“Of course I’m okay,” I lie. “I’m better than okay, I’m so happy for you. They couldn’t ask for a better lion.” Most of this is true, but it doesn’t stop my heart from aching.
“Okay, good.” Benji’s relief flows across the telephone line. “I wish you were going to be in it,” he adds.
“Me too,” I admit.
“It’s going to be weird not having you there.”
“You’ll probably meet all these new, super-cool people and forget all about me,” I say lightly, hoping against hope that it won’t turn out to be true.
“Clarissa, you are the most unforgettable person I know, except for maybe Denise.”
“Denise doesn’t count. How can I compete with that honking laugh?”
“She should really be exempt.”
“She should.”
There is a pause in the conversation that I can’t seem to find the words to fill. My heart feels sore in a million places. But as sad as I am about not getting the role of my dreams, I have to find a way to lock it all up and just be happy for Benji. It shouldn’t be so difficult, he’s my best friend, for crying out loud. Part of me wants him to do well, but a bigger part of me wishes that I could be there to do well beside him.
“Well, goodnight. And congratulations again, Benji.”
“Thanks, Clarissa. I’m glad you’re okay with everything, because if you wanted me to … well … I would quit.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “Don’t be stupid.”
“It’s just a play, you’re my best friend.”
“It is not just a play; it’s The Wizard of Oz! It’s up to you to do it justice! And you are my best friend, and I won’t let you quit just because I wasn’t good enough to get in.”
“Charity says casting is not about being good, it’s about being right for the part.”
Charity says? He just met her, and already he’s quoting her? I try not to let on that this bothers me. Instead I say as brightly as possible, “Well, I guess she would know!”
“She’s really nice. I think you’d like her.”
“I’m sure I would,” I say quickly. “Goodnight.”
“’night.”
I hang up the phone and change into an old t-shirt and gym shorts, ready for bed, even though it’s barely eight o’clock. I think about watching TV or reading or doing something to make me feel less miserable, but all I want to do is lie on the bed and stew in my bad mood.
“I gather he got in.” Mom appears in the doorway in her silent ninja-mom way, holding a tall, frothy glass of what can only be …
“Creamsicle float?” I ask.
Mom nods. “I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”
I nod wordlessly, slip off the bed, and take the glass from her hand. It feels cold and smooth and just holding it lifts my spirits a little. Mom makes the best ice cream floats in the world. She uses only premium vanilla ice cream and no-name orange pop. You would think that the more expensive stuff would taste better, but we have done the research and it turns out the cheap-o drugstore brand is the best.
“That was good of you, on the phone,” Mom says. “I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
“I guess.” I shrug, refusing to look her in the eye. If I do, she’ll look at me in that way that melts all the hard things inside of me and I’ll turn into a soggy, blubbering cry-baby.
Mom puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me back to the bed. We sit, me drinking my float, and Mom drawing circles across my shoulder blades with her fingernails. It feels nice. When I was little, she used to write words with her finger and I would try and guess what they were.
I can’t remember the last time she sat on the bed with me and scratched my back. Ever since her diagnosis, I do my best to appear happy and worry-free, even on really bad days. Maybe it’s superstitious, but I believe in that saying about making yourself sick with worry. My mom already is sick, and I don’t want to make it worse by giving her something else to worry about. But this time, try as I might, I can’t stop them from coming — big, heaving sobs. I try to fight them off, but I’m so cozy and my mom is right there.
“It’s just —” I start, but the words get caught in a full-body sob.
“Yes?” Mom encourages.
“I’m the one who always wanted to act.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not mad at him, how can you possibly be mad at Benji, but —” I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, “why couldn’t we both get in?” Hot tears run down my cheeks. There is nothing I can do to stop them. I am officially crying.
Mom lets me go for a while, rubbing my back and shoulders. When I’ve calmed myself down, she continues, “I’m sorry you didn’t get in, Clarissa. It took a lot of guts to get up and audition for something like that. You should be so proud of yourself. I know I am proud of you. And next time it will be that much easier.”
