by Brenda Benny
“Please tell me you did not get them silver salt and pepper shakers as a gift.”
I turn to the voice behind me and find Hayden. He’s better dressed for this event than me, of course, and juggling a package of flowers and champagne in one hand, and a dog-eared copy of whatever play he’s re-reading in his other.
“Hey, man. I thought you weren’t going to be able to make it?”
“Miss this fairy tale ending? Are you kidding me?”
I grin at him. “Which begs the question: where is the animated ‘Prince Charming meets Prince Charming with a happily-ever-after’ movie, anyway?” I joke.
We are interrupted by Peter and Jonathan standing up to thank everyone for coming, and each saying a few words of their own. I’m used to my parents being fairly straight-laced – pun intended – but today calls for some uncomfortable mushy stuff. To top it all off, they end it with quite a show of affection. Hoots and hollers only egg them on.
“Jesus,” I mutter, not sure if I’m more embarrassed for them or myself.
Hayden makes a scolding noise from beside me, but smiles. “What’s wrong with it? It’s beautiful. Two men openly showing their love for one another.”
It’s not like I don’t want to see my dads kiss because they’re gay: I don’t want to see my dads kiss because they’re my parents. I mean, seriously! “Yeah, like I said, gross!”
“Hey, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were homophobic.” He elbows me.
“Obviously not.” I dismiss this. “I just have a normal teenage phobia to parental PDA, that’s all. If I had a mom and dad, it wouldn’t be any different – I’d be disgusted by them kissing, too.” I realize what I’ve just said, and feel an immediate and crushing guilt for the questions running through my head right now. If I had a mom and dad. I do have a mom and dad – somewhere. The question is: where? And: should I look for them? My stomach knots up. God. I can’t believe I’m thinking about this at my parents’ anniversary party!
“Yeah, that would be repulsive.” Hayden sneers.
“Oh, like that’s fair prejudice.” I laugh. “Maybe you’re heterophobic! And, I should shame you online, or something.” I jab him with my elbow, in return, and we start to shove each other, joking.
“I admit it. Nobody needs that girl-boy thing shoved in their face all the time, you know.” Hayden pulls a sour and dismissive face that’s a pretty good one for an actor. “And speaking of heterophobia – I don’t see Serena here today.”
I glare at him and sigh. I’d thought of inviting Serena to this party, but I’m not sure we’re at that stage yet. “Might be a little much for her. Maybe another time.”
Hayden nods like he’s agreeing with me.
“Weren’t you supposed to be with your mom and step-dad this weekend?” I ask.
“Left Burnaby early. Any more than twenty-four hours with Big Bad Bigoted Bob, and your dad’s therapy couch is looking extremely comfortable.” He smirks, but I know he’s probably serious. “I have no idea how my mom ended up with him. Then again, her track record for seeing beneath the façade wasn’t exactly exemplary.”
Hayden spent the early years mainly with his mom after his parents split up – which I gather was fine until she re-married, and his two half-sisters came along. Not long after that, the custody arrangement got a bit of a shake-up, and that’s when he came to live in our neighbourhood with his dad most of the time.
“What about your sisters? No one to play with?”
“Gymnastics competition. And mother hen was out in full force,” he says.
I smile at this. I’ve met Hayden’s mother a few times over the years, and she is exactly what you’d think of when someone describes being “s-mothered”. Still, there was something appealing about it. It’s the way I imagined all moms act – at least, that’s how it seems on TV.
We both pop another pastry into our mouths, shielding the tray with our bodies like it’s the last ration at the orphanage.
“Your dad and Charles dropped by at the beginning of the party,” I say, still chewing.
“Yeah, I guess my dad had to make a speech at some exhibit opening at the Gallery downtown.” Hayden’s dad, Gary, and his partner, Charles, are two of my parents’ closest friends. They would be very sorry to have missed much of this party.
Eventually Peter makes his way around to Hayden, who gives Peter the gifts he’s brought. They strike up a short conversation before Peter is pulled away to see off some departing guests. The party takes a while to wind down, and when the last of their friends have gone, I send my nana to the couch in the living room to rest her feet, and make her a cup of tea. She spent much of the party attending to guests and refilling glasses while she told one story after another about my parents to the groups that milled about. I know she must be exhausted.
Hayden and I head to the kitchen to start cleaning up the mess left behind by all the celebrating.
“How are things going with Serena, anyway?” he asks, as he takes up the washing in the sink full of soapy water.
“Fine. I mean, I think it’s fine. I had a really good time with her on Friday night.”
Hayden is nodding his head, staring down at the sink. “So, are you getting anywhere with her?”
I give him a sideways glance while I empty out a half-full beer bottle into the opposite sink. “Getting anywhere?” I repeat, confused. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, with an uneasy look on his face. Maybe he’s as concerned as I’ve been about how different she is this year. He certainly sees her more in his classes than I ever do. He takes an exaggerated breath and then turns to me, bracing his hands against the counter. “Well. Have you even kissed her yet?”
