That Secret You Keep

by Brenda Benny

  “You have no idea how ridiculous that question is.”

  As I stoop to stare out between the splintered boards of the window frame, Serena laces her fingers through mine. “So you’ve never been up here with anyone before?”

  “Only Hayden.”

  Suddenly, I’m thinking about how odd the whole thing was with Hayden’s boyfriend down at the theatre – how excluded I’d felt – and how mixed up that was. It hurt that he’d let his boyfriend disregard me like that, and I’m annoyed with Hayden for implying our friendship was so insignificant, but I’m also irritated with myself for letting it affect me so much. I mean, why should I care, anyway? I swallow this uneasiness and try to clear it from my throat.

  “We used to hang out up here all the time when we were younger.”

  We did a lot of things together when we were younger; things I’ve never talked about with anyone before; things up in this tree house. I lean down to kiss away these thoughts into Serena’s mouth.

  She’s shivering, and so am I. “Do you want to stay up here?” I ask.

  She nods her head enthusiastically.

  “Is it too shady to suggest we get under the blankets to keep warm, then? I don’t think I’ll be able to talk when my teeth start chattering.”

  She is still giddy with tree house delight, and follows me to the spot where the pillows and blankets are set up, close to the candlelight and the soft music streaming from my phone. We lie down close together in the cramped space on one of the blankets, my long legs stretched out all the way to the opening where the ladder descends below. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, our heads upon pillows, with the comforter draped over top of us. There are some cracks between the boards above us that rain used to drip through. You can even make out a star here and there when you look up to the ceiling.

  “Hey, it’s like being in your bedroom at night with the real thing instead of glow-in-the-dark stickers,” she laughs. God, I love to hear her laugh.

  “What’s your favourite constellation?” I ask.

  “I don’t think I have one. I only know the common ones. What about you? Do you have a favourite?” She snuggles in close to my chest, escaping the chill in the air. My skin is on fire with her proximity.

  “I’ve always liked Delphinus.” I point out to her where it would be. “I look for it when I’m walking down by the water, taking pictures. Do you know the myth?”

  She shakes her head.

  “There was this Greek court musician, Arion, that made a bunch of money touring. On his way home, the crew of the ship conspired against him and planned to kill him to take his money. He was granted one last wish before his death, so he chose to sing, and his sad hymn charmed some nearby dolphins.”

  When one of her legs drapes over mine and her hand splays across my ribs, I need all my concentration to control my breathing. If I keep talking, it will distract me from the thoughts going through my mind right now.

  “When he flung himself into the sea, one rescued him, carrying him to the coast of Greece. Apollo, the God of poetry and music, finds out, and he places the dolphin constellation amongst the stars for saving the life of the musician.”

  She just raises her eyebrows at me. “So, the moral of the story is to sing if you’re ever mugged on the East side?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure that would work.”

  She is rubbing her hand across my ribs, clearly without any idea what she’s stirring up.

  “So, um, it seems like rehearsals have been going okay. Has Mrs. Alonso given you any more feedback?” I’m starting to feel like I might combust. Or even worse, she’s going to get a pretty good idea of exactly what I’m thinking – especially if she moves her hand any lower.

  “It seems to be going okay. Hopefully, it will all come together this week. She’s been a little hard on Vanessa lately, though. I feel bad for her.”

  Yep, this topic worked. Talking about Vanessa is the equivalent of throwing a bucket of ice water on me.

  “Vanessa thinks everyone should worship her. She’s a performer. I’m sure she can handle it. It’s not like it’s an audition for schools or anything. It’s just a performance for our families – so the school can show us off to our parents.”

  Serena’s quiet for a long pause until I realize what I’ve said. And then it’s out there: between us.

  “I guess it’s going to be hard for you. I mean, without your mom there.” I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But then again, maybe she’ll talk about it this time. I saw a tiny crack that I almost squeezed through the other night when we were in her room.

  She is staring towards the opening in the floor, but with an unfocused gaze. The movement of her hand has slowed to its resting place, so close to my heart she must feel its shuddering beats, as I wait to see if she’ll say something.

  “Why do we fear disappointing others so much?” she asks, sounding distant.

  I know we’re talking about musical performances, but it feels like we’re talking about something else. It’s probably a rhetorical question, but I tentatively answer her anyway after a few moments. “I think we always worry about disappointing the people we care about. When you love someone, you want to do your best for them – be what they want you to be, and do what they want you to do – and failing to meet their expectations feels like hurting them.”

  It’s the reason we fear telling family and friends that we might be different from what they’d thought; that we might want something that could tear us away from them. Fear and guilt are the prices to pay for these secrets that we keep. But I don’t say any of this out loud. It makes me wonder what Serena isn’t saying out loud.

  Instead, I lift her chin so that I can see her face. I rub my thumb along the faint white scar under her lip, a tiny imperfection that only highlights her beauty. Her eyes are shining with moisture in the candlelight. I touch her jaw and bring my mouth to hers. Kissing her gently, I feel an unspoken truth there behind her lips. She opens her mouth to mine like she’s trying to share it, and suddenly she is climbing up my torso, kissing me harder. Her hands are in my hair now, and I’m clutching around her back, trying to hold her tight in this moment. I want her to feel the strength that I could give her, as much and as long as she needs it.

