Alice, I Think

by Susan Juby

  Maybe I could get myself some oddball workout gear and meet him on the path. I could wear billowing parachute pants or short shorts and striped knee-high socks, and a big old overcoat with a cheap tiara perched on my great hair, and maybe some red patent pumps. I could struggle along the path, doing a run-sashay type thing, tripping and falling every few feet, but bravely picking myself up, and wiping off my tiara and placing it carefully back on my head each time. I would stage a big fall as I passed him, and he would grind to a stop and gallantly use his cruddy yellow T-shirt to mop the blood oozing from my knees.

  I was quite choked up just from imagining it. Of course, I had quite a bit of time to fantasize since the path was long and the boy did not seem to be going very fast. In fact, with all that time to think, I began to wonder if my intense interest in boys was becoming, like, a pattern or something? I mean, first Aubrey and now this. I am only fifteen. It all seemed a bit, well, unseemly. Perhaps, and I cringed to think it, I was becoming some kind of tart. One of those girls who want to know how to get and keep a guy, who want to know what guys think looks good on them and take tests to find out if their personality makes them girlfriend material. Well, at least I can spare myself the ordeal of a whole battery of personality tests. My personality is poor; that much is clear.

  Caught up in my horrible thoughts of how I was turning into some kind of needy floozy, I didn’t see Gooseboy’s second approach. I looked up when I heard the snapping and whipping sounds of his leather boot laces. He grinned, his nose a surprised punctuation point between his mouth and eyes. I could feel the stupid look fall across my face.

  He came closer, hitting the ground so hard that it shook with each footstep. He came closer still, until he was just opposite, huge grin still trained on me. For a second it looked as though he might keep going. He windmilled along for about another meter or so, momentum propelling him past the spot where I was sitting. Finally he got his limbs under control and pulled up and, with movements at least as spastic as his run, flailed around to face me.

  What an incredible-looking boy. He had even, white teeth made brighter by what looked like a dirt mustache beneath his nose. And I, overwhelmed, outside myself, spoke first.

  “Hi.”

  His grin got even bigger.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Running, huh?” I said brilliantly, still too captivated by his teeth to let my self-consciousness drive me back inside myself.

  “Oh. Yeah,” he said. “You?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  The smile dimmed a bit and he replied to his own question.

  “Yeah. Duh. Of course you aren’t running. I can see that. You’re reading a book.”

  I looked down at my hand and was surprised to see Fellowship in it.

  His hair was blond and so straight it came off his head at right angles, except on one side where it stuck flat to his head like he’d been sleeping on it.

  “So …”

  “Yeah,” he said, and hunched his small shoulders a bit, and then kicked an invisible rock on the ground with his scuffed work boot. Oh man, I was lost.

  He was a hands-in-pockets rock kicker.

  “Live around here?” he asked.

  “No. Not really. Smithers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied.

  He was showing signs of shyness, rocking back and forth and squirming a bit, but when he looked at me, it was full on.

  “My brother’s in the fish show here.” I gestured back at the community center with my hand.

  “Get out!” he crowed, breaking into another huge grin. “Me too.”

  I took a step back. My heart sank.

  He was fishy. Of all the luck.

  “I mean, mine too!” He beamed like he’d accomplished something. “In fact, my brother practically put this thing on.”

  Gooseboy laughed heartily like he couldn’t quite believe it, and in that second I saw the resemblance.

  “A fish show! Isn’t that great!” he continued.

  “Which one is your brother?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Colin. Colin Feckworth.”

  I couldn’t believe it. This was MacGregor’s mentor’s brother.

  “Shouldn’t you be in there?” I gestured back at the community center.

  “Oh, no. I’m not showing. I don’t have fish. I’m not very good with pets. I’m basically bad at anything you have to remember to feed.”

  Relief washed over me.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I pointed at his face and said, “I think you have some dirt on your lip.”

  And couldn’t believe I had said it the second it left my mouth.

  But Goose wasn’t fazed at all.

  “Har!” he bellowed, and rubbed his hair. “You mean my mustache!” He looked strangely pleased.

  “It’s pretty new,” he explained. “I’m trying to, you know, encourage it, so I don’t want to disturb it by shaving or anything.”

  “Maybe you have to shave it once to get it started?” I suggested, remembering what my mom had once told me about why some women don’t shave their thighs. Not wanting to go down that road, I changed the subject.

  “You from here?” I asked.

  “Nope. Rupert. I got a ride down here with my brother. This friend of mine was supposed to be playing hockey here, but I guess I got the day wrong or something.”

  “Really?” I said, actually interested, even though I’m normally not interested in the stuff people have to say about themselves. Unless, of course, they aren’t talking to me. But every word Gooseboy said was fascinating.

  “Yeah,” he said, sighing heavily and rubbing his head some more. “I get things wrong a lot. My friend Rod, the one I was coming to see, he’s a great player. Not like me. I played hockey for a while, but I kept getting left staring into space at the wrong end of the play. Coach said I wasn’t alert enough—figured I was going to get hurt.

  “Actually,” he continued, “I’ve been experimenting, and I don’t appear to be good at anything.”

  His head rubbing became thoughtful.

