I sit up straight. “No, Willa.”
“Don’t worry, the cons always win out. I think it would involve a lot of work, maybe even some hardships. We all know I’m not cut out for any of those.”
Relieved, I smile. “Speaking of the Mooseheads.” I decide it’s time to change the subject. “Trish just left with Garret for the same game.”
There’s a rustling sound, like maybe she dropped her phone. “What?”
“She bought the tickets a while ago,” I explain.
“Oh, okay. I suppose he’d still go. It would be a kind of awkward date, though…love to be a fly on the wall.”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I don’t think he should have gone. He is breaking up with her.”
“Well…technically, we’re breaking up with her. He hired us to do it for him so he wouldn’t have to, remember?”
I’m still shaking my head. “All he had to do was say he was too tired from the wake-a-thon or something.”
“The guy’s not an idiot! They’re playing Quebec. The game’s sold out.” She pauses. “It’s okay if you’re jealous. I totally don’t blame you.”
“I’m not!”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a…” My voice falters. “I dunno.”
I can hear Willa tapping her fingernail against the phone. “Are you sure you’re not feeling guilty because you know he likes you too, and you’re kinda the cause of this? Not that it’s your fault or anything,” she adds. “The heart wants what it wants and all that crap.”
My teeth clamp together. “Wow, Willa! That makes me feel tonnes better.”
“Well, I know you can’t be feeling sorry for Trish. She’s like the biggest bitch on the face of the planet.”
I draw in a deep breath then let it out slowly. I hate to admit it, but everything Willa says has a hint of truth. Maybe I am jealous, a little bit, because maybe I do like Garret, a little bit, so I guess I do feel guilty, a little bit, and Trish is a bitch—no little bit about that. I can’t let Willa know that she’s right, though. “You can’t call Trish a bitch,” I say sulkily. “Only I can.”
“Fine,” she says. “But I don’t know why you just can’t sit back and enjoy the show. No one deserves this more than Trish.”
“No one deserves to get their heart broken.” At that moment the timer on the dryer goes off, buzzing loudly. She didn’t bother to turn it off when she took out my sweater.
“Even Trish,” I finish weakly.
Chapter 12
I read through the questionnaire that Garret filled out for Trish’s breakup basket.
“Oh no,” I say. “Trish’s favourite movie is Love Actually. He wants us to get it for her.”
“So?” Willa asks.
“That’s my favourite movie. Now it’s, like, tainted or something.”
Willa rolls her eyes. “There’s loads of British movies out there with basically the same cast. You’ll find a new favourite.”
“Yeah right,” I grumble.
“Lizzie. You’ve got to get a grip. It’s not like Garret’s the only guy that’s ever going to break up with Trish. Are you going to be like this every time? Trust me, she’s going to get dumped by a lot, and I mean a lot, of guys.”
“That’s not very nice.”
She gives me a fake sweet smile. “I’m just sayin’ it’s going to take a real unique individual to put up with Trish’s shit, long term.”
I sigh and reach for the questionnaire. “Let’s just get back to business.”
Once we go over all of Garret’s answers and requests, we make up our list and decide to pick up everything after school.
“We’ll make the drop tomorrow night,” Willa says.
“To my house,” I say glumly.
“Yes, well, unfortunately that’s where Trish happens to live.”
I look at her.
“Oh, buck up.” She punches my arm. “We’ll buy her the anniversary edition DVD if it’ll make you feel better.”
“Thanks a bunch,” I say.
Sean drives us to Walmart and waits across the street at Subway while we do our shopping.
The collector’s edition of Love Actually ends up costing more than double the regular edition. I hold it back at the cash register to pay for it out of my own pocket.
“You’re crazy.” Willa grabs it from my hand and adds it to the pile the clerk is ringing through. “We’ve got loads of money.”
I grab it back. “No. I want to buy it.”
She mashes her lips together and shakes her head.
Trish sits across from me at the kitchen table picking all the nut clusters out of the cereal box.
Normally I’d wrestle it from her hand, or at least try, which would inevitably result in a giant screaming match, but this morning I just let her have at ’er and quietly wait until she’s finished.
When she finally sets the box down, I pick it up and pour a bowlful of flakes, just flakes. No wait, I see one or two nut clusters in there.
Then Mom comes in singing a Taylor Swift song under her breath. She has the lyrics all wrong, but I give her an A for effort. Trish and I exchange glances.
“Mom,” I say, “you’re in a good mood.”
She frowns and looks up at the ceiling, like she’s thinking hard. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“Um, Mom,” Trish says. “Is that my scarf?”
She looks like she’s thinking again. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
Trish opens her mouth to say something but Mom cuts her off. “You don’t mind, do you? I think you actually still owe me for it.”
Trish closes her mouth.
“Are you working today?” I ask.
“No.” She pours a cup of coffee and avoids eye contact. “I’ve got a bunch of errands to do.”
I look over at Trish and raise my eyebrows.
“Alone?” Trish says.
