That’s great, sweetie! Mom sounds genuinely happy. Are they your first?
I think one time I got a silver. (That’s a lie. The most I’ve ever gotten is a bronze.)
A gold star means it was a full-potential day. You have to meet all five pillars to get a gold star on your chart. I followed the rules of the classroom. I was respectful and helpful with my teachers and fellow students. I participated positively in class discussion. I excelled in all my subjects.
Well, I’m very proud of you, Mom says.
I’m really happy then. Not just because she might consider letting me go back to Clare’s school. It’s been a really long time since Mom was pleased with me. I consider talking to her about Calvin, but when I think about him, my face turns red again.
We drive a few blocks and then Mom pulls over in front of a house with a huge stone wall. It looks like a castle.
Can we talk for a minute?
I bounce a little in my seat as I turn to face her. Finally. She’s going to tell me the good news.
It’s about your sister.
The balloon in my stomach deflates. Of course. They talked to Clare and she made them change their minds.
Mom takes my hand. This might be hard for you, and you might not even have an answer. I don’t know how close you two are these days. But have you noticed Clare acting differently?
Yes.
In what ways?
She’s dressing differently.
Is that it?
She seems angry. Angrier.
Mom nods. Slowly and then faster. She sits back against her seat so hard it shakes. She’s still holding my hand and squeezes it. It worries me that she stayed home from school on your birthday. She used to be so social.
Social. That is one of my least favorite words. Mom and Dad always use it to describe Clare, not me.
I don’t think she was really sick, Mom says. And I don’t think she went out with her friends that night either. I think she lied to me.
Why don’t you ask her?
She sighs. Then she sighs again. I don’t know how to talk to your sister, she says. Whenever I try, she just gets mad at me.
I don’t know how to talk to her either.
Mom kisses my hand and lets me go. She starts driving again.
Now that it’s safe, I pull out my sketchbook. It falls opens to a page with a bookmark in it.
No, not a bookmark. Calvin’s number.
I close the notebook fast but not fast enough.
Did you ever call that boy back? Mom asks. Calvin?
I haven’t had time, I say.
Sweetie, you need to make time for people. A five-minute call is all it takes. Maybe the two of you could go for coffee.
I don’t drink coffee.
You could get one of those iced things that kids who don’t actually like coffee always drink. Coffee slushies! No, wait. Those are full of sugar. How about tea?
And then what? I ask.
Well, then you could drink your tea and talk. Mom clears her throat.
Or I could just call him? I ask.
Or you could just call him.
That seems like the easier choice. But thinking about calling him makes my hands feel sweaty. Sweatier than the time Sharon yelled Freak at me across the playground. Sweatier than when everyone laughed at me in karate class. What if he finds out I go to Peak? Then he’ll call me a freak like the other kids.
How about you call him now? Mom says as we pull up at the house. Just get it over with, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
I don’t get what Band-Aids have to do with this.
You’re right, that was the wrong analogy. Talking to Calvin is going to be FUN and easier than you think. HE called YOU. He likes you, Audrey. You know that right? He called you three days ago now and is probably sad you haven’t called him back. Three days is a long time to wait for someone to call you back.
He’s sad?
He might be. He might think you don’t like him.
I imagine Calvin sad because of me. I see him at the park, swinging alone with his stick sword. Crying large tears into the dirt. The image makes my stomach clench.
Okay, I say. I’ll call him.
Mom grins and pats me on the knee. Atta girl!
We go inside and Mom says she’s going to give me space. I hear her pull her ladder down and climb into the attic.
My phone is dead, so I plug it into Mom’s cord in the kitchen. Then I sit at the counter and look for patterns in the granite while I wait. A teddy bear. An alligator wearing a cowboy hat.
To avoid any unwanted conversation topics (Peak), I compile a list of questions for Calvin.
How old are you? (My answer: Just turned fifteen.)
What is your full name? (My answer: Audrey Elizabeth Arnold.)
What is your favorite subject? (My answer: Art.)
Which natural disaster scares you the most? (My answer: A tie between tsunami and tornado but tornado wins because it could actually happen, despite what my mom says.)
Do you like television shows and books? (My answer: Yes.)
What is your favorite television show and book? (My answer: I don’t have a favorite television show. Anne of Green Gables for books.)
Have you saved any more gophers? (My answer: No.)
That is all I can think of. I write down my answers too in case I get nervous and forget.
When I’m ready, I pull Calvin’s number out of my sketchbook and carefully enter the numbers. The phone rings once and I hang up.
I pour myself a glass of water. Enter the number again. This time it rings twice and I hear a click as Calvin answers.
I hang up.
Then I remember cellphones have caller ID and Calvin will know it was me. I hit redial. My heart starts beating faster. It’s beating too fast, like it’s going to run away from my body. My hand starts to shake and the paper shakes with it.
I can’t read it. I can’t read it and Calvin is going to be on the phone soon and I’m not going to know what to say.
Hello?
It’s him. It’s Calvin.
How old are you? I ask.
Who is this?
This is Audrey. My full name is Audrey Elizabeth Arnold. What is your full name?
