Days That End in Y (16 page)

“That’s hockey.”

“The Red … Sox?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Fine. So I only go to baseball games because Michael’s there. Isn’t that what people do where they’re—”

“Dating?” Charity finishes, grinning wickedly at me. She’s enjoying this way too much.

Then, abruptly, she changes the subject. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Is everything okay with Benji?”

“Why?”

“Maybe it’s nothing, but he seems a little off lately.”

“Off, how?”

“Sort of distant. Like he’s hiding something.”

Before I thought I was being extra-sensitive because of everything else that’s going on in my life, but now I’m not so sure. If Charity’s picked up on Benji’s weird behaviour, that means something is definitely up with him. “What sort of things have you noticed?” I ask.

“Little things. Like usually a bunch of us take break together, go and talk to Dean, ask him about what school is like, but lately he hangs back and pretends to read his script.”

“How do you know he’s pretending?”

“Because I’ve caught him staring at me a few times. And yesterday Dean offered to drive me home after rehearsal, and when I told Benji I couldn’t walk with him, he sort of shut down. Then this morning he barely said hello.”

For Benji to not be overly polite is alarming. “Weird,” I say.

“I know,” Charity agrees. “Does Benji ever talk to you about girls? Like a crush?”

“No, but I don’t talk about boys much, either. He embarrasses too easily.”

“And you two never …?” Charity trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“Never what?”

“You know, dated.”

“God, no!”

“Not even a kiss?”

“Never. I don’t think of him like that. He’s like my brother.”

“And you think he feels the same way about you?”

“I know he does.”

“Okay. Did you ever think—” Charity stops and takes a long sip of her drink.

“What?”

Charity continues, “Never mind. It’s none of my business. I feel kinda bad, picking the poor guy apart. Can’t a person have a few bad days? The bottom line is, the Benj is a straight-up cool guy, and we should cut him some slack.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Okay.” Charity really is great. It’s hard to believe I used to hate her guts. On a whim, I ask, “Hey, what are you doing tomorrow at three?”

“I’m free, I think.”

“Want to come to an end-of-summer barbeque at my house?”

She looks genuinely pleased. “Clarissa, I would
love
that! Thank you so much!”

I feel good about inviting her. I don’t mention that the barbeque is directly following my mother’s wedding. I’m not really in the mood to explain it.

Charity and I haven’t really bonded, even though we’ve hung out a few times together with Benji. But we’re all going to be at the same school now, so we’re likely to see each other a lot more. Plus, Benji really likes her, so I might as well put a little effort into it, especially if she ends up as his girlfriend. Though if Dean is an option, things don’t look so good for Benji.

Cripes! Listen to me going on about bonding and effort! Am I turning into Doug?

“Am I going to see you tonight?” she asks.

“What’s tonight?”

“There’s a party! Didn’t Benji tell you? I told him to bring you!”

It hurts too much to admit that, no, Benji did
not
tell me about this mysterious party, so I play forgetful. “Oh right, I remember something about a party now. Where is it?”

“My place, any time after eight. Sort of a back-to-school thing, mostly for Gaslighters and some friends from school. Only cool people — you’ll like them, I promise.”

Normally I wouldn’t jump at the chance to hang out with a group of needy actors connected by joke after inside joke, but the alternative is my mom’s idea of a bachelorette party: movies and manicures with Denise. It’s something we’ve done a hundred times, and the last thing I want to do
is spend quality time with my mom the liar.

“I’ll be there.”

***

Doug and I play one more game, even though I am dying to be anywhere else but here. He keeps trying to engage me in conversation, which is annoying. I know he’s trying to keep me distracted, but it’s no use. What I really want is to be left alone with my thoughts. I can’t take back the fact that I know Bill. I have met him, and we have talked. As much as I would like to be mad at him, it’s hard to stay angry at someone who honestly didn’t know I exist.

It’s my mom I’m really mad at. She’s the one who knew the truth and kept it from me.

Doug keeps checking his phone.

“Any word?” I ask.

Doug shoves his phone in his pocket, like he got caught doing something bad. Does he seriously think I can’t see him checking it every two minutes? “Not yet.”

