by Dawn Dumont
I showed Jared to Samantha and she agreed that he was cute. “Who do you like?” I asked.
She shrugged. “No one.”
“Don’t worry we’ll find someone for you. Maybe another athlete like yourself,” I said helpfully.
From my avid research, I knew that Jared hung out with Mike, who was tall with a face like a horse. Mike had a loud laugh and liked to crack jokes. He always stood a foot behind Jared effectively protecting Jared’s perfect skin from the sun.
Their tent was located twenty feet northeast of ours. They didn’t have a chaperone because Mike was sixteen years old.
“What events are you in?” Samantha boldly asked them as we walked to breakfast together.
Mike was just there to play baseball he said. Jared was in all of the short distance races and also playing on the baseball team.
“You’re really good,” I whispered, staring down at the ground.
“I hear you’re really good,” Samantha said loudly.
Jared smiled, “Thanks.”
In the bathroom, Samantha and I discussed the exchange. “Do you think he likes me?” I asked Samantha as I smoothed my hair down in the mirror.
Samantha shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“I can’t do that!” That wouldn’t be romantic. Jared and I were soul mates and you don’t have to ask your soul mate if they like you. You know by looking into their eyes. Unfortunately I was too shy to look into his eyes.
Celeste said that she figured he liked me because he kept looking in my direction. I thanked her with my eyes and silently promised her the biggest bedroom overlooking the ocean.
Charlene Bear was our chaperone and slept at the front of the doorway of our tent.
“Nobody but nobody is getting in trouble on this trip,” she said calmly as she laid out her sleeping bag.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Oh, you know.”
I don’t think we did know. All we knew was that we wanted to get near the boys but we didn’t know what we would do with them once we got close. Kiss them? That seemed do-able. And, what about this French-kissing thing kids were talking about? I didn’t know if I’d be good at it; they didn’t start teaching French at my school until grade nine.
And what was all that first, second and third base stuff? I barely understood when I was supposed to bunt.
And what exactly was “doing it?”
I know this seems incredibly naïve but remember, this was before Discovery channel and the Internet. All I knew about sex I’d heard from listening in to my mom gossip with her friends. Whenever they got to the good parts, they would drop their voices and lean close to one another. I’d have to leave my hiding spot and pretend to walk through the kitchen for some water. “What are you doing? Go play outside!”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Since when are you too good to drink out of the hose? Now, out!”
When I looked at a boy, all I noticed were his facial features. It took only one glance to declare if they were handsome or not. And it took only one more to fall in love. Without their heads, I wouldn’t even recognize them. What was the point? What else could possibly be of value beyond a pair of long eyelashes and a sexy smile?
I knew that underneath their clothes boys were different but I didn’t know how exactly. I barely understood my own anatomy. I mean, yes I knew that I was flat-footed, barrel chested and longwinded but what did that have to do with anything?
I was clueless and this was evident in my style of flirting. I had discovered that talking to my crush was much too nerve-wracking so I couldn’t talk to him directly. Instead I teased his best friend incessantly.
“Hey, Mike, you ever let little kids ride on your back? Yes or neigh?”
Mike laughed and returned the teasing, “Hey, Dawn, did a ball hit you in the face? Oh sorry, you just look that way naturally.”
With the friend, I could be bold. With my crush, I was quiet, verging on taciturn. If Charlene had witnessed my flirting style she would have felt more than comfortable moving her sleeping bag to the back of the tent.
Samantha on the other hand had no problem talking to all boys, including Jared. She didn’t need to bounce her remarks off Mike to whom she barely paid any attention. She and Jared invented little nicknames between one another. “See ya later Jer.” “You too Gonzales.”
“Why did he call you Gonzales?”
“Oh you know, speedy Gonzales, after the cartoon. It’s stupid.”
“It sure is stupid!” I laughed loudly. Anger simmered beneath the surface.
I took a walk to the bathroom with my sister. “I think Samantha likes Jared,” I huffed.
“Maybe she just wants to be his friend?” Celeste offered.
I wanted to believe Celeste even though I knew it wasn’t so. My friend was betraying me and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
I suppose I could have hung out with other friends but since I didn’t have any, that didn’t leave me with many options. I decided I would continue our farce of a friendship.
My races became of secondary importance. I even missed one race because I was over at the ball fields watching the boys play.
Charlene took me aside. “What are you here for, Dawn? I mean, really.”
I knew immediately what I was there for. I was there to be the third party in the most painful love triangle the world had ever seen. “To have fun?”
“Yes but also to compete. Remember that.”
Ah, competition. The answer was right there in front of me. I was not some passive baby; I was a fighter. I was Rocky Balboa in the fifth round, bloody and bruised, with a core of power that was yet untouched.
The next mealtime I purposely sat next to Mike and Jared.
“Hi Jared, how are your games going?”
Jared looked surprised to hear me speaking to him. “Okay. Looks like we’re gonna take gold.”
I tried to be witty. “My aren’t we cocky.”
“What?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to insult your immense ego, Jer.”
Mike laughed.
“Right.” Jared looked wary.
My brain screamed, “You’re losing him! Abort, abort!”
