by Brenda Benny
Holy crap! Serena is here.
It’s hard to get a good look at her under all that dark material. But even from across the room, I see the glow of her golden-hued skin that glistens like the Vancouver shoreline sand in summertime. Her lips look like they must be flavoured with pink cotton candy, but I’ve imagined countless times that they taste even sweeter. And the music that comes out of that mouth? It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard before. Serena Santos is beautiful.
I’m lost in reckless thoughts of kissing her jaw and running my fingers through her spiralling black curls when Hayden’s hand on my shoulder jars me back to our surreal surroundings.
“A nun. Well, that’s fitting: the ultimate unobtainable woman. Perfect excuse for you,” Hayden says, impassively, before adding, “Doesn’t look like she’s having much fun here tonight.”
My preoccupation hasn’t escaped my best friend. And since I never do anything about it, I think the whole situation just irritates him. I jerk my shoulder away from his hand, but he leans in closer anyway, and whispers softly into my ear, “You should just go up and talk to her. That’s what you’re supposed to do if you like a girl – or so I hear – especially if you’ve been obsessed with her for months.”
I let out a frustrated groan. I’ve liked her for much longer than that. Ever since high school started, really. During her junior year, she was away with her parents somewhere in Europe, though – at least until her untimely return. I don’t know a lot about what happened. I’ve never talked to her about it – I’ve never really talked to her at all.
Still watching her, I heave a sigh before answering Hayden’s reproach. “I just can’t do it.”
He shrugs, and then throws his arm around my shoulders. “You just have to convince her you’re interested – without being weird. That is, if you still are interested.”
Just then, Serena looks up and across the room towards us. Her eyes are unfocused, though, like she’s wishing she were somewhere else. For a moment, I sense her sadness. But then, her gaze seems to sharpen, and one side of her mouth curls up slightly at the edge.
I immediately register Hayden’s arm around me, and think back to Carl’s insinuation in the kitchen. Does she assume I’m with Hayden, too? Shit! Suddenly, I imagine gay transferring like a temporary tattoo, and before my brain convinces me how ridiculous this sounds, my body twists away from Hayden. I try to duck beneath his elbow, but in my hurry, his cufflink gets caught on the tail of the bandana wrapped around my head. Hayden pulls his arm in, trying to untangle us, but it only yanks me closer – into an awkward headlock type of grasp. Oh my God! Now I’m hunched over, my face somewhere around his waist, as he works to extricate us. Is this truly happening?
“Okay. Relax, super Spaniard,” Hayden commands much more calmly than I’m acting. I mean – my head is practically in his crotch – and this is quickly turning into a raunchy Cirque de Soleil contortionist act. Talk about mortifying!
There’s a twist, and then a ripping sound. “Just let me get this,” he says. And finally, we are freed from what must have looked like some totally warped PDA. I feel a gentle shove at my back from Hayden.
When I stand up, worried that Serena’s been watching the whole thing, I find that she’s looking down at her lap again. A strange mix of relief and disappointment washes over me. Vanessa, on the other hand, is glaring at Hayden and me. Vanessa’s red hair doesn’t match her ruby red shoes, but is closer in colour to the dragon fire blowing out of her eyes. I flinch, feeling scorched by her gaze. She looks at me like I have no right to be watching either of them – like I shouldn’t even be here – as though I’m not worthy. This is how Vanessa looks at certain people, though. I think it’s like a sport for her.
I spin around to find refuge in a conversation with my friend, only to realize that he’s moved over to the bay window. Three younger girls, dressed as cheerleaders, surround him. They’re wearing cute short skirts with bared midriffs, and seem to be in a competition as to who can outperform the other’s perkiness. That must be what Vanessa is glaring at.
