“Nice tits.”
“You’re such a shit.”
“Are you going to buckle down and do our homework or what?” I nod to the open book on the table.
“I think a brain-damaged monkey could do this, so you definitely can too.” She drops the textbook in front of me. “It’s my turn to do nothing.” Willa slouches down in her seat and begins to doodle on her notebook.
“You trust me with your grade?”
“No. I just relish the thought of your smug face twisted up in concentration.”
“I’m not dumb, you know.” She gives me a skeptical look. I pull the book closer and take out a pen. I used to get straight A’s, damn it. I can pull off another one and show this cow.
Willa: January 25 to 30
Monday
It’s even easier to live with Frank than I’d anticipated. It’s pretty much status quo from when we were growing up, given the seven-year age gap between us. I eat breakfast alone because he’s already at work by the time I get up—Frank is a paramedic—and when he comes home we stay out of each other’s way. I like this new arrangement. I can’t tell if Frank does; he’s hard to read.
Frank’s home is exactly what you’d expect of a twenty-five-year-old man. He only moved out when Mom and Dad moved away to St. John’s, and he bought this little Cape Cod house for himself. It’s sparsely furnished, completely unpainted except for white primer, and the only attempt at personalized décor is a Habs magnet on the fridge. Our parents are paying him to take me off their hands for a few months, on the condition that I behave myself and pull my weight around the house.
My life here feels about as nondescript as Frank’s walls. I did my freshman year in Smiths Falls before we moved away. I came back for a change from St. John’s, only to find that everything is completely, depressingly, the same as when I left it. The people who I used to hang out with seem unevolved and extremely insipid. There’s Paige, still trying to be Miss Popularity—I’ll admit that I was once an enthusiastic member of her entourage. Diane the bully and Hannah the sweetheart are still among her faithful followers. Chris Elwood, the guy I knew as a pudgy dweeb in grade nine, has lost the baby fat and turned into a generically popular pretty-boy. Joey, who we all thought would grow up to discover the cure for cancer, has discovered his penis instead. At least Brian with the puppy eyes and Hannah the sweetheart are good people, so I can still have faith in my generation.
A little bit of that faith dies when I enter the school parking lot. Frank is letting me borrow his bike until I can find a car at a decent price—the sooner the better, in this weather—and I pull up just in time to see a group of boys throw that kid from my math class into one of the trash cans. They roll him down the sidewalk and drop him off the curb, much to everyone’s delight. I share oxygen with these morons.
Mother Nature is in on the conspiracy to make this a bad day. Telling myself that it’s better than Newfoundland weather doesn’t do much to improve my outlook. I lock Frank’s bike up and tread through the mush toward the school. Twenty meters ahead, a short girl is skating on a patch of black ice. She’s spinning and hopping along like the ice poses no danger, only to get hit in the face by a snowball. She gives a little shriek of indignation. “Jem!”
I didn’t notice him, but now that she’s yelled at him, I see my project partner walking along the line of cars. He’s clearly the snowball culprit; he’s still wiping snow off his gloves. And the bastard doesn’t look a bit sorry, either. He’s grinning like an idiot.
Holy shit, he can smile?
The little skater begins to stomp off in the direction of the side entrance. A second snowball hits her between the shoulder blades. That one was thrown by a stocky guy in a letterman jacket.
The little skater waves a pink-gloved bird at the two of them and disappears into the building.
*
I don’t see the Axis of Annoying until after lunch. He’s already at the table when I enter for Social Studies, staring out the window like the parking lot is fascinating. Despite the cold, it’s sunny today, and the light on his face makes him look worse. He’s extremely pale and those dark circles under his eyes make his illness more obvious.
I wonder what he meant when he said he didn’t have cancer.
“How was your weekend?”
Harper doesn’t even look away from the window. “I solved world hunger.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
“You realize that solving world hunger would mean you’d be doing something good for a change?”
“Ah, but there’s the kicker: I destroyed my solutions.” He finally looks away from the window and gives me this cocky smirk. “Malevolence 101, Kirk.”
“Did you finish the write-up from Friday?”
He opens his under-used notebook and takes out a few typewritten pages. I skim them as we wait for class to start.
Wow, the jackass might actually have a brain. This isn’t half bad.
Tuesday
Jem and I have yet to agree on a topic for our term project. All the other groups have already submitted proposals and started their research. Mrs. Hudson is getting impatient with us, so she gives us a library pass for fourth period. We have to go to the Social Sciences section and find something to write about.
Harper is content to let me do all the work, as usual. He condescendingly informs me that I should write the proposal because I need to practice my penmanship, and claims that my messy writing is a direct corollary of having ‘freakishly’ small hands.
“You’re such a jerk.” I wouldn’t mind doing the majority of the work if he wasn’t so nasty about it. I can have compassion for his illness, but my patience is in limited supply.
“No, really,” he says. “If your tits were just a few sizes bigger, you’d have a promising porn career.”