  Kissing Serena is like being set on fire and finding an oasis in the desert to quench my thirst, all at the same time. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it. With her stretched across me like this, it’s probably obvious to her that I want to do much more than kissing – but I’d keep doing only this, all night long, if that were all she wanted.

  And then – just when I think this is the sexiest and most romantic moment of my entire seventeen-year-old life – my stomach lets out the loudest groan you could ever imagine: it’s like a giant dragon roar announcing its fury from deep inside its cave.

  Serena stills. And then she begins to giggle against my lips. Soon, we are both shaking in a fit of laughter together.

  “Max,” she says, barely able to breathe. “What sort of monster is in there?”

  “God, that’s so embarrassing,” I moan, draping the inside of my elbow across my eyes. “It’s clearly a spaghetti monster, though. The pizza monster makes more of an eerie howl than the thunder rumble you just heard.”

  She laughs harder at either my joke or my humiliation. I will never get tired of making Serena laugh – it is the sweetest sound. It’s like I’ve deciphered a top-secret code that she’s given only to me. I can’t resist the urge to make her laugh more, so I slide my hands down to her waist and squeeze gently. She squirms against me, making it all the more rewarding.

  “No! Oh my God. I’m ticklish!”

  But she’s not squirming away, she’s pressing against me, so I don’t stop. She lets out this hilarious high-pitched squeal, like the guinea pig I had in grade school, and then dissolves into a fit of giggles as she digs her fingers under my ribs, searching for a sensitive spot. She finds it easily, and I try to clutch at her hand
s, losing my grip on her hips. She just laughs harder when I do a ridiculous wiggly worm dance beneath her in response, and she cries out in her triumph. My eyes are squeezed shut, laughing, and I am trying so hard not to completely lose my shit while she’s on top of me.

  When I finally open my eyes, trying to regain control, it’s like a trick of the light at first, and I’m not sure it’s really him. I blink several times until he comes into focus. He’s at the top of the ladder, his head and shoulders visible above the opening. Hayden looks at Serena and I, his eyes darting from one to the other, and says nothing.

  “Hayden!” I shout in surprise. Serena stops tickling me instantly, and her head whips around in his direction. “What are you…?” But I don’t finish the question. There is an icy cold pulse competing against the fire in my veins – an arctic chill blown in by the look on his face.

  Hayden just stares at me. He is usually so good at controlling his emotions – saving the big show for the stage. But I can see what’s so plainly there right now: a mixture of fury and disappointment.

  “I saw the lights. I thought you were up here alone.”

  “Um, yeah. We’re just, uh, hanging out,” I stammer.

  “I see that.” There’s no smirk. He doesn’t crack a smile. There’s no humour in his voice.

  “Hi,” Serena says quietly. Hayden only nods in return.

  Why is he here, and not out with his new friends?

  “Hayden? What’s wrong? What’s going on? Did something happen between you and Bryan?”

  He’s shaking his head, looking down towards the ground below. Then he levels that disappointed look at me until a wave of indifference seems to overcome him. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Sorry to interrupt. I’ll talk to you later.” He delivers each sentence more abruptly than the previous one.

  “Hayden! Wait!” I call out.

  But he only disappears down the ladder like a mole through its hole.

  Serena and I remain motionless, stunned into silence for a handful of slow, thudding heartbeats.

  “Should you go after him?” she asks.

  I wrestle with this thought. It might be important. Am I being a shitty friend? I have to choose between chasing after Hayden, and staying here with Serena. It feels wrong how easy it is to choose.

  I choose Serena.

  “I’ll call him later tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  Serena

  An appropriately secular crystal snowman decoration sits on the sleek wooden desk, just festive enough to be a winter ornament instead of anything affiliated with actual Christmas. It’s a perfectly benign accent feature, but it stands out amidst the leather and chrome of the slate grey office. Actually, the office isn’t all grey, I’ve noticed recently. There’s a lavender tone to the grey paint, which is highlighted by flecks of the same purple colour on the dark velvet window dressings.

  Our weekly sessions have become fairly routine now, and to some extent, I feel like I’ve been coasting through them. It makes me wonder if this has been intentional – this relatively tranquil course of late – like maybe he’s trying to let me become more comfortable with him.

  I have just finished rattling off my list of improvements for the week.

  I’ve completed all my assignments three days early that are due before Christmas break. I feel confident about my parts in the holiday concert. I even had fun at the last rehearsal, playing around with harmonies with Emily and Grace. I’ve slept all night – and I haven’t had one of my nightmares in a couple of weeks. The only racing pulse I’ve had lately is with Max – just having him near me, much less touching me, makes my pulse thrum, it seems. But, of course, I don’t report this last part.

  “That’s quite good progress. Anything else you’d like to share?” he asks.

  I take a moment to think about it. “Well, my dad noticed me singing in the shower yesterday morning.” I roll my eyes at the memory. “You’d think I had regained my sight by his reaction to it.”

