Subject to Change

by Karen Nesbitt

  She crumples the Kleenex back up again. “We lost so much. Not just each other. We lost our family.” Her voice cracks. “It was just easier to get the divorce over with and push on.”

  Push on? Really? Because it seems like we just buried it. Like we were hiding a dead body in the backyard. Heroes push on. Face things. I’m not so sure pretending nothing happened, hiding it all, was heroic.

  “You weren’t disgusted?”

  “No. I don’t know. I probably said that at the time. It gave me an excuse to reject him. I felt a lot of things. Don’t forget, he also had an affair. That made me feel like I’d been living a lie. It made me doubt everything…how he felt about me. I was angry—angry doesn’t even cover it—and confused. But disgust?” She shrugs, and her lip trembles. I notice tears in the corners of her eyes. She rolls her eyes to the side, trying to make the tears evaporate. After a few seconds she calms down, reaches over and strokes my face. Her fingertips make tiny cool spots on my bruised cheek.

  “I’m sorry for slapping you—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I grab one of the cushions and hold it against my chest.

  “You have a right to feel whatever you feel, Declan. But you shouldn’t have said that.”

  I know I should apologize, but I can’t. I’m mad, and I don’t know for sure about what. And so tired—too tired even for a smoke. I want to be alone. “Ma, do you mind if I just go to bed? I didn’t sleep much, and it’s been a long day.”

  “Of course. Go. I’m going soon too.”

  “Ma?”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I’m not sure how I feel about—that?” I picture him holding Mandy, her playing with his watch, her little fingers holding his wrists. My uncle’s gay, he’s really cool. . .

  “It’s okay, honey. You have to feel what you feel. But I think we all…”

  She trails off. I wait for her.

  “Maybe for Mandy, we all have to put that aside.”

  My shoulders drop. “I don’t know, Mom. I just don’t know. I don’t know what I think anymore.”

  Before I leave the room, she asks if I’ve heard from Seamus. She seems small and sad. I shake my head. I can’t help her. The truth is, I’m not sure I care.

  “He’s out wrestling with the devil, I guess. I hope he’s safe.” She’s trying to look brave, but I can tell she’s terrified.

  “Yeah, I guess. Good night, Ma.”

  “Good night, Dekkie.”

  I sit on the edge of my bed, too tired to take off my clothes. Too confused to focus on anything. Vanished. Banished. These words keep rolling around in my head. I keep going back to that TMNT story. I know what shame feels like, what Yoshi felt, and what his family must have felt about him. Without Yoshi’s exile, there would have been no Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Was there any other way? For Yoshi, the alternative was hara-kiri. For us? Was there an alternative for us?

  He is her father, and Mandy’s grandfather. My father. What does that word even mean? I guess exile is better than hara-kiri. I still have a father. And he doesn’t live in a sewer on the other side of the world.

  Sixteen

  I’m coming in from having a smoke after lunch on Tuesday, walking—walking—around a corner to get to my locker before the second bell rings, and wham! Leah smashes right into me.

  “Whoa!” I grab her shoulders before she assaults me again with her books. In her hands, those things are like weapons.

  She shakes her hair back and makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat. “Figures you’d be somewhere you’re not supposed to be!”

  “Hey! Figures you’d be tearing around a corner not looking where you’re going—again.” I still have her by the shoulders. She has to look up to see my face because she’s so close and she’s a lot shorter than me. There’s this electricity between us, and for a second it’s awkward. Her eyes dart away, and I let go.

  “You’re not supposed to be on this side. You walk on the other side in case someone’s coming around the corner! Like driving?” She curls her lip like, duh.

  I’ve seen the damage she can do walking with a pile of books. If she was behind the wheel of a car, no one would be safe. “Yeah? Well, fortunately this isn’t driving. Watch where you’re going.”

  She shakes her head and acts all pissed off. But she’s flustered. For once, I’m the cool one.