  “Yup. Not good at team sports really, or math, or video games, or Rollerblading. Or woodworking. So I’m trying cross-country running to see if I might be good at that.”

  I felt compelled to help.

  “Well, I bet you’d be faster if you wore better shoes. Those boots are probably too heavy for running.”

  He looked down at his boots with a quizzical look on his face.

  “You think so? You’re probably right. I just don’t want to spend the money on new shoes till I’m sure I’ve got a future in running.”

  “Uh, right,” I said.

  “Because money’s one thing I’m okay with. I’ve been buying my own clothes since I was like seven or eight years old or something. Trick to saving money on clothes is never buy new.” He said this with great sincerity.

  I nodded, entranced, and wondered if he’d bought the huge flood pants he was wearing on one of his earlier shopping trips by himself.

  He cast a look and me and ventured a conspiratorial guess. “You buy your own too, eh?”

  I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. I wondered if Goose knew that everybody our age bought their own clothes. Maybe his brother was too scientific to be bothered. I know MacGregor is, but he’s just ten.

  We stood there, me laughing at him and him just laughing.

  “Want to go in?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  So we walked back to the fish show in silence. He was sort of sweaty, like he’d been jogging for miles in yellow leather work boots. I looked like I always do, but I carried my headphones, so as not to miss it if he said something. I figure anyone watching would have known we were allowed to buy our own clothes.

  When we walked into the gym, the judges were in the middle of announcing the prizes. The largest judge, Randy, was at the microphone. He was saying how the category of finest killie fish in
the show had been a difficult call and that the caliber of the competition was “absolutely topnotch.” And then he called Pete up to collect first, second, and third prize for best killies in the show. Pete’s wife, still slumped behind the array of killie containers, raised one eyebrow and clapped in a dispirited, this-will-just-encourage-him way.

  The next category was for best breeding pair and fry. Randy blathered on about how essential it was to reproduce the good characteristics of the parents and so on. From where we stood at the back of the gym, I could see my mother staring with a psychotic intensity at Fat Randy while she clutched MacGregor’s hand. I am pretty sure I saw MacGregor wince. Mom’s competitiveness really is bordering on child abuse.

  Randy paused for dramatic effect after his tensionbuilding spiel and then announced: “And the first prize for best breeding pair goes to MacGregor MacLeod and his lovely pair of angelfish.”

  My mother screamed and leaped up, banging into the table and slopping water from the fishbowls all over the place. The other contestants shot her looks of intense dislike. MacGregor, small and pleased, stood up and went to get his big blue ribbon. I grabbed the hand of Gooseboy and whispered, “That’s my brother.”

  He, impressed, said, “Really?” and to show he understood, added, “He must have really nice fish.”

  He was perfect. And even though he was a bit sweaty and everything, he still smelled kind of good. Not like flowers or anything, but manly somehow.

  Carried away, I grabbed his hand again and repeated, “Yup. That’s my brother.”

  He got into the spirit of the moment, and keeping a grip on my hand, pointed with his free hand at Colin, who stood off to the side looking wholesome and competent.

  “And that’s mine!”

  I glanced over to see my mother staring at me, mouth hanging open, and I quickly dropped Goose’s hand. MacGregor was up on the stage with the judges, shaking their hands and collecting his ribbon.

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I mean really, I was just a bit overtaxed by the whole thing—my positive feelings for the talentless (except at dressing badly and making me laugh) Gooseboy, my pride in MacGregor—all of it. It was that bloody drumming session that did it, I bet. It loosened up that nice, warm vibe part of me or something. After the whole Frank thing, I had pretty much decided to write off people, even the rare cool ones, but here I was.

  I was overwhelmed by sappiness and irritation. Why was my mother always around when I met someone? Why did she get to see it? I have a friend now. Why couldn’t I have been out with George when I realized I have an attraction to my brother’s fish mentor’s brother?

  I felt this peculiar sensation. I think it was the womanhood tent beckoning. Just standing near the sweaty Gooseboy was making me feel completely squishy. It was horrible! I had enough problems without adding squishiness to the equation. Totally.

  Goose, being very cool, was displaying only mild interest in the fish show. I wondered if he thought about the womanhood tent when he looked at me. It wasn’t impossible. I mean, I thought those red-and-white-checked stretch pants looked pretty good. And they hardly cost anything.

  I found myself gazing at him again. And then turned to catch my mother staring at me with total incomprehension. On the other side Gooseboy’s brother stood, staring at us too, his face a mirror of my mother’s confusion.

  Then my mother grabbed the disposable fun camera with flash and started snapping shots as MacGregor came down the steps from the stage, beaming shyly and clutching his big ribbon. Colin moved in to congratulate him.

  A voice came over the intercom announcing a break before the auction started.

  While Mom and Colin were distracted with MacGregor and his award, I grabbed Goose’s hand and asked him if he wanted to go for a walk. He shrugged amiably and said, “Sure.” We walked along the back of the gym and out the big double doors.

  We stood outside the gym in the hallway and sort of smiled at each other sideways, deciding what to do.

