by Melanie Mah
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods. The box is hot, heavy, moist.
“So …”
He looks at the counter.
“I’ll see you around,” I say, and leave.
Six big steps outside and I’m in Kay’s car, the heat and Eazy-E on high. It’s a song I know from Trina. “Open wide, now don’t you waste it. Ah, shit! All over your face, kid,” Kay raps along.
“You’re dirty,” I say, and mean it. We laugh. I like that she doesn’t give me time to be sad. “Do you mind if I eat?”
“No, go ahead.” She reverses hard — sliding a bit on ice — then turns, starts going east down Highway 11. Are we getting Luke? I’m trying to figure out her plan. Eventually, we run out of turnoffs, and the only way left to go is straight out of town.
“Where are we going?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you,” she says. “Kat’s parents cancelled their trip. Party’s moved to the bush.”
She must be joking. It’s too cold for an outdoor party.
“What the fuck?” I say, but the music’s loud and she can’t hear me. The town limit sign’s a hundred feet ahead of us. I turn the knob on the stereo, but the music goes up instead, the car jolts, black ice, then thrums onto the shoulder. She centres us, slips a bit more. Headlights. A car goes by in the other lane.
She turns down the music. “What?”
The sign sails by. I turn around, but I can’t see it. “You know what,” I say.
“You’re not eighteen.”
She’s using me. She doesn’t have anyone else to go with, so she’s forcing me.
“Chris, it’s not far and I’ll be careful.”
Careful. She is a good driver.
I think of Ty standing by the fire, us talking. He likes art, I bet. Likes reading. What do you read? I’d say. Maybe his favourite book is Brave New World. I haven’t read it yet but I’d have to act like I had so we could keep talking. I’d ask if he’s having a good night. Better, now, he’d say, smiling, How about you?
I want to like parties. How many more will I get to go to? My birthday’s in seven months. I should be filling my life with experiences. And what if Trina shows up? Maybe she’s been going to parties all along and I’ve been missing her. Or maybe it would be her first in months, and she has fun, remembers how great it is, and stays. What if she wound up somewhere nearby? She could come in every week or every other, and we could go for coffee and poutine at Petro-Can. We’d talk till late — they’re open twenty-four hours — and she’d tell me what was new and I’d take it all in. So you’re living with someone now. So you’re pregnant? I’d keep trying to get her to come home. I miss you, I would say. Or, Dad and Mom miss you. Or, things haven’t been quite the same since you left. If you come home I’ll do whatever you want. I’d say something like that every ten minutes, every hangout at least. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. And she’d get tired of the weekly sermon, all my promises, and eventually stop agreeing to meet.
“Are you okay?” Kay asks.
“I guess,” I say. “Who all do you think’ll be there?”
“I dunno. Kat, Carcadian, Kevin, Mike Brown …”
“Mike Brown.” I’m thrilled.
“Van Duysen,” she says, a little quieter.
“Van Duysen,” I say. “You mean Chiggers? Is he someone you wanna see or someone you’re trying to avoid?”
She smiles and shrugs.
“You got weird taste in guys,” I say. Chiggers is a nature boy. On weekends, he camps out on Taimi Road. You can see his fire if you’re driving by. Mondays at school, you’ll see him scratching, hear him in the back when it’s quiet, during exams. Little red bumps on his arms, his legs, who knows where else? I see her and Chiggers going a couple of different ways. Maybe they fall in love and spend the rest of their days outside, scratching themselves. What kind of guy is he, though? “You know, if he hurts you —”
“Why would he hurt me?”
“Just be careful, okay? It’s not the same for girls.”
“He’s better than that skank magnet Ty Rodriguez,” she says, then starts telling me something she heard about Ty and Aimee Jessop.
I look out at the trees. Whenever I’m on the highway and see a clump of trees, I imagine something running out from it, some kind of ultra-fast humanoid monster who’ll tear through the field between us and rip off the car door to get me. He looks like the Grinch who stole Christmas, only scarier. I check to make sure all the doors are locked.
