The Lighter Side of Life and Death (18 page)

Just then Dad pulls up a chair and sits down between us. “It’s hot in here,” he says, wiping his brow. “Is anyone else warm?”

“I’ll get you a drink,” Brianna volunteers. “What do you want?”

Dad reaches for his wallet and tells her he’d love a lemonade or iced tea. As she walks away he gives me this funny smile as if to say
You see, she’s not as bad as you think
. Maybe. The fact is, she does act a notch or two less hostile with me for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe that’s as good as it gets with her.

The remainder of the weekend is taken up with a Saturday-night movie with Charlie Kady (the Whole Foods girl has a family wedding), various homework assignments that I don’t get around to finishing and an endless Sunday-night session with Colette. We heat up chicken korma and fool around on her couch and then her bed. It’s every bit as hot as Thursday only less surprising so she takes a little less time and I take a little more and somehow by the end of it we still haven’t fucked and I don’t even mind.

That’s how it goes with us all week—warm mouths, naked skin and these bits of time that seem like forever while they’re happening. It’s utterly fantastic except for three minor things. One, Colette’s habit of barging into the bathroom to brush her teeth while I’m taking a piss. Two, my eternal and embarrassing transportation problem. Three, the prescription made out to Ari Lightman on the bathroom counter next to her soap dish.

Spending so much time alone with Colette has strange side effects. Virtually everything that happens while we’re apart seems disjointed, like raw documentary footage that needs editing. I’m
restless during my Presentation and Speaking Skills debate on cloning and rush through my rebuttal (because I know it doesn’t matter) but get angry when Ms. Courier criticizes my performance (because I know she’s right). Kat watches me during history when she thinks I’m not looking but doesn’t try to speak to me or send me any more happy faces, and Jamie spends lots of time talking to me now but only while we’re at school.

Then there’s Brianna, who passes me in the hall one evening and catches me off guard by saying she’s about to watch a Reese Witherspoon movie with Jane in the basement and that I probably don’t like Reese Witherspoon anyway but if I do I can come watch because they’re about to start. So I watch half this Reese Witherspoon movie in the basement with them, assuming that this is our pseudo-sibling version of a truce, and then Colette calls and I spend the other half on the phone in my bedroom with the TV volume up high so no one can hear what I’m saying.

With Colette even silly ten-minute conversations about nothing feel larger than life. Sometimes I wonder if that’s because we’re this dirty little secret and maybe if everyone knew, our relationship wouldn’t feel so important.
Sure
. Who am I kidding? Every time she calls I feel like Burke tearing around the mini-golf course with electric eyes and infinite energy.

Seeing her is an even bigger rush. We can’t pretend to run into each other at The Java Bean forever so we do this thing where we meet in the parking lot a few blocks from her work. I stand a couple rows over from her Toyota in case a coworker walks into the lot with her. It hasn’t happened yet but if it does she’ll meet me outside Hennessy’s pub with the car. On this particular Thursday the coast is clear again and she smiles at me as she unlocks the doors. The weather’s too amazing to spend the entire night indoors (like
we have for the past week) so we drive to Toronto where we can blend into the crowd.

I like the idea of walking around outside with her (and knowing that we’ll still have plenty of time alone in her apartment later). We buy fully loaded hot dogs from a street vendor and stroll across Queen Street West looking at vintage-clothing stores, juice bars and eclectic cafés. Antiques shops and independent bookstores huddle between hip bars and tattoo places. In fact, with every step we’re surrounded by tattoos and food—The Bishop and the Belcher, Tiger Lily’s Noodle House, the Queen Mother Cafe—an endless jumble of sizzling aromas and tribal art. I tell Colette we should get matching tattoos and we search through pages of designs (from Sanskrit symbols to skulls to Celtic knots) before she says, “You’re not serious about this, are you?”

“Were you?” I ask in surprise. Here I thought we were both kidding but all of a sudden I know I’ll go through with it if she wants to.

“Definitely not,” she confirms. “We’ve just been looking at so many that I was starting to wonder.” We close the book of Chinese symbols we’ve been scanning and cross slowly towards the door. “I’m a big coward when it comes to things like that,” she adds. “I get faint whenever I have a blood test. Just seeing the needle pierce the skin …” She shudders and I grab her hand. Then we’re outside, walking down the street holding hands like any regular couple. It’s not the smartest idea but it comes so naturally that neither of us stops to question it.

