That Secret You Keep

by Brenda Benny

  That Secret You Keep

  Brenda Benny

  Contents

  Find More

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

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  This book is dedicated to Natasia.

  I’m sorry you couldn’t put it down while studying for your exam.

  I’m glad you passed!

  Chapter 1

  Max

  I used to wonder how other kids got a mom and I didn’t. My dads told me I was special, of course – like a gift – and in my five-year old mind, I thought they meant Santa left me under the tree for them. In reality, I was just adopted.

  Growing up with two dads was all I’d ever known. But even so, during that first week of grade school, when the pigtailed girl beside me pointed at the drawings in my All About Me book and asked, “How come your picture has two dads?” – I quickly drew another square alongside them, trying to make it look more like the teacher’s example. My dads found out. I still remember that first lecture – the gentle, empathetic, but clear message. It was a lecture about courage, and not having to pretend to be something you’re not.

  That’s what I’m thinking about, tonight, when the knock comes at my door. It sounds like a knock on the head to reconsider this idiotic plan. I don’t have a chance to answer these second thoughts before the door opens, and Hayden’s face appears.

  “Max, what are you…?” Hayden’s voice jerks to a halt. His eyes travel a downward route from the bandana tied around my head, past the red velvet vest and the too-tight black pants, and onto the abominations covering my feet.

  “Are you seriously going to the Hallowe’en party in that?” he says.

  Let me be absolutely clear about this: thigh-high black leather boots – especially on a seventeen-year-old guy – should never be a thing. But, clearly, this is an act of desperation. And in times of desperation – high school, for example – pretending to be someone else can seem like a pretty good idea. Particularly when you’re trying to impress the girl you’ve been in love with for years – and she’s not even aware of your existence.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  His astonished look says everything. Hayden’s been my best friend since we met in middle school. And over the years at our performing arts high school, I’ve seen Hayden dressed up in some wild costumes – but he knows this is far from my standard uniform in the back row of stage band.

  “I thought it might make me look mysterious,” I say, slowly turning on the lone remaining island of hardwood floor to display the black cape that hangs down my back. I’ve dressed up as Don Juan – one of the most famous seducers of women in the history of literature. The inspiration for this get-up came from an old DVD my parents have, with Johnny Depp playing this character. Of course, in the movie he’s a bit of a nut case. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Hayden approaches and slowly reaches out to touch my chin, grimacing. His short, dark hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a tie, with some sort of poufy handkerchief in his suit pocket. Quite unfairly, he looks like a model on a billboard, all angular and pensive.

  “Is that real facial hair? It looks like you ate a small rodent for dinner,” he says. I push his hand away from my unsuccessful goatee attempt, and he steps back towards the door. “Who are you supposed to be, exactly?”

  Now, this I’m ready for. I’ve already auditioned in front of the bathroom mirror about fifteen times, trying for a swoon-worthy accent. I stretch my arm forward and stamp my foot on the floor for effect before stammering through my practiced speech. “My name is Don Juan, and – um – I am the greatest lover in the world!”

  Hayden’s eyes widen like raindrops on a puddle, and he forcefully bites his lip. He manages to squeeze out one high-pitched syllable in response, “You?”

  His hand rests against the doorframe, as he struggles to hold all six feet of him upright, and he clutches at his navy pinstriped suit jacket. Hayden is not one for uncontrollable bouts of laughter, but there are actual sniggers escaping his nose right now. In fact, he’s on the verge of appearing atypically unattractive.

  “Right. Thanks for the compliment.” I sigh, knowing I’ve already failed at Sexual Swagger 101. I look him up and down, trying to figure out if he’s just dressed nicely, or if there’s a theme to this. “So what are you dressed up as? James Bond?” This would suit his demeanour perfectly: charming, composed, enigmatic.

  He puts his index finger up to request a moment of recovery and takes a deep breath. Pulling himself together, he looks at me, seemingly baffled by my question.

  “Vladimir Putin.”

  I shake my head at him. He has to be kidding. “No one is going to get that, man.”

  His fingers splay out in front of him, gesturing his disbelief. “Didn’t you see this antique Russian tie pin? I found it in a second-hand store in Gastown.” He points to the shiny gold, double-headed eagle, then shrugs his shoulders like it’s self-evident. “It’s ironic.”

  “You mean – the irony of a bigoted regime?” I reply, skeptical. The real irony is that Hayden doesn’t need to dress up to get someone to notice him – everyone notices him. Groaning inwardly at this frustrating thought, I fasten the black mask around my eyes, appreciating too late that it will obstruct my peripheral vision.

  “You realize you look like a Conquistador superhero with that on.” Hayden smirks at me. I re-adjust my cape and grab my cell phone and wallet. “And where did you get those ridiculous black boots, anyway?” he asks.

