The Lighter Side of Life and Death (9 page)

Colette drags a hand across her brow and into her hairline. “This is ridiculous.” She trudges away from me and unlocks the car doors. “Just get in.”

Sure. I climb in and keep my eyes on the dashboard. “Don’t
worry,” I say evenly. “It’s cool.” It’s better than cool. I have to struggle to stop myself from grinning.

“Of course it’s cool for you,” Colette says as she starts the car. “You’re sixteen. I’d be this lecherous old woman with a boy toy. I’d be one of those cougars—and I hate that incredibly sexist term too—in skintight pants with a pinched face from a cheap face-lift.” She exhales frustration, her gaze hurtling over to mine.

“You’re only twenty-three,” I point out. “It’s not a big deal.” It’s a colossal deal. I feel golden.

Colette glares at me as she squeezes the steering wheel. It reminds me of the way Kat looked at me when she called me Dr. Phil.

“Do you want me to get out?” I ask.

“Of course not,” she snaps. “This is really annoying, Mason. Why’d you come back today? Why didn’t you just leave it alone like I asked you to?”

I slump down in the seat, unable to answer. How do you put something like that into words? It’s never just one thing that draws you towards someone, is it? It’s indefinable.

We pull up outside my house in no time and Colette stares nervously up the driveway like she’s worried about what Nina will think. I run my hands through my hair and follow her gaze. There’s no one out there to see us and no one would suspect anyway. “Don’t be pissed,” I tell her. “I can’t have another person mad at me.”

“Another person?” Colette echoes, meeting my eyes. “Who else is mad at you?”

I sit there telling her about Kat, Jamie and me. The entire story takes two minutes and when I’m done I absolutely feel sixteen. Most of it sounds ridiculously immature, except for that night with Kat. You can’t tell me there wasn’t something real in that.

“Your friend Kat sounds really weirded out,” Colette says. “Maybe she’s not used to hooking up with people so casually.”

“She’s not.” I don’t explain about both of us being virgins; I don’t want to sound any more like a sixteen-year-old than I already do.

Colette nods, winding a finger into her hair. She’s got more elegance in one finger than most people have in their entire bodies. It’s impossible for me to stop staring. “I’m not pissed with you, Mason,” she says. “I just don’t like the way I’ve been acting with you—you’re a kid.” I shake my head and she repeats herself, studying my eyes.

“Are you going to tell me to get out of the car now?” I ask. It’s the last thing I want to do but I can’t push her. It’s incredible enough that we’ve gotten this far. Honestly, she’s sexier by the second. My mind’s on a rampage.

“Mmm,” Colette hums thoughtfully. “I guess you should.”

I unbuckle my seat belt and obediently reach for the door but Colette grabs my shoulder before I can open it. I swing around, immediately collapsing back into the passenger seat, my heart thumping like a wild thing. I’d say something but it feels like her turn. She already knows where I stand.

Our eyes lock in silence. We sit there watching each other for too long. “Am I going to see you again?” I ask finally, my fingers scratching at an imaginary clump of green hair.

“Sure,” Colette says. “We’ll do prom together.” She fiddles with her watch strap as she stares at her fingers. “I’m sorry. That was bitchy.” Her eyes soften a little as her hands settle back on the wheel. “How about you come over to my place right now and we get this entire thing over with?” Before I have a chance to wonder if that’s an all-inclusive deal, she adds, “And I’m not getting into it
with a sixteen-year-old, so purge every porno movie you’ve ever seen from your mind. We’re just going to talk it through and I guarantee by the end of the conversation this will seem like an extremely bad idea.”

This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard—going home with someone to talk yourselves out of hooking up.

“Are you in or not?” Colette asks.

“Definitely,” I say soberly. “I’m in.”

Colette lives in
a basement apartment in this mammoth new subdivision on the east side of town. The tiny trees are as thin as matches; it’s a wonder they made it through the winter. Her private entrance is through the side door, and as soon as you walk in you land up in a box-shaped laundry room with a beige dress shirt draped over a clotheshorse. “This way,” Colette says, leading me towards another door.

So far we haven’t said much. This is her idea and I’m fuzzy on the details.