Kay turns down a gravel side road and slows down. She follows the road a few kilometres, past farmhouses, before turning off into an open field. Tall thistleheads with little piles of snow on top pock on the car like rain, depositing their loads. When we find the path — two strips of tamped down snow that lead into the woods — she turns down the lights. The path snakes around an obstacle course of trees, we rock up and down over moguls and molehills and under low-lying branches, going twenty. I open my mouth and say ahh, and it sounds like I’m having a seizure.
“Are we close yet?” I say.
“It’s still a little ways.”
We can only see ten feet ahead of us. I think again of that thing leaping out of the woods onto the windshield, and just then, something big appears in the headlights. I jump, cover my eyes, but instead of going faster, Kay slows down even more.
“Kay! What the fuck! Go!”
“Chris,” she says, real quiet.
“I’m scared.”
“Chrysler, it’s okay.”
“What is it?” My eyes are still closed. A windy sound. “What?”
“Moose,” she says, louder. I open my eyes, turn to look. I don’t see much, it might be shadow. I turn around all the way and see nothing. The car is a parcel of moving light and heat leaving dark and cold in its wake.
There’s a faint orange light up ahead. We go towards it and the path opens up to another field. Kay hunches over the wheel, trying to keep control of the car over ruts.
As we get closer, we see the party is in full swing. It’s huge, about a hundred people, all yelling, laughing, talking, getting into and out of cars parked in a wide circle like protective buffalo around the fire. Beer and cigarettes, muffled music, cinders popping and twisting up.
We pull in, and right away, some guys fall onto the hood, roll up onto the windshield, fighting. “Put this in one of your stories,” I hear one of them say — to me, I guess. Mike Brown. Pretty soon they’re on the ground outside my door. I open it on them, as hard as I can, and there’s a sound like a big snow-ball pelting the car. A blast of cold comes in. One of them groans. Nasal. Mike Brown. I hope it hurt. “Sorry,” I say to them.
Kay puts on her coat and we get out. I peel the plastic off my smokes, shove one, my first-ever cigarette, into my mouth like a message in a bottle, light it, and right away there’s a nicotine buzz. A ripple in the crowd as someone totters up. He’s small and stooped over, his arms hang down, and he’s got a wide gait like a monkey. Curt Mayhew. He’s had more than a few. A blinding light — a flashlight — and he slurs a confirmation: “Dead Girl!” A couple of others join in.
Kay’s checking my side of the car for dents. I climb onto her back and hoot and a whole crowd of drunks hollers back. She gets up, starts running, and I hold on tight as we go between pallets around the fire. Kay’s normally shy when she’s on her own, but she’s happy now to make a scene. “Oh, my god!” she says, freaked out. Some people cheer us on as she runs through the crowd to the far end of the clearing. I tell her to go faster, she does, and I grip harder. She trips when I start coughing but then recovers and saves my life.
We end up in the woods, trees too thick to run. Kay sets me on a stump. “I’m gonna have a beer,” she says, eyes flitting over the crowd. “You want one?”
“Okay,” I say, though I hate the way it tastes and the prospect scares me. Smoking is slow suicide, but drinking too much can kill you in just one night.
We go back to her car, where she gives me a v
odka cooler before going off to pee. I walk my drink to the fire, take a look around. I’ve always been impressed by the people at these things. Here and now, we’re in the midst of a social experiment. Skids, skaters, jocks, and cowboys, all together in a non-school environment. What will happen? Will they mix? You don’t know who anyone is until the firelight shows you, and you forget again when they leave it. There aren’t enough strangers. Chiggers is here. Ty isn’t but it’s early. I look for Trina, too. I can’t help it.
Then a hand on my back — “Hey, Chrysler” — and I turn. Tight shirt, low cut. Cleavage. She smells like candy. Maddy Hawkes. She once had a thing for Gene. Fifteen-year-old lusting after my eighteen-year-old brother. I felt protective. She wanted to know what he looked like in his underwear.
She puts her arms around me — I’ve never even hugged my dad. She squeezes tight, and her breasts nudge in. She’s brought her boyfriend, too, some older guy in a Lee Stormrider. Bryce from Sifton. We shake hands, joke around, clink bottles, move on. I go from person to person. Everyone knows my name, and a couple of them give me booze. How much can I drink before it kills me? Do I care? It’s a good night.