  I step over the cord to my bass guitar and make sure the amp is turned off. Pushing past him, I make my way down the stairs from my bedroom loft to the lower hallway below. When I don’t hear footsteps follow me, I look over my shoulder to see him standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, waiting for my answer.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, annoyed. “I just found them in one of Jonathan’s boxes.”

  I have no idea where they came from, or why we have them. Thigh-high boots are not something either of my dads would be caught dead wearing – I may be adopted, but we definitely have that in common – or at least we had that in common. Strike one more thing off the list.

  Hayden still stands there, disbelief sketched between his eyebrows.

  “Listen – I don’t know where they came from – I just got them out of a closet in the basement,” I say.

  I hear his grin wrap around his response as he finally follows me down the stairs. “Now that sounds about right.”

  In the kitchen, the wailing horn of Dizzy Gillespie plays, speeding through a rainfall of notes on “Manteca”. My parents are having a late evening Mexican dinner after the last knock at the door for treats faded about an hour ago.

  I try to remember where I put Peter’s car keys. They aren’t h
anging on one of the labeled hooks by the door with the other sets. I must have misplaced them again. He’s going to freak if I can’t find them – this will be the third time this month. Last time, I made him late for his shift in the Emergency Room.

  “Are you driving tonight?” I ask Hayden.

  “Only if you promise to drink, and make an ass of yourself at the party.” He smiles gleefully.

  “Yeah, about that,” I admit, “I snuck a few beers from the bar fridge this week, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Had that whole ‘talk’ about just asking for them, and that they’d be reasonable.”

  Hayden shrugs his shoulders like it’s of no consequence to him. “Or we could just smoke some skunk weed with the poetry kids there tonight. No one would ever know the difference – you’d still be a verbally-impaired wallflower with a monstrous appetite.”

  “Hey!” I have to laugh, shoving Hayden’s shoulder.

  He only stands straighter, dramatically wiping the ghost of my handprint from his suit jacket, and saying in a thick accent, “Watch it there, Don Quixote. Russians don’t like to be pushed around.”

  I call out to my dads from the front door, “We’re taking off! I’ll be home around midnight!”

  I feel Hayden’s hand grip my shoulder, and he mutters, “Unless this sexy superhero costume has any effect.” I turn to roll my eyes at him.

  Peter appears in the doorway, his “concerned parent face” shifting to amusement when he takes in the sight of us. “My goodness! Aren’t you two a dashing pair?” He grins appreciatively.

  Most of the time I call my dads – Peter and Jonathan – by their first names. I suppose it became a necessity from an early age, after I called for “Dad” in distress too many times, followed by tantrums when the “wrong” one showed up in response.

  “Hayden, you are looking especially debonair. I foresee a trail of broken hearts in your wake,” Peter says.

  Hayden’s disgusted tone answers the insinuation. “It’s a high school party – with high school boys.”

  “Ah, yes. I see.” Peter exchanges a sympathizing look with Hayden that agrees with his conclusion. There’s a lot of this whenever Hayden is around: it’s like a secret language from a club, and I can’t find my membership card.

  Jonathan appears from around the corner, then. He stands a few inches shorter than Peter, but makes up for it in the breadth of his shoulders. “You’re not drinking, Hayden? Correct?” Jonathan asks. I sense a lecture coming on from the more paternalistic of my two dads – the meticulous organizer, ensuring that rules are followed, and schedules are kept.

  “I’m afraid not.” Hayden smirks. “Unless there are Stoli vodka shots. Then, of course, all bets are off!”

  Jonathan tilts his head, his lop-sided grin meeting Hayden’s comment.

  “I told you – no one is going to get this.” I shake my head at Hayden, sighing at his understated, yet sophisticated, costume.

  Jonathan’s gaze lands on me, and he grins. “Max, I hardly recognize you in that outfit. You look so out of place here – like you belong somewhere else, altogether.”

  I don’t respond. Feeling out of place is something I can relate to. It’s that sense that you get sometimes – like maybe you have a doppelganger with an entirely different life somewhere else that you just don’t know about yet? And it makes you wonder: would things be any better there?

  Peter jumps into the awkward silence, then. “All right. Well, Happy Hallowe’en! And have fun at the party, Vladimir and Don Juan.”

  Hayden turns to me with a smug look, his costume acknowledged.

  “Make good decisions tonight, boys!” Jonathan calls as we head towards the door.

  We step out into the crisp October evening air where I breathe a sigh of relief for the dodged lecture. A silver convertible Audi TTS sits at the curb, in front of our house. It’s not out of place in this Vancouver neighbourhood, but I’m still surprised to see it.

  “Oh my God! Charles is letting you drive the chick magnet tonight?” I laugh, knowing Hayden won’t appreciate my joke. Hayden’s dad and his partner, Charles, are close friends with my dads. Charles doesn’t usually let Hayden take this car out – especially not to a party.

  Hayden glares at me from across the hood. “They needed the SUV for some art installation,” he replies in a steely voice while we fold ourselves into the seats. When he turns the key, one of the most clichéd Hallowe’en songs ever blares to life. I look over at him, surprised.

