Canary (9 page)

starving for more.

Or

his blue-green eyes,

as if viewing earth from space.

Or

his smile,

which grows across his face when I walk over.

Or

his smell,

a mix of

deodorant,

fruit bubble gum

and laundry detergent.

Or

the way he always asks to kiss me,

pausing as if worried I might say no,

even though there is nothing I could ever say

except yes.

Or

his laugh,

loud and stretching across a room,

causing people to turn to see what they're missing out on.

Or

his jersey,

the practice warm-up I wear over jeans,

his name on the back so everyone can read

who belongs to him.

Or

the way he says my name

when I pick up the phone,

as if hearing my voice is what he waits for all day.

Or

the late-night phone calls,

the early-morning drives to school,

all my time spent with Jack so I'm never thinking about who I miss.

Or

the way his hand hangs around me,

when we're at a party, after a game, or with friends,

as if he's letting everyone know I'm with him,

and I eagerly claim the position.

Or

the pride I feel

when people learn I'm dating Jack,

that I'm with Jack,

that Jack is my boyfriend.

Being with Jack isn't all of these things;

it's more.

And more and more and more.

It's opening door after door after door into another world,

the world of Beacon, the world of privilege.

Posted By: Your Present Self

[Monday, October 7, 7:18 PM]

In mid-October, a few weeks after we started dating, Jack grabbed my hand as I walked out of English class.

“Let's go get something to eat,” he said and pulled me in the opposite direction of my next class.

“Now? I have precalc.”

“You told me the other day how easy the class was. You'll be able to catch up.”

“Jack, I can't cut,” I told him, but really, who was going to stop me? Besides, it would be a lot more fun to spend the day with Jack than to sit in a boring old math class.

“It's not a big deal. I cut every once in a while, and it's fine. If anyone says something, I'll sign a pass for you. I have a whole pack of them. Come on. It'll be fun.”

I didn't bother to ask Jack where he got the passes. I didn't want to know. What mattered was that Jack was here waiting for me to make up my mind. I glanced down the hall toward my class and back at Jack. He stood there with a half grin almost as if he were laughing at me.

That sealed my decision. “What the heck,” I said, pulling my bag higher on my shoulder and turning away from my next class. “Let's get out of here.”

I followed him out the doors of the school. I
expected someone to stop us, ask us where we were going, and demand an explanation. No one did. We walked right out and got into his car.

Jack leaned over and gave me a kiss.

I almost pushed him away but thought better of it. I was living dangerously today. I pulled him all the way to me and gave anyone who might be watching a show.

He finally broke away and put the key into the
ignition. “I may have to cut class with you more often.”

We drove out of the gates and wound down the hill. I pushed the button to open my window and held my hand out, the cool wind rushing past.

“Where should we go, rebel?”

I swatted at him. “Stop it. If I'm the rebel, you're the one who corrupted me.”

“I can handle that. I wouldn't mind corrupting you some more.”

I rolled my eyes and sat back. “Let's get some ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” Jack laughed. “It's nine forty-five in the morning and October.”

“The perfect time for a hot fudge sundae.”

“Okay, then, ice cream it is.”

We stopped at a little café still serving breakfast and talked them into putting the ice cream into Styrofoam coffee cups so we could take them to the park. It was one of those perfect autumn days when school, work, and doing anything inside—especially eating ice cream—seemed wrong.

Apparently everyone else had the same idea. Moms chased toddlers around, kids shrieked with delight as they ran on the playground, and dogs followed balls across the field. Jack pulled an old green blanket out of his truck and spread it on the ground. We ate back to back, giving each other a place to lean.

“Okay, you were right about this ice cream. It hit the spot,” Jack said, his hand reaching around and finding mine.

“Yeah, it was good.” I turned around to face him and pointed to a big blob of hot fudge on his sleeve. “It looks like it was so good you're saving some for later.”

“Hey, you never know when you'll get hungry. Thanks for running away with me today.”

“Of course. This sure beats sitting through one of Ms. Carmody's boring old lessons.”

“So it was worth it? Breaking out of class and being on the run?”

“Totally.” I took a deep breath and found the courage to keep talking. “You make me happy. And that's not always easy . . .”

Jack knew about my mom. I'd only mentioned her briefly one afternoon when he'd dropped me off at my empty house. I hadn't been ready to open up, and he hadn't pushed any further. Instead, he'd grabbed my hand and squeezed it, which was enough for the moment.

“Why, Kate, I do believe you're getting all mushy on me.”

I bit my bottom lip and closed my eyes, embarrassed. I willed myself to look at him. He leaned toward me, and then we were kissing.

I let Jack pull me onto the blanket, and I thought about how much better this was than precalc.

I was happy about opening up to him. It wasn't hard at all. Maybe I still tripped over my words when I had to look at his face, and maybe I had a difficult time staring into his eyes without breaking the gaze first, but I grew more confident. I was able to talk about the type of things I usually kept inside since Mom died. Slowly, I was able to let him know how much he meant to me without being scared he'd leave.

The next day, Brett and I got a ride to school with Dad. Brett's car was in the shop getting new brakes. We settled into our seats in silence, the smell of Dad's coffee and aftershave attacking the small space. Brett cracked his window open, and Dad cranked up the heat in response.

“Listen,” Dad started. “I have to go out with some alumni tonight, so I thought you'd like these.” He tossed an envelope to me.

I pulled out two tickets to the Pistons' preseason game.

“This is amazing. How did you score these?”

“The athletic director passed them on to me. He couldn't use them and thought I knew someone who would want them.”

“Who are they playing?” I held the tickets close to my face to check. “You're kidding me. These are courtside seats.”