“So how do you handle the dentist?” I ask. My dad has a reputation for putting his patients at ease but I’m sure Colette wouldn’t want to see him. We don’t need to add any more layers of complexity to our relationship.

“I only go every couple years,” she says guiltily, as though I’m about to lecture her about gingivitis in the middle of Queen Street. “Whenever I can work up the courage.” She squeezes my hand. “What about you, what are you phobically afraid of?”

Phobic
is a strong word. The idea of bats flapping around my head freaks me out but I’ve never seen one outside of the zoo. I’m trying to come up with a better answer when Ian Chappell’s face jumps out at me from the crowd. He’s walking towards us in a white tunic and skinny black pants, looking just enough like his
Spin Cycle
character for me to notice him.

Jesus, that’s Miracle on his right
. Dread sweeps across her cheekbones and jaw but she’s quick to fix that. By the time we’re standing in front of each other she looks like a girl in a soap commercial: springwater clean and in perfect emotional balance.

“Mason,” she says, smiling. “How’re you?”

“Good,” I reply quickly.
And still holding Colette’s hand
. “You guys doing the Queen Street circuit?” My goal is to get through this conversation without commenting on either of our bizarre pairings. I guess you could call it improv.

“Yeah, it’s a great evening, isn’t it? No humidity. I love it down here.” Miracle blows me away, as usual. She’s exuding calm in the middle of our chaos, her hair moving gently in the wind as she holds my gaze. Is it possible she has nothing to hide?

“Beautiful. I should come down here more often.” I let go of Colette’s hand and motion towards Miracle. “Colette, this is Miracle.”

“Miracle,” Colette repeats. Her posture’s wooden but her voice is casual. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.” Miracle slopes her head a little, almost like a miniature bow. “I didn’t like it at all when I was younger but I’m doing my best to grow into it.” Miracle switches her gaze to Ian
Chappell. “Mason, this is Ian. You remember we saw him in
Spin Cycle
?”

I nod. “Of course.” I didn’t think she’d bring that up but it gives us something else to talk about. “You were
outstanding
,” I tell him. “You had me on edge until the very last second. You were like one of those guys with wild eyes you see in the street, you know? The kind where you wonder if they’re going to start swearing at you for no reason and then they say something smart that makes you wonder if maybe they’re not so crazy after all.” I might be babbling. Why am I so freaked? Miracle isn’t going to tell anyone. And what is she doing with Ian Chappell, anyway? We need to have a private conversation ASAP.

Ian Chappell stares at me with fiercely observant eyes. “Exactly,” he says. “That’s really my feeling about Tom too. Always on edge. Never misses a beat. Very compelling guy but I can’t say I’ll miss him. That’s a heavy load of tension to carry around.”

Miracle glances down at her watch. “You know, we should probably get some food before you have to head over to the theater, Ian.”

“You’re right.” Ian touches a strand of her hair, only for a second but that’s long enough to answer my question about their status. “You two want to come along? There’s a terrific Thai place not two minutes from here.”

So Ian isn’t in hiding after all. He has to be close to thirty and it doesn’t bother him that Miracle’s only seventeen. Or maybe he doesn’t know.

“We can’t,” Colette says, feigning regret. “We have to get moving too.”

Past my bedtime
. Shit. I can’t believe Miracle’s hooking up with this thirty-year-old professional actor she couldn’t even speak to a couple weeks ago. I don’t know whether I should be happy for her
or if I should plan a one-man intervention. Does she know what she’s doing? Do I? Does anyone?

Apart from all that I wish I could talk to Ian Chappell about acting awhile longer. There’s so much he could tell me. “Yeah, we have to go,” I say.

“All right.” Ian drapes his arm lazily around Miracle’s shoulders. “Have a good night.” He lifts his hand to flash us a wave.

Colette and I continue in our direction, our bodies hunching like they want to melt into the sidewalk. “Who was that?” Colette whispers urgently. “An ex or a friend? Can you trust her?”

“She’s not going to say anything,” I say. “You know that guy is, like, thirty years old. I don’t think she wants anyone to know about him either.” Colette casts an impatient look in my direction and I know that sounds stupid coming from me, of all people, but it’s different, right? That’s a thirteen-year age gap.

