Wake

by Abria Mattina

  “Did you raid my entire room?”

  “Yeah. Jeez, you keep a lot of porn,” she says. I do not, and her sarcasm isn’t improving my mood. I hold out my hand for the keys and she drops them in my palm without apology.

  “I could have reported the car stolen, you know.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “You’re in enough trouble.”

  “How kind of you.” She smirks. “On to business.” Willa unlocks the brakes on the side table and brings it in front of my recliner. She pulls her chair up to the other side, like she’s a cop about to interrogate a suspect. Her evidence comes out piece by piece: the album, the calendar, and the shoebox. The opens the book covers first.

  “Help me understand this timeline,” she says. “The calendar doesn’t start until your first round of chemo. When were you diagnosed?”

  “July second.” Barely a week after we moved here. Mom took me to the doctor to get antibiotics for a persistent, fatiguing bug, but things didn’t go as planned.

  Willa skims Mom’s medical notes on each page of the calendar. She knows what most of them mean, which is sort of sad, but it’s also nice because it means she has fewer questions. Most of them revolve around the calendar and the album together. If there is a significant event on the calendar but no corresponding photos in the album, she questions it relentlessly. When did I become unable to digest solid foods? Was I able to go to school in between treatments, or was I kept in isolation because of flu season?

  “Why do you want to know all this?” It’s moot to tell her these inconsequential details. It has no bearing on the here and now.

  “I’m trying to figure it out,” she says.

  “Figure what out?”

  She lifts her gaze from the calendar and looks me straight in the eye. “At what point you died.” She’s good at that—at knocking the breath out of me with five little words.

  “Something in you did die,” she insists. Willa takes a Polaroid from the first page of the album out of its sleeve and sets it on the table, and then places a much later photo beside it.

  “It’s not even the same person.” She points between the two photos. In one I still look human, sitting for my first treatment and masking my fear with anger. In the other I’m stripped apart and I don’t have the energy to be angry anymore. I’m just weak and vulnerable and alien.

  Willa puts the photos back in their places. “I’ll probably kill you, you know.” Is there anything left to kill? Or is she hoping I’ll ask her to hand over an entire bottle of pills?

  Willa closes the books and turns to the shoebox. Why did she have to bring that?

  “I found this on your shelf,” she says. Willa sets aside the lid and peers at the contents. It’s just a collection of junk—old hospital bracelets and a broken keychain and some stray photos from before. Willa picks up one of the bracelets and smiles.

  “We have the same blood type.”

  “Fascinating.” She rolls her eyes at my sarcasm.

  “How could your parents give you such a normal middle name after Jeremiah?”

  “Shut up.”

  She smiles at me and taps the yellow strip on the bracelet. “You were a fall risk?”

  “I was weak.”

  She puts the bracelet aside and starts flipping through the loose photos. They’re pictures that have been given to me from friends over the years. Willa stops on the one that Emily took last June, right before I moved away and my biggest problem was that I was pissed off about moving to middle-of-nowhere Smiths Falls. The piano and my cello had already been moved to the new house along with most of the furniture, so my usual method of venting frustration was out. Elise got tired of me moping around and bugged me to take her to the beach at Gatineau Park. A few friends came along. In the photo I’m giving Elise a piggyback ride and she’s got her hand stretched out to pass a water bottle to Morgan.

  “You look happy,” she says. I was, sort of. It was a good day when that was taken. Mostly. I can’t help but remember what a whiney little bitch I was that morning, ignorant of the fact that my life was beyond wonderful. I’d never even considered that I would get sick. That kind of thing happened to other people, not to me. I’d never been so lonely I felt hollow. I’d never hated to look at myself. I’d never traded insults with someone I could barely stand just because it felt better than being invisible.

  Willa looks at the photo so intently. I wish she wouldn’t. I looked human in that picture—just an average teenage boy, walking on the beach with friends. I am never going to look like that again.