“I hope you choke on your own vomit.” For some reason he finds that funny. I’m not going to give him the pleasure of asking why, but he reads the question in my face and informs me that it’s a sign I’m running out of comebacks when I go for the obvious insult.
“That wasn’t obvious.” I grab the nearest book of the shelf. “Want to write about drug addiction?” Jem just scoffs, which irritates me even more. “Obvious is calling you Uncle Fester.”
He doesn’t have a comeback for that one. Either he’s run out of material, or I’ve hit a sore spot.
“Maybe we should write about acute illness.”
Jem turns away from the shelf looking like he wants to hit me. “Your gloves are ridiculous.”
“So is that comeback.”
Wednesday
Frank isn’t exactly a social butterfly. He only has one really good friend, Doug Thorpe, who he hangs out with on a regular basis. They’re a lot alike—reserved, deliberate, and outdoorsy. They go camping and hunting whenever they can get away, and when they can’t, they park themselves in front of the same TV with a few beers and ESPN.
The more time goes by, the more I suspect that Frank and Doug are more than just buddies. My brother has never had a girlfriend—something I’ve always chalked up to social ineptitude or shyness before now, but now that I look at it, my brother doesn’t seem that interested in finding a woman. I’m not going to ask, though. Frank is a very private person, and there’s no making him talk if he doesn’t want to.
Doug is coming over tonight. Frank tells me this over breakfast and I ask if he wants me to get out of the house. “No girls at a guys’ night, right?” That sounds better than offering to give maybe-lovers some privacy.
Frank clears his throat. “No, you can stay. Maybe you can cook dinner?” That explains why I’m welcome. “I’ll ask Doug to bring Luke,” he offers in consolation. Luke is the younger Thorpe brother, close to my age.
“Sure.” I pull some steaks out of the freezer for tonight and head to school. The prospect of new company has put me in a good mood. I don’t know Luke very well, which means there’s a chance that he’s one of
the few things that have changed in this town since I’ve been away. Not even Social Studies with my twat of a project partner can sully my good mood, though he makes every effort. Jem is still sulking about yesterday’s spat, but thankfully he gives up halfway through the period and falls asleep on the table. I don’t bother to wake him up when the bell rings.
*
Luke is nothing like I remember. Last time I saw him, he was a gangly fourteen-year-old with braces and a buzz cut. Three years have allowed him to grow into his bones and grow out his hair, which is long enough to tie back now. Doug takes one look at us, blond and curly-haired, and remarks that we could be siblings.
Luke still grins easily. Those blue eyes make him look far too innocent, even when he clearly has mischief written all over his face. I like him, and I wish we could hang out more. Unfortunately he attends school in Perth, so we’ll only cross paths when our brothers give us an excuse.
Luke and I end up carrying the conversation over dinner, since Frank and Doug are about as verbose as houseplants in groups larger than two people. They leave us at the end of dinner to go watch the game, so Luke and I do the dishes. We’re discussing Three Days Grace when he interrupts to ask, “So what are you doing this weekend?”
“Homework. Housework. What else is there in this town?”
Luke hums in agreement, and we wash in silence for a few minutes before he prompts me, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“You’re not going to ask me what I’m doing?” He shakes his head with feigned disappointment. “And I thought Mrs. Kirk raised you to have manners.” His sarcasm earns him an elbowing.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask. The question forcibly reminds me of Harper, and I have to shake the thought away.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Just reminded of something my project partner said.”
“What’d she say?”
“My partner’s a he. And a jerk. He said I had porn star hands the other day.” I put down the drying towel to extend my fingers and Luke pretends to inspect them.
“He might have a point,” he teases. I swat his shoulder.
“I got the last word in, though. It doesn’t matter much, I guess, because his attitude isn’t going to improve any. I do most of our work because he’s tired a lot. He’s got cancer.”
Luke’s eyebrows go up. “You’re not talking about Dr. Harper’s kid, are you?”
“Jem Harper, yeah. You know him?”
Luke shrugs. “I know of him. Your brother’s mentioned Dr. Harper a few times—they work at the same hospital. I think his kid’s been sick since they moved here.”
“When did they move here?” It could have been any time in the last three years, conceivably, since I didn’t know Jem Harper before I moved away.
“Last summer, I think,” Luke says. He flicks my face with water. “Want to go tobogganing this weekend?”
Thursday
“This is such bullshit,” Jem complains as he fills in the little boxes on our worksheet. I’ve forced him to take a turn at doing the practical report while I wash the pan and utensils we used to make macaroni and cheese. It was his idea that I do that part. The skin on his hands is really dry and he has lots of little cuts and cracks on his fingers—bad idea to handle food. He wanted me to do it all, but I’m having none of that today.
“Hey, if you don’t have cancer, how come you’re getting sick all the time?”
“Because,” he says scathingly, “the fun doesn’t stop just because the cancer’s gone.”
“What kind of cancer did you have, anyway?”
“None of your damn business, that’s what kind.” I can ask my friends later. They must have heard it through the grapevine by now.
“So how long does it take to get back to normal?”
