That Secret You Keep

by Brenda Benny

  “Geez. You look so much like her,” he says. “I remember that. Her, I mean. It’s amazing how much you look alike.”

  He says it in the present tense. But it isn’t. I’m holding my breath beside him.

  He glances at me quickly, and then back to the photograph before he begins to look at the various postcards tacked all around it. “You must really miss her.”

  It’s like I am a pillar of salt wounds, every part of me stinging and raw. If I make a move, I will crumble into dust crystals.

  Max swallows loudly and straightens up, and I can feel his eyes on me now, but I can’t meet them. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

  It’s the vulnerability in his voice. I almost think I can answer – maybe start to open up about what this is doing to me – how it’s pecked away at my heart for months now, leaving it a disfigured, bloody mess, incapable of its intended use.

  There’s some noise in the hallway below, and I see Max turn his head abruptly towards my open door. “I should probably go,” he says, keeping his eye trained on the hallway and looking suddenly nervous.

  I grab his hand and squeeze it. He turns back to look at me. My throat feels so full of emotion that it can barely squeeze out a breath.

  “Max…” I try to figure out what comes next, but nothing does.

  I want to say: I do – I do miss her – I do want to talk about it.

  But I don’t say it. I just can’t.

  He tugs on my hand then, and pulls me into his chest, giving me a brief but powerful hug. I feel his lips quickly brush against my hair. He swiftly releases me, eyes still on the door, and repeats, “I should go.”

  As we make our way downstairs, I can hear my dad turning on the dishwasher while I grab Max’s coat off the rack in the hallway. He’s slipped his boots on already, so I follow him out and onto our porch, closing the door quietly behind me. I hand him his coat, and he shrugs into it.

  We’re both quiet for a moment. I realize that because of what happened upstairs, he’s probably not going to kiss me unless I tell him to. So, I grab the folds of his open jacket, forcing him to bend down towards me, his hands finding and bracketing the sides of my waist. We kiss like a slow, gentle caress – just our lips meeting and retreating over and over.

  Eventually we pull apart, and the smile I expect to see spread across Max’s face isn’t there – there’s only a look of concern. I feel the need to tease it out of him, with a smile of my own, but there’s only the tiny lift at the corners of his mouth in return.

  “I’ll call you,” I say.

  He nods in response. “Sure.”

  He walks towards the driveway, and I slip back inside.

  * * *

  We’re coming into the last week before Christmas break, which means that final assignments and papers are due before the holidays. You’d think the teachers would be a little easier on us, considering that we have the holiday concert next week, and all the extra rehearsals for it. But that’s the way it goes at this school: extra is expected.

  So, although my dad has not been overbearing or nosy about Max, he is being all of these things about my marks. I did some online courses, as well as regular school, in Spain. But after everything happened, I lost some of my credits and needed to add some subjects this year to keep up. That means I have an even heavier timetable than my friends. There is a lot of pressure for me to pull up my grades from where they were in the first two months of the year. I’m still in a position of having to prove myself, so for this week, I’m not allowed to go out on any weeknight, and spend most of my time trying to either study for tests or finish assignments. And it’s probably the first time in forever that I would care if I got grounded – it would mean that I couldn’t see Max.

  Vanessa comes over on Wednesday night so that we can quiz each other for our Calculus test. I’m not sure if she’s any help, but it makes me feel better that I have the company. She’s brought us chocolate cupcakes with vanilla icing from the specialty bakery that just opened on Tenth Avenue, and a coffee for me in this cute mosaic travel mug as a gift. She is always far more generous than she needs to be.

  We’re up in my bedroom. Her papers are spread out in front of her on my purple quilted comforter. I’m on the rug, just in front of my grandma’s travel trunk at the foot of my bed. I feel like I’m drowning in quadratic equations. Meanwhile, Vanessa looks like she’s running some sort of multi-media office up there. Her phone keeps chirping with her Fame ring tone every few minutes. She’s giggling about something while swiping and tapping her screen. It’s distracting, but I don’t comment.

