Subject to Change

by Karen Nesbitt

  “Declan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you like to go home? I just spoke to your mom. She wants me to tell you she loves you.”

  Home. Mom. Still there. Same as ever.

  “Dad?” I haven’t said that word to him in such a long time.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Okay, son. Bill’s all paid. I’ll meet you at the truck.” He drapes my jacket over the top of the stall door.

  I take a few more minutes to calm down and then come out of the stall. The water from the faucet is cold. I splash my face and take a drink.

  Dad’s having a smoke beside the truck. His shoulders are slumped. He’s kicking at the slush. I walk up to him on the driver’s side, my hands in my pockets, and stand there. I can’t speak. I can’t even take out a smoke. He throws his cigarette on the ground and puts it out with his boot.

  For once, I feel like I’m not the tallest person around. Slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal, he opens his arms, great big wings, and puts them around me. I don’t hug him back. But I don’t push him away.

  Twenty-Four

  “Declan?”

  “Yeah?” Leah motions for me to stand up—it’s the stop for her house—but my legs have fused with the waffled metal back of the bus seat in front of me. It takes a few seconds to unscrunch my body and come back to reality. I’ve been lost in my head, wondering why she’s acting so distant with me today.

  When we get to her house, she fishes her keys out of a pocket on the outside of her bag. She looks to see if I noticed and smiles, but it’s a fake smile. I check across the street for the blue Taurus. Worry sits like a rock in my stomach. It’s been over a week since anyone has seen Seamus. As I’m taking out my history stuff, Leah says, “I’m going to make tea for me and Bubby. Want some?”

  Tea? I’ve never even tasted tea. Mom hates it. Only coffee at our house. “No thanks.”

  “Juice?”

  “Uh, sure.” I pretend to study my notes. We’re supposed to be preparing for a unit test on Thursday, and I actually went over my stuff on the weekend. I don’t want to be surprised by another one of her pop quizzes. I wish she’d come sit down already. If there’s going to be an I don’t like you that way speech, I want to get it over with.

  Leah reappears with a mug of tea and a glass of orange juice. She puts them on the table, pulls out her chair and sits. But instead of getting down to business in her usual teacher style, she wraps her hands around the steaming mug.

  “Can we talk for a minute?” she asks her mug.

  I brace myself. Here it comes. “Sure.”

  “Were you really at the police station overnight last Tuesday?”

  “Wow. That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”

  She looks confused. “Well, it’s the same night we dropped you off. I heard—”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, I spent the night at the police station.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  But I know I do. I sigh, lean my head back and stare at the ceiling for a while. “It’s kind of a long story. Remember the guy with the firecrackers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wasn’t completely honest with you when I said I didn’t know who it was. I did. It was the same guy I had the fight with. My brother, Seamus. The blue car belongs to one of his moronic friends.”

  I glance over to see her reaction. Her brown eyes bug out at me.

  “Yeah, we’ve had—there’ve been some problems since my parents got divorced. My brother’s totally fucked up.” She motions for me to go on, so I tell her the rest of the story, about my wallet and the golf course, and what the police station was really like. It’s kind of a wild story, and it gets better every time I tell it. She gasps and makes all these shocked faces and says, “That’s crazy!” and “Oh my god!” and “Poor you!” It’s cool. I leave out the part about my dad coming to get me. I can’t tell whether she feels sorry for me or if she even believes me, but it seems like there’s still something bugging her. Maybe she doesn’t want to hang around with a guy who has sleepovers with the police. I start bracing myself again for the speech. “So you hate me now, right?”

  “What? No.”

  “Something’s bothering you.”

  She nods, fakes a cough, takes a sip of tea. She keeps starting and stopping and playing with her mug, like she’s trying to get up the nerve to say something, and I’m freaking out. Finally she says, “Friday night, at the dance—” Our eyes lock; hers flit away. “Well, after…” She hesitates. “My friends said they saw you outside.”

  Saw me outside. So? Smoking? She knows I smoke.

  “They said that girl in tenth grade, Theresa…that you guys were, like, all over each other.” She looks down at her fingers curled tightly around her mug.

  Oh my god. That’s what it is! Figures her stupid friends would be spying. Oh shit. I’m starting to clue in about what they saw. She’s jealous! For some reason this makes me really excited. Like maybe it’s a good thing. I try to fight a smile that’s threatening to take over my face.

  “I know it’s probably none of my business.” She stops staring at her fingers and notices I’m stifling a smile. “It’s not funny. I don’t dance like that with just anybody.” She seems genuinely upset.

  I get my mouth back under control and lean forward with my arms on the table, closer to her. I’m nervous. I know things could go either way here. If she believes me, I might actually have a chance with her, and, crazy as it sounds, I want that. If she doesn’t, I won’t need help anymore with history. I’ll be history.

  “Me neither.” I take a deep breath. “I can explain. Theresa and I used to go out, like in seventh and eighth grade. But she still hangs around me, especially when she wants attention. She was shit-faced. They got kicked out of the dance. Anyway, she was bugging me that she was cold. So I gave her a hug because we’ve been friends for a long time. Then she started to get all, you know, so I got mad and pushed her away. She ended up flipping me off and leaving with her friends.”