I can see from here that the girls are giggling at Hayden’s witty comments and fawning over his pinstriped suit. Hayden looks entertained, rather than flattered, a hint of amusement at the edge of his eyes. The whole scene is a bit funny. The girls prance around like deer tempting the wolf to bite. These fawns aren’t even on his menu, but he’s far from rude to them. Even with girls – even without meaning to – Hayden looks like he’s a good flirt: I’m clearly not.
But could I be? Tonight, I’m Don Juan. Tonight, I could be anyone I want to be. I try to imagine what Don Juan – this expert in the ways with women – would do.
Abruptly, and without much forethought, I spin around in the direction of the couch. Only, now, it’s empty. Dammit! I finally work up the nerve to do this, and now my opportunity has vanished before I had the chance! It takes me a few seconds of scanning the room, but I finally spot a black outfit disappearing down the back hallway, past the stairs.
Moving quickly, I bound through the crowd towards the corridor at a speed that is probably appropriate for a Conquistador. With my mask acting like blinders on a racehorse, I focus on Serena. But with my impaired peripheral vision, I knock into several people along the way, leaving a stream of spilt beer and a torrent of profanity in my wake. When I reach her, I try desperately to stop short of a full-on tackle – but these drag-queen boots throw my running technique on its ass, and suddenly I’m practically on top of her.
“Oh, crap! Sorry! I didn’t mean to…” I stumble through my words as awkwardly as my hands move, which are – oh, God – groping her, in an attempt to keep her upright. Did I just touch her boob? Grasping her shoulder with one hand, I hold her opposite elbow with the other, in what is probably an unregulated UFC hold. With an alarmed and perplexed look on her face, she takes a step back, trying to put distance between us.
I have to do something – and fast. Fumbling for an introduction, I repeat the gesture I made when Hayden first came over tonight. I thrust my arms in opposing directions and stamp my foot on the ground. “My name is Don Juan – I am the greatest lover in the world – and I would like to share the gift of pleasure with you!”
Jesus.
Did I just say that? What a complete ass for brains!
There are moments when growing up in a gay household is, perhaps, not very helpful: this is one of them. Clearly, I have no idea what to say to a girl when I’m attracted to her. Briefly, I wonder if having a mother helps you with this stuff – like, talking to girls, I mean. And well, I guess I do have a mother – somewhere. Wait. Is that gross? How would you learn about hitting on girls from your mom?
Oh, fuck it. She is definitely going to make a run for it now. No question.
But, slowly: it happens. Little by little, the corners of her mouth lift up – just the tiniest curl to them. Then, she actually smiles – the pink candy, slay-me-through-the-heart smile.
“Hi. I’m Maria von Trapp.” She reaches her hand out to shake mine.
Oh! Now, I get it. She’s a singing nun.
I start to shake her hand, but then decide if I’m going to do this, I should take it all the way. Practically folding myself in half to bend forward, I kiss the back of her knuckles – her glowing, amber-smooth, delicate knuckles. Man! If this is what it feels like to be slain by the hands of God, I’ll take it.
“So… are the hills alive with the sound of music?”
She stares at me for a moment without saying anything. It’s a long enough pause that I let go of her hand and consider running for the hills – so far away I won’t have to die of the embarrassment crawling up my throat – the Swiss Alps sound about right to me.
“You’re that friend of Hayden’s – that plays double bass.” Her head is tilted like it’s a question.
I should have expected this – being the “friend of Hayden’s”. I mean, obviously she knows who Hayden is – they’ve been in Vocal together all through high school and
have more than one class together.
In a moment of panic, I try out the accent again. “And I would be pleased to serenade your delicate ears, if you would only grant me the pleasure of your company this frightful evening.” Maybe this is why all those Drama geeks at school act out different characters all the time. It’s sort of easier to talk to her this way, pretending to be someone else.
“I’m Serena… by the way.”
She thinks I don’t know her name? Her smile has faded somewhat, but at least she’s still talking to me. Maybe telling her my name would be a good idea.
“Maxwell. I mean, Max. My name is Max.”
A hint of a smile creeps back onto her lips. “I know.”
