Nothing Looks Familiar

by Shawn Syms

  I’d been friends with Preet since grade eight, when his family moved to Canada. Mrs McDowell, my homeroom teacher, asked me to befriend him when he first arrived and spoke only Punjabi. Over time, he became well-liked—Preet was smart, friendly, great at sports, and very handsome. He was able to run in the popular circles at school, with friends on both the football team and student council. But he kept most of those people at arms’ length, maintaining a close friendship with me, even as the others christened me “queer of the year.”

  I’d known Rickie even longer. One day, when I was in grade five, she started to follow me home and threatened to beat the shit out of me for calling her adopted brother a chink. She’d gotten bad information. Her brother was a tough little kid—there was no way I’d have provoked him, even though he was two years younger than me. And, of course, I’d have never said that word; I pinched myself again just thinking it. It wasn’t the first time someone chased me home or beat me up, and it certainly hadn’t been the last. But I had both Preet and Rickie to watch my back now, which was a relief. Would I ever stand up for myself? Yes, I thought. Tonight.

  A screech of tires a block away tore me from my thoughts. A sleek black car gunned up Armory Street like a drag racer, though there was not another vehicle in sight to compete with. Instinctively I drew closer to the fence. As the car passed, I heard a guy on the passenger side laugh as he tossed a crumpled Coke can out the window at me. The car skidded to a halt at Victoria Avenue, then quickly pulled around the corner and out of sight, a chorus of yelping neighbourhood dogs barking in its wake. Soon all was quiet again.

  Blocks away, tourist trap Clifton Hill was loaded with noisy idiots: loud American visitors buying cotton candy for kids up well past their normal bedtimes, drunks from around the world stumbling down the street in search of a greasy burger, honeymooners destined for heart-shaped hot tubs, and a few late-night sightseers at the foot of the hill arguing about which Niagara waterfall was the best. What a bunch of losers. I yawned just thinking about it.

  “Hey, Dean.” Her low, gravelly voice came out of nowhere. I jumped and actually shrieked a little. Rickie had walked through the schoolyard instead of up the street, surprising me from behind.

  “Thank God you’re here. You scared me!” I put my hand on my chest, and my body shook, all nerves.

  Towering over me by three inches, she put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. With her short, dark crew-cut and bulky build, Rickie looked like a football player. In my mind, the high-school football team set the bar in terms of masculinity—and I always fell short. With her strong, self-assured demeanour, Rickie had it down without even trying. But while just thinking about those guys filled me with anxiety, Rickie’s presence had a calming effect. I turned to her and smiled.

  “How was work?”

  “The usual.”

  “Anyone barf?”

  “Nope, believe it or not.”

  “Anyone jump?”

  “Hey, that’s not funny, kid.” She grabbed me playfully by the scruff of the neck. She was always calling me “kid” even though we were both sixteen. Her father used the same expression all the time. A single dad, he was a mechanic at Niagara Falls Auto.

  Rickie operated the giant Ferris wheel at Maple Leaf Village. It was 200 feet tall. Someone tried to jump from it once this summer. Rickie hadn’t been working that day, so I don’t know why she was acting so sensitive about it. The guy didn’t actually die.

  I paused before my next question. “Did you see Brenda?”

  Rickie’s eyes locked with mine. “She’s still there.” Her voice cut like glass. In three short, sharp shards, you could hear exactly how Rickie felt about Brenda.

  I had no idea why Brenda Foxworthy even had a job. Her father was an alderman and her mother a real-estate agent. Still, she worked at the Village like the rest of us Niagara teens. She sold fudge to tourists in a booth where she dressed in a uniform with a short white skirt. What a princess. What a bitch. I didn’t bother to pinch myself for swearing anymore. Brenda was still at work. Good. Everything was going according to plan. Now if only Preet would get here.

  Rickie carried the rope in a brown paper bag. Preet was bringing the metal hook. In my knapsack, I had the long, sharp knife.

  The three of us lived within blocks of one another, we all worked on the same gaudy tourist strip, and we ended up in most of the same high-school classes. But right now what bound us together was our intense hatred for Brenda. Rickie and I turned when we heard the low rumble of an automobile engine. It was Preet, approaching slowly in his brother Vijay’s black Mercury.