She unlocks the door and we head downstairs. The steps are plush carpeted and everything looks professionally finished. It’s exactly the kind of place I’d expect her to have. “This is nice,” I say as we step into the living room. Neat without being antiseptic. Fashionable but not flashy.

“The worst thing about this apartment is the lack of light.” Colette points up at the undersized windows. “Winter here felt like a
dungeon in Moscow.” She unbuttons her suede jacket and doubles back to the closet to hang it up. “Are you hungry?” she asks.

“I could eat.” I follow her into the open-concept kitchen where she spritzes a tiny potted plant.

“Good.” Colette swings the freezer open and slides out a box of jambalaya. I stand around watching as she sets a head of lettuce down in front of me on the counter. An oversized tomato, red pepper and box of croutons appear next. “Cut this stuff up for me, would you?” She crouches down by my legs and pulls a cutting board out of the cupboard beside the sink.

Everything feels different between us than it did in the parking lot. It’s like she’s trying to teach me a lesson or something. I slice up the pepper, though, and act like I feel at home in this apartment where I’ve never been, with this twenty-three-year-old woman I barely know. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

Colette doesn’t speak. She’s whisking ingredients in a measuring cup. “It’s really quiet down here,” I say.

“The people upstairs must be out,” she tells me, and continues whisking.

I’m done with the salad ingredients and Colette hands me a salad bowl and set of tongs. I toss the salad and then walk around her living room, checking out her coaster set, candleholder collection and the framed photographs that line her bookshelf. Two zombie cheerleader girls are laughing into the camera in the first one. Between the greenish foundation, blood stains and blackened eyes it’s hard to recognize either of them but my guess would be that I’m looking at Colette and Andrea when they were about my age. In another a more mature Colette’s standing between two middle-aged people, the three of them dressed for a special occasion. They must be her parents. There’s a picture of their younger selves in front of a trailer, the two of them holding hands.

“How long have you been living here?” I ask, staring over at Colette in the kitchen.

“Since November.” She plonks the whisk into the sink. “Andrea and I were roommates for a while, before she moved in with her boyfriend in Peterborough. And after that I had a bigger place on my own, in one of those apartments on Wagner, but I’m trying to save money for school.”

“Your parents won’t help with that?” She said something about that last time she drove me home but I want to know more; I want to hear whatever she’ll tell me.

“Maybe,” she says. “I wouldn’t want to ask them.” Overhead I hear the reckless thump of small feet. The owners must’ve just walked through the door with their kids. “Can you come here a second, Mason?”

More dicing. Maybe this time I’ll graduate to the blender. I saunter back to the kitchen and lean against the counter, awaiting further instructions. Colette pulls her body flush against mine and kisses me fast. The shock jolts through my limbs in a microsecond. It’s the purest craving you can imagine. Stronger even. I savor the briefest taste of her tongue before she pulls away and says, “You see, it’s no different than kissing somebody your own age.”

Of course it is. I put my hand on her shoulder and squeeze. My fingers touch her hair. I don’t know if she’s just screwing with my head or what. I feel like a science experiment. I want to run my hands over her body but at the same time I don’t want to mess up. What if she tells me she never wants to see me again?

Colette moves away from me and starts plucking plates out of the cupboard. I stare at her pointy little breasts as they strain against her top. This is the best look at them I’ve had yet and honestly, I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing my cool.

“We have another thirty minutes or so until that’s ready,” she says, motioning to the stove. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Is this an audition?” My voice tightens around the words. “What’re we supposed to talk about, Colette? I don’t have a clue what I’m doing here.”

“Sit down,” she says patiently. “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. This isn’t the easiest situation for me either.”

“You’re completely in control,” I say, still standing. I cock my head at the kitchen. “What was that?”

Colette edges by me and sits down on her leather couch. “You wanted me to kiss you, didn’t you? It’s a classic teenage guy fantasy. You don’t even know me. You’re just hanging this cliché idea on me—the sexy older woman.”

“And what’s it for you? Some kind of psychology experiment?” I feel like a lab rat on Viagra or Levitra. I think I want to go home.

“Not at all,” she claims. “I like you. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I thought if we talked it over we could get past it. For one thing, I’m already involved with somebody. For another, Andrea and Nina would have my head on a platter if they ever found out about this.”