Brett grabbed the tickets. “You got courtside seats, and you're giving them up?”

Dad winked at me via the rearview mirror. “I
figured Kate and Jack would enjoy the game.”

“You're kidding,” Brett said. “The tickets are for Kate and 
Jack
?”

Dad seemed confused. “I didn't think you'd use them, Brett. After all, you're not into basketball like Kate is.”

Brett threw the tickets back at me as if they were hot. “You're right,” he muttered. “I don't give a shit about basketball.”

“Good,” I told him. “Because I do.” I clutched the tickets and thought about what Dad had just said. Basketball was a part of my life again. It made me feel guilty to think how easy it was to love the game again, but it felt right. What mattered was that Dad was excited about it, and I remembered how basketball once connected us instead of separating us.

Quitting basketball hadn't been as simple as giving it up that lonely night in the driveway when I learned Mom was sick. It was a lot bigger than that and something everyone was able to witness.

When Mom and Dad said they wanted life to go on as normal, I didn't believe it. I mean, come on. How many people can really go on with their lives as if it's no big deal that someone they love is dying?

But that's the way it was for them. Dad wasn't having anything to do with my decision to quit
basketball. There were only a few games left in the season, and we'd made it to the play-offs. Before I found out about Mom, I thought winning was a huge deal. But after, I realized how stupid it really was. We were only a middle school team. No one cared if you were the eighth grade champions. No one except Dad, that is.

“I'm not playing in the game,” I told him when he knocked on my door with my uniform in his hand.

“Of course you're playing. Your teammates are counting on you.”

I snorted. My teammates didn't give a crap about me. I'd stayed home from school for three days after I found out about Mom and had missed a week of practice. Not one of my so-called teammates called. I made excuses that they were focused on the big game, but it still hurt. These girls were supposed to be my friends. Didn't they wonder where I was?

“I'm not letting you abandon your team.” He stood in my doorway, all strong and imposing as if he could bully me into playing basketball.

“I don't care,” I said, and I didn't. There wasn't a lot I cared about after Mom's news.

“Well, I do, and I'm sure Mom does too. She's not a quitter, and I think you owe it to her to show you aren't either.”

I froze and clenched my teeth so I wouldn't scream. That was a low blow. I grabbed my uniform from his hand. “Whatever.”

“We need to leave in about twenty minutes. Don't take too long.”

“We?”

“Your mom and I will be ready.”

“Mom's coming?”

“This isn't something either of us would miss. It's your first play-off game.”

“Whoop-de-doo,” I said and walked out to get ready in the bathroom.

The gym was packed when we arrived, and Mom and Dad separated from me with hurried good lucks so they could find some seats.

I headed over to the team, who paused one by one when each noticed me. They gave me mixed looks full of nervous sympathy, and I knew someone had told them about Mom.

“I'm here. Now we can get the winning started,” I said, trying to break the ice.

No one said anything.

I wanted to scream at them all for acting as if I was something broken. These girls were my friends, but not one of them seemed to know what to do. “Cheer up. I'm not the one who's dying.”

“Kate, how horrible,” Tina said. She was one of my best friends, or at least I thought she was, but I hadn't heard from her at all.

I ignored her and shot layups. I tried not to look at them, and I knew they were relieved. I concentrated on the sound of the ball bouncing against the floor until the buzzer sounded.

“Kate,” Coach Drew said, “are you okay to start?”

I shrugged and looked out at all the people in the crowd instead of at him. “Yeah, sure.”

I walked onto the floor and searched the crowd for my parents as I waited for tip-off. I spotted them in the middle, almost at the top. Dad saw me looking and held up crossed fingers. Mom rested her head on his shoulder and waved.

I turned back to the game. The ref tossed the ball, the other team got possession, and we were running across the court.

I was lost in the game for the first quarter and a half. We were ahead, and the high of the crowd, mixed with the excitement that we might win the first play-off game, allowed me to forget everything else.

That is, until I looked back up at my parents. Or at least where they 
should
 have been. I paused and scanned the bleachers. The scuff of shoes on the court brought my attention to the game. Amy, our center, threw the ball at me, and I twisted right, then left, looking for someone to pass to. I didn't focus on a teammate, though. Instead I saw Mom and Dad walking out.

Mom was leaning against Dad. She wasn't doing well. They moved slowly.

“Kate,” Amy shouted, “pass the ball.”

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” the crowd chanted, but it didn't mean anything to me.

The shot clock was running down—00:08, 00:07, 00:06—but all I could think about was Mom. She and Dad were out of the gym now, and I had no idea what was wrong. What if she needed an ambulance? What if something really bad was happening? What if we were going to lose her even sooner?

I couldn't stay there on the floor. I needed to make sure she was okay. Time ran out with a loud buzz. The crowd booed. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Tina, and I knew she'd understand.

“What the hell? You just screwed up the game.”

I took a step back. I was unsteady. “My mom,” I started and gestured toward the door. “I need to see if she's okay.”

“Wah, wah, wah, poor Kate.” Tina stuck out her bottom lip. “We all had to hear about your mom when Coach talked to the team. It sucks, but it sucks more that you can skip practices when we're busting our asses every day. Then you just walk back onto the court, and Coach makes you a starter. That's bullshit.”

“I never asked for any of this.” I dug my nails into the ball. Sweat dripped into my eyes, but I didn't wipe it away. It was better to see the world all blurred.

A whistle blew, and I was aware again of where we were.

“Miss? Are you okay?” the ref asked.

I looked at him and then all around.

The gym was silent. Everyone was watching. Everyone except my family.

I took the ball and heaved it as hard as I could into the middle of the bleachers. Someone gasped, but I didn't care. I didn't care about any of this.