by Brenda Benny
“Is that the script the playhouse is doing?”
“No. We’re doing something called The House is on Fire.”
I quickly glance at him and then back at the road, needing all my concentration to avoid hitting the ant colony of shoppers on the peninsula. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s an original piece by one of the actors,” he says, scrolling through the satellite radio stations to find something he likes.
We circle for ten minutes before finally finding a parking spot. When we start pulling crates out of the trunk, I notice that Hayden is shifting from foot to foot and rubbing his neck. It strikes me that he’s acting a little weird, suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“So, um, Bryan might be, ah, here.”
Hayden doesn’t stumble through his words – ever. I realize that he must be nervous. “The guy you’re dating? And by the way, thanks for telling me about him. Nice of you to keep your best friend informed.”
He picks up a crate and appears to carefully read its label. “I wasn’t sure what you’d think.”
I click the automatic trunk closure and we start walking towards the front doors.
“What I’d think? Why?” I abruptly pause halfway across the road. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Is he a drag queen? Transgender?” Not that this would matter – but I don’t know what’s making him act so strange, either.
Hayden stops and glowers at me, then continues walking, leaving me guessing.
The theatre has a small lobby, with walls decorated in intricate scroll-like Baroque relief in red and gold to give the appearance of being more historic than it is. We make the first of several return trips to the car, piling the boxes just inside the doors. The fruit boxes are heavy and huge, making it difficult to carry more than one at a time.
“Wow, man. Maybe you should get a job in sales. How did you get them to buy this many?”
“Starving artists. They were a good deal – and it prevents scurvy.”
I hope his friends aren’t taking public transit home.
Just then, two guys and a girl come tripping through the doorway, laughing and balancing Starbucks coffees, and clutching some strange items, which I hope are props. A short girl, shaped like a fertility goddess, is carrying a six-foot trident and a bullwhip while a tall, blonde guy has a bust of Elvis under his arm. I try, but fail, to figure out what these things could have to do with one another. When the Elvis-toting guy catches sight of us, his face bursts into a grin.
“Hayden!” he says as he starts towards us. “Oranges!” he exclaims almost immediately afterwards, spotting the citrus box tower. He pulls Hayden into an awkward threesome, including the Elvis, and I watch in amusement as a pink hue crawls up Hayden’s neck when this skinny boy kisses him exuberantly on the lips.
I try not to stare. When I look over at the other two friends, they are intently watching me observe this embrace. The couple finally surface for air, and Hayden’s eyes dart to mine. He shuffles backwards a step before clearing his throat.
“Bryan, this is Max.” He motions over to me with a cursory sweep of his hand.
“Max?” Skinny blonde guy turns to me with a questioning look.
“Yeah. He’s a friend from school.”
“Well. Nice to meet you, Max From School.” Bryan extends a bony hand my way and gives my own outstretched fingers a gentle squeeze. There doesn’t appear to be any recognition as to who I might be in Hayden’s life – it’s like he has no clue that we’re best friends. An unsettling prickliness erupts beneath my skin, and I can feel it making its way into my throat.
“Hey,” I say.
I’m quickly disregarded by Bryan, in favour of Hayden and the joyful celebration of citrus among his on-looking friends. Clearly, I am a marginalized player in this theatrical scene, so I move to the exit.
“I’ll grab the rest of the boxes,” I mutter pointlessly, turning away from the group who pays no attention to me.
I make two more trips to the car to get the last of the load, and when I return to the front entrance, Hayden is there alone.
“Where’d they all go?” I ask, unzipping my jacket to cool off from lugging the fruit.
“They’ve gone in to set up for rehearsal,” Hayden answers from where he’s perched atop the stack.
Peering over his shoulder, I don’t see or hear anyone, but I still keep my voice low. “So, Bryan,” I begin, trying to ease into the question, but give up and just blurt it out, “How old is he?”
Hayden tugs at his ear, and then he says, simply, “Twenty-two.”
