by Lisa Grekul
I see Carla Senko when she is eleven years old, in her gym clothes. Both she and I have been selected as the team captains in Mrs. Zalinsky’s gym class. It’s the end of volleyball season and we’re having a mock championship. Each team captain must come up with a team name. Carla takes the Panthers. The panther is our school mascot. Most of the people she chooses for her team are members of the Junior High Volleyball team, so they have matching Panther uniforms; their team cheer is the Panthers roar. All in all, I don’t think it’s very original. I call my team the Volleyball Vultures. I like the alliteration. Plus it’s fresh and innovative. “Vultures” says what we’re about as a team: winning. More than winning, devouring. More than devouring even, our name declares that our opponents are dead and defeated before we even start. We’re simply cleaning up the scraps.
I hear Carla teasing me, and her teammates laughing at me to impress her. Some of the Panthers caw like crows, others gobble like turkeys. None makes the sound of a real vulture, whatever that sound may be, but it doesn’t matter. All my teammates mutiny halfway through the mock championship. All except Joe Jr., one of the kids in our class from the reserve, who walks off the court to speak with Mrs. Zalinsky.
After a few minutes, I hear Joe Jr. saying, “What’re you teaching in this class anyways. Help her out already.”
I think he means me; help me out.
Joe Jr. gets himself kicked out of class for being disrespectful and Carla tells everyone that he’s my boyfriend. That I’ve gone Indian, and that we’re going to have half-breed babies. She says we should rename our team the Redskins.
I see Carla Senko at six, at seven, at eight years of age – I see her at twelve and thirteen. I see her telling boys that I stuff my bra with Kleenex, and that I sleep in the same bed as my brother. I see her saying mean and cruel things, horrible things that aren’t true. I see Carla, in the second row of the school auditorium, laughing while I play the guitar for the first time in the annual talent show. I see her glare when I accept the award for highest average in grade six, grade seven, grade eight. I see her lips peel back and her jaw snap – spitting and hissing my new names, Four-Eyes, Book Worm, Goody-Goody.
But I can’t see Carla in a bind, distressed or broken-hearted. If I could, I think that I would watch and smile.
“Michael will present the French Canadians by himself,” says Miss Maximchuk, “and Carla will present the Ukrainians with you. This way, Carla can still be actively involved in the presentation of Les Thèmes et Les Variations. Of course, she won’t be graded on the work you’ve put into your project. It’s just that – well. She can’t bear to stand beside Michael, you see. It would be too much for her, you understand. It’s just for the presentation, just for the evening, so that she doesn’t feel left out. I’m sure you can appreciate where she’s coming from. You don’t have a partner anyway.”
Carla will present the Ukrainians with me.
Carla will present the Ukrainians with me.
I can’t believe that this is happening. I try to argue with Miss Maximchuk but she won’t take no for an answer.
Carla will present the Ukrainians with me.
One hour to showtime, the night of Les Thèmes et Les Variations, I’m dressed in my full Poltavsky costume, headpiece and boots included. Sophie has French-braided my hair and slicked back the bangs from my forehead with gel, as she would if this were a dance performance. I’ve rouged my cheeks, brushed blue on my eyelids, painted my lips dark red. Backstage in the school auditorium, I double-check that my maps and posters are firmly tacked to the display boards.
Under the guidance of Miss Maximchuk, who has made a full-time job of consoling the lovelorn Carla, as though Carla is her friend and not her student, Carla and I have rehearsed our parts. We’ve decided to take turns delivering the presentation, and we’ve both decided to wear Ukrainian costumes from Ukrainian dancing. My velvet vest is burgundy, hers is green.
But at the last minute, Carla tells Miss Maximchuk and me that she doesn’t want to wear the velvet vest. It makes her look fat. She takes off the vest and gives it to Miss Maximchuk, who folds it into a square and stuffs it into her purse.
Then Carla decides that she hates her blouse. She claims that the sleeves are too puffy.
I tell Carla that she’s just a little nervous.
“You look great,” I say.