“So you think we can trust her?” Colette asks.

“Don’t worry. I’m positive she won’t say anything. Even if she wasn’t with Ian.”

Colette folds her arms across her midriff and digs her fingernails into her skin. “So much for thinking there’s anywhere safe we can go together.”

“Yeah.” I’m disproportionately disappointed. She didn’t say we couldn’t see each other. We just have to keep it indoors.

“We should go back to the car.” Colette looks over her shoulder, as though Ian and Miracle or any one of a hundred other people we know could be trailing us through Queen Street, snapping photos on their cell phones.

“It’s okay.” I stretch my hand across her back. “It’s nothing. I’m more worried about her.”

“Why are you worried about her?” Colette’s brown eyes peer at me in suspicion. For a second I think she’s jealous.

“We’re pretty good friends. When we saw that play she was so intimidated by his talent that she didn’t even want to speak to him afterwards. I’m not saying that he took advantage of her or anything but—”

“That sounds exactly like what you’re saying,” Colette counters. “She seemed pretty capable to me. Or is it only okay when the guy’s younger?” She sighs and leans into my arm. “I’m getting defensive. Can we skip this discussion?” She stares distractedly at a trio of girls with dyed black hair begging in front of a convenience store. “I wish we’d at least had time for coffee. I think I’m in caffeine withdrawal.”

“We can get coffee,” I say. “What’re the odds we’ll run into them again? You heard them—they were getting food.”

So we go to this funky little coffeehouse we spotted earlier and there’s no sign of Ian and Miracle but Colette orders takeout. We drink our coffee in the car, on the way back to her place, and I know better than to say I wish we could’ve stayed in the coffeehouse, but for the first few minutes I’m definitely thinking it.

Two things weigh
heavy on my mind Friday morning—my run-in with Miracle the night before and my history essay on the United Nations. The essay is typo-free with comprehensive footnotes and credible arguments. It’s at least a B-plus paper and I’ve left it on the kitchen table—or maybe the counter. I explain that to Mr. Echler at the start of first period history but he balances himself on the edge of his desk and says, “You’re well aware that late papers lose ten percent a day, Mason.”

“I’ll get it at lunch,” I tell him. “Will that cost me anything?”

Mr. Echler nods like that’s fine with him and I sit down, ultra-aware of Kat’s eyes focused in my direction. They give me a guilt pang, like they always do lately, and I wish that she’d stop but then what would be left between us? “What’s up?” I say, turning to look at her.

“Not much,” she says quickly. “You?”

“Same.”

She blinks her thick eyelashes at me and grips her pen. It’s like a code that I’m not meant to decipher and I glance back at her as nonchalantly as I can. “You didn’t finish your essay?” she asks.

“I did,” I tell her. “It’s at home.” I don’t know how to have a natural conversation with her anymore. I sound like Dustin before he started working on the play. It’s painful.

Kat almost smiles. “I thought you only did that with your phone.”

Me too. I’m tired and distracted. Summer will be easier. At least then I won’t have to worry about how to deal with Kat staring at me and the gnawing feeling that I’ve let her down. I still need to find a job, though. According to Christopher, The Java Bean is overstaffed. Some ex-employee with a humanities degree and heavy student loan came back last week. Maybe I should ask Charlie Kady to find out how much Whole Foods pays.

I smile at Kat but she’s already looked away. There’s a big possibility we’ll spend the entire summer apart, for the first time in three years. With her and Jamie avoiding each other too, there’s no reason to think our paths will cross much.

That feels wrong, but then most everything about us has felt wrong since that night. Maybe I’d take it back if I could. One night can’t be worth all this awkwardness. Technically it wasn’t even a night, more like two hours. A couple of hours shouldn’t have the power to cripple our friendship.

This is why I don’t like to think about Kat; it doesn’t go anywhere. I just get messed up and there’s no reason for that when I’m in a totally different situation now.

On my way to the cafeteria later (to beg someone with a car to make an essay run with me) it happens again when I spy her walking by, shoulder to shoulder with this guy named Sanjay. He’s not her usual type. His build’s kind of similar to mine and he won the
tenth grade Media Arts Award last year. Sanjay has a reputation for being funny and Kat’s smiling when I see them. It gives me a chill, even though I know they’re not together (not yet). If it’s not him, it’ll be someone else. It’s only a matter of time.