“Seriously? Wow!” I don’t know why I’ve asked this, and I can see that Hayden is downplaying the age difference, so I try to make light of it. “Hey, maybe he can pick up some beer for us for tonight.” I grin, teasing him.
“Right. Tonight?” He winces. “Bryan asked if I wanted to stay for their scene rehearsals and then go out with him and his friends.”
After being so obviously disregarded earlier, I’m a little stung by this. I was sort of looking forward to hanging out with Hayden at my place, playing video games. I’m not sure I want to deal with being ignored the entire evening while we’re all out together.
“Oh,” I say.
He’s staring at his crossed ankles where black skinny jeans meet beige boots. When his head slowly lifts, there’s a troubled look on his face: like on medical TV dramas that Peter and I sometimes watch, when the doctor delivers fatal news to his patient. That’s when I realize that he said, “– if I wanted to stay” – not “we”.
“Oh,” I repeat again, with a new level of understanding. “Okay.”
I wait to see if he’s going to invite me along when it occurs to me that maybe it’s not up to him – or maybe he doesn’t want to.
“You don’t mind? You sure?” He has the decency to ask this sheepishly.
I try to shake off this ridiculous feeling of rejection. For some reason, I start to think of him travelling around Europe with Bryan and these new friends this summer – doing what we once planned to do together.
“Yeah, man. No problem. Of course.”
Hayden jumps off the stack of boxes. He’s coming towards me, but I only feel him slipping away. It’s like we’re on different courses now. He’s here with these friends he’s made, and next year, he’ll probably be somewhere across the country. Where will I be?
“Thanks for helping me deliver this stuff,” he says.
Suddenly, I reach forward and give him a brisk hug that startles us both, I think. I’m already turning away when Hayden calls out to me.
“Hey!” I look back over my shoulder, hands braced on the door’s exit rail. “We’ll do this another night, okay?”
“Sure. Sometime,” I say, already feeling these other nights slipping away from us.
And then, I push open the door.
The early sunset of this December day has vanished, and the marketplace is literally lit up like a Christmas tree, with oversized decorations everywhere that would make Jonathan giddy. The cool air down by the water is making me wish I’d brought mitts, so I rub my hands together and jog over to the Range Rover, looking forward to its heated leather seats. When I go to sit down, my back pocket buzzes, making me jump. I pull out my phone.
Serena: Assignments all done. What r u doing tonight?
Something deep in my chest sings out a high note.
Me: Awesome! I’m waiting for u. Come over?
I start the car and blast the heater settings, but I’m already warming up just thinking that I might see Serena tonight.
Serena: Your place?
Me: Sure!
There is quite a long pause. I drive at least eight blocks before the next text arrives.
Serena: B there around 8
When the doorbell rings, I’m impatiently waiting in the kitchen, filling the time and my stomach with my second helping of spaghetti. I resist the urge to sprint to the door, and jog coolly before pausing at the entry to ta
ke a calming breath.
“Hey, come on in.” I greet her once I swing the door open. “Can I take your coat?”
“Yeah, sure.”
A curious smile spreads across her face as she shrugs off her jacket and surveys the main floor from the entryway. Jonathan must have either worked steadily all afternoon or enslaved some wayward elves because it looks as though he meticulously unloaded the contents of every ornament carton throughout our house.
“I know, I know,” I say apologetically. “There’s a lot of glitter and gold going on. But ‘tis the season, and it’s just the way it is in my house.”
“Wow! Your parents really get in the spirit, don’t they?”
“Can I offer you an egg nog? Or perhaps some mulled wine?” I’m only half-joking, since we have these things on hand – and I’d get Serena whatever she asked for.
She smiles. “A tea, maybe?”
“Tea.” I contemplate this. Our house doesn’t typically have tea – except when my nana visits. “We may have some of that stashed away somewhere.”