  “I was already sick when that was taken.” She looks up at me like she was just a million miles away. I point to the bottom of the photo, where a smattering of bruises showed around my knees and calves. Just little marks, so innocuous on their own, but hinting at something deadly and destructive underneath my skin.

  I try to take the picture from her and Willa holds it out of my reach. She gives me a stern look, like she thinks I’ve got some nerve to try to take it from her. Willa sits back in her chair, out of my reach—tethered as I am—and studies it some more.

  “I might need to be alone with this photo.”

  I realize that my mouth is hanging open when Willa leans forward and makes a jerking motion in front of my lips. I shut my mouth and grab her hand to make her stop. She did not just say that.

  “You’re a little red,” Willa says with concern. And how am I supposed to react to a girl telling me that she wants to masturbate to a photo of me in a bathing suit? Jesus…

  Willa slips the photo into her back pocket—oh God—and turns back to the shoebox. Would it be cheeky or just plain perverted to ask for something of hers in return?

  Willa picks a folded white laminate sheet out of the box. She unfolds it and finds my well-worn speech card. For a long time she just stares at it without saying anything.

  “Was it the vomiting that made it hard to talk?” she asks quietly. “All that acid?”

  “No.”

  “Radiation?” she guesses. I nod. She smiles softly and traces the most worn-out box on the whole card, the one that says I need a hug. “We had one of these for Tessa, too,” she says. “She couldn’t talk long because she couldn’t get a good breath once her liver swelled up. Too much pressure on her diaphragm. Sometimes her mouth was tender so she couldn’t even mouth silently to us, so we had hand taps to communicate.” She pokes my palm in demonstration, tapping out a pattern like Morse code.

  “Did she say much?” It seems tragic, having to tap such personal requests for help into someone’s palm. Willa picks up my hand where it rests on the arm of the recliner and makes me point my index and middle fingers, like a peace sign. I bend my fingers down at the knuckle and Willa does the same before joining our fingers like gear cogs.

  “That’s how we said ‘I love you.’ It’s actually the Sign for ‘puzzle.’” Willa looks up with a strange smile. “Like a perfect fit.”

  *

  It’s late when I get home; even though my body is tired, my mind is wide-awake, thinking of Willa’s questions and the things she told me. We made plans to carpool to Ava’s show tomorrow. I don’t know what story she’s going to tell her family to get them to let her go, but knowing Willa, I’m sure it’ll be a masterpiece of fiction.

  As I hang up my jacket I hear rustling in the pocket. I reach inside to find that Willa has put her sly fingers to work again. I pull out the photo of me at the beach, the one she slipped into her back pocket earlier like she wanted to take it home. She gave it back.

  She was just teasing me. Of course she doesn’t want…

  Shit.

  Thank God I didn’t make an ass of myself by asking for something of hers.

  Friday

  Eric will take any excuse to get out of Smiths Falls for the weekend. He agrees to drive Willa and me to Ottawa and plans to crash at Celeste’s place that night. It takes about five seconds for Elise to start whining about being left out of the road trip.

/>   “Can I come?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s no way in hell I’m taking you to The Plains.”

  She lobbies Eric next, but he’s not interested in bringing her to Celeste’s house. Elise’s energy could never be contained in the museum the Harcourts call a home. The results would be disastrous.

  Elise makes a point of stomping around in a foul mood and blaming us for dooming her to a weekend in Smiths Falls. But she comes around. She even packs us snacks for the road.

  *

  When we pull up in front of Ava’s house, she’s visible in the front window, yelling so loudly I can hear her from the car. She’s arguing with her brother about waffles, as far as I can tell.

  Willa smiles and says, “She’s exactly like I pictured her.”

  Ava answers the door while yelling at her brother to take the dildo out of his ass, it’s choking out the single surviving neuron in him. Then she turns to me and says, “Holy shit, you brought her.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “Isn’t he a stick in the mud?” Ava says to Willa, and folds her into a hug like they’re old friends.