  He even chuckles at this. “Wonderful news, Serena.”

  Emboldened by my report card, I am daring enough to be smiling.

  He sits calmly, with his ankle balanced on his opposite knee. My back is leaned against the cushion of the chair, and my elbows rest comfortably on its arms. There are often quiet lulls like this in our session: time where it feels like he’s creating space in the room for me to expand on my thoughts, or to take the initiative to fill the void. In our earlier appointments, these lulls produced a sense that my skin was crawling, or that I’d been folded up inside a small box without any room to breathe.

  I can feel it building, though: his next question. It’s like the silence in the DJ’s club mix before the bass drops – the longer the pause, the more powerful it will strike, rattling deep down, viscera against rigid bones. I decide to distract him before he gets there.

  “I’m still seeing that guy,” I blurt out.

  His head tilts, and a small smile plays at the corner of his lips. “Don?”

  Don. Right. He still thinks Max is named Don.

  “Um, yeah.”

  He nods his head thoughtfully. “Do you think he has anything to do with the improvements you’re making?”

  Again, I can’t help but smile, even though I try to hide just how true this is by ducking my head. “Probably.”

  He presses a finger to his lips, like he’s holding back the next question, first allowing me the time to be pleased with myself. I have an unsettling feeling about this. It reminds me of an unsecured balloon, waiting to sputter off on an unpredictable course around the room.

  “Have you shared with him your anxiety related to cars?”

  The air goes still in the room. I imagine the smile has slid from my face, like a surreal Dalí painting come to life. He tilts his head, his neutral features always patient for my answer.

  “No.”

  This was the truth. I’ve done everything I can so Max wouldn’t figure it out.

  He nods again, concern entering his brow line.

  “Serena, have you told anyone the truth about what happened in the car that day?”

  It’s like a disastrous wrong turn, heading into the dark and dangerous alleyways of the downtown city core. How did we get here so quickly? I feel trapped in a dead end with nowhere to escape, the air thin and toxic.

  I can’t answer him: he already knows the answer.

  The shiny gold box has re-appeared on his desk now, sitting festively beside the glittering snowman, begging to be opened, like it’s Christmas morning. He must decide that I’m not going to tug at the red bow, and begins speaking again.

  “Although your symptoms may have improved, I’m wondering if Don might be serving as a distraction from the real issue here,” he muses.

  I close my eyes and grit my teeth, my fear replaced by the taste of anger growing under my tongue. I’m finally starting to feel normal again. So what if I haven’t been able to get into a car with Max, or anyone else besides my dad? Why should that matter? All this time Max and I have spent together feels like I’ve been stitching closed the hole in my chest – patching it over, and closing it up tight. Doesn’t he understand that telling Max will unravel all of that?

  “He’s not just a distraction,” I spit out. I have feelings for Max that I’ve never had for anyone else. I’ve probably fallen in too deep.

  He exhales and sits further back in his chair.

  “Have you been in a car with him yet?”

  I don’t want Max to know. He can’t find out about this – any of it.

  “No,” I mutter.

  “Do you trust him?”

  I think about the tree house. I think about him holding me close. I think about the vast uncertainty of the star-filled sky that was above us, and how safe I felt in his arms.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, perhaps when you’re with him, you could start using some of the deconditioning techniques we’ve talked about.”

  Right. Like sitting in
the backseat of his car, blaring music on my iPod, trying not to throw up. That sounds like a great plan.

  He’s entered lecture mode now, and continues talking. “You can’t live the rest of your life avoiding cars, Serena. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to meet this head on, and deal with the root problem in order to get past it. What exactly are you afraid of?”

  What am I afraid of? Everything. I’m afraid of losing everything: my dad, Max – I’m afraid of losing myself.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. But I can feel the tide of tears rising, threatening to drown me beneath my feeble excuses and lies.

  His head nods only once before he speaks to me calmly, and gently, but firmly.

  “I think you do know. I think there is something that happened in the car that you are avoiding. And the longer you evade it, the harder it gets to go back there. Until we deal with what really happened, we can’t make sense of the repercussions on your life, which, in turn, makes it difficult for you to focus on the areas that require your attention. I’m trying to help you here, but you are going to need to participate more fully in the process. It’s been weeks now, and you’ve made some good gains, Serena – but without determining the root cause of the issue, it’s very hard for us to move forward at this point.”

  I rub my forehead. There are beads of sweat at my hairline.

  “Therefore, I’m going to ask you again. What happened in the car with your mother?”

  I can’t take it anymore. I don’t need this! I’m doing fine. I can deal with this on my own. I don’t need therapy!

  My legs have pushed me upwards into flight mode. I find myself standing, and my trembling fists are clenched at my sides.

  “It doesn’t matter! She’s gone! Don’t you get it? And nothing I tell you can bring her back!”

  I’m at the door already, swinging it open, and grabbing my coat from the hook. I run through the hallways of the building, my shoulder bouncing off of one wall before I regain my balance and continue hurrying on, the unopened shiny gift forgotten back on his desk. I wipe the back of my hand across my cheek and it’s wet with tears and snot. God, I need some fresh air!