Plus she’s Ukrainian danced all her life. She knows perfectly well that the sleeves are supposed to be puffy.
“What do you know?” says Carla. “Michael is going to be in the audience. You can afford to look all bloated and fat, but I can’t.”
I take a deep breath.
“And this headpiece is retarded,” she says. “It’s stupid. I’m not wearing it. It makes me look like I’ve got horns growing out of my head. Forget it.”
Carla pulls off the headpiece. I’ve rarely seen anybody wear the Poltovsky costume without a headpiece. Carla looks half-nude to me.
Miss Maximchuk takes the headpiece from Carla and tosses it onto the floor. I pick it up, hissing under my breath that this headpiece cost almost two hundred dollars. Miss Maximchuk ignores me.
“Let’s pin the sleeves down,” she says, “so that they look more tapered.”
“The sleeves of Poltovsky blouses,” I say, “aren’t supposed to be tapered, they’re supposed to be billowy. The billowier the better. Right, Carla?”
From her purse, Miss Maximchuk pulls a pincushion and, turning her back to me, she starts pinning Carla’s sleeves.
I want to rip the costume off Carla’s body, and leave her stark naked backstage. Miss Maximchuk would try to intervene, of course, so I’d have to knock her out first. I suppose I could choke her with the ribbons of the headpiece Carla refuses to wear – just enough to make her faint. With Miss Maximchuk out of the way, I’d stuff a pysanka in Carla’s mouth to stop her from crying out. I’d hear the sweet sound of Carla crunching the eggshell and gagging and spitting. I’d bring my knee down on her chest. With one arm, I’d pin her hands down; with the other, I’d untie the apron and the skirt, and I’d rip down the slip. I’d yank the beads from her neck, sending them rolling above her head. There would be pins still in her sleeves and she’d yelp because the pins would poke her as I pulled the blouse over her head. Poor stupid Carla. Lying naked for all the world to see. She’d sob but I wouldn’t care. I’d slap her face. “Shut up, Carla!” I’d say. Then I’d slap her face again.
Carla walks onstage first, no velvet vest, no headpiece, sleeves pinned tightly around her arms. I can’t follow her. I can’t stand next to her onstage. I can’t move. There is a lump in my throat and I’m afraid that if I open my mouth I’ll cry.
Miss Maximchuk tells me to get going.
“Let’s go, Colleen! You’re on!”
I shake my head.
“I’m not going.”
“You have to go,” says Miss Maximchuk, pushing me hard toward the stage.
I won’t budge.
“What’s wrong with you? Your final grade depends on this presentation, Colleen. There are more than a hundred people out there waiting for you.”
Carla runs offstage.
“Do something!” she says to Miss Maximchuk.
“You do something, Carla. Get back out there and do the presentation alone, by yourself. Colleen has stage fright.”
When Miss Maximchuk says that I have stage fright, something snaps inside me. I’ve never had stage fright in my life, and I won’t have anyone accusing me of chickening out. I was born for the stage. I’m a natural performer.
So I grab Carla by the arm and drag her back out into the spotlight. And then I grit my teeth while we deliver the presentation like we planned. The performance goes off without a hitch. It’s perfect. Absolutely flawless.
Afterward, as the audience claps, and as Carla bows, grinning smugly as though she’s actually earned their applause, I think about Sister Maria. I think about the things she told me about not giving up. “We survive,” she sai
d. “We do what we must to survive.”
Standing next to Carla on the stage, I just can’t help feeling that something inside me has died.
Because I let it.
Four
I’ve always known that grade ten means going to a different school and merging with the students from Racette. I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time – passing Dad in the hallways, seeing Sophie at recess and lunchtimes. New teachers, new friends. A whole new routine. At Regional, there’s no such thing as homeroom. Students go straight from their lockers to their classes. And we’re allowed to choose our own lockers for the first time – either in the Social Studies Suite, the English Suite, or the Business Suite. I choose the English Suite. Sophie tells me it’s the perfect place for me. The Social Studies Suite is for people who party more than they study; for hockey players, mostly, and their girlfriends. The English Suite is where the brainy students hang out. Everyone else winds up in the Business Suite.