I stare at him for a minute. Is he kidding? There’s no telltale smirk to this comment. I cough a response, shaking my head. “Hayden, you are such an ass sometimes.”
He stares me down. I look away, feeling far too known to escape his assumption.
“Why is it such a big deal if things are going slowly between us? I like her. I think she actually likes me. What’s wrong with that?”
His hard look softens, somewhat. “You just seem to be doing a lot of chasing. Has she ever even called you?”
This stings more than I want it to. The things that are true always do.
“Look – she’s gone out with me on a date already. It’s not like she’s giving me the cold shoulder.”
He turns back to the sink, and mutters quietly, “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t exactly guess she’d keep you warm at night, either.”
There’s a long stretch of silence before I respond.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He tilts his head and only needs to lift his mocking eyebrow. “She just seems like one of those girls who’ll string you along, and you’ll never get anywhere.”
I try to clear the irritation from my throat. “Are you kidding me? Just because I haven’t slept with her after a few weeks, it doesn’t mean that there’s nothing going on there!” It’s like we’re in a face-off now, where Hayden plays the cool, unaffected party, dropping platitudes like incendiary bombs so that I look like the out of control jerk in the argument. “What the hell, Hayden? Leave it alone, would you?”
He smirks, shrugging his shoulders, and returns to washing the champagne flutes.
“Well, maybe you just like the idea of a girlfriend relationship, more than the reality of relations with a girlfriend.”
I stop what I’m doing and turn to face him. “I like her, Hayden. Okay? I don’t know what your problem is with her. What did she ever do to you?”
He shakes his head slightly and chews at his puckered lips in an angry way. “I just don’t want you to go down a road that’s full of detours. I’m not sure she’s really all there after what happened to her this year. Are you ready to deal with all of that?”
I practically pin him to the wall with the look I’m giving him, and utter my words with deadly precision. “Don’t go there!” I
walk over to the corner and slam two bottles into the empty beer case I’ve been filling. “Jesus!” I mutter. Standing up again, I realize I’ve heard enough of his shit for the day. “You know, I think I’ve got it from here.”
He looks over at me slowly. “All right then,” he says, then pulls the dishtowel from his shoulder and wipes his hands slowly before handing it over. “Thanks for the party. No need for an escort. I’ll see my way out.”
He ducks his head once, his tongue firmly planted in his cheek, and walks through the archway to the front hallway. I watch Jonathan pull Hayden into a handshake hug, slapping him on the back, and then gripping his shoulder firmly.
I hardly have time to process what a colossal asshat Hayden is being before Jonathan enters the kitchen and says, “It was nice to have Hayden helping out, even if Gary and Charles couldn’t stay.”
“Yeah. Helping Hayden. Like always.”
Jonathan nods slowly, and I sense his super therapeutic abilities to sniff out conflict emerging. “I thought I might have heard a certain tone of voice in here.”
“What you heard was Hayden trying to give me girl advice,” I spit out. Jonathan’s face takes on a mild look of surprise. I continue on, in my exasperated state. “Why he thinks he can provide any expertise in this area – I have no idea.”
Jonathan’s head tilts sideways in a revealing way, and I know what’s coming.
“Relationships are relationships, Max. Don’t try to label something as different just because of gender.”
I let out a groan that immediately labels me as a teenager, but I can’t help it. “Yeah, I know.” God, I’m not looking for more judgment.
Jonathan is smirking at me now, and I’m sure it’s because he’s caught me in this vortex of teenage conventionality. “So there’s a girl, is there? What girl is this?”
Oh, God. It’s only now, after this brief burst of anger, that I realize what I’ve admitted. It’s fair to say that I’ve been avoiding this tripwire of uncomfortable discussion with my dads forever.
I vividly remember that first conversation we had, years ago – you know – the “sex talk”. Peter is a doctor, so that talk was a little more involved than it probably needed to be. And, ever since, if one of them got that look – the one that said, “We should probably talk with Max about this” – I was tying up my boots to run for the woods. So, as hard as it is to believe, we’ve never truly had a specific “talk” about the whole “you like girls” thing.
Great. I do not want to do this.
“No one. I mean – it’s just a girl at school.” It’s like I’m sprinting through an obstacle course of landmines. “You know, Hayden’s just got me a little bit irritated, and I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”
He grimaces, and I wonder if I’m going to escape this interaction.
“Well, Max, I’m very pleased to hear that you’ve found someone that you might be interested in. But based on the temperature left behind by your discussion with Hayden, perhaps you and he need to examine just how this is affecting your friendship.”
I shoot him a look, and grab my throat, briefly, like I’m choking. He rolls his eyes at me.
“I’m not one of your patients, Jonathan.”
“No, Maxwell. Even more importantly, you’re my son. You know how this works. I’m here if you want to talk about anything at all.”
I bet he says this to all of his patients.
* * *
It takes another hour to finish cleaning up everything. Nobody feels like having an organized dinner because of the heaps of food we’ve eaten all afternoon – but I’m still hungry. I make myself a sandwich and carry it up to my room, walking quietly by Nana, who is napping soundly on the living room couch.