“Doug, this is nice of you and everything, but do you think you could take me home? I just want to be by myself.”

“Of course, C-Money. I’ll just let Annie know we’re headed home.”

It doesn’t bother me when Doug uses the word home anymore. It’s been bumped off the list of things that upset me right now.

As we leave, I wave to Charity, who gives me a wink and says “Byyyye,” in this sing-songy way that lets me know I’m in for some fun tonight.

“Your mother says she’ll be home soon. Do you want to play a game or watch a movie?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. Then, because Doug
has been so nice, I add, “I’m probably going to take a nap, anyway.”

“You got it, CLD. If you want to talk, I’ll be in the backyard. I need to do some grooming before The Big Day.” Doug uses air quotes around the words “The Big Day,” then smiles like a kid. I guess boys get just as excited about weddings as girls do. Even when the girl they’re marrying turns out to be a liar.

“It doesn’t bother you? That she lied to him?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Or that she cheated on her boyfriend? That could be you in a few years.”

Doug doesn’t even flinch. “We all do stupid things when we’re teenagers.”

Not me, I think. I will never be that stupid.

When she opens the door, Charity cries, “You came!” and pulls me inside. Then she turns to the small crowd and says, “Look everyone, it’s Clarissa! She came!”

In movies, parties are always held in beautiful houses packed full of beautiful people who are drunk, dancing and making out all over the place. Someone gets humiliated, something expensive gets broken and someone always pukes. Maybe this is true of other high school parties, but it is not so at Charity’s.

There are maybe ten people hanging around in her living room. Some are squished on the couches, and others sort of loiter behind, holding pop or beer cans or handfuls of chips. On the coffee table are two bowls of snacks, and a pizza box is open on the island that divides the living room from the kitchen. Music is playing in the background, but it isn’t even loud enough to recognize the song. I’ve been to birthday parties for seven-year-olds that were wilder.

“Let’s get you a drink,” Charity says, and she leads me into the kitchen, still grasping my wrist for some reason. Maybe she thinks I’ll get lost on my way across the living room? People nod and smile as we pass. Some of them I recognize as people from the show Charity and Benji did in the spring, but some are total strangers.

“Now there is beer, and some coolers, but you don’t have to drink them if you don’t want to. I have lots of pop, too.”

Denise let me try her beer once, which tasted like warm,
strained garbage. No thanks. I pick up a bottle of something pink and fruity looking. “What’s this?”

“That’s a watermelon cooler.”

“I’ll have this.”

“Are you sure? It has alcohol in it,” Charity looks uncertain, as if she’s just realized I’m only fourteen.

“Definitely.”

It’s not like I’ve never had alcohol before. At New Year’s Mom will put a splash of champagne in my orange juice. She probably wouldn’t be pleased about the cooler, but she has lost the right of telling me what I can and cannot do. After this week, knowing what I know now, her opinion is just something for me to consider. It is no longer the final word.

So what if I have one pretty-looking pink drink? I’m not going to get drunk and do something stupid. I’m not a stereotype in a teen movie.

“Well, help yourself!”

The drink is good: syrupy but with a slightly bitter, almost metallic aftertaste. I don’t feel any cooler drinking it, but it’s nice to have something to hold on to. Aside from Charity, no one here really knows me, which is kind of a relief. No one thinks, “oh, look at the poor, fatherless child,” or, “isn’t that the girl whose mother had breast cancer?” The only thing interesting about me tonight is that I am a mysterious stranger. I can say anything or be anyone, including an underage cooler-drinker. Unless Benji (that traitor) shows up, I am a blank slate.

I take a long swallow, for courage, then wander up to the friendliest-looking group in the room. Three girls, all smiles, hanging out on a couch. I don’t recognize any of them, but they are all drinking the same watermelon cooler as me. At the very least we can talk about that.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I’m Clarissa.”

“Rachel.”

“Kiera.”

“Jess.”

I’ll never remember all those names. It doesn’t help that they’re dressed alike and two of them have hair the exact same shade of brown with the same bangs. The only difference is that one of them clearly uses a flat iron and the other does not.

“How do you know Charity?” one of them asks.

“Through my friend Benji,” I say.