  “What? You don’t like the theme music?” he says.

  “Your Glee is showing.” I tease him. “It’s just hard to believe you’re not playing something more obscure – like David Bowie’s ‘Scary Monsters’, or something.” I’m used to Hayden’s more eclectic preferences.

  He gives me a long, steady look before calmly checking the rearview mirror and pulling out onto our street. “Maybe you’d prefer a werewolf theme instead of zombies? Howlin’ Wolf, perhaps?”

  He scrolls through some songs, pausing every so often to serenade me with his stage voice. I tune him out, just letting him sing while I imagine who will be at this party – wondering if she will be there. Hayden glances down at my fingers, which are dancing across my knees. He doesn’t say anything, but I clench my fists to stop fidgeting.

  It’s a short trip from my house in Kitsilano, past the trendy shops on Fourth Avenue, to the neighbourhood of West Point Grey. Vanessa, the girl throwing the party, lives just a few streets over from our school, the Lord Stanley School of the Arts. Her house is like many in this area: a small footprint, torn-down, and then stacked-high to maximize space on this expensive real estate.

  Cars line the curbs, and the closest place to park is a block away. As we walk towards the porch, I see stray pieces of candy wrappers lying in the grass, the only visible traces of young princesses and ghosts earlier tonight. Hayden pulls open the front door, and looks over his shoulder with a grin as we enter.

  “Looks like half the school’s here,” he says.

  When we step inside, I feel the steady pulse of blaring dance music compete with the nervous tempo of my heartbeat. There are people crammed together all along the hallway that leads us into the kitchen, which looks like it’s straight out of a reality chef TV show, with its huge stainless steel appliances and white marble countertops. The second story skylights are like giant domino squares on the ceiling, numbering the stars above. I recognize a couple students, but some of the costumes make it impossible to tell who hides underneath.

  “Hayden – dude!” Carl, a tuba player from senior band, yells from behind the kitchen counter. “What are you supposed to be? A funeral director?”

  Carl is dressed up as one of The Incredibles, complete with the shiny red spandex suit and black Speedo over top. It isn’t exactly flattering on him, and I can see in Hayden’s gaze that he’s thinking the same thing.

  Feeling justified after Carl’s misread of his costume, I lean in to Hayden, to quietly say, “See? I’m not the only one.”

  “Cretins,” he says under his breath, his head turned my way before facing Carl to reply, “Some might say you were close with that interpretation, Carl. And might I add that you, yourself, are looking quite incredible tonight.”

  I laugh at his ridiculously lame joke. Carl calls out again, waving his hand back and forth, from one of us to the other, smirking while giving an exaggerated puzzled look to Patel, who is covered in purple balloons beside him. “I still don’t get it. What’s the connection between the two of you?”

  I’m just appreciating that Patel, a trombone player, is dressed as a bunch of grapes when the insinuation registers with me: I hope Carl is talking about our costumes. I mean – he can’t seriously be talking about Hayden and I – again – like we’re actually together. I’m so tired of this kind of thing. As if we can’t just be friends because Hayden is gay?

  “Nothing.” I shake my head at Carl. “There’s no connection between us.”

  Hayden holds my cape between his
fingers, leaning in towards me, and says, “Isn’t Max’s costume obvious? He’s a superhero – like you, Carl – only Spanish – and sexier.”

  I tug my cape away from him, annoyed for reasons I can’t even articulate. Jesus! Sometimes, Hayden doesn’t make it any easier to dispel the rumours that have followed our friendship all through high school. “Gracias, Vladimir,” I mutter.

  I turn away from him and walk beside the glass dining room table to scan the various characters on display in the sunken living room. You can immediately tell which kids are in the Visual Arts or Drama programs at our school by their elaborate costumes. Standing near the gas fireplace, to the far left, is a centaur, which is not only frighteningly realistic, but also ridiculously awkward and enormous. By the bay window, at the opposite end of the open living room, there’s a Man with the Yellow hat from Curious George. I also spot a butterfly with an expertly painted face and intricate purple papier mâché wings, perched atop a kitchen barstool.

  While I take in all of these costumes, it strikes me that Hallowe’en brings out one of the real ironies of high school. Everyone is always trying so hard to be unique – to prove their individuality, and how different they are from others; yet they all so desperately want to be accepted as part of some group – whatever group that may be. I guess we all want to be chosen by someone.

  A group moves from the centre of the room towards the stairwell, revealing an oversized couch behind them, where I see Vanessa – the girl who lives here. She’s dressed as Dorothy with her shiny red shoes, and leans suggestively across the couch towards a cowboy. In between them is a small figure, recessed into the dark blue cushions like she’s trying to disappear into their crevice. She looks down at her knees, which are completely covered in black fabric. Vanessa and the cowboy talk over top of her, as if she weren’t even there.