Since I’m sixteen there’s nothing illegal about us, no matter what we do, but pointing that out to Colette would just underline the age gap, and besides, I’m stuck on something else she said.

Colette rubs her cheek with her palm and adds, “And it sounds like you have your own set of complications you need to sort out.”

“I thought we could just get to know each other,” I mutter finally. “I didn’t know there was somebody else.”

“There’s always somebody else.” She combs her fingers slowly through her hair. “You see what I mean? It’s already sounding complicated. The more we talk about it, the less appealing it seems. You just want somebody you can bonk without it getting
complicated like it did with Kat.
This
isn’t anything close to what you want, Mason.”

I don’t know what I want. She’s got me reeling.

Just then the doorbell rings and Colette darts upstairs to answer it. Alone with the homemade salad dressing and the smell of jambalaya I start thinking about that second kiss and how Colette’s been trying to tell me what I want but hasn’t once said what she wants.

I hear two voices at the top of the stairs, one of them Colette’s, both of them female. “At least let me say hello to him,” the other woman chirps, bounding downstairs. “Oh—hi there,” she sputters, a queasy look stretching across her face as she reaches the kitchen. “I thought you were someone else.”

“This is Mason,” Colette says from behind her. “He’s a friend’s step nephew, I guess you could say.”

Yeah, I guess you could say that. I extend my hand—ready to follow Colette’s lead—and blink warmly at the nameless person in front of me. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is my friend Leslie,” Colette continues cheerfully. She smiles at me as she says it and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen her crack a grin today. It changes her entire face. Makes me feel almost like I’m with the teenage girl from the Halloween photo, minus the cheesy gore.

“I really just dropped by to say hello,” Leslie says, looking faintly guilty. “I’m sorry to barge in on you unannounced.”

“It’s not a problem,” Colette says. “Mason and I were just about to shift some of the living room furniture around but it’s nice to see you.”

Leslie nods uncertainly, tells us both goodbye and bolts for the staircase. Colette follows, acting normal. I’m surprised she’s handling this so smoothly, and I strain to hear their conversation,
something about Ari and Saturday night. I wonder if this Ari person is the boyfriend Colette mentioned and if he’s the type to appear out of the blue, instantly grasp the undercurrent and swing a punch at me. That doesn’t particularly scare me on a physical level—Dad made me take karate for two and a half years; I can handle myself—but it’s not a scenario I’m in a rush to experience.

“Wow, that was weird,” Colette declares, reappearing. “She’s so pushy.” Colette rolls her eyes as she sighs. “She had to come in and see what was going on. There was no stopping her. Thank God she doesn’t know Andrea. That could’ve been a disaster.”

“You were good,” I tell her. “That stuff about the furniture—you’re a good liar.”

“I’m not,” Colette says. “She just pissed me off being so bossy.”

“So who was she expecting?” I curve my hands around the edge of the counter. “Your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” She tilts her head and scratches her neck. “I didn’t say I had a boyfriend. I said there was someone else.” She tugs off her high-heel shoes and tosses them into the hall. “But, yes, that’s who she was expecting.”

“Ari?”

“Yup.” She half smiles as she looks at me.

“This is screwy.” I’m in over my head.

“Yes, I know.” Now she’s full-out grinning and I can’t help it; she’s contagious. “I told you it was.”

“Okay,” I tell her, fighting a smile. “I think I’m beginning to get it, but you know you never said what you wanted. I mean, okay, you’re this hot older woman and I’m looking for someone to
bonk
without it getting complicated.” Her words, not mine. “But what’s in it for you? What’s your angle?”

“Mason, come on. I’m not going to stand here and tell you how beguiling you are.” My cheeks are sore and I bow my head so I
won’t have to look her in the eye. Would asking for clarification on the beguiling issue damage my case much? Because I’d give my left arm to hear that. “So are we close to getting this worked out?” Colette continues. “Are we good or do we have to stick with this discussion?”

“I guess we’re good.” I stifle a sigh. “I still think it’s too bad.” Between feeling flattered, let down and steadily in lust with the incredibly revealing nature of Colette’s thin-fibered top, that statement’s a half-decent approximation of what I’m thinking.