One of the girls — maybe Rachel? — smiles and nods. “I know Benji. Really sweet, kind of shy. We were both in
The Wizard
,” she explains to the matching-hair girls, who now wear matching blank expressions.

“Is he cute?” one of them asks.

“Yeah, but he’s not your type. Besides, he’s, like, thirteen,” says Rachel.

“Fourteen,” I correct.

The girl pouts. “Too bad. I like older guys. Are you dating anyone, Clarissa?”

“Yes,” I say, thinking, what the heck? I don’t think Michael will mind. We basically are. “He’s a baseball player.”

“A good one?”

“Pretty good.”

“God, I can’t wait for school to start. This has been the longest summer ever.”

“Poor Jess has spent the whole summer babysitting,” Rachel says to me, patting Jess on the knee.

“Like, actual baby babysitting,” Jess says. “Diapers-and-screaming-and-crying
babysitting. I never thought I’d say this, but even geography with Nadinski is better.”

The other girls protest.

“He’s the worst,” Rachel says.

“Do you go to Sir John A.?” Kiera asks.

“I start next week,” I say.

“Well, pray you don’t get Nadinski,” she says.

“He teaches grade nine geography and grade eleven history,” Rachel explains. “He reads from his notes and doesn’t take questions. It’s a wonder no one has died of boredom in his class.”

“Lowell is okay,” says Kiera, “but you really want to be in Ms. Singh’s class. She’s the best.”

“The best,” Jess agrees.

“If you end up with Mr. Cochrane for math, always do the homework. He gets you to hand it in randomly for marks.”

“Never use the bathrooms near the music room, they’re always out of toilet paper.”

“And bring your lunch if you can. The caf food is disgusting.”

I nod after each of their suggestions, making mental notes so I can pass them on to Michael and Mattie. And maybe Benji, if he decides he wants to hang out again.

Charity is a great host. She flits around the room, inserting herself into pockets of conversation for a minute or two, then moving on to the next group.

“Hey, Charity, is Dean coming?”

“I invited him.”

A few girls giggle.

“Do you think he’ll show?”

“I don’t see why not.”

A girl who has been sitting slightly apart from my new friends, the Couch Girls, frowns and says, “Isn’t he in university? He’s too old for this kind of party.”

Charity takes mock offence to that statement and turns up the music. “What kind of party?” she says. “An awesome party?” Then she pulls the Naysayer up off the couch, and they dance around a bit. It’s pretty lame, but also kind of silly, and soon I’m giggling, too. Charity sees me and throws an arm around my shoulders, and then all three of us are sort of giggle-swaying to a song I’ve never heard of, but all of a sudden really, really, like.

“What’s this song?” I ask.

“You mean you don’t know? It’s on the radio, like, every five seconds,” says the Naysayer.

Charity just laughs, but not in a mean way. “Clarissa, I love you! It’s like you live in this vacuum.”

She places her hands on my shoulders and says, “Let me teach you. I will guide you in the ways of music and the world.”

I slip free of her hands, laughing. “Maybe I live in a vacuum, but you live in a bubble of jazz hands and show tunes.”

The Naysayer is delighted. “So true! What’s your name again?”

“Clarissa.”

She smiles at me and says, “I’m Megan.”

Charity bounces over to her music player and selects a Broadway tune I’ve never heard before.

“Welcome to the bubble!” she cries. The song must be from a Gaslight Players show, because four or five other people pop up, and they all perform it — or the parts they remember — singing really loudly, while bumping into
each other in exaggerated, half-forgotten choreography.

“Are you a Gaslighter?” I ask Megan, trying not to choke on the name, which is still lame even after a third of a watermelon cooler.

“No, I go to school with Charity and some of the others.”

“Me, neither.” I am feeling warmed by my new kinship with Megan (and possibly the cooler, which tastes less tinny and more delicious). “Is it just me, or is Gaslighter a weird thing to call yourself?”

To my delight, Megan laughs. “Totally. It sounds like a kind of bad fart joke a nine-year-old would tell, right? I mean,
Gas
lighter? Come on!”

It is a relief to hang out with someone who finally gets it. “Exactly!”