“Anything else?” Denise asks.
“No, I’m good,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Did you get what you were looking for?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and I mean it.
I spend the rest of the day in a fog. My head is full of new and surprising information. I’m having trouble digesting it all and paying attention in class. I’ve never given much thought to my father before. But now, with Doug hanging around, I can’t help but wonder about him. Bill Davies, the man whose DNA I share.
“What’s wrong?” Benji asks between classes.
“Nothing,” I insist, but I can hear the distraction in my own voice.
“I saw your mom leave with Doug this morning,” he continues. “Where were they going?”
“The hospital,” I say.
Benji’s eyes widen. “You mean she took Doug instead of Denise?” he asks. I nod. “I guess it’s serious, then.”
“I guess,” I repeat.
“Weird,” Benji says. “But good, right?”
“I guess,” I say. I don’t know if I like the fact that everyone is so on-board with the whole Doug and Annie thing. Even though I’ve never met him, I feel sorry for my dad. It’s not like he has a chance; he’s not here to defend himself against Team Doug. Plus, he’s my dad — doesn’t that automatically put me on Team Bill? Do I even have a choice?
“I wish my dad would get married again,” Benji muses. “It would be nice to have a woman around the house.”
“Who said anything about marriage? They just started dating.”
“I know, but things move faster when you’re a certain age.”
I don’t know how much more my brain can handle. “Can we please change the subject?” I ask.
“Sure,” Benji agrees. “So what are you going to do about Michael?”
Cripes. I never thought I’d say this, but math class can’t come soon enough.
Suzy
When I get home from school there is a message from Doug waiting for me. “Hidey-ho, Clarissa! Annie is doing me the honour of allowing me to take her to dinner and a movie in the big city, so we won’t be back till later this evening.”
I can hear my mother laughing in the background. “Hi, baby!” she says. “I’ll bring you home a treat!”
A treat. Like I’m some kind of pet.
Doug continues, “I’m hoping you can do me a big favour and slip over to my house and show Suzy some love. Just let her run out back, give her some food — it’s under the sink — and she’ll be yours forever more. Thanks, Clarissa. I owe you!” And then he hangs up.
So now I’m stuck looking after Doug’s stupid dog. It’s not like he gave me much of a choice. I might as well get it over with now.
I give Benji a call to see if he wants to come with me, but all he can think about is his musical, which opens in a week. I’ve done my best to close my ears to all the play talk, which has been much worse lately because the show is so soon.
“Any other day and you know I’d come with you,” he says. “I’m going to Charity’s for pizza and an Italian line-run. Get it? Italian line-run, Italian food?”
“Yeah, I got it,” I say, not entirely certain what an Italian line-run is. But if Benji’s not going to explain it, I’m not going to ask.
“I have to be there, it’s tradition.”
“No worries!” I say, sounding much brighter than I feel.
Even Mattie is busy. “We’re going out for a family dinner,” she says, adding, “but I could ask if maybe you could come, too, and then we could go together afterwards.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll be fine, Suzy is barely a dog,” I reply.
“Call my mom’s cell phone if you need me!” Mattie says, giving me the number.
“Thanks,” I say half-heartedly.
The walk to Doug’s house only takes fifteen minutes. This boggles my mind. All this time, the man of my mom’s dreams has been living fifteen minutes away, and yet she only met him a few months ago. I wonder if they ever crossed paths before, like maybe he pulled in behind her at the gas station, or they were in line at Sobey’s and shared a lame joke about the weather.
Assuming they did meet way back when, I wonder why they didn’t feel a connection then. Maybe because Doug was still married and my mother was still committed to sacrificing her happiness for me, her ungrateful child. But if someone is the love of your life, shouldn’t you realize it instantly?
I wonder where Michael fits into all this. Not that I would call him the love of my life or anything even remotely like that, but I’ve known him forever and never wanted him to kiss me before. As much as it pains me to say it, I guess Denise was right; love is strange.
Doug’s house looks like any old house on the street: short, squat, brown bricks and slightly darker brown shutters. His lawn is nicely mown and there is an elaborate lattice-work patio wrapped around the front of his house. Probably he built it himself. Doug is always talking about the things he’s made with “his own two hands.” There are flyers stuffed into his mailbox, and since I am in the business of doing favours, I fish them out with the intention of setting them on his counter.
The spare key is exactly where Doug said it would be, inside the barbecue by the side door. When I questioned the logic of putting a key in a barbecue he confessed that this was his old barbecue and the real one was around back.
“So you keep the old barbecue just to hide your spare key?” I asked.
“Also to fool anyone who might be looking to steal a barbecue,” Doug explained. “They see this one, take it, and have no idea that the real deal is safe and sound in my backyard.”
“Is barbecue theft common in your neighbourhood?”
“That’s not the point,” Doug said. “The point is to always be prepared.”
I take the key from the dummy barbecue and before I even open the door I can hear Suzy chirping. You can’t really describe the noises she makes as barking — it’s too high-pitched.
“Calm down,” I mutter. “It’s just me.”