At one point, Curt Mayhew, a jock, comes up and asks if I want to buy drugs. He deals? Probably does them, too. Curt’s sister Jocelyn is in Grade Nine. She’s a straight-A student. I hope she’s not here. It’s weird seeing your drunk and fucked-up older sibling at a party. I should know. I saw Trina swaying around in someone’s backyard once. I didn’t know it was her at first. She danced with a lot of arm and didn’t notice all the guys watching her. Didn’t see me, either, and I walked away, acted like I didn’t know her, but I checked back a couple of times to make sure she was okay. What else could I do — embarrass her with a glass of water? Ask her to stop? I was fifteen.
“What kind?” I have to ask. It’s like when you’re at a concert in the city. Even if you have a ticket, you ask the scalpers how much, just to see what they’ll say. I could do some-thing. It’d be fun. How many more chances will I have to do drugs?
“I got pot, acid, shrooms, uppers, coke …”
Coke. You can die from doing that.
A guy comes up to me and starts talking. He’s dressed like a Hutterite in a fisherman’s sweater. Collar of a green button-up peeking out. Wool pants. I don’t know what he’s saying. I interrupt: “Nice outfit.”
He looks at me like come on. “My whole school beat you to that one,” he says.
“I’m clever. You just don’t know me.” He’s a bucket of water. Sobers me up some.
“Come sit,” he says.
“Why?”
“I don’t know anyone here.”
“You must know someone.”
“Yeah,” he says. “He’s over there trying to pick up.”
“Why would I talk to you? I don’t know you.”
“’Cause I’m fun to talk to and you seem friendly. Plus, I like your shirt.”
I look down. My unzipped coat, NASA shirt underneath. I zip up. “Thanks,” I say.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m woozy.”
“All the more reason to sit,” he says, and holds out a bottle. “Want some water?”
I smile. “You’re like a reverse St. Bernard.”
“It was for me, but you can have it. I’ve got more in my car.”
“Thanks!” An unopened bottle, the only kind to accept from a stranger. I open it and take a sip. He sips, too, from a flask. “What’s your poison?” I say.
“Pretty girls.”
“Won’t be a problem dying here, then.”
“Not for you. You can’t be poisoned by them.”
“Huh?” I try to focus.
“You’re immune to pretty girls. Ever heard of lead getting lead poisoning?”
“Huh?” I say, then after some thought, add: “Screw off!”
“Gosh. Compliment someone and —”
“I gotta go,” I say. “Nice talkin’ to you.”
“Let’s talk about something else. What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”
“You’re really, uhh, forward.” I want to get up but can’t.
“Well?” It’s like he really wants to know.
“Really, I gotta go.” Just push off from your knees. Hands on your knees and push. Go. I find Maddy and her boyfriend Bryce from Sifton, and ask, “Do you know that guy over there?” They don’t. They introduce me to their friends, and I teach them all a dance for fun. All you need to get a group of people to dance is a leader, a few followers, and a lot of alcohol. It starts slow, at first only a few people want to do it, but in the end, everyone is dancing slowly, watching their feet as they go, little cloud trails trickling from their mouths. “That’s my having to pee dance,” I say. I duck out of their circle and into the bushes, deep enough for privacy, not so deep there’s danger.
When I come out, Kay’s standing by the fire. I ask if she’s seen Chiggers, and her eyes shine. “Talk to him,” I say. “If you don’t, I’ll do it for you.” He’s on the other side of the fire, by himself on a pallet, casually scratching his knee. He’d be cute if he weren’t so dirty.
“What should I say?” She’s beaming, covering her mouth with her hands like she’s ashamed of her own happiness. Her shy laugh.
“Ask him if he wants to make out.”
“No! Look at him.” She says it despairingly. What she means is, why would he want me? Why wouldn’t he? He’s wearing a Beastie Boys shirt. They like the same music. And camping. It’s a start.