  Then she notices the bruise on my cheek. Her face changes, and she loses the impatient routine. Little Miss Perfects aren’t supposed to be bitchy when people are hurt. I liked it better when she was snotty. At least it was honest. She’s trying not to stare, but her eyes keep sneaking up to my face. Today, my whole left cheek is black and kind of a smooth marbled purple, and there’s a crunchy, rust-colored scab on my cheekbone. It makes me irresistible. “Aren’t you gonna ask? Everyone else does.”

  She presses her lips together, probably annoyed I caught her staring. “What happened?”

  “I got in a fight. I was the good guy.”

  She nods, but her raised eyebrows say she doesn’t believe me. “Are you all right?”

  I consider telling her what a beast I was, and how I tossed Seamus out like a bag of garbage. Chicks dig that sort of thing, even though they pretend they’re all superior. You can tell because their eyes get like heat-seeking missiles. I decide not to. I’m nervous enough about going to her house again, especially after we made fools of ourselves in the gym. I shrug and flex my sore hand. “You should see the other guy.”

  She rolls her eyes and calls me a jerk. I’m smiling inside at how easy it is to mess with her. Her arms are crossed in front of her over her books, and she’s wearing a low-cut top. Being tall has some advantages when it comes to certain things. I can’t help looking at her boobs. I’m afraid she’ll notice, so I change the subject. “We taking the bus to your place later?”

  Her eyes open wide, like she expected me to blow off tutoring. “Yeah, sure.”

  “You’ll be happy to know I actually have my stuff this time.” I hitch my schoolbag, just excavated from under a pile of stuff in my closet, onto my shoulder the way I’ve seen the real students do.

  “Great. I’d better get to class.” She starts walking away backward.

  “Better look where you’re going.” I don’t know what gets into me, but I wink. It’s like my eye decides to do it without running it past my brain first. Her forehead wrinkles up, and a corner of her mouth sort of twitches.

  Her fingers let go of their grip on her books and flutter “bye,” and then she pivots gracefully on one canvas sneaker and walks away. I’m watching her walk—the smooth swing of her hips—and she looks back and catches me. My stomach does some major dance steps. But she turns and continues down the hall, hugging her books as she makes the distance between us grow. Not perky. Just smooth.

  I pull myself away. Two minutes till the final bell. I can make it to class on time if I run. I do a quick check up and down the hall—no Mr. Peters, no Miss Fraser—and beat it to my locker to ditch my jacket as fast as I can.

  “Done.”

  I push my chair away from the table and stretch out my legs. Leah takes the cap off her red pen. I’ve just finished my first history quiz. She said she wanted to see how much I know, where the “holes” are. I tried to convince her I wasn’t ready, but she doesn’t take no for an answer. When she thinks something should happen, it does. I’m learning it’s kind of how she sees the world.

  She puts on her teacher face and reaches for my paper. I slide it toward her slowly. The red pen gets to work.

  There’s nothing on the stove today, but I hear a clock ticking somewhere. Leah’s grandmother has the TV on low in the living room. It’s dusk. The chandelier over the table isn’t on yet, and it’s getting darker in here. The candlesticks on the buffet are catching the last of the light through the dining room window. I shudder at the memory they bring up and go back to following the red pen
. Isn’t she done yet? My legs are jumpy from sitting for such a long time. I could use a smoke.

  Check. Check. Check.

  Leah stops to put her hair up in a pink elastic. She twirls it around and twists the elastic into place and voilà, like magic, there’s a loose pouf of hair on top of her head. Now I can see the little bone of her spine sticking out above the collar of her sweater; escaped curls rest on the back of her neck. Little soft ones you could put your finger through, soft like the pussy willows that grow in the ditch near my house.

  Snap out of it, dickhead. “So how’s it look, teach?”

  “Well, Declan.” Hearing her say my name has a surprising effect. My insides turn to mush. “Not bad. I’m just about done.” She writes something on the paper and motions for me to move my chair closer. I hesitate, shy about pulling up beside her. I bite the inside of my cheek and stare at the red marks on the page.