“I don’t know if there will be a next time,” I mumble.
“There will be. If you really want to be an actress you have to get back out there and try again. You have to get used to rejection.”
I stare into my empty glass so I don’t have to answer.
“Benji needs a break like this,” Mom continues, “and I’m not saying that you don’t deserve it, either, but we both know you are made of stronger stuff. You feel awful now, but you will bounce back. And you’re going to have to hear all about rehearsals and costumes and pretend it doesn’t hurt.”
“I know,” I sigh.
“What Benji needs most is your support.”
Mom takes my chin in her hand and smiles at me like I am something miraculous and not some dripping, red-eyed mess. “Look at you,” she sighs, “practically all grown up, only a few months away from grade nine. You know, high school is a whole different ball game. You and Benji won’t always do the same things, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still be best friends.”
“I know that.”
“Good. Now, do you feel better, or should I make another float?”
In our post-diagnosis world of celery and soy milk, a real ice cream float is a rare thing.
“I think one more will make me feel a whole lot better.”
Mom laughs. “I figured. Well, get up. The least you can do is come keep me company while I work my magic.”
Miss
Benji has rehearsal Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, Saturday mornings, and every other Sunday afternoon. When he’s not at rehearsal it seems like he’s either catching up on his homework or practising his lines. Considering we used to spend almost every waking moment together, it’s been weird adjusting to his new schedule.
A secret part of me is relieved. I don’t think I could handle hearing about how much fun he’s having in the show I should have been in. I thought the disappointment would fade but it’s still there, niggling away like a sad song I just can’t get out of my head. Consequently, I’ve been spending more and more time with Mattie. After receiving many weepy phone calls and I’m Sorry notes written in sparkly pen, I decided to forgive her for the Don’t Tell Clarissa About Benji’s Callback fiasco. I know why she did it, and I can’t really blame her. But even though Mattie can be lots of fun, she doesn’t exactly fill the Benji-shaped hole in my life.
On Thursdays I go home with Mattie and stay for dinner, which works out perfectly because Mom trains at the gym Thursday evening. Mattie’s mom is always waiting for us when we walk in the door. She kisses Mattie on both cheeks and gives me a hug before asking, “What would you girls like for a snack?”
“Oh I’m fine, Cheryl,” I tell her. “I have my Mr. Noodles left over from lunch.”
Cheryl Cohen frowns. “Oh, Clarissa, let me cut you an apple. We don’t eat dehydrated food around here.”
“It’s bad for you,” Mattie adds.
I rip the silver packet and dump the powdery flavour and pieces of dried carrot and onion and beef onto my noodles. “Astronauts eat dehydrated food,” I point out.
“They’
re in space,” Mattie says patiently, like she’s talking to an idiot instead of someone who got a higher mark on her last science test that she did. “They don’t have any choice.”
I tip the kettle and pour steaming hot water to the line etched into the cup. “Well, I do have a choice and if it’s good enough for an astronaut, then it’s good enough for me.”
Mattie and her mother exchange disgusted glances but have nothing more to say. How can you argue with science?
Most of the time, I drink my milk (there is no pop at the Cohen house), and listen. It’s weird watching another mom and daughter together, but I definitely don’t miss Denise’s third-wheel commentary. At first I worried that maybe I was the third wheel, but I got over that pretty quickly. Mattie and her mom just love having people over, almost as much as they love talking. Mattie tells her mom absolutely everything that happens in school, including who said what, and what so and so was wearing. Sometimes they even try to figure out the motives behind people’s behaviour.
“I’m not surprised that Amanda and Min have been spending so much time together,” Cheryl says. “Amanda has always needed someone to follow and Min is a bit of a queen bee.”