Mom taps her spoon against the edge of her mug, then she sort of smiles. “Fine. You got me. Not alone.”
“You don’t have to keep it a secret,” I say, pouring milk into my bowl.
“Him,” Trish corrects. “Him a secret.”
Mom gives us another sort-of smile. “I’m just not ready yet.” I see her swallow. “It’s too soon.”
“God, Mom. It’s not like we’re children,” Trish says. “I think we can probably handle meeting some new guy.”
Mom blows on her coffee and doesn’t answer.
I’m waiting at the bus stop with one knee on the sidewalk, looking through my knapsack for my phone. There are a couple of girls right behind me giggling and shrieking like five-year-olds. I’m just about to jam in my earphones, when: “Did you hear? Jessie Mason got one of those breakup baskets the other night.”
I steal a glance over my shoulder. They’re minions of Trish’s, but I can’t remember their names. All her friends look the same—Kardashian wannabes.
“Lucky bum,” minion number one says.
I tilt my head. Did she really just say that? I try to edge closer to them for maximum eavesdropping.
“How can you say that?” minion number two says.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure it was awful, and I totally feel for her. It’s just that, well…I’ve been waiting for ages.”
“Waiting for what?”
“A breakup basket.”
My jaw drops. Is she for real?
“Why would you—”
“Logan and I have been going out for like ever,” minion number one says. “But lately all we do is fight. We’re miserable! I know it’s mutual, that we both want to break up, but nobody wants to be the one to spend the money.”
“You don’t have to use The Goodbye Girls,” minion number two says. “Why don’t you just break up with him face-to-face?”
“No way. It’d be so embarrassing to break up and not even get a basket out of it. I want my basket!”
I’m having a hard time getting my head around this conversation. I’m not sure how I should feel about it.
“I’m actually going out of my way to be a superbitch,” minion number one continues, “hoping I’ll push him over the edge. He works part-time at Sobeys. He can afford it way more than I can.”
Then the bus pulls up.
“I hope it works out for you,” minion number two says as we all move in a clump toward the bus doors.
“And I’ll be so pissed if he cheaps out and doesn’t get me the platinum package,” minion number one adds.
I flash my bus pass at the driver and take a seat far, far away from them. I sit with my headphones on and think about everything they said. It’s kind of bizarre. The Goodbye Girls is actually affecting the way people break up, like we’re becoming a part of pop culture or something. Willa and I are pioneers.
I wonder if the guy who invented Facebook felt like this.
Garret’s in line when I go up for my potato wedges. He smiles and nods. I pretend the napkins are stuck and focus all my attention on the dispenser. Out of the corner of my eye I see him carry his food back to his table and sit beside Trish. Like everything is normal.
I never noticed before, or watched any of the others. Do they all do that? Pretend right up until the last minute? Shouldn’t they be dropping some hints? Giving the cold shoulder?
“Honey!”
In the same situation, would I be any different?
“Sweetie!”
Guess deep down we’re all just gutless cowards.
“Miss!”
“Oh, sorry!” The lunch lady is glaring at me with her arms crossed. “Small wedges and a chocolate milk please,” I say.
I’m careful to avoid Garret for the rest of the day. I don’t even know if I have to. I’m just being pre-emptive. Willa’s so convinced that he likes me…and she’s really intuitive about these kinds of things….
I just don’t want to deal with any of this right now. Not with Trish’s impending basket delivery looming.
After school I walk home from the bus stop, dragging my feet the whole way.
The house is empty, but I hide out in my room anyway, continually checking the time and straining my ear for any Trish sounds.
Willa is delivering the basket by herself. She thought it would be best if I was home when she made the drop in case I ever needed an alibi. I wanted to ask, Why would I need an alibi? But something stopped me. I don’t think I want to know the answer.
I look over at the clock again, then out the window. It’s not dark yet. I still have time to get something to eat. On my way to the kitchen, I run into Trish coming in the door. She passes me in the hall without acknowledging my existence—pretty standard behaviour. She obviously doesn’t suspect a thing.
I make myself some KD and take it to my room, pot and all. I sit at my desk, staring at it but not eating it. It’s dark now. I wait. I feel like I’m in a horror movie.
The doorbell rings and I freeze, my hand still clutching the pot handle. My fear is that she’ll yell at me to go answer the door. Dammit. I should have hidden out in the bathroom with the shower running. But then I hear Trish’s footsteps as she passes by my bedroom and runs down the stairs.
I get up and press my ear to the door. My heartbeat vibrates loudly inside my head. I hold my breath, waiting for a scream, a slam, a foot kicking a wall. I actually picture her scooping up the basket and biffing it off the porch. But there’s nothing, just silence that seems to last a long time. That’s way worse.
She passes by my room again. I hear the crinkle of the basket’s cellophane, then the click of her bedroom door. Should I go make sure she’s okay? I tiptoe down to her door. My hand hovers over the knob. I can’t be 100 percent sure, but I think I hear sniffling. I let my hand drop and go back to my room.
Once inside, I lean my back against the door. “None of this is my fault,” I whisper.