  The car pulled up, and we got inside.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Preet called out over the car stereo as Rickie took the front seat and I got into the back. He shook hands with both of us. Preet usually did that; it was one of his macho behaviours that, to me, felt both alien and adorable at the same time. As we passed all the drunken yahoos outside the Caverly Tavern, Preet rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioning. “Shit, it’s a hot night.”

  We made nervous small talk as we drove to our destination—Brenda’s expansive house in the city’s tony north end, Stamford Centre. I kept quiet—because Preet’s taste in music drove me crazy. I hated ZZ Top.

  Why couldn’t he have the Jane Siberry cassette instead? Preet told us how they barely made it to the temple because both his brothers had come home drunk and started an argument with his father.

  We all had our own reasons for what we were about to do. Why did I hate Brenda Foxworthy? Well, for years I’d disliked her as much as the other rich posers who made up the gifted program at our school. I was supposedly smarter than average, but I always felt like a fish out of water in that group—most of whom had been “gifted” since birth: gifted with violin lessons and trips to Europe, granted anything they ever wanted. I’d always been a wallflower in that program until last year when we got involved in the Board of Ed’s problem-solving competition. We were put into teams to strategize solutions to social issues like acid rain. I was surprised how much I enjoyed our preparatory sessions, which involved both creative thinking and stuff that I actually cared about. For once, I felt motivated in my otherwise unhappy high-school career.

  At least, I did until Brenda announced, on the morning of the Niagara South competition, that she was dumping both me and Andrew Horsgill to join another team with some of her snobby friends. Each team needed a minimum of three members, and we couldn’t get anyone else to hook up with us under such short notice. Brenda’s team won and went on to become champions at a North America–wide competition in Illinois a few months later. So Brenda Foxworthy was the 1986 problem-solving champion; she accepted a trophy at a banquet in Chicago while I sat alone in my room feeling like a loser.

  Preet had the inside scoop on Brenda’s house because he’d been there before. They had gone out for a month, culminating in a final date when they had sex on Brenda’s bed while her parents were at a Lions Club banquet. She dumped him the next day. That was three weeks ago. Preet looked like he was going to cry when he told me. Red-faced, he confessed she’d made a disparaging remark about his penis. “She’s got a gigantic stuffed animal sitting next to her bed. How was I supposed to keep my dick hard with that fucked-up thing right next to me?” Out of respect for Preet, I managed not to laugh. But I did try to picture him and her naked together. I’d never even seen another guy’s cock—I had a shy bladder and preferred bathroom stalls to awkward rows of public urinals.

  But Preet’s erection malfunction wasn’t the only reason for the abrupt break-up. She told him that she needed a boyfriend with a more wholesome image because of her parents’ standing in the community. Preet was one of the most clean-cut guys in our whole school. The only way he differed from Brenda’s other boyfriends was the colour of his skin. Soon after, Brenda started dating Angelo Mancuso, a nineteen-year-old with a dumb gaze and a five o’clock shadow. I found it bizarre that she’d dumped Preet, then started seeing Angelo.
Her family and friends were such WASPs, I was surprised they would even consider an Italian guy to be white. But his parents owned a construction company.

  Rickie had her own reasons for hating Brenda, but she wouldn’t tell either of us. I only knew because I saw what happened. It was at the end of football season, the day our team kicked Westlane High’s asses. The cool kids had spiked their 7-Eleven Slurpees with gin at the game, and everyone was acting punchy. I was kinda surprised to see Rickie there. Then again, same with me, but for weeks it was all anyone talked about. It was more or less mandatory; afternoon classes had been cancelled so everyone could go to the game. I’d tried to hide in the school library, but they shut it down for the rest of the day.

  In a less-populated corner of the football field, I saw Brenda beckon for Rickie to follow her behind the bleachers. This was weird; I sneaked closer to see. Brenda kissed Rickie full on the lips and took Rickie’s hand and placed it on one of her breasts. After a few seconds, she pulled away. Brenda stared at Rickie. From where I stood, I couldn’t see Rickie’s face. “There,” Brenda said. “At least now you know you’re not a faggot, anyway.” She walked away. I was confused. What a weird thing to say. Rick wasn’t even a guy, right? It was some stupid prank. I never mentioned it to Rickie because I wouldn’t know what to say.