My friends, though, Kirsten and Tanya, choose lockers in the Social Studies Suite. That’s when everything starts to change between us. Suddenly they have boyfriends – mostly guys from the Catholic school – and they’re borrowing their parents’ vehicles on the weekends, and driving out to bush parties. They use fake id to get into the bars in St. Paul, to buy booze at the liquor store, and to get into beerfests at the Rec. Centre. I’m too scared of getting caught, so I don’t use a fake id. I’m not even sure how to get one.
I try not to let it bother me, the way that Kirsten and Tanya have started acting. I tell myself that, even if they want to go to parties on the weekends and drink, they’re still the same people inside. They’re still my best friends. We’ve been close all our lives, since we were little kids. We’re like sisters.
Maybe, if I could, I would be more like them. A lot of the time, though, when I’m not at school or at piano lessons, I’m supposed to be at home, helping Mom and Dad watch my cousin Kalyna. Kalyna’s dad, Uncle Andy, isn’t doing too well. He’s got cancer, and it’s impossible for Auntie Mary to take care of him and Kalyna at the same time. It’s just too much for her. So Kalyna is living with us until Uncle Andy gets better. During the day, Kalyna goes to a special kind of daycare for mentally handicapped people, but during the evenings, she stays at home with our family. I seem to get stuck with her the most because Wes is too young to be left alone with her, and Sophie has to study for her departmental exams. Plus Kalyna likes me best. She rarely leaves my side.
So maybe it’s my fault that Kirsten and Tanya start spending less time with me, and more time with Carla Senko. Carla is more fun than I am. Guys like her because she’s wild. I’m not wild at all. It’s hard to be wild when I have to keep up with my schoolwork, and do well on my piano exams, and babysit Kalyna full-time. No matter what I do, Kalyna is with me. If I’m doing my homework, she’s next to me, flipping through my textbooks,pretending to do homework of her own. She hums along as I play the piano, never taking her eyes off my hands as they move across the keys. I can’t talk long to my friends on the phone because Kalyna doesn’t like it. She starts huffing and puffing, fidgeting with the phone cord. I’ve had to warn Kirsten and Tanya that we could get cut off at any time. Kalyna will just pull the receiver out of my hands and set it down – as if to say, enough of that, enough talking to them. Talk to me.
After awhile, Kirsten and Tanya stop calling.
I don’t blame Kalyna. And I don’t blame Mom and Dad for making me take care of her. Somebody has to be with Kalyna at all times. It’s not anyone’s fault that I’m her favourite. Sometimes she drives me so crazy I want to lock her out of my bedroom or yell at her to leave me alone. But mostly I feel sorry for her. I hear Mom and Dad talking in hushed voices about how Uncle Andy is doing. I don’t think he’s going to get better. Though they’ve never actually said it, we all know that Kalyna is staying with us until he dies.
I’m tired a lot because it’s easiest to do my homework and my music theory assignments late at night, after Kalyna has gone to bed. Mom and Dad don’t seem to see how tired I am – or if they do, they don’t say anything. At my piano lessons, Sister Maria notices me yawning, comments on the dark circles under my eyes. I tell her about Kalyna, so she understands why my pieces aren’t always as polished as they should be.
Every so often, instead of having a regular lesson, Sister Maria makes us a cup of tea and we visit, like two friends. When I have no one else to eat lunch with at school, I bring my lunch over to the convent and eat with her. We talk together about all sorts of things. Not just music, but big events in the news, local events in St. Paul, things I’m learning about in high school. I start looking forward to the feel of her arm around my shoulders, her gentle squeeze, before I head back to home or school. Sometimes it’s hard to leave. Sometimes I don’t want to leave at all.
•••
While Kalyna lives with our family, I spend more time with her than with anyone else – except maybe Sister Maria. They’re like my new best friends, though it isn’t always easy to be with either of them.
