by Brenda Benny
“My dad should be back from China in time to drive us there. I’ve packed my bikini – I don’t care if it’s not warm enough, I’m going to sit by the resort pool, no matter what!”
I duck my head, trying to avoid any reason to join in this conversation. I’m still included in their group, but only when it’s about class assignments or something specific about the show. Friendship is a two-way street, and when I’m not calling them regularly, it’s no wonder I get left out of things. There’s a part of me that misses this.
A few minutes later, I’m knocking on Mrs. Alonso’s office door and turning the handle. When I peek my head in, she waves me forward.
“Come in, come in,” she says.
I slide into the hard wooden chair in front of her desk, gaining no comfort from its stiffness. She weaves her short, stubby fingers together and rests her entwined hands on the desk between us. Her wide, red-painted mouth smiles, but her dark brown eyes tell me I’m not going to like what she has to say.
“Serena, you’re doing great work, technically. The notes are all there.”
That makes me feel good, at least. I can sense the “but” around the corner, though, and try to dodge it like a boxer ducking the next blow.
“I’ve been focusing really hard on my tone,” I agree.
“Yes.” She nods a few times. “But we both know that’s not where the real music comes from.”
I swallow hard, realizing it’s still not my turn to talk.
“Do you know why I chose you as the lead for this show?”
I shake my head in response.
“It was your spark, your joy during the rehearsals before Christmas. It was absolutely soaring above some of the others in the room.”
I can feel one side of my mouth lifting reluctantly at the compliment.
“I don’t know where it’s gone, but you need to find it again.”
My imminent smile falls like a skipping rope suddenly discarded at the end of recess.
“The audience can read this. I need you to get out of your head and back into your heart.” She taps her temple and then her chest meaningfully as she says this.
I bite my bottom lip and nod my head as convincingly as I can. Truthfully, I am trying not to cry. My eyes fall to the floor, so weighed down with failure. She must see this, so her tone of voice changes to a gentle plea.
“Find that passionate spark again, Serena.” And with that, I know I am dismissed.
I’m left with that familiar mix of frustration, guilt and sadness: it’s a heady combination that somehow renders me unmoving. Sometimes I feel like everyone else has their own timeline for my feelings of grief. It’s like they’ve decided for themselves how long it should take me to get over my mom’s death. At some point, I cross this arbitrary moment in time, and their patience for me runs out. It’s happened with many of my teachers already. It happened with Vanessa and most of my other friends long ago. Of course, they’ve moved on; it wasn’t their mom that died in a car crash. They’ve got their own problems – I know that. And when the slack is gone from the rope, the expectations tighten: the expectation to be happy all the time; the expectation to forget my fear; the expectation to “just get over it, already”. My dad is the only one that hasn’t yet reached that stage. And Max. Somehow, I knew that he didn’t feel that way.
When I shut the door to her office, I’ve still got my eyes on the floor, feeling as worn and trodden upon as the linoleum beneath my feet. Slowly, I lift my gaze. And there, coming down the hall, not ten feet from me, is Max. We both freeze, sculptures in high relief.
I can’t tear my eyes away from his. His light, wavy hair hangs messily in front of one ear, and is tucked behind the other like he’s worried it into place. I’ve stopped breathing. I’m absolutely terrified that he might stride towards me, wrap his arms around me, or cradle my face in his enormous hands, bringing his lips to mine; I’m also terrified he might turn around and walk away.
A door slams behind him, and he startles, turning his head in that direction. I drop my gaze, grateful for the release from his penetrating scrutiny. I hear him exhale sharply, and then his arm brushes past my shoulder. With this brief contact, second chances and forgiveness give way to dismissal.
When my eyes regain focus, Hayden is standing about twenty feet behind where Max had been. I have the sense that he’s been watching this entire time. He is shaking his head in obvious disgust as he advances towards me. I’m positive that I’m about to receive a burst of his derision – but he walks right past. My tense shoulders feel the relief. I’m not sure I can survive a third round in this arena – my spirit and self-esteem already beaten down twice now.
Only a moment later, I hear his footfalls stop directly behind me. I can’t help but turn to him. The look on his face is incredulity mixed with a furious mix of loathing.
“You are fortune’s fool to give up on him like this. I was right – you don’t deserve him, after all.” He shakes his head once briskly, and turns away just as fast, continuing towards the cafeteria.
It’s like the knock out punch. I feel dizzy and hollow inside after this final assault. All I want to do is get out of here. There’s still an entire afternoon of school left – but I won’t make it through any of my classes without bursting into tears of humiliation if I stay. I don’t bother signing out. I don’t go to my locker.