  Part of me wished I understood why Brenda liked to hurt people. The other part of me only wanted to hurt her back.

  I might never have dared if not for Preet. The whole thing was his idea, and Rickie had enthusiastically agreed. I was afraid—but liked the idea of getting revenge for the first time ever. If Rickie and Preet were in, I was in. After all, it was me who supplied the knife. Grow some balls, I reminded myself. That’s what my boss Ed had said to me after I said “uncle,” and he finally released my face from the aroma of his armpit. He’d looked disappointed in me, staring after me as I walked away.

  Turning onto Stamford Green Drive, we reached Brenda’s house. Her red Camaro was nowhere to be seen—but a brown Lincoln Continental, presumably her parents’, sat at the far end of the driveway. Some lights were on in the house.

  Preet slowed down, pulled just past the Foxworthy residence, and parked in front of the next-door neighbours’ house—far enough not to be noticed, but close enough for a quick getaway. Despite the air conditioning, I was clammy.

  “Remember everything we talked about?” Preet asked quietly.

  We both nodded. Preet handed me the heavy metal hook, and I put it into my knapsack.

  “Any questions?”

  We shook our heads.

  “We have to be extremely quiet starting now. Got it?”

  We nodded. Preet opened the door and got out, and we followed suit. Closing our doors as quietly as possible, we tiptoed through the far edge of the yard toward Brenda’s second-storey bedroom window, on the west side of the house.

  Her light had been left on. As Preet had anticipated, Brenda’s window was open. And, as he had already told us, the sill was made of painted wood. I unzipped my knapsack and handed the rope and the hook to Preet. He had explained that it was an extra-strong piton used by his older brothers when they went rock climbing. It was so heavy it practically hurt my arm when I pulled it out of the sack. I guess I needed to grow some biceps too.

  He secured the thick length of rope to the piton, angling it with the sharp talon facing forward. Preet launched it toward Brenda’s window where it landed on the sill and sunk into it with a muted thunk. Thank God for all his years of basketball—if it had been me, I’d have broken a downstairs window or missed the house altogether. I sucked at sports. I couldn’t throw or kick to save my life. Not that I’d done much of either. Who knew if I had any athletic talent or decent aim? I usually seized up with fear any time people even looked at me.

  Preet turned and smiled. Rickie gave a thumbs-up. Preet walked over to where the rope hung down neatly along the side of the house and gave it three or four firm tugs. He started to climb up.

  Once he reached the top and clambered inside, Preet gestured for Rickie to follow. I watched with amazement as the piton held in place, supporting her beefy frame as she scaled the side of the house. She pushed her way through the window frame. Now it was my turn. If Preet hadn’t ordered me into silence earlier, this would have been the moment I’d have started to blubber and babble. I was terrified, but I grabbed the rope and began to hoist myself up. So this is what it feels like to break and enter, I thought. As I found my footing, I started to feel excited—and strangely honourable. I was a cat burglar stealing back my own dignity.

  So far, so good. Once I got up about eight feet, I could see into the Foxworthy kitchen; the window was a few feet over. The room looked as spotless as if it had never been used. It was also empty, thank goodness. I kept moving, looking neither up nor down. Infinite moments later, I reached Brenda’s window. I used both hands to pull myself in and tried to still my panting. The door to her bedroom was closed. I caught my breath and looked around.

  Rickie quietly stalked the room, her eyes narrowing as she took in the luxurious surroundings. Brenda’s four-poster bed was adorned with a sleek, white satin spread and decorated with five floral-design pillows. Next to the bed was a matching white dresser with a large built-in mirror. The glass had ornate etchings around the edges.

  On the dresser sat the Concise Oxford English Dictionary. Brenda would have been the kid in kindergarten who got the sixty-four-colour box of Crayolas when the rest of us made do with the eight basic hues. I had to touch the dictionary just to determine if the spine had been cracked—to see if it had ever been opened. I walked over and picked it up and then saw something next to it that startled and surprised me. A little bound book with a chocolate-brown cover and a gold lock. In fancy lettering, the cover read “My Personal Diary.” It went straight into my pants pocket.