Eventually Mattie runs out of things to report and Cheryl says, “Well I’ll let you two girls get down to your homework,” as if she’s been keeping us from the joy of long division. “But first, why don’t you pick out a CD that we can listen to while I make dinner?”
By CD she means one of her cheesy compilation albums. Cheryl Cohen has every single “Women & Songs” CD, and apparently nothing else. There must be about ten of them. Mattie takes forever to choose, scanning the song list and eventually narrowing the selection down to two and allowing me to make the final decision. I don’t see what the big deal is. “Women & Songs 1” sounds exactly like “Women & Songs 10.” Normally I would do my homework in front of the TV, but Mattie only watches one hour of TV a day on weekdays. I never thought I would miss all those corny re-runs that Benji makes us watch, but even Full House is better than “Women & Songs.”
When I get home, Denise is lounging in a chair, my mother wrapping thick sections of her rusty-coloured hair around a large-barrelled curling iron.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Denise has a big date, so I’m giving her the Cosmo blow-out.”
It’s a good thing I’m not chewing any gum, because I would have spit it right into Denise’s hard-earned curls in shock.
“A date?” I repeat. “With who?”
It must be a big date because the Cosmo blow-out — so named because it is the hairstyle they give to every single actress or model who appears on the front of Cosmo magazine — is a lot of work, involving hot rollers, two different curling irons, and a lot of hairspray.
Denise whacks me lightly on the arm. I admit my tone may have been a tad suspicious. “Dennis.”
It takes me a moment to respond. “Dennis?” I say carefully.
Mom frowns. “Yes, Dennis.”
“Denise is going on a date with a man named Dennis?”
Mom’s lip twitches as it dawns on her just how similar the names Dennis and Denise are. Maybe she hadn’t heard them spoken aloud together. “Yes,” she repeats evenly, in a masterful attempt to hide any amusement. “Denise is going on a date with a man named Dennis.”
I glance at Denise to see if the light bulb had gone off in her head, but she is filing away, squaring off her nails in preparation for her date. With Dennis.
“I met him in line at the grocery store, can you believe it? I guess Oprah was right. You never know when you’re going to meet that certain someone,” Denise says.
“A certain someone named Dennis. Who you, Denise, are going out on a date with.”
Mom shoots me a look but Denise doesn’t seem to pick up on it. “For Pete’s sake, Clarissa,” she asks, “what’s gotten into you? What’s so hard to believe?”
“Nothing, it’s just that —”
“You just can’t imagine someone asking me out? Is that it?”
Well, yes, but that wasn’t the point.
I sigh. When you have to explain the joke it really wasn’t all that funny. I needed an appreciative audience. I need Benji. Why does he have to be at stupid rehearsal all the time?
Doug
“Is that a man?”
Benji and I stop dead in our tracks and listen. Downstairs in the Hair Emporium, Mom is talking to someone who does, in fact, sound like a man. Mom only has three male clients: Denise’s brother-in-law Richard, a nervous man who rarely speaks if he can help it; old Mr. Lawford, who looks like he’s pushing one hundred years old; and Benji, of course. None of them sounds like the mystery man. All I can hear is rumbling interrupted by a throaty laugh. What could he possibly be laughing at? My mother is not that funny. Beautiful, yes, but not funny.
“Come on,” I tell Benji. We drop our backpacks and head down the stairs.
“Mom? I’m home.”
“Oh, Clarissa, come on in. I want you to meet Doug.”
Doug. The good egg. My mother’s trainer.
Seated in my mother’s red leather recliner, the cape tied around his neck and barely reaching his thighs, Doug looks like a giant. His legs seem to go on forever, stretched out in front of him and ending in big, yellow workboots with the laces untied. They are suspiciously clean, as if no actual work is done while wearing those boots.
Doug’s hair is damp and falls in longish waves on either side of his part, no doubt discovered by my mother and her little red comb. He keeps slicking it back, which causes my mom to slap his wrist with her comb, which makes him laugh, and then she laughs. Is my mother flirting?