Instead I said, “You’re so pretty Jared, anyone ever mistake you for a guy?”
Jared picked up his tray and left.
I looked across the cafeteria. I could see Samantha sitting with a group of girls I had not yet met. After lunch I joined her. She was cold. “So what did Jared say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“I think he likes you.”
“Not anymore,” I whispered under my breath.
We ran to our ball diamond. Charlene had taped the roster on the side of the bleachers. Samantha was playing first base. I was playing right field as usual.
“Ha ha, the outfield is for bad players.” Samantha laughed at her own joke.
“Well, first base is for . . . for . . . show-offs!”
“Dawn, you have spit in the corner of your mouth,” Celeste said helpfully.
I wiped my mouth and turned away from Samantha. I found another girl to warm up with.
Every one of Samantha’s laughs was a knife through my gut. She. Is. So. Annoying. The ball said as it landed in my glove. I had never been good at throwing a ball but it became remarkably easy when I was angry. The other girl throwing the ball had a worried look on her face, “Not so hard, Dawn. We’re just warming up.”
“Yeah, sorry. Don’t know my own strength.”
I decided I was warm enough and climbed up the bleachers. I was half way to the top when a foul ball strayed from the diamond and struck my shoulder. A hot pain reverberated through my body. I even felt it in my teeth as I crumpled onto the bleachers. I bravely fought the pain with a righteous scream. Soon tears joined the party and I was viewing the world through a blurry mist. The first face I saw was Samantha’s.
“What happened?”
“The ball hit me!”
“It’s okay. It’s not turning blue or anything,” she said, as she peeked at my shoulder.
“It still hurts!” I whined.
She sat next to me and rubbed my shoulder. It made the pain worse. I didn’t complain because it was the nicest thing a friend had ever done for me.
Our chartered bus left at seven pm on the last night of the summer games. As we left, fireworks lit the sky. Celeste sat in front of me with her best friend and Samantha and I sat behind them.
We compared medals. Samantha had five. She wore them all round her neck. I had two; they were safely stashed in my backpack. We talked about all our fun times. It had been a great two weeks and as the bus pulled onto the highway, I remembered that I had forgotten to call my mom.
I tapped Celeste’s shoulder. “Hey, Celeste did you call Mom?”
Celeste shook her head. “I thought you did.”
“Boy is she gonna be mad.” As I said it, I secretly marveled at my new independence. I could spend any amount of time away from Mom . . . as long as boys were somehow involved.
Mike walked up to our seat and whispered in Samantha’s ear. She looked behind us. Jared waved at her.
“I wonder what he wants?” she asked innocently.
“He probably wants to shine your medals,” I offered dryly.
Samantha grinned and went to the back to sit with him. Mike gave me a shy smile.
I slid over. He sat next to me and I noticed that he smelled kind of nice. Perhaps, second best wasn’t so bad after all?
Mike talked about their last ball game and then said something that surprised me even though it shouldn’t have.
“I was talking to my mom last night and I told her about you.”
“Oh.” My face turned red as I realized he liked me. Oh yes, he smelled very nice, I thought as I leaned closer.
“Yeah, she said we’re cousins. Weird, huh?”
“Nope, not weird at all,” I said flatly and slid closer to the window.
Within a few hours, everyone on the bus was asleep, except Samantha and Jared, who joked together the whole ride home. Even though it pained me to hear it, eventually the sound of their laughter lulled me to sleep.
THE CONSCIENCE
MY OLDER SISTER TABITHA WAS THE SUPREME ruler of her four younger siblings since the first of us stumbled out of our mother’s womb. I’m sure she sighed when she saw my head, “What is this now? I am already so comfortable being an only child. I have my toys, my bedroom, my pet chicken. What am I supposed to do with this round-headed, chubby-cheeked interloper? Must I feed it, must I pet it, must I like it?”
She chose to enslave us. “Go get me a pop.” “Open that door.” “Close that door.” “Hit yourself.” No matter what the order was, we would rush to complete it for her, often banging into one another in our haste.
Everything Tabitha did was perfect. She would place her long legs on the walls and shimmy to the top of the hallway in her bare feet. Then she would look down at us with her head resting on the ceiling as we stared up at her, open-mouthed. “How did you do that? Are you magical?” Later, we would try to imitate her but our short legs would not allow it.
Tabitha could take her bunny rabbit T-shirt and make the rabbit hop by tugging on her T-shirt. She could take an ordinary apple, suck on the seeds and pelt them across the room like bullets from a gun. As we danced around trying to avoid the seeds, we wondered: how could one person be so talented?
Tabitha was also our in-house baby-sitter. She made the rules and then broke them depending on her mood. As the next oldest, I was Slave No. 1. Not an exaggerated title — it was a real title, with attendant privileges and obligations. Those privileges included having the choice seat next to the bag of chips and second last cup of pop. And, of course, I had a measure of control over my bedtime. Often I got to stay up later than my other two siblings and keep her company as she waited for our parents to get home from bingo.
Celeste felt this was unfair since I was only one year older than her. She fought this injustice with the determination and persistence of the French resistance. Long after we thought she had gone to bed, I would hear her creeping down the hallway. When she reached the doorway of the living room, I would spot her from my perch on the couch. I mouthed the words, “Get to bed.”