  She catches me looking up at her and finally says, “Did you see the photo Grace posted? The one where Mailk’s got the open-mouthed stare, watching Emily sing at rehearsal? Oh my God, it’s so funny! I just re-posted it with the caption: ‘And it sings too? It’s bee-u-tiful’.”

  Malik is a trumpet player that has an obvious crush on Emily.

  “Vanessa!” I cry. “That’s so mean! Why would you do that to him?”

  She looks offended, but swiftly turns her expression to dismissal.

  “What? It’s no big deal. I’m just salting him. And besides, maybe he needs a little nudge.”

  “Well, I hope he sees it that way.” Her phone pings again, and she reviews it quickly before smirking at me.

  “See? He replied ‘Funny’.”

  “Lucky he’s got a good sense of humour.”

  I go back to my problems and equations while she manages her kingdom above, in between her scratches of lead on paper and erasing. She’s also got her annotated musical score arrangement spread in front of her, and I can hear that she’s listening to the songs on her phone with one earbud in place.

  “What do you think about this phrasing?” She breaks into a few bars that she’s been struggling with in rehearsal, tearing me away from my multi-variable question on the page, once again.

  “It’s pretty good. I wonder if Mrs. Alonso is looking for it to sound more like this though,” I suggest, launching into a different interpretation with more legato phrasing. She copies me, and then we fall into a harmony, finishing off the last few bars of the piece together.

  “I like it,” Vanessa says. Her smile spreads upwards into her sparkling hazel eyes. “This feels like old times,” she comments contentedly. I feel it too. It reminds me of the things we used to do together with my mom, and I look up at the picture of us that Max had been staring at the other night.

  Suddenly, it’s my phone that lights up instead of hers. I pull it towards me and stare down at the screen.

  Max: Musical derivatives = Better known as “copyright infringement”

  This humour is so much like Max: it takes a few extra seconds to reveal his meaning concealed under first impression.

  Me: Tangential texts r not helping me w my vectors

  Max: If music is math 4 the soul, there r no limits 2 the effect your tune plays upon my heart. Want to c u this weekend

  Me: U r an upright geek of towering proportion. I hear chess club starting their own band – r u their lyricist? And…Me 2

  “Who’s that? Emily?”

  I try to, but can’t hold back my grin. “No. It’s Max.”

  “Max,” she repeats. There’s a prolonged pause before she asks, “Are you really dating him, Serena?”

  Max and I hung out all Sunday afternoon at my place, listening to music and talking about things we might do together over the Christmas holidays. He’ll still be working at the music store, but at least there won’t be any schoolwork keeping me holed up like a prisoner.

  “I guess so. I mean, yeah. We’re dating. Why?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I guess he’s sort of cute in a… well, he is… tall.” Not exactly a glowing review, but I don’t care. “But, seriously. I have to ask. The thing with Hayden. Wasn’t there something going on between them? Like, is Max bisexual, or something?”

  “Vanessa!” I cannot believe she’s asking this.
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  “Well. Is he?” She looks completely unaffected by my alarmed response. “I mean, wouldn’t you want to know that? You know, before you get too serious with him?”

  I don’t know if Max and I are “getting serious”. But, I do know that he’s the first thing I’ve really cared about since the spring. I feel like something is beginning to change inside me, too. In place of the dull, nauseating vacancy that illogically weighed me down with apathy for hours on end, I’ve started to get that quickening feeling in my gut – the kind that seems to speed up time and space, and remind you what it feels like to care again about someone – something – anything.

  “Well, he doesn’t act bisexual.” As I say this, I duck my head, and I can feel the heat crawling up my neck.

  Vanessa’s intrigue is clearly peaked now. “Oh, really?” She pushes up on her elbows, alert.