After a year of piano lessons with Sister Maria, I give up on finding out about her past. Whenever I try to ask her about where she was born, or who her parents were, or how she learned to play the piano, she changes the subject. She seems to enjoy talking about my future more than anything because she’s always asking me about what I’d like to do with my life, what I want to be someday. Her eyes light up when we get on the topic of my musical career. I tell her that maybe I’ll go to university and study piano there. Maybe I’ll become a concert pianist. She likes this option best, I know. Not that she says so exactly, but when I talk about becoming a music teacher, she makes a sour face. And when I tell her that I wouldn’t mind being a singer in a band, she says straight out that I would be wasting my talent. “You’re far above that,” she says. “Far above it.”
I don’t think that I’m above singing in a band. It would be neat, playing keyboards or rhythm guitar, and singing lead vocals. I could sing in a country and western group, like the bands that play at dances in St. Paul, and do a few rock and roll numbers, a few jazzed-up Ukrainian songs. Kalyna would be my biggest fan, there’s no doubt about that. Her favourite thing in the world is to sit next to me on the piano bench while I play and sing songs from the radio. She knows all the words – not just to popular songs in English, but to a hundred different Ukrainian folk songs – and she comes up with perfect harmony lines to anything I sing. She’s like the autistic kids you hear about on the news who have some sort of weird, inborn talent for music.
According to Mom and Dad, though, Kalyna isn’t autistic. They say that no one knows exactly what’s wrong with her, but she isn’t autistic. She used to be completely normal. A half-dozen times, when Kalyna is with Sophie or Wes, I ask my parents what happened to her, why she changed, when she stopped being her old self. I can’t believe that she was once a regular person. I can’t imagine what she would have been like – what kind of personality she would have had. Was she married? Did she have children? For some reason, Mom and Dad won’t talk about it. If I catch Mom alone, she says, “Go and ask your father.” When I find Dad, he says, “Your mother knows more about it.” Neither of them will explain anything to me.
All I know for sure is that Kalyna loves music. When she’s angry or upset by something that’s going on around her – metalking on the phone, or Wes changing the channel on the tv without warning – I know that I can calm her down by singing something. Anything. When I sing, she forgets everything else and focuses entirely on my voice. It’s kind of creepy sometimes, the way she settles down. As though someone has put her in a straitjacket, or given her a sedative.
I know, too, that whatever happened to Kalyna – whatever made her into this crazy person who loves my singing but who can’t remember my name half the time – there are parts of her old life that she hasn’t forgotten. Or parts of her brain that still work properly. She remembers Ukrainian things especially. The Ukrainian part of her br
ain is completely normal. Why else would she know all the words to so many folk songs? And how to act in church, at Dean and Diana’s wedding? And what to do in the kitchen to help my mother make Ukrainian meals?
For the first few months that Kalyna spends with us, I talk a lot to Sister Maria about Kalyna. About how strange it is that Kalyna knows so much about being Ukrainian. I tell her that I’m learning a lot from Kalyna about cooking Ukrainian dishes – she knows more recipes than my mother – and embroidery and making pysanky. She’s like a Ukrainian encyclopedia. I can’t get over it.
After awhile, though, Sister Maria loses interest in my Kalyna stories. I guess I’m like a broken record. I can see that Sister Maria isn’t impressed when I show her Kalyna’s latest cross-stitched pillow, or when I bring her Kalyna’s latest egg. She just doesn’t care.
And then one day, after one of my piano lessons, when I’m singing a folk song for Sister Maria a cappella – a song that Kalyna taught me called “O Ukraina” – she loses her temper.
“Stop this!” she says, out of the blue, practically yelling as she pulls the lyrics out of my hands. “Stop it!”
I cower like a dog, wondering if she’s going to strike me. Tears well up in my eyes.
“I thought you might like it,” I whisper. “I thought you might –”
“You thought, you thought. You don’t think! Yes? That’s the problem. You don’t think at all.”
I try to tell her that it’s a nice song, that I like the melody. That I’ve worked hard writing out all the verses in Ukrainian.
“Then you’re as simple-minded as your aunt.”