  Preet stood in front of his prey in the corner of the bedroom closest to the window. He hissed at me, “Dean, give me the knife!” I removed the compact orange knapsack from my back and tossed it to him. In it was the largest knife from the Ginsu set my dad ordered for my mom from TV last year. Preet pulled it out. The blade was large, with serrated teeth.

  He stood in front of an extra-large stuffed teddy bear, which wore a yellow felt hat as big as my head. It was over three feet tall, even seated. The bear’s plush fur was dark brown, with a lighter tan fur lining the inside of its ears, the pads of its feet, and a circle that surrounded its nose. A smile had been sewn into the fabric using thick black thread. Brenda told Preet she’d owned the stuffed animal since she was a little girl. When her parents first gave it to her, it was taller than her. Bits of fur were missing here and there, like the patchy bald spot on the back of my dad’s head we weren’t supposed to mention. Its eyes were two plastic hazel-coloured buttons. They looked strangely sad.

  “Fuck you, bitch,” Preet whispered. He stabbed the stuffed bear roughly below its throat, pulling the blade out and shoving it back in several times in a downward motion until he’d carved a jagged line that would have split an animal’s rib cage in two. Though gutted, it still offered that same sad smile. Rickie and I watched in silence as he kicked the bear between its legs several times, causing its white Styrofoam-ball innards to fly across the room.

  Rickie walked over to Brenda’s dresser and took a tube of crimson lipstick from an open box full of jewellery and makeup. She applied it to the stuffed bear’s lips, giving it a surreal sneer, like a circus clown. She looked at Preet and put out her hand. He handed over the knife. Rickie used it to cut the bear’s head right off and dropped it on the floor in front of the ruined animal. I was startled by my friends’ violence, but I felt almost as if I had had a match, I might have set the decapitated bear on fire.

  That’s when I noticed the trophy, a pewter cup with handles on both sides fixed to a wooden base. It sat on a small white table between the bedroom and closet doors, next to a miniature clock encased in a glass dome. A small metal plate was screwed onto the base of
the trophy, upon which the words “Tomorrow’s Leaders Problem-Solving Contest, Chicago Illinois, First Place” were engraved. I stared at it blankly, unable to draw my eyes away.

  Preet looked at me, then at the trophy. He walked to the dresser, grabbed the winner’s cup, and placed it on the floor in front of him. Unzipping his pants, he reached into his underwear, pulled out his penis, and began to urinate into the trophy in a steaming waterfall.

  “Whoah, man!” Rickie called out in shock. No matter what Brenda had said, Preet’s dick looked beautiful to me. I couldn’t help but stare. Rickie was gazing right at Preet’s pecker too, as gushes of urine pumped out of it and poured into that goddamned trophy cup. As Preet’s stream slowed to a trickle, I wondered if I could get over my pee-shyness and fill it up the rest of the way myself.

  Right then the bedroom door pushed open. Brenda’s little sister Becki, her head barely reaching the doorknob, stepped into the room, pointed at Preet’s penis, and screamed. Preet stuffed it back in his pants and darted toward the window, Rickie lumbering directly behind him. Becki continued to shriek all the while. I heard a rumble from behind her as someone started up the stairs.

  I looked over at the overflowing trophy cup. I took two steps toward it, then stopped. I felt a moment of inner calm. With the inside of my right foot, I kicked the trophy’s base as hard as I could. With immaculate aim, the trophy, as well as a torrent of piss, arced into the air toward the corner of the room, the trophy landing upside down on top of the bear, right where its head used to be, before ending upright at its feet.

  A wave of euphoria I’d never experienced before passed through me. I felt like the star football player who’d just kicked a fifty-yard field goal and won the game. Becki continued to scream. I took one more look at the yellow-stained bear and the trophy at its feet, the rim of its cup still wet with drops of Preet’s urine. I grabbed the knife and threw it in the knapsack. Bolting for the window, I tossed the sack out and started to climb down the rope.