We make our way into the kitchen, and I begin to root through one of the cupboards while Serena perches on a leather stool at the black granite countertop, waiting for the kettle to sing its tune.
“What were you planning on doing tonight, anyway?” she asks, playing with a crystal snowman set with tiny knitted scarves and top hats.
“Just a tactical killing spree, probably. Hayden was supposed to come over to play video games, but he ended up going out with some friends.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “You and Hayden usually hang out a lot.”
I’m waiting for the question. Am I supposed to respond to this?
“Uh, yeah.” I flick the kettle off when it starts blowing steam. “At least – we used to.”
Her eyebrows come together and she chews on the inside of her cheek. I think she’s going to ask me another question about Hayden, but then her expressions changes.
“And your parents?”
“Won’t be back till late. They’re at my dad’s hospital Christmas party.”
Serena smiles shyly. This is the first time we’ve been alone like this. And, it’s the first time she’s come over to my house. I’m a little lightheaded, realizing that she’s sitting in my kitchen, and we have an entire evening together. I pass her the tea-making options I’ve found, and she puts the bag in, followed by the water, and then stirs in two scoops of sugar.
“Speaking of which – it’s okay if you want to park your car out back in our driveway.”
“Oh, um, no,” she stammers. “No car. I… don’t drive.”
I stare at her, trying to make sense of what she said. “Wait a minute. You don’t drive? Really?” How has this never come up? I can’t believe this is the first time I’m hearing this. “What do you mean? You’re not allowed to? Or, you don’t have your license?”
I have the sense that her dad is overprotective, but this seems a little excessive.
“I still don’t have my license.” She is keeping her gaze fixed on the snowmen, but her tone sounds deliberately light. “There’s a lot to be said for public transit, you know. It could be construed as a responsible choice.”
This is starting to make sense – why she seems to be walking to places all the time. “Okay, sure,” I say, not exactly believing her conviction. “So, I guess I’ll drive you home tonight.”
“No!” she says too quickly. “It’s okay. You don’t need to.”
I’m a bit startled by her reaction. “Well, I can’t let you take the bus. That’s just…it’s just wrong.”
“My dad will pick me up,” she replies, holding my gaze now, and looking uncomfortable. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Her dad is going to pick her up. This is sounding familiar.
“Listen, can we stop talking about this? It’s no big deal, really,” she tries to sweep this away.
But here’s the thing: it suddenly sounds like a big deal. She’d been so relaxed, almost cheery before this came up. And it gradually dawns on me that she’s never accepted a ride I’ve offered. It must be her dad. He must not want a guy driving her – especially a teenaged guy. My mind is working through the reasoning for this when I finally come to her mom’s car accident.
“Serena,” I say cautiously, “Does this have something to do with – ” I don’t finish my question. She’s trying to look away from me, but I see the anxiety narrowing her eyes. In fact, it’s much worse than that – it looks more like panic. I wonder if her dad embarrasses her with his sheltering tendencies.
Slowly, her gaze shifts in the direction of the stairs. “Where’s your room?”
I know she’s trying to avoid the topic. Part of me wants to spare her the uneasiness she is trying so fiercely to hide; another part of me desperately wants her to open up to me about it. Despite this, I can’t help but grin at her question – especially since I’d asked the same thing when I was at her house.
“You want to see my room? So soon?” I tease her.
She looks appreciative of my response, which is steering us away from the prickly topic. Still, the blush creeps up her neck, regardless.
“Come on.” I grab her hand and leave her tea to cool, maybe even to be forgotten.
When we reach the landing below the stairs to the loft, I try to recall what state I’d left my room in this afternoon. I probably should have thought about the practical realities of bringing Serena up here – like tidying up my shit – instead of just daydreaming about the fantasy aspects when she’d texted.
“It might be a bit messy,” I warn her.
She raises her eyebrows at me.