She knows! Angels sing a chorus of Hallelujah in my ears.
“But you don’t sound so sure about that,” she says.
My less-than-smooth talking is amusing her, at least. Still, I can’t help but be surprised that she knows my name. The last time I had a class with her was Grade Nine math – and I never even talked to her then.
“Maybe, for tonight, I should keep the Spanish thing going?”
“Que divertido, Señor Don Juan,” she says with a flawless accent. Okay. That was undeniably sexy. I am momentarily mute. I realize I should shut my gaping jaw when she shrugs her shoulders slightly and looks down towards the wood floor. “My dad is Spanish.”
“Oh, right. Santos,” I say, as though she doesn’t know her own name.
I look down at her while she looks down at her foot, which kicks out rhythmically from beneath the long black habit she’s wearing. The music playing in the background is suddenly deafening, which is ironic, considering the silence bomb that has dropped between us.
She lets out an abrupt, quiet laugh, and then seemingly catches herself, like she’s embarrassed for the outburst. When she looks up again, the smaller smile is back. “You know, your costume looks more like something Hayden would wear – not you.”
I can’t believe she has an opinion on this. I try not to sound too eager to hear her answer. “What costume did you think I would wear?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, like, a rock star? Like Sting or Keith Richards?”
“Keith Richards?” I ask, wondering why she chose a guitarist. Maybe she means something else. “Oh, I get it. You mean like a different Johnny Depp character – what he was supposed to be like in Pirates of the Caribbean?”
Her eyes brighten a bit more, but her answer is tentative. “Sure. Yeah. That seems about right.”
I’m not sure she knows what I’m talking about. But, right now, I don’t care. This is definitely the closest I’ve ever stood to Serena, which makes me feel uncomfortable in all kinds of good ways. It seems unreal that we’re having this conversation.
“Well, for the record, I think you should have dressed up as a jazz icon like Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald – instead of a singing nun who ends up taking care of a bunch of motherless children.”
Her face falls, and with it, I watch any ground I’ve made tumble into the same abyss. It’s only then that I realize what I’ve said: her mother. My ridiculous knee-high, drag-queen boot is so far down my throat, it’s now choking me.
Her gaze leaves mine, and becomes firmly fixed somewhere on the beige-painted wall beside us. “Um. I think I’d better go now. I was just about to leave the party, anyway. It was nice to meet you Don – I mean, Max.”
In a split second, she turns on her heel and moves quickly away.
“Wait! Do you need a ride?” I scramble after her to fix this. It can’t end this way. I want to keep talking to her, no matter what idiotic things I’m sputtering.
She speaks in what is barely a mumble over her shoulder. “No, thanks. I mean, thank you. But, I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“I mean, I won’t be able to…” She’s making excuses, and not any sense, so I follow her through the corridor on the way out to the kitchen area.
“It’s no problem,” I say. “Hayden’s car is just down the street.”
I slow down, motioning to Hayden on the other side of the room where he leans against the window. He’s talking to our band’s zombie-clad percussionist, and a blue-haired girl with multiple piercings, and so much dark eye make-up, she looks like a raccoon – I’m not entirely sure it’s a costume. I see Hayden signal to them that he’ll return before I resume sprinting after Serena. She’s already walking out the front door.
“Serena, wait! Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”
But her head is decisively down, and by the time I reach the porch, she’s turning off the front pathway and onto the sidewalk.
I hear footsteps behind me, and I know that it’s Hayden.
His shoulder leans into my back before he whispers in a sarcastic tone, “So, did you ‘share the gift of pleasure’ with her? Is that why she’s running?”
How could I possibly screw this up so fast? Frustration with my incoherent blathering, and anger at my own stupidity, boils out of my mouth like water spouting from a trembling kettle.
“Fuck you, Hayden.”
As the top of her habit moves between two parked cars, headed to the next block, I watch her disappear, ultimately turning what might have been a fantasy night into fiction.