  I’m trying not to look up at her. I don’t know why I said that. I have no idea if you act differently if you’re bisexual. And, I mean, who cares? This is ridiculous. I can’t even believe she has me thinking about this.

  “It just seems like Hayden spends a lot more time with Max than any other guy. And you know, he is gay,” she says.

  “Yeah, Ness, I know.” I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t mean he can’t be friends with Max.”

  “I know that!” she insists. “He just seems awfully close to Max, that’s all.”

  Now she’s being ridiculous. There’s nothing between Max and Hayden. Although, to be fair, I don’t spend much time with Hayden when Max and I are together.

  “I actually don’t see Max with Hayden very often,” I say.

  “That’s because you’re with him all the time.” She shrugs, having the last word on this subject. She’s finally gone back to her equations, but I can hear her grumbling every few minutes, and the scratch of her eraser on paper before she brushes away the remains of her mistakes.

  “Shit! I just can’t get this! Why do I have to know how to solve the derivative of x in order to sing? I mean, who cares how quickly the distance is decreasing between two speeding cars approaching an intersection?” She groans, with her eyes closed tight.

  I don’t say anything. I’m not at that problem yet. I pretend the idea doesn’t bother me – like the question doesn’t conjure up horrific visions in my brain all over again. Will this never end? I feel like the wounds are still open and seeping, awaiting any small amount of salt to be thrown onto them as a reminder of the deeper burn. Luckily, Vanessa hasn’t noticed my paralyzed silence and keeps talking.

  “Serena, what am I going to do if this course pulls down my GPA? I have to get into NYU!” More than anything, Vanessa wants to live in New York City.

  “Vanessa, you’ll be fine. You only need a high GPA for a scholarship, not to get in, anyway. They’d be crazy not to accept you. Your audition video will show them that.” The tuition there is huge, but so is her dad’s salary.

  “Yeah, well…” Her eyes dart to the side, and she looks so frustrated, I think she’s going to cry. “At least I have the lead at Christmas to put on my application. You know how important it is to have those kind of things, as well as the teachers’ recommendations.”

  “Listen, do you want me to help with the question?”

  I sidle up next to her on the bed, about to explain the problem, but her phone goes off again. Frustrated with her divided attention, I grab my own and begin typing on the screen.

  Me: Is it Friday yet?

  Max: I hear chess club building time portals – will see what I can do.

  Me: :)

  Chapter 9

  Max

  The clear plastic boxes are neatly labeled and organized on the metal shelves in front of me: “Tree Ornaments”, “Mantel and Bay window”, “Outdoor lights”. I’m surprised they aren’t arranged in alphabetical order since this is Jonathan’s doing. Stacking one of the boxes on top of another, I maneuver my way through the labyrinth of grapefruit and orange crates that clutter the cement floor of our storage room. The fruit is part of the holiday fundraising initiated by the senior year music trip committee. Fittingly, we’re selling Florida citrus to raise money to go to Orlando. We are travelling to compete in Festival Disney. Yes, that’s right: Disney! Senior classes before us? They went to Toronto to the Mirvish Theatres and the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. They went to Broadway. They went to the Chicago Philharmonic. We are going to Disney.

  I’ve spent the past few weeks reluctantly badgering neighbours and co-workers to buy grapefruits and oranges. Peter offered to pick up the giant fruit order for Hayden and I from school, and has even managed to sell a sweet amount for me at the hospital.

  I balance the labeled boxes from the shelf as I trudge up the last step from downstairs. Jonathan is in the kitchen, unpacking the “Table Decorations” box, lining up and carefully inspecting each candleholder and ribbon encrusted holly wreath.

  “I hope you’re not planning to get this all done before you guys go to the Christmas party tonight. This looks more like an entire weekend project,” I remark to him, eyeing the Fraser fir in the corner that awaits trimming from the contents of another box I’ll need to carry up the stairs. Dean Martin’s lazy, velvet delivery of wintery wonderlands croons from the speakers.

