Off Limits

by Robert Rayner

  They were near the riverside trail, with its private places. If Birmingham hadn’t overthought it, he would have followed Geoff’s advice to take Jenna there. But now he walked on, until halfway along Main Street, Jenna said, “Let’s take a shortcut through here.”

  Pulling him by the hand, she led him into the cemetery. He was about to protest that it wasn’t a shortcut — it made the walk home longer — but thought it best to keep quiet. When they were out of sight of the street, she sat on a bench and pulled him down beside her. She straddled him again, kneeling on the bench and pressing herself against him.

  She murmured, “Do you want it or not?” She nuzzled his neck and licked his ear, sliding her hand between his legs.

  Birmingham told himself not to think. His desire surged back.

  She stood and pulled him from the bench and toward a clump of trees. He threw his jacket on the ground and she lay on it. He went to lie on top of her, but she slipped from beneath him. She pushed him down and knelt across him. Birmingham gasped as her fingers groped at the zipper of his pants.

  He started, “Wait. I haven’t got —”

  She said, “I have.”

  He thought, Is this where I’m going to do it for the first time? In a cemetery?

  Didn’t girls want the first time to take place in a shady, secluded garden by a gently trickling stream? Or in an elegant hotel room, with plush furnishings and a big bed, probably a four-poster? Or in the long grass of a sun-dappled meadow?

  Not beside a bunch of dead bodies.

  Jenna reached into the pocket of her backpack and produced a condom. She opened it quickly and easily.

  Birmingham thought, She’s done that a few times before.

  She unzipped his pants.

  She started to unroll the condom over him.

  Birmingham couldn’t help it.

  “Jesus Christ, Birm,” said Jenna. “You could have waited.” She moved off him and sat beside him.

  “Sorry, Jen.”

  The physical feelings that had overwhelmed him were gone. His ability to think returned.

  He’d done it, for the first time.

  Well, sort of.

  He waited for a feeling like the roaring of wind, a burst of dazzling sunlight, surging water, shooting stars.

  But all he felt was a huge, crushing letdown.

  What was wrong with him? What more did he want?

  Of course he wanted sex with Jenna. Who wouldn’t?

  But sex, even with someone as hot as Jenna, didn’t seem to be enough. It was like having his favourite food — French fries — and nothing else. He was sure he’d never get tired of French fries, but there had to be something with them. There had to be hot dogs or a burger, too. Fries alone, even though they were the best food in the world, didn’t quite cut it.

  Sex with Jenna was like fries alone — something you couldn’t help craving, but somehow not enough.

  Chapter 3

  Birmingham sprawled in an armchair in the living room at home. He glanced through the essay he’d written that morning for music class.

  What music class means to me is mostly boredom. Not your fault, Ms. F., because I guess you’re stuck with having to teach it, though it must be hard with some of the kids you get in class. But anyway about music class . . . It’s doomed to be boring. Music just wasn’t meant to be listened to like this — by a bunch of people who don’t care about it and who can’t wait to get away. And it sure wasn’t meant to be talked about or written about. Music is . . . music. If we can say what it’s about, why bother to compose it? It just means what it is. Isn’t that enough? It kills music to talk about it in music class, and it kills it even more to have to write about it, so I’ll shut up. Sorry.

  At the bottom of the page, there was a note in a flowery script that he hadn’t noticed when Ms. Flood passed back the papers.

  I’d like to discuss your thoughts. Please see me after school tomorrow in the music room.

  He pictured Ms. Flood, and found himself looking forward to seeing her. He hoped she’d have that soft, melting look the music had brought out in her.

  There was a knock at the back door, and Geoff sauntered in, guitar in hand.

  As Geoff tuned his guitar, Birmingham asked, “How did your mom make out?”

  Geoff had left school early to take his mother to see her doctor.

  “The doc said the usual stuff. ‘A variety of factors can lead to prolonged and excessive tiredness — seasonal affective disorder, Lyme disease, environmental factors, blah blah blah. Come back in a month and we’ll see how you feel then.’ In other words, the dickhead can’t tell his ass from his elbow as far as Mom’s health is concerned.”

  “Jeez, man. Sorry.”

  “I’ll give him one more month. Then I’ll tell him we want to see a specialist. That’s what Dad would have done if he was still around. Come on. Let’s rock.”

  They’d been playing for an hour when Birmingham’s mom came in with soft drinks and snacks. “I thought the band might like a break.”

  As they gulped pop and tore into a bag of cookies, Geoff glanced at the door that Mrs. Glover had closed behind her. He said slyly, “So, did you get it on with Jenna?”

  Birmingham was embarrassed at the memory of the early end to his attempt with Jenna in the cemetery. But he said casually, “Yeah.”

  Geoff looked at him, the corners of his mouth curling in a half smile. “No — you didn’t. What went wrong?”

  Birmingham muttered, “Nothing.”

  Geoff leaned in and whispered, “You spilled it, didn’t you?”

  Birmingham looked up sharply. Had Jenna been talking to Geoff? Was she broadcasting his humiliation all over town?