Chapter 13
There’s no sign of Trish when I come down for breakfast.
“Apparently Trish is sick,” Mom says before I have a chance to ask. “She’s staying home.”
I nod and watch her pour coffee into a Thermos.
“She was asleep when I got home last night,” Mom continues. “Did you see her?”
I shake my head. “No. I was in my room practicing flute.” That’s a lie.
Mom stares at me like she’s trying to read my mind. “Trish is never sick.”
“Root Beer Mile,” I say, looking away.
“Yeah…everyone gets sick at that, though. Doesn’t really count.”
She’s sort of right. The Root Beer Mile is a long-standing tradition at the West. Run seven laps around the bus loop, stop after each lap and down two plastic cups of root beer. First one to finish without throwing up, wins. Pretty much everyone throws up.
Mom threads her arms into her coat. “So is there something going on I should know about?”
I shrug and reach for the cereal.
“I assume it’s some kind of boy trouble?” Mom fishes.
I shrug again.
She gives up. “Well, if you manage to make eye contact with her, tell her I’ll call later to check in.”
“Okay.”
“Have a good day, then.” She collects her Thermos and heads out.
After she’s gone I sit and listen for signs of movement from upstairs. Nothing. My phone chirps. It’s a text from Willa: Hows trish?
Still don’t know, I text back.
Willa texted a bunch of times last night to ask how it all went down. I kept replying, Don’t know haven’t seen her. I didn’t tell her about hearing Trish crying. She’s staying home sick, I text now. See u in English.
I leave my bowl of cereal on the table and tiptoe up the stairs and down the hall to Trish’s room. Taking a breath, I rap lightly on the door. “Trish?”
No answer.
“You okay?”
I wait. No answer.
I reach for the knob and turn. It’s locked.
“Trish?” I say it louder this time.
When she still doesn’t answer, I knock again and rattle the knob.
“For Christ’s sake!” Trish yells. “Could you please get a life and leave me alone?!”
Oddly, I find her insult comforting. She’s definitely on track to making a full recovery. “Mom wanted me to tell you she’s going to call you later.” I wait a moment. She doesn’t respond. Marvel. “You’re welcome!” I shout.
* * *
Garret comes up behind me as I slam my locker door shut. “Trish here yet?” he asks.
“Nope.” I start walking, my eyes glued to the floor. The grey-streaked tiles pass beneath my feet.
He doesn’t say anything but continues along beside me.
“I think she has the flu,” I add. I’m not sure why.
“I feel bad,” he says, stopping outside the Drama room. “I wish I could go back and do it over.”
My eyes stretch wide open as it hits me. He assumes that I know, that she told me, that she confided in me. He obviously knows nothing about our dynamic. At first I’m not sure how I should react. But then I decide to go with it. It’s easier pretending that she told me than pretending I don’t know.
“Do it over and not break up with her, you mean?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Still break up, just do it face to face.”
“I’m not sure it would matter much,” I say. Because I really didn’t think that it would.
He leans a shoulder against the wall. “I could explain. You know, how I think she’s awesome but we just didn’t have much in common. That there’s a guy out there who’s a better match for her.”
“Well, you sort of said
that in your letter.” Shit. I realize my mistake as soon as the words leaves my lips. My heart drops like a stone into my stomach. Glunk. I never read any of the letters, ever. But this time…I read Garret’s. Just the first two paragraphs. It was by accident, really—like my eyes couldn’t help it.
He doesn’t seem to notice. He rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but I could have said everything better. Maybe made it more heartfelt or something?”
It hits me again. He thinks Trish showed me the letter. And why wouldn’t she? We’re sisters. I’m so flooded with relief I’m about to pass out. All I can manage is a tiny shrug.
He looks directly at me. “Maybe I should have manned up and been honest about liking someone else.”
I feel my breath get all clogged and wheezy. I cough to clear my throat. “Even if you had the chance for a do-over—even a hundred do-overs—I’d leave that part out every single time.”
He laughs because he thinks I’m joking. He starts to say something, but the first bell rings and cuts him off. A stampede of students rushes up to the door and I let them herd me inside with them.
* * *
Trish stays in bed for another entire day.
On the third day she returns to school.
It may be my imagination, but it’s almost like everyone parts and makes way for her when she walks down the hall. The whole thing kind of reminds me of a Bible story.
A group of Trish’s minions spots her and hurries to her side, cooing and offering soothing hugs of support. I was half expecting them to hoist her on their shoulders and carry her off to wherever.
“See?” Willa says. “You never have to worry about her. She’s like a cat. Always lands on her feet.”
I nod. “I know.”
“Come on.” She drags me into a corner at the end of a row of lockers and starts rooting around in her knapsack.
While I wait for her to find whatever she’s looking for, I notice Garret down by the gym door reading the bulletin board. Except for our band classes, I haven’t spoken to him since our conversation outside the Drama room. I’ve been trying not to think about it or let myself read anything into his words, or what they may have meant.
The Goodbye Girls Page 7