Doug stands to shake my hand and my suspicions are confirmed; he is officially the tallest man I have ever seen in real life. “Hey there, Clarissa, nice to finally meet you. And let me guess, you must be Benji? The star?”
I only bristle a little as Benji blushes and says, “I’m not the star, I’m just the Lion.”
“And what trouble did you two get up to today?” Doug asks, easing himself back onto the recliner.
“Math, English, Geography, the usual,” I say evenly.
Doug laughs. “Touché.”
“Doug is finally letting me give him a much-needed trim,” Mom says, rubbing the ends of Doug’s hair between her fingers and making her “yuck, split ends” face.
Doug shrugs. “She wore me down. Plus I’ve been meaning to check out the Hair Emporium. See what all the fuss is about.”
“The fuss!” Mom exclaims. “Well, I hope it lives up to your high standards. When is the last time you had your hair cut, anyway? Prom?”
Doug grins. “Nah, I think it was my sweet sixteen.”
Mom smiles wickedly. “Well, fifty years is long enough, don’t you think?”
Doug laughs long and hard, slapping his thigh. Mom looks very pleased with herself.
“Promise me you won’t buzz it all off,” Doug says. “My hair is my trademark. It’s the source of all my powers.”
My breath catches in my throat. How stupid can you be, making hair jokes in front of a person who just recently lost her hair? It doesn’t seem to resonate with Mom, who is still grinning away, turning Doug’s head this way and that, visualizing the cut in the mirror.
“Yes, I’m sure if we cut it all off, the female membership at the gym would drop off significantly,” she says dryly.
Benji’s eyes almost fall right out of his skull. We exchange horrified glances. My mother is most definitely flirting. Doug laughs again but this time, if I’m not mistaken, his face turns a little pink.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” Mom says. “Do you trust me?”
“Annie, there isn’t another stylist on the entire planet I’d trust more.”
I have to work hard not to roll my eyes. Doug and Mom are grinning at each other in the mirror. Her hands are resting on his shoulders and she’s leaning forward so they are practically cheek to cheek. Suddenly the salon feels too small for four pe
ople.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Doug. We’ve got some homework to do, so …” I gesture toward the door and start backing out.
Mom doesn’t even look over, but waves in our direction. “Bye kids, there are some donuts in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“Donuts?” I repeat. I can’t believe it; they were on the list of foods that Doug himself had outlawed at the beginning of my mom’s marathon training.
“Doug brought them. He knows how much I’ve been missing my Boston creams.”
“Consider it part of your tip,” Doug jokes.
Benji and I head upstairs, their laughter following us all the way into the kitchen. Sure enough, there’s a paper bag with grease stains on the bottom sitting on the counter.
I grab the bag of donuts and step back into my shoes. “Come on,” I say to Benji. “We’re going to your place.”
I should have known something was up when I started to hear Mom laughing into the phone after dinner. I knew it couldn’t be Denise, because Mom always finds things to do while she’s on the phone with her: paint her toenails, pluck her eyebrows, or flip through a magazine. But this person — whoever it was — on the other side of the line had captured her full attention. Plus she told stories that I knew Denise had already heard. Some of them were even about Denise. I listened carefully for any mention of my name, but if she did talk about me, it was in a hushed tone that couldn’t be heard on the other side of the wall that separated our bedrooms.
Now it all made perfect sense.
Once we’re out of earshot, in Benji’s den with the TV on and the donuts between us, I can say what I’m really thinking. “Well. Can you believe that — flirting? At their age?”
“Sure,” Benji says. “Your mom’s beautiful and Doug’s handsome, so yeah. I can believe it.”
“You think he’s handsome?”
Benji looks surprised. “You don’t?”
“I don’t know, his hair is kind of long.”
“Maybe for you, but not for women of a certain age,” Benji points out, adding, “I think it’s nice that your mom has a crush.”
Love is a Four-Letter Word Page 4