I pull her towards me and lean down to place a kiss on her lips. She lingers there for a moment, and then smiles. I usher her up the stairs, and a newly placed bell ornament jingles when she reaches out to open the door.
Having the girl that you’ve been crazy about forever see your room for the first time is – well – just weird. I’m suddenly aware of how green it is, and the leftover childish relics of superhero figurines lined up on my bookshelf with the City Music Festival ribbons tacked to my bulletin board alongside newer ticket stubs and concert posters.
Her eyes have gone wide, and her mouth looks poised to say something while she looks all around the room. I wait uncomfortably.
“It’s like a tree house in here,” she finally says with wonder.
“Um, yeah. I was kind of hooked on the whole tree house thing as a kid.” I shrug. “A Swiss Family fetish. Just never re-painted, I guess.”
She wanders over to my desk and picks up one of the photos from the latest stack that I’ve printed. “Did you take these pictures?” she asks, looking at a red starfish in a tide pool filled with grass green algae.
“It’s just a bit of a hobby. I like to walk down by the water. I don’t know – I feel connected to something there. Does that sound weird?”
She shakes her head, leafing through the pictures of washed up garbage and abstract kelp formations. “Not weird. These are good.”
Setting down the photos, she continues her tour to where my electric bass stands in the corner, leaning against the amp by the window. Her fingers brush across the strings, and it makes a gentle chord progression that needs tuning.
“Did you ever have a real tree house?” she asks.
I cross the room and lean into the window, placing my hand tentatively on the small of her back.
“Yeah.” I incline my head towards the outside. “Out back.”
She looks to me, her eyes shining with intrigue, and then back to the darkness of the yard. “Really? Is it still there?” she asks excitedly. “Could we go?”
My hand stiffens, and my head pulls back. “Now? You want to go out there now?” She can’t be serious. It’s almost Christmas, and she wants to hang out in a wooden shack in our backyard instead of here in my room?
“Why not?” she challenges.
“It’s not exactly a hot summer’s night, you kno
w.”
“Well, let’s grab some blankets, then.” She motions indistinctly, and continues as if this is the most reasonable idea ever. “It’s such a clear night. I bet you can see the stars from there.”
I stall for time, attempting to think of alternatives to this impractical whim. “Okay.” I speak slowly, trying to placate her. “You can probably see the stars from the porch, too.”
“I’ve never been in a tree house. Please?” She sounds unequivocally set on the idea. And it’s becoming clear that there is no limit to what I will do to make her happy.
“Okay. Sure,” I answer reluctantly.
We gather up my comforter and pillows, and I find a flashlight on our way out the basement door. Serena was right on one account – the stars seem to overpopulate the clear night sky – but that’s only because there’s no moon or clouds, which makes it that much colder.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been up here. It’s funny how much closer to the ground the tree house seems. I need to boost Serena up to the first branch, but after that, we easily navigate the footholds nailed into the trunk to climb through the trapdoor space above us. For me, it’s like the ceiling has shrunk, so although Serena explores the small space easily, I’m stooped over as I move in the direction of an upturned old plastic milk crate, lighting one of the many candles left half-melted there.
“This is so awesome! You can see the whole sky from here, and all down the lane into your neighbours’ yards,” she says from one of the two lopsided windows. I’m not sure I’ve seen her this animated about anything this year. She almost seems like the Serena I remember from a couple years ago.
“Told you, that’s how I plan to subsist on garden scavenging. The key is to have a great look-out,” I remind her while I scroll through my iPhone for a good playlist. I’m engrossed in the choices of Muddy Waters versus Miles Davis when Serena finally speaks up again, hesitantly.
“So, is this your secret spot to bring girls?” I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not, based on her tone, but the corner of her mouth twitches as she shivers, still staring out into the night.
I shake my head and crouch my way towards her, moving like the Hunchback of Notre Dame around a weathered pile of comic books I must have left up here long ago. There’s also a copy of Waiting for Godot, which doesn’t look quite so worn, which is strange.