Chapter 2
Serena
Some secrets are too hard to tell – even to yourself.
And so it is that you can be sitting in a fancy, oversized, chrome and black leather chair, staring across a glass coffee table at a sharply dressed man on a Tuesday after school.
I imagine that the secret sits on the table between us, gift-wrapped in shiny gold paper with a red satin bow.
He’s waiting for me to give it to him.
“Is there anything you want to talk about since I saw you last week?” he probes gently.
I shift in my seat, and my eyes travel down to the alluring gold offering between us. On his side, it may look pretty, but on my side, the box is smashed in at the corners, the wrapping torn, and the satin ribbon a deep blood red that burns welts into your fingers upon contact.
“Not really.”
There is a quiet ping from behind him on the desk. Must be a text on his phone.
It takes me a little while to notice he isn’t saying anything – I realize this when I finally raise my head. His small, patient smile appears.
“Are you sleeping at night?”
My shoulders shift upwards.
“Kind of.”
The dreams with the black birds haven’t gone away: the ones where they bear down on me, screeching their accusations in a deafening chorus of conviction. I wake up at least three times every night. Bolt upright. Sometimes there are tears that have soaked my pillow. But most of the time, it’s just my pulse racing as fast as the oncoming car had been – my heart feeling like it’s going to burst from my chest. Dad had stopped sprinting into the room after the first month or so, finally convinced that my cries weren’t the result of an intruder in the house. Sometimes he still calls out, “Everything okay, Serena?” The answer to that seems obvious enough.
“You said you were having trouble focusing on your mid-term tests. Have you tried any of the techniques we talked about last time?”
“Kind of.” I try not to outright lie. I had tried – a bit. When I thought of it. When it occurred to me to care.
The man clears his throat softly.
“Serena, you know how this works. I’m here if you want to talk about anything at all.”
I do know how this works. I know that my dad gave me a huge lecture several weeks ago about my borderline grades and decided I needed to “talk” to someone. That was after the meeting with the guidance counsellor at school, who said, “We know you just need some time. We all understand. But we think you need something more than that, too.”
How can they possibly understand?
I know my dad is heartbroken. I know he’s sad. I know there are days where he is absolutely lost. But he still doesn’t understand
. He doesn’t know. He wasn’t there.
The man is speaking again. I look up from where I had been staring at the floor.
“But Serena, you must realize that you have work you need to do, as well. I don’t think you’re telling me everything that happened. And until you resolve this, you’ll continue to have trouble with all of your symptoms. Now, I know you said you don’t want to be ‘drugged out’ on medications, but if you’re not progressing in therapy, if your grades and your sleep are still suffering, if your desire to sing remains affected, and if you still have all these signs of depression and anxiety, I think we need to seriously consider it. The medication will at least alleviate those symptoms. That would allow you to better re-engage in your regular activities until you are able to deal with the root cause of all of this.”
I guess he’s decided that since I’m not talking, maybe he should.
“No pills. I don’t need anti-depressants. I’m not depressed. I’m just… upset, that’s all. Anyone would be.”
I don’t want anyone to know that I’m in therapy – I haven’t even told Vanessa. Imagine if she finds out that I’m on medication, too? She’d think I was a basket case.
The man’s eyebrows are drawing closer together as he begins to speak again. It seems like he’s trying to control the sigh escaping his lips.
“No one is questioning your response to the accident, Serena. It wasn’t your fault. Of course you are upset.”
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat.
He pauses for a beat, as his fingers meet in his lap, making a steeple.
“Tell me something you did that was new and out of the ordinary this week.”
This is an unusual detour. I’m caught off-guard by the request and also by my memory’s response. Max’s terrible impression of a Latin lover, from some movie I don’t even know, immediately comes to my mind: the dark mask he wore, and the colourful bandana tied tightly over the messy, light brown waves of his chin-length hair. I carefully dole out my reply.