I straighten my back against the uncomfortable McDonald’s chair and spit out, “At one point we thought you might be dead. Somebody found a body in Newmarket. Mom called the police because it could’ve been you.”
My neck cranes forward. “Every single day at our house is a day you’re not there, a day where we have no idea what’s going on with you.”
Devin smiles bitterly, his hand rhythmically tapping the table. “Dad and Mom did that to themselves. They’re the ones who kicked me out, if you remember. So why don’t you lay the blame where it belongs.”
“What else could they do but kick you out with the way you were acting?” I’m not getting through to him at all. “You punched Dad. You were stealing things, fighting with everyone.” Bringing weird people home. Using. I stop myself before adding the last two to the list, but I could go on and on.
Devin’s mouth puckers. “They’ve done a number on you — you’re brainwashed through and through. Seeing everything from their side.”
“You honestly think it was different than that?” I ask him. “Don’t you even remember what you used to be like before you started with the …” I can’t bring myself to put a name to his problem. Meth is such an ugly word. I never realized that before last June.
“Serena.” Devin holds his sides as he hunches over the table. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you romanticize the past like it was so perfect. You know what I felt like before? Like shit. Like nothing.”
He reaches for his shake, closing his fingers around it but not picking it up. “So you think you can come looking for me and change my life? I already did that. It’s done and this is it. I’m not changing back to the person I was before, and it sounds like you’re the one who needs to learn to deal with that — you and Mom and Dad.” He yanks his legs towards him under the table. “I have places to be. I need to go.”
“Places?” I repeat. “Where?”
“Oh.” Devin forces a laugh. “Don’t we sound like Mom now?” The contempt in his words throws me off balance. It’s not fair for him to hate Mom so much after all the worrying she’s done about him. He must be frozen on the inside, his heart and mind a solid block of ice.
“Right,” I say sarcastically. “How embarrassing for me to actually give a shit about you and what you’re doing with your life. How embarrassing for me; how embarrassing for Mom.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Devin grumbles as he gets up. “Do we have to be so melodramatic?”
I stand too and watch him tug on his coat. It has a zipper around the back of the neck that suggests a missing attachable hood and one of the sleeves bunches partway up his arm. He yanks it down to cover his polo shirt as he looks at me sideways. “I’m cool,” he mutters, bobbing his head as an afterthought. “Really, okay? And you’ll be okay too if you just stop worrying so much. I don’t even know why you …” His hands comb restlessly through his hair again.
“What?” I ask him. “What?”
“Why you bothered,” he adds. “This is the way things have to be.” He shrugs.
I put my hand out to stop him, thinking he’s about to move. I’m not ready for him to disappear on me again. Even this shitty, hollowed Devin is better than none at all. “You can’t just leave like this. Give me a number to call you at — a cell or your land line. Something.”
Devin stands in front of me, his head tilting slowly to one side. “I think with the way things are now it’s better that I don’t.” He edges past me, turning to add, “I have to go. Take care, okay?”
I follow instinctively, just a step behind him. Out on Yonge Street, Devin turns and looks at me, his breath lighting up the cold air. His hands find their way inside his pockets as he frowns. “You can’t follow me forever, you know.”
He doesn’t know about the dreams I’ve been having about him. He doesn’t know about Gage or my friends or Total Drug Mart. He hasn’t asked me one single question about myself and what I’ve been doing all these months. “Don’t you care at all?” I ask him. “Would it matter if I dropped dead tomorrow?” I’m losing my voice but it doesn’t make any difference; I don’t think I have anything else to say.
Devin pushes more air out of his lungs and says, “You’re going to be fine. The last thing you need is me in your life, fucking things up for you.”
“So don’t fuck things up.” The words slice at my vocal cords.
“And they said I was the smart one.” Devin smiles weakly. “Be good, Serena. I’m outta here.” My brother disappears into the crowd of Yonge Street shoppers milling around us and I don’t try to stop him. Morgan was absolutely right; Devin doesn’t want our help. He’s exactly where he wants to be. Somehow I thought I could change that. I thought the strength of my hopes for him could make him well, as though I’m living a fairy tale where wishes have magic properties.
I didn’t even fully realize that’s what I believed until Devin proved me wrong. It’s so cold out on the street and I’ve been wrong about so many things, but I’m not sorry I came. I line my back up against the nearest wall and let it catch me, sadness choking up through my throat and demanding I recognize it for what it is. At last, I’ve let my brother go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
~
IT’S SPRING NOW. GREEN bits are poking through snow the colour of ashes. Stale snow always looks disgusting, unless you’re in the country where it can remain a gleaming white. But it probably won’t snow again until next winter so it’s just a matter of time until the green wins.
For a while I wondered if I’d been wrong to tell my parents about my meeting with Devin. Mom hit bottom and went almost catatonic. There was one week where she called in sick to the museum three days in a row and never got out bed, just lay under the covers listening to her white noise machine. She wouldn’t even go see Doctor Berkovich. In the end my father was the one who called for an appointment and escorted her there. The fifty-minute-long session cemented his opinion that Doctor Berkovich is a useless placebo, and Dad carted her back to the family doctor for a referral to another therapist.