  “Really?”

  “I swear.” Again, I can’t resist smiling. I shake my head to try to hide it from her.

  She’s not enjoying this. “I need to know the truth.”

  “Sorry.” I get myself together. “It’s true. I’m not into Theresa at all. She’s messed up.”

  I try to read the expression in her brown eyes as I wait for her to say something.

  “I liked dancing with you,” she finally says.

  “Um, me too. You’re a great dancer.” Under the table I kick myself for giving her such a lame answer.

  “Thanks, but that’s not what I mean.”

  “Me neither.” I shake my head and move my pinkie so it’s touching hers. She’s watching our hands.

  “You made such a fuss about being pulled onto the floor, but you can dance. You’re just shy.”

  My friends have called me a lot of things, but never shy.

  “I can tell you feel the music, because…” She blushes, and it makes little red sunrises on her cheeks. I love that she’s nervous talking about us dancing. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been tied up in knots all weekend. “I’ve been dancing for a long time. You have to feel the beat with your body.” She taps her right hand on her chest. Then she puts her other hand over my heart.

  I’m afraid to breathe, like her hand is a butterfly and it might fly away.

  “You can.”

  “I can what?” I’ve lost track of what she’s saying because of her hand on my chest.

  “You can feel the beat.” She takes her hand away, and I breathe again.

  “Yeah, but that doesn�
��t mean I can dance. Look at me. Mom says I’m like a human crane with a wrecking ball.” She gives me this skeptical look. “It’s true. I’m taller than everyone, I’m mostly elbows, knees and feet, and my hair is always in my eyes. I have a special talent for knocking things down from really high places.”

  Leah leans her head back and laughs, full out, and her neck makes this long curve that my eyes follow all the way down from her chin…I have to look away.

  She stops laughing and squints. “You always talk about your mom. Never your dad.”

  “My parents are divorced. I live with my mom.”

  “Miranda’s parents are divorced, but she does stuff with both of them all the time.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Never?”

  “It’s complicated,” I say, because I don’t want to lie. But I don’t want to go into the whole explanation either.

  She gets the message and starts shuffling through her history stuff.

  “I guess we better make sure you’re ready for your test on Thursday.” She’s back in teacher mode. I have to stop imagining all the other things we could be doing together.

  “Way to go, Declan. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’m proud of you.”

  I brush away her compliment. She gave me another one of her practice tests, and this time I didn’t totally suck, but our knees are touching under the table, and that’s way more important right now.

  Leah groans at my fake modesty and clears our glasses away. It’s time for tutoring to be over, but I don’t want to leave.

  As I’m zipping up my schoolbag, she returns from the kitchen. “Oh, we’re not finished.” She smiles like she’s up to something. Her eyes are dancing. “Just one sec.” She disappears and comes back a minute later with her iPhone and speakers, scrolls through her music and taps the screen. Deep bass notes fill the dining room. Bup, bup bup. Bup, bup bup…

  “It’s time for your dance lesson.”

  “No!” I search for a reason to either stay glued to my chair or run. “We’ll disturb your grandmother!”

  “She’s used to it. I practice all the time.” She starts moving chairs to make room.

  “Practice?”

  “Yeah. For my dance group.”

  She’s holding out her hand. I’d do anything for an excuse to take it, but dancing? Before I have time to decide, she pulls me right out of my chair. “Relax,” she says.

  I feel a lot of things when she’s close to me. Relaxed isn’t one of them. So I bend my knees like she tells me to and try to copy her, but my feet get all tangled up. She slows down, I follow her, she picks up the speed, and magically my feet cooperate. I’m getting it! She’s beaming. We’re actually dancing together in time with the music. Dickhead’s doing hip-hop!

  I smile at her, proud of myself, and immediately trip over both sets of our feet. The human crane lunges and almost crushes Leah. She squirms away, and I get my balance back just in time to stop the chairs from becoming dominoes. I want to crawl in a hole.

  She keeps moving to the music. “Don’t worry, pick it back up. Kick, step, back; kick, step, back.”

  She guides me with her hand, and I try to get back into the groove, but I can’t seem to find it. I’m saved by Leah’s grandmother, who’s watching us from the doorway with a big smile on her face.

  “Hi, Bubby! Join us?”

  Bubby laughs and shuffles around in a circle, groovin’ a little in her corduroy slippers. Supercool Bubby.

  The song finishes and Leah clicks the music off. Bubby applauds and I bow. Then she continues on her way to the kitchen and Leah and I are alone again. Gently I bump her shoulder with my arm. “I probably should get home. Mom is waiting dinner for me. Besides, the last time I came home late, the cops were in my living room.”

  “Can you stay for a bit? My dad can give you a lift. One of these days you will have to have supper with us so you can meet my mom too.”

  “Have to? Why? I—I don’t think I’m ready.”

  “You don’t need to be ready. My mom will love you. I’d like to meet your mom too. I love that you go home to eat supper with her. It’s so sweet. You’re like a team.”