  “Oh, get over yourself.”

  I grab my chair and scoot over. I have to scrunch up my legs so our knees don’t bump. Just keep your eyes off those curls.

  She gives me this long story about how I did well on some of the questions but makes me feel like an idiot about the long answers. “You have to write more than two or three words.”

  I strain to see the page. Some of them have four or five.

  “Did you understand this stuff?”

  What does she mean, did I understand it? Why wouldn’t I? “Yeah.” I know I sound kind of huffy.

  “Okay, okay. I just want to know if you get the big picture.”

  I have no idea what big picture she’s talking about, but it’s no problem. She can tell by the clueless expression on my face.

  “It’s okay. We’ll go over it. You’ll get questions like this on your final exam. Haven’t you had to write any essays?”

  How do I tell her I’ve never done one? That I’ve handed in squat the whole year? On the other hand, what makes me think she’d be surprised?

  “They don’t just want you to memorize stuff. You kind of have to show that you can use your brain.”

  I start picking a hangnail. What the hell time is it anyway? Shouldn’t I be going home?

  “Is something wrong?” She sounds like she’s actually trying to be nice.

  “No.” I look at my watch. It’s getting late.”

  “I thought you wanted to pass the exam.” No more Miss Nice Guy.

  “I do, I do. It’s just—”

  “It’s just what? You don’t want to work?”

  “What? No! I’m here, aren’t I?” It’s only my second week of taking things seriously. I’m still getting warmed up.

  “Well, you have to work!”

  “I know. It’s just…”

  “Hard?”

  “Tiring!”

  She’s shaking her head.

  “You think I’m a…a loser! I know you do.”

  She’s about to say something, but she stops herself and settles on a scowl.

  “Well, I’m not. I’m just not like you. Little Miss Perfect—”

  Leah straightens like a rod in her chair. I think she might slap me. Two slaps in a week. “Little Miss Perfect? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know, straight As, the Ghana project, the guidance counselor’s little pet—”

  “You’re insulting me because I’m a good student? And helpful? Oh my god! It’s better than being a loser stoner whose friends walk up walls for attention because they’re too stupid to do anything else!”

  I’m pissed that she called me a stoner. But I’m not going to sit here while she insults my friends. Especially since Dave’s a freaking genius. “You know what? My friends’ve got my back. They’re loyal and smart. You probably can’t see it, because you’re too busy with all your popular shit, but Dave’s a freakin’ genius. The girls you hang around with are all nicey-nice to your face, but they have shit for brains, and they’re real bitches.”

  “Yeah? Well, your friends are immature jerks. They whistle and objectify women.”

  My jaw drops. “They whistle because they think you’re cute! ’Cause they saw you dancing and think you’re hot! And objectify women? What the hell does that even mean?”

  “Well, if you weren’t so…”

  “C’mon!” I dare her to finish.

  She freezes.

  “Say it!”

  She presses her lips together.

  “You were gonna say stupid.”

  She looks down.

  “Don’t bother. I know you think it anyway. Little Miss Perfect, helping the poor loser! Good for you! I guess you think you deserve a Nobel Prize or something.” My hands are tripping over themselves getting my stuff together so I can leave.

  “I don’t think you’re stupid! But you are lazy, or maybe you just don’t care. Anyway, it seems like that’s what you want everyone to think. Why do you act like you’re so tough all the time?”

  “’Cause I am tough?” I stop shuffling papers. Did I really say that?

  “You’re all fuckin this and fuckin that. But you were sweet to my bubby, and you go home to have supper with your mom.”

  She stops, and my ears ring in the silence. It’s like the walls are stunned too, it’s so quiet. “Careful. You’ll ruin my reputation,” I say.

  “You’re not such a bad boy.” She has her arms crossed in front of her again.

  “And you’re not such a Little Miss Perfect. Yesterday in the gym, the variety-show thing? That was a surprise.”