  I’m glad that I’m the de facto DD tonight. If I’m sober I can keep a better eye on Willa. Ava tells her that her bedroom is the third door down the hall, and that she can store her backpack in there. Willa is gone for all of three seconds before Ava turns to me and mouths, “Holy shit!”

  “What?” I whisper back, when I really should be telling her to keep her mouth shut.

  “How have you not tapped that yet?”

  “Will you shut up?”

  “If you’re not going to, I will.”

  “She’s straight.”

  “You’ve asked?”

  No. “Yeah.” I’m pretty sure.

  “Every girl is straight until she’s not. Or until she’s had a few.” Ava winks. God no.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Why not? You’re done with her.”

  Willa comes back from the bedroom and Ava nonchalantly wraps an arm around her waist. Neither of them has any idea what they’re in for.

  “Let’s get you a drink,” Ava says, and steers Willa away to the kitchen.

  “Be gentle with her,” I call after them.

  “Piss off, Jem,” Willa scolds me.

  Ava laughs. “That’s the spirit!”

  *

  Ava likes Willa. She really likes Willa. Ava has a type, and this wouldn’t bother me precisely—Willa is a big girl, perfectly capable of turning away unwanted attention—except for the fact that Willa seems to like Ava too. I can’t tell if she’s tolerating Ava’s flirting out of politeness or if her interest is genuine.

  “How long have you two known each other?”

  “Three years,” Ava says. We’re sitting around her kitchen table while the others do a little pre-drinking and eat junk food. Ava casually lifts her feet and rests them on Willa’s lap, like they’re intimate friends. Willa doesn’t push her away.

  “Ava’s a dyke.” Might as well be up front about it.

  She laughs at me. “Only sometimes. I keep trying to convince him to try queer,” she points at me, “but he won’t do it.”

  “Can’t be room for much else with that stick up his ass.”

  Did Willa just insult me?

  “Oh, the stick,” Ava groans dramatically. “He’s better when he’s a little tipsy.” She winks at Willa. “He’s a handsy drunk.”

  “I am not.”

  “You should have seen him the first time he got wasted,” Ava tells Willa with a giggle. “It was at our friend’s birthday party. He got shitfaced and insisted on cuddling with the cat all evening.” The two of them have a good laugh at my expense. It would be easier to get back at Ava if she had any sense of shame whatsoever.

  She finishes her beer and gets up to stand behind Willa’s chair. “Can I do your hair?” She’s already got her fingers all through it, giving Willa a sensual scalp massage. Willa smiles and tells her to do whatever she wants.

  God, I hate Ava. She’s such a talented slut.

  *

  If I were a smoker, I’d be sucking them back right now. I lean against the car door, fidgeting a little as I wait for the girls. The three of us are taking Ava’s Gremlin. The others are carpooling with Emily in the minivan, and we’ll meet up in the parking lot. The plan for the evening is a poor distraction from the slowly-but-surely-driving-me-insane fact that Ava and Willa are getting changed in the same room right now. For all I know Ava could already be—

  Don’t even think it.

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief when the girls come out of the house. They don’t look like they’ve been screwing around. Ava is in a suitably slutty outfit for the stage, carrying her violin case. Beside her, Willa looks like the portrait of conservative ideals. She’s not wearing a skirt, which relieves me from the worry that Ava will try to get a hand up there. She’s wearing heels, but they’re not that high. Ava’s top is barely worthy of the name, but Willa’s is…huh.

  Tits.

  Be cool.

  Tits. Willa’s tits.

  Moron.

  God bless cleavage.

  She’ll catch you staring.

  “Harper.”

  “Nothing.”

  The girls give me a weird look. Ava is the first one to dismiss my awkward outburst. She tosses me the keys and climbs into the car. Willa is nursing a smirk.

  Damn it all to hell.

  *

  Ava’s band doesn’t go on till one. We arrive at eleven and she uses her connections to get us in through the stage entrance. We don’t even get carded, and the only weird look I get from the guy who lets us in has nothing to do with my age.