“Depends on the treatment,” he answers vaguely. “A few days. A few weeks. Maybe a few months.”
“When will your hair grow back?”
He glares at me bitterly. “Fuck off, Kirk.”
Friday
My new car is an absolute piece of junk, and I love it. It’s a ‘94 Toyota Tercel with non-original doors and bumper. The emissions test cost more than the car itself. Frank loaned me the money to put winter tires on it. The mechanic tried to sell me hubcaps to go along with the tires, but my little shitbox doesn’t need anything fancy.
One of my favorite things about her is the sound system. The speakers still work perfectly, and she’s only set up to play radio and cassettes. Passengers can forget about trying to control the music. But the absolute best thing about this car is that it has a manual transmission. Nobody will want to borrow it.
I lock her up before school as Jem crosses the parking lot to say good morning—or some other snarky equivalent, knowing him. He looks at my car with disdain and says, “Would it kill you to buy domestic?”
*
Lunch is going to be tricky for the next few weeks. The posters announcing the winter formal went up today and the people I sit with at lunch are excited about it. I hate school functions.
Paige, Hannah and Diane are into it. They’re already making plans to go shopping. I’m trying to hide by slouching so low in my chair that I’m practically under the table. Maybe they won’t see me and I won’t be roped into shopping or, worse, attending this stupid thing. If I wanted to get that close to someone and grind against him, I’d do it in private and there would be a lot less clothing involved.
I could just focus on my guy friends, but they’re equally enthusiastic. Just trying to get laid, I think, and taking the most inefficient route. Chris Elwood asks me if I’m thinking of going. He makes a point of leaning in toward me, speaking like we’re the only two people in the room. I’m not keen on this sort of attention, and Chris has been doing it since my first day. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but he’s not my usual type and I don’t date anymore.
“I’m busy that night.”
“With what?”
Rude much? “I’m visiting my grandma.” I could always make real plans with her for an excuse. She told me to get in touch with her ‘once I get settled,’ but the woman is insane so I’ve been putting it off.
“You can’t see her some other time?”
“No. It’s her birthday.” I have to derail this conversation before the lie gets out of hand. “I take it that you’re going?”
Chris shrugs. “I was thinking about it. But if you want some company, I could visit your grandma with you.” I wonder if he’s so obvious with every girl he’s trying to move on. Visiting my grandma with me? Come on.
“No, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you after.” This guy does not give up. I guess he never learned how to take a hint.
“Maybe.” I turn back to my food, but a snicker from the next table distracts me. I look over and see Harper about ten feet away, eating with the little ice skater. He sees me looking at him and winks. Damn it, Soc is going to suck.
*
The first words my partner says to me when I get to class are, “Grandma’s birthday? You couldn’t come up with anything better than that?”
“It is her birthday.”
“You’re lying, Kirk.”
“Chris bought it.” Harper looks at me with this condescending smirk and shakes his head.
“He wanted to buy it. It’s easier on his ego than the alternative.”
“I hate you.”
“Because I’m right.”
I don’t get a chance to respond to that before Mrs. Hudson calls the class to order, and the jerk beside me smiles smugly like he’s won. It’s only after we’re doing independent seatwork that I get a chance to make another jab at him. I start to hum the Addams Family theme song low enough so that only we can hear. He pulls his hat lower over his ears, trying to block me out, but I can tell I’m still getting to him. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
Jem: January 30 to February 6
Friday
When we get home I don’t even bother to say hello to Mom before going to my room. I crawl across the duvet and collapse into the pillows. I’ve been craving this since I got up this morning. Mom must have washed my sheets today, because they’re smooth and smell like the inside of the dryer. Three days from now they’ll have the smell of dead skin and stale chemical on them.
I don’t like the silence of my room, so I roll over to turn on some music. My CD player beeps to let me know the tray is empty. I live with a thief. Elise insults my taste in music one day and then steals my CDs the next.
Maybe I’ll play my own music. I haven’t practiced in a few days. But first a hot shower is in order. My joints are aching.
I strip down and go to the closet for my bathrobe. There’s a mirror on the inside of the closet door and the guy staring back at me looks like the pictures of Auschwitz inmates in my History textbook. It’s easy to believe that isn’t me because he looks so different. He’s thirty pounds lighter than I am. I’ve got thick hair with serious cowlicks, and he’s got none at all. I don’t have a Hickman sticking out of my chest, but this sad bastard does. I’m good looking. I’m popular. This guy looks like a stiff breeze could kill him and he has to sit with his little sister at lunch for company.
The only things that look the same are the eyes, which I ignore. They’re a little yellow around the sclera, but still the only evidence of the real me inside this impostor.
Who are you kidding?
I close the closet and go to use the washroom. My penis hangs between my legs like a limp slug. I don’t think the rest of the treatment’s side effects would seem so bad if I still had some semblance of a sex drive. A five second orgasm would be a welcome break during the day, but I haven’t wanted to chase after one for a while, and I certainly haven’t had the energy. Just the thought of any kind of repetitive motion makes me queasy.
Wake Page 2