I can’t open the door too widely, or Suzy will explode into the yard. It requires a significant amount of agility to slide into the house through a small crack between the door and the wall. I enter with one foot in front of me, so I can push Suzy aside while I slip in. The second I’m inside she starts jumping in funny little arcs; she reminds me of these little cartoon goats I saw on TV once, leaping from cliff to cliff. It’s almost cute.
Just as Doug said, Suzy’s food is in the cupboard directly under the sink. I probably could have figured it out myself. After covering my ankles in wet dog kisses, she trots straight for the cupboard where her food is kept and flops down in front of it, looking back at me through her doggy bangs with sad, hungry doggy eyes.
“Okay, okay.”
She starts chirping again and weaves between my feet as I head over to her dish. Stupid dog. Doesn’t she know I would get there faster if I wasn’t worried about tripping over her and falling to my death? I have to move Suzy aside with my foot in order to open the cupboard. Once the food is in her dish she ignores me completely, chomping away on her premium brand puppy chow.
With Suzy occupied, I find myself with an opportunity to look around Doug’s house. I’m sure if Doug was here he would give me the grand tour, and I’m certain he would want me to feel at home, so I slip off my shoes and take a look around.
Nosy
I’ve never been in a bachelor’s house before, unless you count Benji’s house, which isn’t the same because his dad is a widower with a son, not a bachelor. I feel a little bit like Goldilocks, trying all the rooms on for size. It’s cleaner than I expected, but it’s definitely missing what my mom would call a woman’s touch. If you ask me, it’s missing any kind of touch at all. The walls are bare, except for a few concert posters. The kitchen is stocked with powdered protein shakes, energy bars, boxes and boxes of whole wheat pasta, a spotty bunch of bananas,
and six different kinds of cereal.
In the living room, an enormous flat screen TV takes up most of one wall, across from which is a boring couch and an equally boring chair in a shade Benji would call écru but most people would call beige. If you look closely, you can see flecks of brown and grey in the weave. A low bookshelf sits under the bay window. It’s full of self-help books with a fitness or diet theme, which I assume he uses for his work as a personal trainer. But there are some surprising titles, too, like the Scrabble dictionary and a couple of thick novels written by authors whose names look Russian or some other language that is equally complicated.
Downstairs, the basement is divided into three rooms. The ceiling is low. It’s hard to picture a man as tall as Doug walking around comfortably down here. For the most part, it’s full of basement-y stuff. There is a room full of old exercise equipment and even more books on diet and fitness regimes; a laundry room with three different types of detergent; and a plastic waste basket full of oddly purple-tinted lint. Coolest of all, there’s a den with dark wood panelling and one of those old-time bars at one end. It even has red-topped swivel stools and a wooden cup full of plastic swizzle sticks — the kind you would spear a cherry or an olive with and drop into a fancy drink — sitting on the swirly silver and black countertop. It looks perfect for a party, like something out of a movie.
Mom is always complaining how there is no proper room in our house for entertaining. I never understood why she felt the need to entertain when she sees people all day long in the Hair Emporium, but this is just the kind of room she would love. She probably wouldn’t love how dark it is, but I imagine she would find a way to lighten it up. She has the kind of woman’s touch Doug’s house is missing. I imagine her down here, entertaining, a glass of wine in her hand, the life of the party. All of a sudden the room feels too dark, the ceilings seem too low, and I can’t get out of there fast enough.
There is only one room I haven’t checked out. It’s the only one in the whole house with a closed door. I’m assuming it’s Doug’s bedroom. There was only one other room with a bed in it, and it looked like no one had slept in it for years. I put myself in Doug’s shoes; how would I feel if Doug went into my bedroom? As far as I know, Doug has never been near my room. I would definitely flip if he went in without my permission. Then again, he’s dating my mother, so I figure that makes us even.
Doug’s bed is enormous, covered in a navy blue duvet that is hunched up in a way that, if I didn’t know any better, I might think there was someone still sleeping under it. At the foot of the bed is a fat, pink cushion in the shape of a donut. It’s fuzzy in places and chewed up in others, and by the amount of wiry hairs that cling to it, I assume it’s Suzy’s bed. He lets her sleep on his bed? Barf.
A big, solid-looking dresser in honey-coloured wood is littered with all sorts of man-type things I’m not used to seeing: an extra-large stick of triple-strength deodorant; bottles of aftershave and spicy-smelling cologne that make my eyes water; a plastic comb like the kind old-fashioned barbers use; a handful of change; and a big, waterproof watch. There is also a framed photo of Suzy sitting in the grass, cocking her head in that way that dogs do in pet food commercials when they are trying to be cute. Other than a few stray hairs clinging to the comb and some pocket lint mixed in with the change, I have to admit it’s pretty clean.
In the closet, shirts and sports jerseys hang next to pants, neatly folded over hangers. Below them, on the floor, rows of shoes are lined up, toes pointing forward. On the top shelf in the closet are shoeboxes stacked one on top of the other. Aha! Jackpot. If I want to discover something private about Doug, a shoebox in a closet is the best place to start. It’s not going to be easy getting them down from there, though. There aren’t any chairs or anything else to stand on in Doug’s room. I’ll have to drag one in from the kitchen.