“You should do it,” I say, then my gaze shifts and voila, there he is, Ty Rodriguez, one of a group of guys in army coats by the fire. He’s drinking beer, I can’t see what kind. The fire makes his skin glow. He’s handsome, wearing a checked shirt and work pants, he’s the centre of his group, strong and assertive, talking and gesturing with a cigarette bobbing in his mouth. He points at something, and his friends turn to look and shout-laugh. Now he holds his hands a foot apart to show the size of something. I hear him say the word plastic. It’s the only word I make out. I want to know: what about plastic?
I take a sip of my drink, fast, eyes up like I’m doing a shot because I can’t look at him, and when I’m done, he’s looking my way through the fire, head at a little angle, a little smile, not talking anymore. I turn around to see who he’s looking at and there’s no one there. I look up, stars, whizzing cinders. He’s still looking. The ground by the fire the same colour as Mars. I kick one shoe with the other. “He’s looking at us,” I say without turning to Kay.
“Looking at you, more like,” she says. “Now he’s coming over.”
“Here? He’s coming here? I have to go. Can I have your keys?”
“Where you goin’?” she says.
“To the car. Don’t feel good.”
“The guy you like —”
“Shh!”
Kay, whispering: “Sorry. The guy you like is coming over and you wanna go?”
“What am I gonna say?”
“You’ll think of something.”
He’s ten feet away. What do you say to someone you’ve never talked to before? I saw you biking on the highway. At night. You looked happy. I think we’re soulmates. Wanna get some coffee? Or at the Co-op. Do you have any more niblets? This can is kind of dented. Hey, don’t you go to my school? “Listen, if he talks to you, don’t say anything about me, ’kay?”
Her hand on my arm. “Chris.”
I get out of there, my heart pounding. I’m fast, too fast, I trip and fall into some guys. “Sorry,” I say.
Mike Brown’s squeaky voice. “You better watch out. She’ll kill you.”
I run, slipping and sliding on tamped down snow. No keys, nowhere to go. I’ll freeze to death, I know it. More than thirty cars. Red, brown, old truck, new truck, white car. Kay’s car? No. Where’s the car? When I find it, I drop to the ground beside it and heave, the snow cold on my knees and melting into my jeans, heave, wheels and the bottoms of cars beside me, the sound
of heaving so pathetic, heave. My stomach. “Are you okay, Chris?” someone says. I nod big enough for them to see in the half-dark — “Yeah, fine,” I say — they walk away, my eyes wet, heave, and a curtain of liquid splatters on the snow, my jeans. Will it leave a stain on my clothes? I don’t want to move, I feel like shit, but I’m dirty. I take some snow, rub it between my hands till they’re clean and ice cold, then go into my pockets for tissue. I’ve got a napkin. I wipe my eyes, hands, and face, try to get the puke off my jeans, but the napkin’s too small. I get up and try the door to Kay’s car. It’s open. She’s a country person — it’s a matter of trust and convenience. The doors in my house are always locked.
Is there a way to salvage the situation with Ty? I was running because I had to pee. No. Because I needed to puke. No. Because I saw my friend was leaving and I wanted to say goodbye. Yeah. That’d be okay. And how about if I invent a memory-erasing machine so we could start over? I sit in Kay’s car and imagine Ty and me on a hilltop or riverbank. It’s my fantasy, so it’s warm outside. I’d tell him the constellations I know, and he’d hold me, and I’d smell his smell, musk and stale cigarettes, and I’d have to break it to him, tell him I’ll probably die soon. He would say it’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard. You don’t deserve that, he would say, and suggest we spend every day together these next seven months to make up for our lack of a future. Are you crazy? I’d say. I got stuff to do. Plus, I can’t settle down that fast. But who am I kidding? I’d be with him if he’d have me. Of course, I would.
I WAKE UP cold and needing to pee. I’m still at the party. Can’t believe I missed out. People probably saw me sleeping, too. Whatever. I get out of the car. Dying embers. I must have been asleep for hours. Almost everyone is gone. No Ty, no Kay, but Maddy and Bryce are there with a couple of people I know from school. The guy in Hutterite clothes is there, too. He waves me over, his motions big, and he’d be funny if I were in a different mood.