Mom never wanted to take antidepressants but she’s on one now, at least until she begins to feel a bit better. Her new therapist also wants her exercising, so I bought a yoga for beginners DVD and we’ve been contorting our bodies a few times a week. Dad and I are trying to be positive and encouraging with her, which can be tough because some days she’s an energy drain and you just want to shake her and scream at her to snap out of it.
At one point Dad wanted to go downtown to find Devin for himself, but then Mom’s problems took over and it started to seem like not such a good idea anyway. Of course, I can understand about wanting to see for yourself, refusing to believe that there’s nothing you can do to change someone else. But I’ve had to stop my constant worrying over Devin, wondering how he’s keeping himself alive and asking myself a hundred other questions about him that I have no answers for. I don’t know how you make yourself stop asking those questions, but I’m trying. I miss him, but I need to believe that somehow the universe, Terry Fox, or God — whatever you want to call it — will look out for Devin. Maybe that’s magical thinking too, but everyone needs to believe in something, which brings me back to my former twenty-nine pounds of chunk and the idea that people will always disappoint you.
That’s just not true. People won’t always disappoint you. People won’t always surprise you either. There are no absolute rules to guide you through life.
One thing I can say is that my brother Morgan actually is almost as cool and wonderful as everyone seems to think. This still grates on me at times, but I have an appreciation for it now too. He and Jimmy picked up a calico kitten from the Toronto Humane Society and named her Ingrid. I’m going to cat-sit when they go to Regina to visit Jimmy’s parents at the beginning of June.
Because it’s my birthday today Morgan scored me six free concert tickets for a New Jersey band called Comet
Down. I’ve only heard four of their songs online but Morgan promises they’ll be awesome and Nicole’s already crushing on their lead singer. I like that all the other members of the band are girls, which is the opposite of most coed bands. Normally if a band has any girl in it, she’s the lead singer.
Anyway, six tickets means me, Genevieve, Nicole, Izzy, Marguerite, and Aya, but an even bigger group of us are heading out to dinner beforehand. Aside from the one or two times a week Gage and I see each other we pretty much do our own things, but everyone wanted to celebrate my birthday together tonight so he’ll be there along with Damien (whom I’ve met a few times now) and Joyeux. I swear, Joyeux and Aya look like cartoon characters walking next to each other — Joyeux’s legs practically stretch up to her neck — but they’re so amazing together that everyone has fallen in love with the idea of them as a couple.
Just last week I hung out with Gage and Akayla for the first time, and when Gage introduced me as his girlfriend Akayla reminded him that he said I was just a friend. She’s as sharp as a tack and doesn’t miss a thing. She’s also a big goofball and made me sing and dance with her for ages and Gage was evil again and caught the whole thing on video. Because I sucked up to Akayla all night and did everything she wanted, I think she liked me, but Gage and I aren’t going to complicate things by doing that too often.
Genevieve, Nicole, and I went ahead and started up an official school club three weeks ago. It took a while to get the materials together for it and we still don’t have a name but we do have two co-advisors and fifteen members so far. My dad’s happy that I’m in a school club because he says it will look good on university applications later, but when we got talking about the details I think it freaked him out to hear some of the things that have been going on at school. For example, one of our members is this really sweet freshman girl who a group of freshman female savages are playing hardcore mean girl with on the Internet. Then there’s this new sophomore guy, Ruwan. He’s only been at Laurier a few weeks, but two guys in his math class have been calling him a fag and pushing him around. Ruwan didn’t want to join the club to begin with but Dina Manzoor made him come with her and now I think he’s glad because we can all talk about these things without having to feel embarrassed, and we strategize about ways to deal with them too.
We have another meeting in two days, and I jot down a partially formed thought I have about the club before it can slip my mind. Gage will be here to pick me up any second now so I don’t have time to flesh it out. I grab my brush and run it through my hair on my way downstairs. Because of Gage, turning sixteen has loomed large in my life over the past couple of months, but sixteen-year-old me isn’t any different from the person I was yesterday and the day before that. Then again, I know I’m not exactly the same person I was when Devin left or when I started going out with Jacob or even when I broke up with him.
The doorbell rings. I slip my suede jacket out of our newly cleaned (I boxed all the old coats and put them in the basement) front closest and answer the door. Gage has told me his hair actually will be dirty blond by July, bleached by the sun, but at the moment it’s still light brown. The low-hanging sun is making him squint, lighting up his eyes in a way that makes it difficult for me to breathe.
“Hey, birthday girl,” Gage says, his dimples popping into place.
“Hi.” I smile back and step outside, where I wrap my arms tightly around him and kiss him on the mouth. We’ve done that a lot over the past couple of months but no semi-nude make-out sessions on his couch, so I’m in a rush to get to Gage’s place and pick up where we left off in February. I’m even wearing this cute pink plaid bra that I bought special for the occasion.
Gage and I don’t get very far before starting to let loose — my driveway, to be exact. He reaches for me across the gear shift, one of his hands sliding under my open suede coat as he kisses me. His fingers skim across my left breast and then my right, massaging them both at one time. I dig my fingers under his shirt, scratching with my short nails.
