating burgers and steaks after a late-night hockey game.

  “I didn’t know you still played hockey,” I say. I thought he was all about soccer these days.