  Still in a whisper, Geoff went on. “It happens to everyone. Next time it’ll be okay. Where were you? Along the river?”

  “Cemetery.”

  Geoff leaned back. “Wow. Cool.” He studied Birmingham. “There’s more, isn’t there? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Birmingham shrugged. “It just seemed wrong, somehow.”

  “Doing it in a cemetery? I’m sure the occupants didn’t mind.”

  “It’s not that. It was doing it . . . just because we were hot for it. Just for the sex. Like we were animals.”

  “You are animals. Why else would you do it, anyway?”

  Birmingham shrugged again.

  Geoff smacked the side of his own head. “I get it. You’re supposed to love and respect one another and all that crap — right? You’re not catching religion, are you?”

  “No way. I dunno about love and respect, but . . . but there’s got to be more to it than just screwing. It felt almost like I was . . . I dunno . . . defiling her.”

  Geoff burst out laughing. “Defiling her? Defile Jenna? That’s impossible. You couldn’t defile her if you laid her out on Main Street and banged her six ways to Sunday with a hydro pole.”

  Birmingham knew he should stop Geoff from saying such awful things about his girlfriend, but he couldn’t help laughing. He and Geoff were so different. Geoff was down-to-earth and realistic, while Birmingham was always searching for perfection. Birmingham remembered being like that ever since he was a little kid. His mother would offer to buy him candy and he’d turn her down. It wasn’t that he didn’t want candy, but it wouldn’t be the ideal candy, the sum of all the candies he liked — the shape of one, the taste of another, the way another melted in your mouth. The same thing happened when his parents wanted to buy him a bicycle, and he couldn’t settle on which model he liked best. He wanted the handlebars of one model, the crossbar of another, the colour of yet another.

  His father, exasperated, had said, “You’re talking about your ideal bike, right?”

  Birmingham had nodded eagerly.

  “I
t doesn’t exist,” his father had said gently. “Can’t you settle for what’s here?”

  But Birmingham couldn’t, and never got a bike.

  It had been the same with girls. He’d had plenty of girlfriends, but none lasted for long because none of them were perfect. They always disappointed him in the way they talked, or dressed, or laughed, or clung to him, or didn’t cling to him.

  Jenna was hot, and the idea of doing it with her again — if she still wanted to, after his failure in the cemetery — made his head whirl.

  But he knew she wasn’t his perfect, ideal girlfriend.

  He protested, “You don’t know shit about Jenna.”

  “I know she’s done it with at least six other guys,” Geoff retorted.

  Birmingham looked sharply at his friend. “Are you one of them?”

  With his dark eyes, pouty mouth, and dark hair hanging to his shoulders, Geoff looked like a vampire in a movie. Birmingham knew all the girls went for him.

  “No!” Geoff replied.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” Geoff shook his head slowly. “Told you before — you think too much. A chick like Jenna’s good for sex. Don’t expect anything more. When are you going to try again, anyway?”

  Birmingham tried to focus his thoughts on Jenna, on sex with Jenna.

  But he found the image of Ms. Flood, and her soft look, kept getting in the way.

  ***

  The sound of an orchestra wafted out of the music room. Birmingham peered in the open door.

  Ms. Flood was standing at the front of the room, her eyes closed, swinging her arms with the music. She wore a short, black dress over green tights. Her coppery hair stuck out wildly in all directions above and below the green headband she wore. As the music gathered momentum, she glided sideways, foot over foot. Her arms were outstretched in the direction she was travelling, her wrists drooping. She looked like a ballet dancer. When she reached the side of the room, she paused, and then glided back. Birmingham turned away, embarrassed, but she called, “Come in.” Her eyes were still closed.

  Ms. Flood pirouetted, her dress swirling out and up. She stopped as the music ended, her mouth slightly open, the soft, dreamy look on her face.

  Birmingham was still gazing at her when she opened her eyes and said, “Hello, Birmingham Glover. Do you know that music?”

  “Fall Fair, by Godfrey Ridout,” he said, and instantly regretted it. It sounded like he was showing off.

  Why was he trying to impress a substitute music teacher?

  “I should have guessed you’d know,” she said. “As I read your essay, I thought, Here’s a young man who knows his music.” She sat in the nearest chair and went on. “Thank you for coming. I was so impressed with the sensitivity of your essay that I wanted to get to know you better.”

  Birmingham sat down in a chair in the row behind her.

  Ms. Flood rose gracefully and spun her chair around to face him. She sat, leaning toward him, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “I want you to tell me about your involvement in music and your feelings about it.”

  She gazed at him expectantly. Birmingham noticed her green eyes were flecked with brown.

  He didn’t know what to say. What were his feelings about music? “Well, Ms. Flood —”

  She held up her hand to stop him. “Amber, please.”

  “Okay, er, Amber. I play piano . . .”

  “I knew it! So do I. Tell me about the music you play.”

  He told her how he’d had lessons for a few years, but had grown tired of studying for exams he didn’t care about. He told her how he’d continued studying by himself. When he told her about the Glover-Reeve Union, she clapped her hands and said, “How wonderful! I play in a band, too.”