“No!” Celeste mouthed back, the word escaping from her lips, making it sound like a petulant ghost haunted the hallway.
Then depending on my annoyance level at her various shenanigans during the day, I let her sit there a few minutes before I ratted her out. It was a never a question of IF. I would rat her out. I had to. Staying up late wasn’t a privilege if my other two siblings could experience it. Also, if I didn’t tell, then I might lose my place as Tabitha’s favourite. I had angered Tabitha once and still remember the stinging feeling of seeing my siblings raised to the level of demi-god in my place.
Once caught by Tabitha, Celeste screamed at the top of lungs as we pushed her towards the bedroom. She cried hysterically, “It’s not fair! Dawn gets to stay up!”
“Well, you’re not Dawn, are you?” Tabitha coolly replied. Her younger siblings never flustered Tabitha. If I yelled that I hated her, she smiled and said, “I love you too.” What could you do in the face of such self-possession?
Celeste screamed all the way back to her bedroom. Then as the door was shut and held closed, her screams got momentarily louder until they receded into violent sobs and then, mercifully, turned into grumbles as she made her way back into bed.
Afterwards, Tabitha and I watched TV in the living room. “That kid drives me crazy,” Tabitha said, allowing me to see a crack in the wall.
“I know, I know,” I murmured comfortingly as I poured more pop into her cup.
People never understand how lonely it is at the top. I understood. After all the kids had gone to bed, Tabitha had no one to talk to and certainly no one to run and get her snacks. I stepped in and filled the void. I would sit next to her on the couch and watch music videos with her and agree with her comments. “Bryan Adams is a babe, I would marry him in a second.”
I thought he was gorgeous too. Even if I didn’t think so I would never making the mistake of offering a different opinion. The duty of Slave No. 1 was to be agreeable and comfortable company, not unlike the TV itself. I had seen what happened to people who were not agreeable.
During one period, Tabitha and I watched Rock’n’Roll High School at least a hundred times. The movie went completely over my head and I couldn’t figure out what it was about or why the Ramones were hanging out in some teenage girl’s shower. “I wish that was me,” Tabitha sighed. I — on the other hand — checked behind the shower curtain every night with some trepidation.
Tabitha who was five years older than me was in high school by the time I reached Junior High. My Judy Blume books warned me that the transition from child to teenager was a precarious business. Tabitha made puberty look easy. She slipped her slender shoulders into a faded denim jacket, and shone. She eased her way down the hallway, a mixture of elegance, grace and confidence . . . surrounded by all the fun people. I squeezed my chubby bum into pink jeans and chased the crowd, always ending up on the fringes. I clung to my friends and they peeled my hands off of their arms. “Be cool, Dawn. Be cool.”
I paced in my room and formulated plans for popularity. “If I could just throw a party, I know I could get a lot of friends. Now how do I throw a party? I need beer. How do I get beer? I get fake ID. How do I get ID? I become friends with an older kid. And how do I make friends? I throw a party . . . This is impossible!” I would throw myself face first on the bed.
Celeste listened to my concerns and offered tips of her own. “Maybe you could just serve coke at your party? Most people like coke except for David, he only likes 7-Up. That’s why I drink it all up on him.”
Tabitha would know how to fix my unpopularity but she was too busy with her friends to pay attention to me. Everything had changed when she reached high school. She had no more need o
f Slave No. 1 or even a chubby sidekick; she had real friends who had cars and could drive to visit us. I was not pleased to be booted from my lofty position and I made my displeasure known. I played pranks on her, hiding her car keys, hanging up on her friends when they called, and telling on her for not doing her chores. Not surprisingly, I was not her favourite person.
Nothing I did could quell her popularity. Five minutes after our parents went to bingo, her friends arrived at the house. Celeste, David and I would be excited to see all the teenagers in their leather jackets and blue jeans. “Hi, who are you?”
“Where’s Tabitha?” they asked without even glancing at our faces.
Our desperation for company could not be easily dissuaded. “What’s your name? How old are you? Is that your car? How come you wear only black?”
Tabitha rescued her friends and ushered them past our curious eyes. Her bedroom door shut in our faces.
We stood outside the door listening to the laughter and music. They were having a party right inside our house; this was impressive. We weren’t invited; this was disappointing. The three of us retired to the living room and returned to irritating one another as best we could.
When annoying each other became boring, we turned to annoying other people on the reserve. We had a party line on our phone. This invention allowed many families to share the same phone line. Everyone had his or her own special ring and you only answered the phone when you heard your ring. At least you were supposed to. We picked it up whenever it rang and listened to other people’s phone calls. Most of them were boring discussions between old people who were dying of something terrible. If you were lucky you might encounter a conversation between two teenagers. Boyfriends and girlfriends were the best. You had to be careful not to giggle. Clark, a fifteen-year-old who lived about twenty minutes from us, had a girlfriend in the city and he was attempting to seduce her from his bedroom on the reserve. Every night he tried to convince her to buy a bus ticket and travel all the way to Balcarres.