Hayden pissed me off with his comments about Serena, but he’s dead-on that she never calls me. In fact, besides the occasional conversations over lunch at school, I really don’t see her all that much. Maybe Hayden is right. Am I crazy to be spending so much effort trying to date her? Am I just imagining something that is actually only one-sided? But I’d felt it – Friday night – I’d felt it. First, at the table, and then that moment by the doors before she left – I’m sure she was thinking about kissing me, too.
I press her number on my phone and it starts to ring. After five rings, I’m preparing to leave a message, scrambling to think of how not to sound like an ass for brains. Then there’s a click.
“Hello?” Her voice is raspy and thick. Is she crying?
“Oh, hey! Hi! Serena. It’s Max.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Jesus. Of course, she knows it’s me! I’m calling her from my freaking cell phone.
She takes a long, audible breath before she finally says, “Hi.”
“Are you okay?” It sounds like she’s covering her phone, but I can still hear the clearing of her throat.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine,” she says, failing to sound convincing.
“I can call back, you know. Or you could call me. I mean, call me back. If you wanted.”
Is she rolling her eyes? Is she upset? Isn’t this why FaceTime was invented, so that you don’t have to guess these things? I’d remember to try that next time I call her.
“No, it’s okay, Max. Really.” There’s a smile in her voice now. That’s all I’d hoped for, honestly.
“So, um. What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m working on an essay for English.” There’s another pause, and I’m just about to ask her more about her essay when, at the last moment, she says, “What are you up to?”
“Oh. Well, Hayden just left.” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, but I’m not sure I succeed. “And now I’m just hanging around my room. Eating a sandwich, as a matter of fact.”
“Why am I not surprised? You probably raided the neighbour’s garden to garnish it, too.” I think she might have giggled on the other end of the phone.
“It’s a strictly legal snack tonight, I swear.” I raise my hand to gesture my honesty, even though she obviously can’t see. “What are you reading in English right now?”
“Orwell’s 1984. That’s what the essay is on.”
“Oh, Big Brother!” I make a corny joke, hoping to keep her smiling. “You have Polinski, right? I had him last year.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. He was totally obsessed with thematic elements for every book we read.”
“I can tell,” she moans. “I’m still trying to figure out whether to write about the theme of censorship or surveillance.”
“Censorship! You have to pick censorship. Seriously! He never shut up about all the different books that had been unjustly removed from high school reading lists because of their content. You’ll absolutely get an A if you write about that theme!”
She laughs again, and I consider this to be a small miracle. It occurs to me that if she’d been upset about something earlier, I’ve distracted her from it. I think about Hayden’s allegations that Serena isn’t “all there” and that I wouldn’t be able to “deal with it”, and feel a flash of anger towards him. If she’s sad, I want her to be able to talk to me. I don’t want to push it, though.
“Hey, Serena,” I start, wondering how I’m going to put this, “You know, that you can call me any time you want, right?”
Great. Am I sounding needy here? Just what every girl wants: a needy boyfriend. Man, who am I kidding? I’m not really her boyfriend. I can feel a stammering episode coming on like an out of control freight train.
“Like, if you want some help with your English essay – I’ve got some great links online for theme elements that teachers just eat up. Or if you need me to give you some fresh ears for your vocal practice, I can do that, too. Hey, even if you just need to practice your voicemail message on someone before you record – I’m your guy.”
She is laughing by this point. Well, at least I’ve got her laughing.
“Thanks, Max. I’ll be sure to call you with my practice
run next time I’m changing my voice mail message.”
“And I’ll be here, ready to listen to anything at all.”
Oh, Jesus. I sound like my dad!
“When are you working this week?” she asks, releasing me from my self-deprecation.
“At the music store?”
“Yeah.”
“Tuesday night – till nine.”
“Maybe I could stop by?”
“Yeah, sure. That would be awesome. We could… grab a coffee or something?”
“That sounds great. I’ll see you tomorrow at school?”
“Yeah. See you then.”
She is going to come to see me. She suggested we go out. She hopes to see me tomorrow.
What does Hayden know about detours? Tonight I feel like I’ve found the secret passage, and Serena has given me the key.
Chapter 6
Serena
It’s weird, the things you notice – especially when you’re stuck in a room with someone for an hour, generally trying to avoid what you’re here for in the first place: talking about yourself. Today the man seems to match the furniture. His dark grey shirt and similarly coloured tie make his dark hair and eyes seem like they were orchestrated for a catalogue shot. Psychologists Weekly: Bring your dark thoughts – we will absorb them into our dark world.
I’m back in the familiar black leather chair, answering the list of questions we seem to review every week.
Sleep: Getting better
Dreams: Still angry black birds
Been in any strange cars lately: Dodge this question
Self talk: Kind of
School: Passing
Singing: Yes
Eating: Yes
“Well then, Serena. It sounds like you’re having improvements in some of the problem areas we identified early on.”
Passing the review so far.
“I still think we need to explore more deeply what your experience was in the car at the time of the accident, however.”