  He pictured her playing in church, leading the hymns with a guitarist and a drummer. Or entertaining at a seniors residence, maybe playing a singalong with someone on the fiddle and a banjo player.

  He shrugged. “That’s about all.”

  “Your essay made me want to know more about your feelings.”

  “About music?”

  “About everything,” she breathed.

  Jenna appeared at the music room door and called, “Are you amost done, Birm? ’Cause we’re supposed to be walking home.”

  Ms. Flood looked from Birmingham to Jenna, smiling. She whispered, “Don’t let me keep you from your girlfriend.”

  As they walked through the school, Jenna took his arm. “So what did the old hippie skank want?”

  “Nothing much. Just wanted to ask me about stuff I wrote in that essay.”

  “’Cause she liked it, or ’cause she was mad about what you wrote?”

  “Neither, really. Just wanted to talk about it.”

  “Sure she didn’t just want an excuse to see you?”

  “Why would she want to see me?”

  “Maybe she has the hots for you,” Jenna teased.

  They stopped in the cemetery again on the way home. This time they were successful. It was a rush like Birmingham had never imagined, more than he’d got from beer or a bit of weed. In the frenzy of it, he thought, I could get addicted to this, and was already planning when he and Jenna could do it again. But a few minutes later — it seemed like five seconds to Birmingham — it was all over. As they adjusted their clothes, he found the euphoria draining quickly away, like before, leaving the same gnawing disappointment.

  They continued on their way home, holding hands, still flushed and breathing hard, Jenna pulling him close and laying her head on his shoulder every few steps. Birmingham thought, Is that it?

  Chapter 4

  Birmingham asked Jenna out the next night. He was pretty sure it would lead to another encounter in the cemetery — or anywhere — but it was Jenna’s turn to work at the food bank. She said she couldn’t get out of it because they were always busy on Friday nights.

  Birmingham sat at home after school, looking through the TV channels and hoping there was a good movie on. His mother said, “Do you want to come to the mall with your father and me? We’ll do some shopping, get you a new jacket for winter, maybe get supper?”

  He didn’t want to go shopping with his parents, but he did want a new jacket, so it seemed a reasonable trade-off. He just hoped nobody from school would see him out with them. If they did, he might as well hang a sign around his neck — Loser.

  He drifted through Sobeys and Sears behind his parents. Then he escaped with his father to the bookstore while his mother browsed through the hardware store. They found him a winter jacket, and Birmingham was almost looking forward to choosing something from the food court when his father said, “Let’s go to the Cellar. It has good food.”

  He’d never been in the Cellar Club. He thought of it as McDonald’s for old people like his parents. A sign by the door said, Music tonight! When he followed his parents inside, it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. Most of the wall opposite the entrance was taken up by the bar. Beside it, in the dim corner, he could make out a keyboard, a drum set, a guitar on a stand, and a bass lying on its side. There was no sign of musicians. A few people lounged around low tables in black, fake-leather chairs. Birmingham sat with his parents at a table near the door.

  A server appeared and they ordered food.

  They sat in silence.

  Birmingham went to the washroom for something to do. When he came out, he glanced across the bar at his parents. His father was sipping beer, while his mother stared at the ceiling. There was an exit beside Birmingham. He slipped through it. It took him along a hall, up a short flight of stairs, and outside. He held the door open while he decided what to do. Maybe he’d walk round to the mall entrance and return to the club by the inside door. That would take up a few minutes. By then the food should have arrived
, and they’d have something to do other than stare at one another.

  He was about to move away when he heard music from the open door behind him — a riff on piano and bass. The guitar joined in, then brushes on drums. The piano broke into melody. Birmingham recognized the tune — “Who Cares?” — as he had tried to play it himself. He moved back inside to hear better. As he went down the stairs, he heard the guitar take over the melody. By the time Birmingham had made his way to the door into the restaurant, the quartet was moving into a third chorus. He expected the piano to take over the lead again. Instead, a woman’s voice — husky, plaintive — sang, “Going where I shouldn’t. Tried to stop but couldn’t. Who cares?” The band had a singer? Birmingham hadn’t noticed a mic for vocals in the band’s set-up. He stopped at the door and peered in. He frowned, squinting.

  The singer looked like . . . the singer was Ms. Flood, at the keyboard. He recalled her telling him she played in a band. But he’d pictured her performing in church, or at a seniors’ home, not in a bar.

  He stepped back into the shadows, feeling the discomfort of seeing a teacher outside of school. He never knew what to say, and he guessed teachers felt as uncomfortable as he did, because they never seemed to know what to say either. When teachers out of school did speak, they used a loud, false, hearty voice, as if they’d turned into Santa Claus.

  But there was more to his reaction to seeing Ms. Flood than that.

  It was like what he had felt in grade five, when he had a crush on the high-school girl who delivered the morning paper. He remembered how it felt to lurk by the front window, waiting for a glimpse of her, holding his breath without realizing it. He remembered the lurch in his crotch when she appeared, the pang in his chest as she moved out of sight, the fantasies that tormented him, like an unresolved chord played on the piano over and over again.