  “You’re doing the hard part. Arranging it is relaxing.” He lifts his glass to his lips. “Did you want an egg nog?”

  I laugh. Jonathan loves Christmas. Every year, he insists on buying our tree in the first week of December and decorating it soon after. Despite Peter’s religious aversions, it was Jonathan who bought the Advent calendar every year, encouraging subversive acts of chocolate intake before school.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to deliver some of the fruit with Hayden to his theatre group. I was going to take the Range Rover, if that’s okay.”

  I’d swapped my Saturday afternoon shift at the music store with Finnegan’s Friday night so that he could go out with some tattoo artist that came into the store last weekend.

  “Certainly. Peter and I are taking the M3, anyway. Do you have plans for tonight?”

  “Um, I don’t know. Probably just hanging out – playing video games with Hayden.” I was hoping to see Serena, but she had something with her dad, and then assignments to do.

  “No one else coming over?”

  My parents haven’t pried, and they didn’t probe me with endless questions after last weekend – but I can feel their curiosity like they’re solo diners at the next table, pretending not to eavesdrop on your dinner conversation.

  “Pretty sure.”

  I thought I’d feel a huge relief after our dinner the other night. But whether or not the apprehension is all in my head, I’m not yet prepared to invite Serena into this strange and uncomfortably new situation.

  “You know it’s okay to have her over when we’re here, right?”

  I pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ve all but avoided this topic, careful not to even mention her name for fear of sparking a firestorm of subsequent questions.

  “Max, I would never try to push you before you’re ready. I just hope there’s a chance this young woman will be joining us for some Christmas festivities, that’s all.”

  I grin, thinking about having her here for the mayhem of Christmas. Gary and Charles lording over the mulled wine preparation, peppering her with questions and stories of Hayden and I in our awkward years. Peter would be plying her with gourmet cheeses, and Jonathan would be trying to get her to harmonize with the Michael Buble carols.

  “I guess we’ll see.” I shrug, trying not to commit. “Maybe you’ll meet her at the Christmas concert.” I’m sure Jonathan can read the burn of discomfort I feel creeping into my face. He smirks like he knows it’s not as casual as my shoulder motion is trying to convey.

  “Okay. I’ll work on some patience over here.”

  The doorbell rings, and Hayden immediately enters our house like he belongs here. He stops midway through the front hall when he notices the music,
the ornaments, garlands and wreaths. A smirk catches hold of his lips and pulls them into a grin.

  “Don’t tell me: there was a hostile takeover by elves fighting against the injustices of the reigning household giants?”

  I was supposed to pick him up, but as usual, Hayden just showed up instead of texting or calling my cell, preferring the element of surprise, I think.

  “Hayden! You’re just in time to partake in the festive cheer. Egg nog?” Jonathan raises his glass in question.

  Hayden looks to me, and I lift an eyebrow, subtly craning my neck towards the basement door. “Egg nog. I see. You know I’d love to, but Max and I need to get those crates of fruit delivered to the theatre before rehearsals begin this afternoon.”

  “Shame. I’ll have to drink it all myself if your dad doesn’t get back soon, Max.”

  “Are you sure the elves won’t return to tie you down in surrender if we leave?” I ask.

  Jonathan laughs and winks at me. “Enjoy yourselves tonight, boys.”

  I grab the keys in one hand and pull Hayden to the stairs with the other.

  We lug the crates out the basement door, load them into the Range Rover, and soon we’re battling Saturday traffic down West Fourth on the way to Granville Island.

  After making three delivery stops at the houses of two nurses and a doctor Peter works with, the colourful warehouse buildings of the trendy market and arts area come into view. The playhouse is near a popular microbrewery, and runs a variety of shows all through the year. Like several others in the past couple of years, Hayden has a minor part in the small-stage theatre production that will start its run for three weeks in January. I notice the Tennessee Williams book he’s set on the dashboard.