  A team? She actually means it. I never thought of it like that, but we kind of are. I mean, I help her with groceries and stuff, and do all the things she can’t do around the house. Leah makes me feel like I could be a good person. I smile at her, but she’s lost in thought, so I watch her for a minute, and I start imagining all the things we could be doing together again. She’s standing close to me. The back of my hand searches for hers. “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Walk with me partway?”

  “I could.” Her fingertips flutter against mine. “I can’t leave Bubby for too long though.”

  “Twenty minutes. Half hour, tops. I’ll turn you around after fifteen minutes.” It’s a perfect moment. I check to make sure Bubby’s not standing in the doorway and start to move in closer, pulling Leah toward me. She sidles into place.

  She turns her face up toward mine and says, “So I guess this is not a good time to tell me about your dad—”

  My body, which was shifting into high gear, skids to a stop. I have to clear my throat so my voice doesn’t crack. “Wow. That came out of nowhere. I thought I was the one with ADD.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—we were talking about parents and everything. I was just wondering. I guess he lives far away or something.”

  Really? That’s what she’s thinking about now? I’m truly not capable of understanding girls. I shake my head. “No. He lives in Coteau-du-Lac, actually.”

  “So it’s on purpose that you don’t see him?” She’s starting to sound like Miss Fraser with all her questions.

  “I guess.”

  “Sorry. You obviously don’t want to talk about it. I’m being rude!” She smacks herself in the forehead.

  I grab her hand. “No! Don’t do that. It’s okay. It’s just… we don’t have to talk about it now, do we?” I try to pick up where we left off, and pull her close…

  “I’m sorry.” Her shoulders slump.

  I scream quietly inside. But it seems mean to leave her hanging, and now she feels bad. Again, not the mood I was going for. I kind of do want to tell her about Dad, and I’m sure she’d be okay with it. “It’s kind of a long story…”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “My dad’s gay. He had an affair with a guy. So my parents split.”

  “Oh, Declan!”

  I shake my head and cover my face with my hands.

  “You found out he was gay and that he was having an affair at the same time?”

  All I can do is nod.

  “Wow!” She pauses for a second and shakes her head. “So that’s why you were so interested when Bubby talked about her choir director.”

  She did notice. “It was kind of an eye-opener for me,” I say.

  “How old were you when all this happened?”

  “Ten. Right at the beginning of fifth grade. It was a back-to-school present.”

  “I can’t imagine. Poor little guy.” She jars me out of my thoughts.

  “Who?”

  “You, stupid. And your mom. It must have been awful for her.”

  “Yeah, a lot of things changed. It’s been this big family secret for years. But—”

  “Oh my god. So that’s why you don’t see your dad? Not because he left, but because he’s gay?”

  I cringe. “No! Well, yeah. But maybe not really. It’s complicated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  And then I tell her that when I was little, I didn’t know how to feel. All I knew was my family had blown apart and it was because of him. I didn’t really even know what gay meant. I tell her how fucked-up my family has been for the last five years. I say the words vanished and banished, and she actually gets what I m
ean. As I’m talking, I realize I’m angry about being treated like I was too young to have anything to say about it. I tell her we were collateral damage—me and Seamus and Kate—and it makes me feel sad about Seamus. I even tell her about seeing Dad at Kate’s and how it was like seeing myself because he looks like me. And about him showing up at the police station, and his truck, and all-day breakfast in Pincourt. What is it about her that makes me forget I’m talking? She should be a guidance counselor.

  “That’s so cool,” she says. “That he’s back in your life again.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” Why does everybody keep saying it’s cool?

  “And you’re not too keen on that.”

  “Wasn’t. Now?” I shrug. “After seeing him, it’s different.”

  The truth is, I’m not nervous anymore about who my dad is. When he brought me home from lunch the other day, I could tell he felt really bad that I was upset. It didn’t bug me that he was gay. It bugged me that that he seemed like this normal guy, and I missed him. I had missed him for years.

  “You liked Bubby’s story about the choir guy and the pink triangle, right?”

  Is she going to make me talk to Bubby now? “Sure.”

  “She used to have a little book called something about the pink triangle. Maybe you’d like to borrow it.”

  She’s not asking if I’d like to borrow it; she’s saying I should. What if Dad had lived in Nazi Germany? My face goes all prickly, like when the teacher is handing back tests and you don’t know what your grade is going to be. I shake it off. “Okay.”

  She’s surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s something I should know about. You know, homophobia.”

  “Great.”

  She takes me by the hand and leads me to the kitchen, where Bubby is pouring herself more tea. Leah asks her about the book.

  “Oh, yes. You want it for something?”

  “Declan might be able to use it for a project.”

  Bubby looks at me, and I nod because I’m supposed to.

  “I’ll get it. I know exactly where it is.” Bubby’s shuffle is more animated as she leaves the room.

  Leah takes my hand again. I’m feeling a bit nervous about this book. I muster the courage to meet her eyes. My face is tingly and warm. For a moment it’s just me and Leah holding hands. I feel like I should say something, thank her maybe, but I can’t get my words out. Instead, I swing our arms back and forth.