Outside a car cruises by, reminding us that my parents will be home soon. Gage laughs under his breath and says, “I guess I better start driving.” When we reach his house, a woman who I assume is Mrs. Cochrane is standing around in the front yard, chatting with an elderly woman in a white and orange pantsuit.
“Our neighbour,” Gage explains. “My mom does her hair.”
Gage and I get out of the car and amble towards them. “Hi, Mom,” Gage says. “We don’t want to interrupt. I just thought I’d introduce Serena. It’s her birthday today.”
Mrs. Cochrane peers down her glasses at me. Her burgundy-tinted hair is so thick and glossy that I’m tempted to ask what kind of shampoo she uses. “Happy birthday, Serena,” Mrs. Cochrane says, pointing towards the woman next to her. “This is my friend, Elouise.”
I say hello to them both and Elouise nods at me before switching her gaze to Gage. “Is this your girlfriend? She’s a pretty thing.”
“She is.” Gage smiles politely at Elouise. “She’s both those things.” Gage’s hand falls on the small of my back to rush us away. “Good to see you again, Elouise.”
I glance at Elouise and Mrs. Cochrane over my shoulder as we’re walking away. “Nice meeting you both.”
Once we’re inside I turn to Gage and say, “We shouldn’t have left so quickly. Now what’re they going to think?”
“They’re too busy gossiping about other neighbours to think about us,” Gage assures me. “Anyway, I want to give you your presents before we meet up with everyone else.” He checks his watch. “We have just over an hour.”
I already know my parents’ gift will be a contribution to my baby blue scooter fund, but I don’t have a clue what Gage has bought me. “Sit down,” he tells me, motioning to the couch. “I’ll get them.”
Thirty seconds later he’s back with a gift basket and two boxes — one tiny and one large. “I know you don’t care about flowers and you’re always drinking hot chocolate,” he says as he hands me a basket full of gourmet hot chocolate.
He’s right. I’m always drinking hot chocolate, even in summer.
“It’s perfect!” I tell him. “Thanks.” I read the labels on the packages — mocha, traditional, cinnamon spice — and begin to drool. The large box turns out to be new Rollerblades, which I’ve needed for a while and mentioned a couple of weeks ago while we were talking about going blading this summer, and the small box contains a gorgeous Swarovski crystal aqua anklet, which immediately makes me think of my mother.
“Because you have such beautiful ankles,” Gage says. “Do you want to try it on?” I whip my left shoe and sock off and stretch my bare foot out towards him so he can fasten the anklet on for me. “My hands are shaky,” he admits as he undoes the clasp. “This feels like a first date.”
“That’s not good,” I tease, my face heating up. “How’re you going to unhook things?”
“I don’t know,” Gage says with a dirty look that makes me hornier than ever. “I guess you’ll have to help me.”
So much for wondering how the bracelet looks on my ankle. As soon as he fastens it on we’re grasping for each other, crushing our lips together and stripping off clothes until I’m sitting on top of him on the couch with both our chests bare but our jeans on.
“So did they grow?” I joke as I wriggle against his pelvis underneath me.
Gage holds my breasts in his hands and pretends to think it over. His lips explode into a grin as he says, “I don’t know. I’m in sensory overload.” He reaches for my hips and adjusts my position on top of him slightly, his breathing heavy.
He thrusts and I shimmy. I make little noises of joy as he shows my boobs more appreciation. I know exactly what he means about sensory overload. I’m there now. This is part of the reason I had such trouble reining myself in on our first date. He gets me so hot. When it comes to Gage I’m definitely an addict, and I shift my weight on to
p of him, drop my hand down behind me, and begin to massage him through his jeans. “Is this okay?” I whisper.
“It’s good,” he tells me in a hushed voice. “It’s good.”
And by the end of it we’re both better than good; we’re amazing. And still wearing our jeans too. We lie on the couch together like we used to and Gage whispers in my ear, “Happy birthday, Serena. I’m glad I got up the guts to ask for your number. The last few months have been great, getting to know you.”
I couldn’t agree more. On one level I’ve been impatient because we’ve barely touched each other during the last couple of months, but on another level that hardly seems to matter. Just hanging out with Gage is great, and although I can’t say for sure what we’ll be to each other this time next year or the year after that, I think we’re both ready to work through whatever complications are on the horizon.
My phone rings — the sound of Abba’s “Waterloo” (I got hooked on it watching Mamma Mia) — pealing through the family room. “You better get that,” Gage says, reaching over the arm of the couch to grab for my cell on the side table. “It’s probably someone wanting to wish you a happy birthday.”
I sit up on the couch and answer it without even bothering to look at who’s calling. “Hello?”
“Serena?” A male voice asks.
“Yeah.”
“I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. It is today, right? The seventeenth?” I glance swiftly over at Gage, shocked to hear Devin’s voice on the phone. As far as I know, he hasn’t been in touch with any of my family (except me, when I tracked him down almost two months ago) since he left last June.
Gage stares back at me with wide eyes, wondering if something’s the matter.
“It’s today,” I confirm. “Thanks, Devin.”
Gage’s eyes pop. He looks nearly as surprised as I feel.
The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing Page 23