It’s one thing to walk around someone’s house, but going to the effort of dragging in a chair so I can reach his stash of shoeboxes and riffle through their contents is another story. I have gone from Goldilocks to full-fledged spy. Oh, well. It’s not like I’ve never dabbled in a life of crime before, with my record of forgery, which Mr. Campbell so kindly erased, and blackmail, which led to the downfall of Terry DiCarlo, who had it coming anyway.
I drag a chair from the kitchen and position it in front of the closet. Perfect, I can just reach the top box. I take them all down, making a mental note of the order in which they were stacked. If I’m going to be a spy, I might as well be a good one. Doug will never know I’ve been in here; unless, of course, I discover incriminating information, in which case I’ll probably have to reveal my source in order to prove my allegations. I’m feeling jittery, from my insides to my hands, which shake a little as I open the first box and find … receipts. Piles and piles of receipts, neatly bundled together with paperclips. At first I think maybe I’ll find something interesting, like a house in Bali or some embarrassing operation, but they all appear to be business-related: photocopying expenses, lunches, and some course called, “Is Your Business Fit?”
The next shoebox is a little more interesting — newspaper clippings about Doug’s gym and cards from former clients. I only read a few of them before I start to get bored. Doug must be really good; why else would you send your personal trainer a Christmas card? I’m not even halfway through them when I push the box aside and reach for the next one. I don’t know what kind of dirt I expected to find in there. It’s not like people hang on to hate mail. So far, I haven’t found anything interesting, let alone scandalous. It’s disappointing. Doug is just a regular, boring guy who likes fitness and cereal and lets his dog sleep on his bed. There are no skeletons in his closet, only boxes and boxes of receipts and business plans. I put the boxes back and survey the bedroom.
The only other place I could check is under the bed. I would have kept looking, but the sound of the screen door banging shut catches me off guard.
I freeze, straining to hear footsteps or a voice, but I can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears. I am flooded with red hot shame as I imagine Doug walking into his room and discovering me on the floor, riffling through his personal stuff. Barely daring to breathe, I stand up and inch my way silently toward the door. There are no signs of life in the hallway. Surely if someone had come in they would have said something by now?
And that’s when it hits me. Here I am, worried about someone coming in, when what I should be worried about is someone — or something — getting out. Specifically, Suzy.
Lost
Sure enough, Suzy is nowhere to be found.
“Suzy? Suzy! C’mere, girl!” I burst through the side door, but Suzy is long gone. “Suzy? Are you in the backyard?”
I let myself into the backyard through the gate and creep around the perimeter, peering into the bushes and behind the shed, making the kind of soft, encouraging noises I’ve heard other people use when calling animals. It’s getting darker out and every dog-sized shadow makes my heart jolt.
“Suzy?” But she’s nowhere to be found. No paw prints, no barking, no nothing. Full-fledged panic sets in, and I tear out the backyard and into the street. “Suzy? SUZY!”
“Is that Doug’s dog you’re hollering after?”
I spin around like a wild thing to see an old man leaning on the fence, peering intently at me. “Yes,” I say breathlessly. “I came over to feed her and she got out.”
The old man chuckles. “Yep. She’s a runner, that one.”
I resist the urge to scream or tear at my hair and say as calmly as the situation allows, “Did you happen to see where she ran to?”
“Nope, but if I were you I’d head that way. There’s a house with some of those ugly garden gnomes in the flowerbeds, number six-oh-five or six-oh-seven. That’s Susan Larson’s place.” The old man points down the road, near the cul-de-sac. “Mrs. Larson usually keeps her dog Mr. Ruffles tied up out back and the last I saw him, he was giving Suzy a real good sniff in the behind, if you catc
h my drift.” He chuckles again and shakes his head. “Good luck, girly.”
So Suzy is a runner and boy crazy. Wonderful.
“Thanks,” I say, and I jog down the road toward Mrs. Larson’s house. “Suzy! Here, Suzy!”
The lights are on inside Mrs. Larson’s house and an orange and white cat is sitting in the bay window, staring at me. It blinks slowly, as if in disgust. I don’t blame it. I am disgusted at myself, running after that stupid hairball of a dog. I can’t believe I didn’t shut the side door properly.
I patrol the bushes beside Mrs. Larson’s driveway, but there is no sign of Suzy. I feel weird about going into someone’s backyard — after all, one can only commit so many crimes a day — so I ring her doorbell and hope desperately that Suzy is out back flirting with the unfortunately named Mr. Ruffles. I mean, Ruffles is bad enough, but Mister Ruffles? I bet he’s a poodle with one of those ridiculous haircuts, and Mrs. Larson is probably eighty years old, bakes award-winning apple crisp, and has pink sweatshirts with photographs of her dog printed on them.
So you can totally understand why it takes me a moment to respond when Michael Greenblat opens the door and says, “Clarissa? What are you doing here?”
Love is a Four-Letter Word Page 14