  “I think you’ll like this place,” Ava says to Willa, and links their arms. The others just take it for granted that Willa likes girls as we head out into the club. Just another one of Ava’s love ‘em and leave ‘em conquests. My only comfort comes from knowing that Willa isn’t into that sort of thing. I hope.

  Ava buys Willa a drink, and Willa lets her. Ava gets four of her favorite lemon drops and makes Willa do one shot with her. I expect her to wince—those things are disgustingly sour—but Willa shoots it without trouble and moves on to whisky.

  “I figured you for a rum and coke kind of girl.”

  Willa looks at me like she just remembered that I’m here too. “If you can’t drink the hard stuff without sugaring it up, you shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “Amen.” Ava clinks her shot with Willa’s glass before tipping it back. I don’t think she was really listening to what Willa said, because when she’s done with her lemon drops—sugared up liquor—she orders a Mike’s Hard Raspberry.

  “I like sweet things,” she says to Willa, and brushes her hair behind her ear. I have a strange urge to snap Ava’s wrist. The urge only becomes stronger when Willa angles her body toward Ava, away from me, and says she likes things that hurt going down.

  Ava chuckles lowly. “I heard you were a tough one.” Her hand slips around the side of Willa’s waist, lightly fisting her top.

  “That shirt really does look good on you.”

  Of course it does, she’s not wearing anything underneath.

  And you just idly noticed that.

  Shut up.

  Ava leans in a little more, putting her body so close to Willa’s it’s a wonder she doesn’t just grab her by the vag and save time. She leans in for a kiss and Willa turns her face away from Ava to sip her drink.

  “You like to dance?” Willa asks.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I hate it.”

  Ava laughs and tugs at Willa’s hand. “Let’s see if we can’t change your mind.”

  Willa doesn’t even put up much of a struggle. She goes to the dance floor with Ava, abandoning me at the bar without so much as a glance. I buy a bottle of water and go to find Morgan. Hopefully she’ll have found a booth where I can lurk and spy on Willa.

  Yo
u forgot your creepy trench coat at home.

  Shut up.

  Morgan does have a booth, and with her are two people I vaguely recognize from high school. They’re a little giddy because it’s their first time out in Hull since they turned eighteen. Morgan reminds me of their names and we do the obligatory social niceties. I have no interest in conversation, and the three of them quickly realize it. I’m largely left to my own devices—watching the dance floor like a stalker—while they chatter.

  Ava is a fucking whore. Great musician, fond friend, but a fucking whore—one that is currently grinding on my thoroughly straight friend whom she knows I have a thing for. So what if Willa and I didn’t go anywhere? It’s the principle of the thing! You don’t hook up with your friends’ hang-ups.

  Willa doesn’t really know how to dance. She mirrors Ava’s motions, grinding back and forth with her and exchanging hand placements – a grip on the neck, on the hip, on her ass for Christ’s sake.

  “Jem. Jem!” Morgan flicks a bottle cap at my face.

  “What?” The word comes out harsher than I intended. Morgan nods to the object of my focus: Ava, half naked and practically wrapped around Willa.

  “Are you sure you should be letting her do that?” Morgan asks. “You know Ava doesn’t do commitment. If your friend gets attached—”

  “She’s not into girls.”

  Morgan raises an eyebrow and looks over at Willa. “Uh, you sure?”

  Yes, God damn it.

  Morgan snorts as Ava sticks her tongue down Willa’s throat. Willa doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t even wince. She just tilts her head to that perfectly accessible angle, closes her eyes, and relaxes into the embrace.

  I feel cold. She likes it. And her hand is on Ava’s neck…where she used to rest her hand on me. Ava’s hands are around the back of Willa’s hips, under her shirt, touching skin I never got to touch.

  “Hey,” Morgan calls my attention back to the table. She sets a shot glass full of amber liquor in front of me. “I know you’re not supposed to, but in extenuating circumstances…”