  Then it hit me. I knew what we could do. We could go to the womanhood tent. I mean, I had achieved practically every single Life Goal a person my age could be expected to attempt, excluding an essay on chicken peer groups that the local library doesn’t have the resources to support. It was time for some sex! It briefly occurred to me to wonder if Gooseboy was ready for it, but I dismissed the thought. He was experimenting, after all. Who knows, sex might just be his area of expertise or something. It couldn’t be that much harder than finding cheap clothes.

  I looked into his face.

  “How about we find somewhere to sit down?” I asked, racking my brain for the right sort of setting for a Terrace Community Center seduction.

  “Uh, okay,” he said, and then gave me an intent look. “What are you thinking?”

  “Oh, you know, maybe we could just find somewhere to, you know, sit down.”

  “You mean like in the hall?”

  “No, more of a private-type place.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “Get out of here!” he almost yelled.

  “What?” I asked, startled.

  “Are you, like …” he trailed off. “Are you wanting to, you know, hang out privately?” he asked, incredulous, his eyebrows hidden in his scalp.

  Embarrassment washed over me and I scowled at him and said nothing.

  “I mean, you want to be, or go somewhere with me?” he continued. And then, and I couldn’t quite believe it, he did a little jiggy dance right on the spot. He was not a good dancer, but it was one of the funnier things I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh man. Oh man! Okay! Let’s go!” He grabbed my hand and we headed down the hall.

  We walked quickly, briefly discussing our options.

  The pottery room? No, the tables were too high. The staff lounge? Maybe, but it was probably a bit too populated. As we passed each room, we ruled it out for one reason or another. It was an adventure and we didn’t have time to get nervous. Then we walked past the day-care room. It had a little cloakroom at the side, with an undersized sofa sectional in the corner, probably for the parents to sit in as they dressed their kids to go outside. It was perfect.

  “What do you think?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know. Seems okay.” I shrugged.

  We tiptoed into the cloakroom and closed the day-care door, with its appealingly low handle, behind us. I went and sat on one half of the little right-angles couch. The sofa crouched low to the ground, and as I sat on it, my knees felt like they were up around my ears.

  Now Goose was starting to look a bit awkward. He stood in the middle of the cloakroom like he wasn’t sure where to put himself.

  As he was going for the lights, I quickly said, “Why don’t you leave them off and come sit down?”

  I gestured at the other piece of the sofa. Then I trapped my hands between my knees to stop them from shaking with the pretent jitters.

  What was I doing? This was lunacy, even for me. I mean, I know that boy-girl interaction was on my list, but I suspect this wasn’t what Mrs. Freison meant by a maturity indicator. Or maybe this was exactly what she meant. I was well-read enough to know about sex, and my mother’s embarrassing legacy of openness had left me with few illusions about the mechanics of it. But up until now I hadn’t had any interest in the proceedings, except for Frank’s inspiring example on that trail ride. Damn drumming. If religious groups want to keep their young people from having sex until they are married, I strongly suggest getting rid of the drums in the school band. I was feeling this attraction and detachment, sort of an I-feel-squishy-and-besides-I-might-as-well-get-this-over-with type of feeling.

  Poor Goose. He paced back and forth a few times, a small person in large boots, and then came and sat down on the little flowered sofa. He stuck his hands under his thighs and started drumming his steel toes against the floor. And every time he made a nervous gesture, I felt more confident.

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he glared into spac
e, obviously psyching himself up. I was surprised he didn’t give himself a pep talk right in front of me.

  “You can sit a bit closer if you want.”

  “Okay. Yeah. Sounds good.” He maneuvered himself up and over. Then he put his hands on his knees and continued tapping his boots on the floor.

  When he was settled, uncomfortably, beside me, I twisted myself around and sort of thrust my arm behind him. There was hardly any room to move, and the child-sized sofa’s springs didn’t have the strength to support us, so we slowly sank toward the floor. The couch must have been hell for parents to sit on, even just to zip up jackets and put on little boots. For the two of us about to engage in intimacy, it was torture.

  My arm immediately went numb and Gooseboy’s face went bright red, but catching the spirit of the thing, he lifted his arm and put it around my shoulders. Every time we took a breath, my silver vest made a noise like a hundred cellophane packages being crumpled. It was distracting, but I was determined, so I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my face up to wait for the wash of passion to surge over me.

  Nothing happened.

  When I opened my eyes again, he was peering into them.

  “Can I kiss you?” he asked.

  I wondered briefly if Frank had this problem with her conquests.

  “Um. Yeah,” I said.

  So he kissed me. You can’t imagine how bizarre it felt. Somebody else’s lips were actually touching mine. My neck ached and my nose was filled with his smell, and my trapped arm shook uncontrollably from lack of blood, but I was kissing.

  It didn’t take long before the kissing became boring. There really would have had to be a lot of action going on to keep us distracted from the pain of being on that couch. I guess you could say it was the pain and not the passion spurring us on.

  Gooseboy wasn’t exactly taking the bull by the horns, so I decided to help him out a bit. I grabbed his hand, the one that wasn’t squashed behind me, digging into my spasming, twisted back, and put it under my vest. Like a creature with a small, slow brain of its own, his hand froze for a minute and then, startled, flew off my chest.