My hand is sweaty now. I don’t think it’s ever been this sweaty. It’s hard to hold on to the phone. We’re already on question number two and I haven’t gotten the answer to question one.
Audrey! Calvin sounds excited. Then he laughs. I thought you were a telemarketer and I had to be eighteen or something.
Are you eighteen?
No, I’m sixteen.
I didn’t think so. You wouldn’t be homeschooled if you were eighteen.
I’d hope not. I’m in grade eleven. And my full name is Calvin Montgomery Hilton. What grade are you in?
I’m in grade nine and my full name is Audrey Elizabeth Arnold. What is your favorite subject?
Um, I don’t really like school but I guess it would be language arts.
He doesn’t ask me back so I move on to the next question. Which natural disaster scares you the most?
Which natural disaster? Why do you ask?
I’m just making conversation.
Oh. Okay. I guess I’ve never thought about it. Earthquakes are supposedly pretty scary. What about you?
I consult my piece of paper even though I haven’t forgotten. I would never forget the answer to that one.
It’s a tie between tsunami and tornado. Do you like television shows and books?
Of course.
What is your favorite television show and book? I like Anne of Green Gables.
Calvin laughs again. Audrey, are you really nervous or something?
My hand shakes harder and the paper slips out of my fingers. It glides back and forth but misses the counter. I slam my phone on the granite as I bend to pick it up.
Ouch! Audrey? Are you still there?
Got it. I pick up the phone again. What question are we on again? The la
st one.
Have you saved any more gophers? I ask.
No, I haven’t. Do you think . . . do you think maybe we should get together and save some?
Or we could go for coffee.
Calvin doesn’t say anything. I’m worried we got disconnected. I’m worried he hung up. Maybe he doesn’t like coffee either. Maybe he doesn’t like me.
Then he says, Audrey, are you asking me out on a date?
He says the word date funny. Like he’s laughing at me.
My face feels hot. Burning. I feel stupid. I shouldn’t have called.
Because I’d like to go on a date with you, Calvin says. How about we go for coffee on Tuesday the 28th?
I nod.
Audrey?
Yes, I say. It sounds like a grunt so I clear my throat. Yes.
Awesome. Starbucks in Britannia at seven?
Seven at night or seven in the morning?
Seven at night.
Okay.
I chose that date because I have a surprise for you.
Okay.
Calvin chuckles. I’m hanging up now.
Okay. I clear my throat again. I need to say something else. Goodbye, Calvin.
See you Tuesday, Audrey.
Then there is silence. Calvin is gone for real now.
I hit END and then my face does the super-large smile again.
I’m going on a date. That’s what Calvin called it. A date. A coffee date.
I’m going to be like the other girls who buy Seventeen magazine and look for advice. The normal girls. The girls who get off the phone with a boy and immediately call their best friend to tell them about it. But my best friend used to be Clare.
Should I tell Clare about my date? Maybe she can tell me how to act so I don’t ruin it.
I work on my homework in the kitchen and wait for Clare to come home. Mom comes in to make dinner and asks how my call went.
Fine.
Fine as in good?
Fine as in good but you’re not a teenager so you can’t help me.
Mom looks confused but luckily doesn’t ask any more questions.
Clare is taking a long time, so I go upstairs to wait in my room. I check my email on my phone. Nothing but spam.
Next I check my Facebook. There are three notifications. I click on the icon to view them.
Sharon has mentioned you in a post.
Sharon? Sharon has never mentioned me in a post. No one mentions me in anything. I click on the notification and the words fill my screen.
Audrey we’re so FREAKING excited to see you in the fall!!!
Why would Sharon be excited to see me? Sharon hates me.
Then I get it. I get the joke.
The light of the screen is too bright. I try to delete the post but can’t. It’s on Sharon’s wall.
There are already seventy-one likes on it.
All I can do is untag myself.
Did Clare have anything to do with this? Does she know about it? She must. She’s on Facebook and Sharon is her best friend.
I toss my phone across the room.
Clare
It’s Friday night, which means my curfew is extended to midnight. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.
I barely listen to the ’rents at dinner. Mom asks Audrey if she wants to tell us about her day and then gives her a look that’s supposed to telepathically communicate something, but Audrey just shrugs and looks down at her food. I tell them I’m going to Charlotte’s and get out of there as soon as possible. Only instead of walking over to Charlotte’s house, I take a bus downtown.
There’s a Tim Horton’s a block away from my destination, so I duck into the bathroom there, pull Adam’s clothes out of my backpack, and quickly change into them. The other night, I snuck back down into Adam’s room and grabbed some more sweatshirts as well as an old T-shirt that didn’t entirely engulf me like the rest. I also found an old sports bra in my underwear drawer that’s so tight, it flattens my breasts against my chest. I tie my hair up into a bun at the top of my head and pull a beanie on. I don’t realize the flaw in my plan until I step out of the stall.
A woman is washing her hands at the sink. She glances up, and when she sees me in the mirror, she gets pissed.
“What are you doing in here? This is the women’s bathroom.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, and rush out.
I’m feeling good, though. I’m feeling pumped. I mean, that was a good sign, right?