  Neither of us says anything for a few moments. She’s quiet, but her eyes are fiery. Her chest rises and falls a few times. “Your friends think I’m cute?”

  I have to decide whether to rat out Mitch and Dave or let her think they’re jerks. “Look, I’m just saying, they liked it. Hip-hop isn’t exactly Chinese folk dancing.”

  I glance down at her arms, crossed over her—you know—boobs, and she notices! Little Miss Perfect tilts her head to the side and curls fall over her shoulder. Her eyes are slits.

  I’m a boy. She’s a girl. What does she expect?

  Quickly I look away, ready to get blasted.

  “Oh.”

  I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. No one’s ever said that before, that I’m—cute.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, yeah,” she says, like it’s obvious. Like she’s really surprised they think she’s hot.

  Funny. Guys always think girls know. They put so much work into how they look—makeup, clothes, their hair. How could they not know? It seems like they do a lot to get us to notice. Then when we do, they act all pissed off. I shake my head and change the subject. “So, what about the quiz? I actually should go soon. I have to walk, and it’s pretty far.” Notes and books and pens are jumbled up, sticking half in, half out of my bag.

  “You live in Rigaud and you were going to walk?” she asks, like she thinks I’m crazy. She starts again, several decibels lower. “Look, if you wait till six my dad can drive you. You won’t get home any later.”

  She wants me to stay? I feel my heart pumping in the back of my throat. “Thanks, but after sitting all this time, I think I need to move, stretch my legs.” I don’t want to meet her dad! Isn’t her grandmother enough? What dad wants his daughter hanging around a guy with a black eye?

  “Well, I have a great idea then!”

  Oh boy, here we go.

  “I usually take Bubby for a walk around this time. After we go over your quiz, you’ll come with us. We’ll all stretch our legs.”

  I hear you’ll come with us and realize it’s another one of those times when there’s no point arguing. It’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to stretch my legs with Leah and her bubby. “Are you sure? Last time, the candlesticks and everything. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She’ll love it. May
be we can even get her to tell us one of her stories. By the time we get back, my dad will be home, and he can give you a lift. See? It’s perfect.”

  Yeah, perfect.

  We work for another hour, and I head to the washroom, thinking there’s got to be some other excuse I can come up with to not go on this walk. The washroom distracts me while I’m in it.

  It’s filled with old stuff. The sink is made of an old washbasin like the kind we saw on a field trip in Old Montreal, and there’s an antique chair with crackled varnish in the corner, holding a plant in a pot that looks like it’s from the Stone Age. On a wooden shelf above the sink, there’s a cracked dish with a lid that says Atkinson’s Parisian Toothpaste. It looks ancient! I start to open it. I want to see if you can still brush your teeth with it, but then I decide I’d better leave it alone. My history with Leah’s family’s souvenirs hasn’t been so good. I go back to worrying about the walk.

  Leah’s not at the table when I get back, so I go to see if she’s with her grandmother. The living room looks out over the lake, and the sun is setting. The snowy hills on the other side are outlined in bright pink. There’s a fireplace along one wall. If this was my house, I’d spend all my time here. Leah’s grandmother is in her recliner, talking on the phone. She smiles and points to the chair beside her. “Yes, dear. Thursday will be fine.”

  I sit on the edge of the chair with my elbows on my knees. I notice she has a tattoo on her arm, the one that’s holding the phone. At first I think she’s even cooler than I thought; then I realize it’s a number, and it’s probably from the concentration camp. I feel like I’m not supposed to see it, like I found her in her underwear, so I look away and start scanning the room. But it takes a moment for me to shake it off.

  There’s more old stuff on shelves and hanging on the wall. Really old, like arrowheads and something that looks like a cave painting, only it’s carved into wood. There’s a creepy little stone statue with no face or arms and really long legs, and angels and crucifixes. Isn’t it against the rules to have crosses if you’re Jewish?