There is no bouncer yet, so I walk right through the open doors and onto a landing, where a half staircase leads up to the club and another half staircase leads down to a basement where the bar hosts smaller events. Framed advertisements line the walls: a Gothic-inspired burlesque show, the Pride Weekend party, karaoke Wednesdays, eighties night, and various DJs.
Upstairs the club is surprisingly empty, probably because it’s only eight p.m. A large rainbow flag is suspended on the wall, below which disco lights spin alone on a dance floor being pumped full of dry ice. Three cage swings hang from the ceiling alongside the dance floor, two of them occupied: one guy on a phone and a woman curled up asleep. To the left is a modern-looking wood bar, the glass cabinet behind it full of bottles of liquor lit from below by multicolored lights.
When I see the bartender, my mood instantly deflates. He’s broad and built, wearing a tight black T-shirt that shows off his sleeve tattoos and an expression that signifies he doesn’t take shit from anybody. There’s no way he’s going to serve me. The old Clare . . . maybe.
It’s now or never. Adjusting my shoulders and adopting a more confident swagger, I stride up to the bar. The bartender looks up from the drink he’s mixing and his eyebrows bend close together as he studies me.
“Right,” he says after a moment. “I’m going to need some ID.”
My real ID burns in my pocket as I dig out the wallet. He watches me struggle to pull the ID out—it’s wedged in so tight! My hand shakes as I finally hand it to him, and I try not to smile stupidly as he looks at the ID, then at me, then back at the ID again. It’s clear he’s skeptical, but I can’t tell whether it’s due to my age or the way I look.
Finally he passes it back to me and asks, “What can I get you?”
Malibu is on the tip of my lips, but I quickly change it to a beer.
“All right . . .” He gestures at the taps. “We have Canadian, Coors, Village Blonde, Original Sixteen, Wild—”
I cut him off and order Canadian. Bad choice. I’ve tasted beer at parties and it’s never tasted like this. Maybe because by the time I’ve tried it, I’ve already been tipsy on Malibu and orange juice.
More people are filing in now. I’m not going to stay long enough to talk to anyone, but I don’t care because it’s a high just to be here. At school most of the kids dress like everyone else, but here people are clearly not afraid to wear exactly what they want, even if that’s a tutu with a corset and butterfly wings. I watch the girl wearing the wings throw her head back in laughter before wrapping an arm around someone’s shoulders.
At some point when I’m halfway through my beer, someone slides onto the stool beside me.
No way. Keep it together, Clare! Keep. It. Together.
“I’ll get a Blonde,” Taylor says to the bartender, and then winks at me.
The hand that’s holding my beer shakes and I spill a quarter of it onto my shirt. Smooth.
Taylor passes me a bar napkin that was originally imprisoned under a cup of cocktail swords. “Come here often?”
“First time.” I realize my voice sounds extra high-pitched and try to lower it. “You?”
Taylor accepts a pint from the bartender and takes a deep drink while looking over the rim at me with the stormiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Light gray around the pupil growing darker until there is a ring of almost black around the iris, they are hands-down the coolest eyes ever.
They extend a hand. “I’m Taylor.”
I blink. Does Taylor really not recognize me in these clothes? We
’ve been in class together for five months now. It’s dark, I suppose. Plus they’ve met a lot of new people in the last few months. I probably blend in.
“I’m Cla—” I hesitate for only a second and then finish: “Clay.”
My heart palpitates with the lie and I hold my breath and wait to get called out, certain they must be able to feel my pulse racing through my palm, but that doesn’t happen. Instead they release my hand, down the rest of their beer, and ask, “Wanna dance?”
“Uh . . .” I glance out at the dance floor. I can count the number of people dancing. Five. Two couples and a straggler.
“Come on, it will be fun.”
Taylor jumps off the stool, and before I have time to think it through, I’m following them through the crowd, taking sips of my drink for confidence, and the disco lights are leaping off the people we pass, obscuring their faces like masquerade masks. I’m so out of my element, yet I know it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I usually only like to dance when the floor is packed and I can blend in with everyone else, but the moment we step under the disco ball, I feel it: the birth of the new me. I dance like the old Clare, yet—unlike the old Clare—I don’t care who’s watching. Maybe it’s more fun dancing as a guy, or maybe it’s being with Taylor, because I don’t feel any pressure to be good at it or look sexy.
At first we just goof around, taking turns doing corny moves like the sprinkler and the running man to make each other laugh. We dance until I’m sweaty and I wish I could pull the beanie off. Taylor is a wicked dancer—it doesn’t seem to matter what type of song comes on, they have all the right moves.
“Watch this.” Taylor plants a hand down on the floor, kicks their legs into the air, and places their second hand on top of the first as they spin upside down like a top. The other five dancers join in as I cheer and clap.
“That was insane! A breakdancing move?”
“Yeah. It’s called the two thousand.”
“So you’re a legit dancer.”
They laugh. “Since I was a kid. I took gymnastics, too.”
Out of nowhere, they do a backwards handspring. Then they take both of my hands in theirs, chest heaving, eyes bright. “Having fun?”
Under Shifting Stars Page 9