I find myself walking out of school, and off the grounds, before I’ve even decided where to go. I end up on the trails at Jericho Beach, and then follow the labyrinth of shoreline walkways and streets that wend their way down towards Burrard Street Bridge. Luckily, it’s a mild February day. Eventually, I see the bridge disappear in the distance behind a slowly advancing grey curtain, as a light mist begins to blow. Up ahead, there’s a little cafe I’ve been to in the past with my dad. I slip inside. Standing in the lineup to order, I scan the colourful designs on the mosaic-framed blackboard that covers the wall above the counter. A tall, waifish girl with dreadlocks and underarm hair takes my order at the cash. I move off to the side to wait beside a nicely dressed older businessman carrying a briefcase, and a young woman two-thumbing her phone. When they call my name, I grab my cup and turn to find an empty table near the windows that look out onto the busy intersection and the bridge beyond. As I’m heading in that direction, I pass a man seated with a newspaper spread out in front of him, who is scanning the room as if for someone he knows.
“Serena! Oh my, how are you?” He’s wearing beige khaki pants and a dark green flannel button-down. But I recognize Vanessa’s dad right away, even without the suit and tie.
“Hi, Mr. Fitzgerald.” I smile.
He returns the friendly gesture before it collapses into confusion. “Aren’t you still in rehearsals at school?” He looks at me with a conspiratorial sideways glance.
I bite my lip, sheepish, and then wince. “Oh, well, no. That was this morning. I just needed a break, that’s all,” I admit, feeling immediately guilty for getting caught out of class. Then it occurs to me what Vanessa said this morning. “I thought you were in China?”
He looks at me quizzically. “China?” He shakes his head. “I’m not working for Bright Futures anymore.”
I don’t remember Vanessa mentioning her dad getting a new job. “You aren’t? Where are you working now?”
He looks a little uncomfortable for a moment before replying. “Well, I’m in between positions, truthfully. Since September, that is.” He clears his throat. “The industry is in a bit of a slowdown, so I’m afraid I’m still waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.”
“Oh,” I reply, not really knowing what to say. “Vanessa never told me that.”
He presses his lips together, nodding. “Ah, I see.” He looks concerned, but for what, I don’t know. “Well, perhaps she’s less worried than I thought.”
It doesn’t look like he believes this, though. I don’t know how to respond. I look down to his newspaper, wondering if he is scanning the Classifieds.
>
“Well, good luck, I guess. With finding a new position, I mean.”
He looks down at the table, and then begins to gather up his paper. “Yes. Thank you, Serena.” He gives a wry smile. “And good luck to you in Florida this coming week. I’m looking forward to seeing the video footage of your performance.”
“Thanks,” I reply.
He nods, collects his coat and umbrella, and then heads towards the door.
“Are you sitting here?” A gruff voice barks from beside me – the businessman with the briefcase. I turn to look at him, momentarily dazed, as he gestures to the leather seat vacated by Vanessa’s dad.
“Oh. Yes,” I reply, and lower myself slowly into the warm chair.
My fingers wrap tightly around my cup, but I only stare blankly out the window at the misty rain Mr. Fitzgerald disappeared into.
Vanessa’s dad isn’t working. And since September? She’s been lying about this. But why? Why would she keep this a secret? Maybe she didn’t want to burden me because she assumed I was dealing with my own problems. But how could I have not figured this out? God! Once again, it dawns on me how self-absorbed I’ve been. Has she told anyone else? I think back to the conversation I heard earlier today between her and Emily. I don’t think so.
Staring out into the mantle of rain, I feel a miserable blanket of self-loathing descend upon me, as oppressively opaque as the overcast skies above.
I’m a terrible friend. I was a terrible girlfriend.
And, worst of all, I am a terrible daughter.
Chapter 15
Max
I just died again. This is the sixth time in a row that I’ve screwed up my tactical flank of the Allegiance Fighter squadron, and I went down in a flurry of ammo spraying from the assault weapons of the rebel battalions.
“Shit!” I slam the controller into the couch in frustration.
“Hold your fire!” A voice calls out from behind me. I don’t need to turn around.
“Hey,” I respond flatly.
Hayden sinks down into the opposite end of the couch and picks up the other controller. “Need some cover?”
I glance sideways at him, and shrug. “Yeah, sure.”
Picking up my controller from where it had bounced onto the floor, I start up a new round. We play like this for about twenty minutes, making only deep grunting noises along with sporadic profanity – Hayden’s more elaborate and poetic than mine – that accompanies the eventual slaughter of the mutinous fleet. When the rebel base finally blows in a spectacular explosion, we both sit back from our aggressive stances, and measure up one another.
“Got your back,” he says.
I know this is still true, even if we haven’t been hanging out much in the last several weeks. Hayden never caused a scene with Vanessa, or drew any more attention to the speculation regarding the two of us. He just let the rumour die, giving me a wide berth of space while its shelf life expired. And while he was busy with the play at the theatre on Granville Island, I spent most of my time studying for exams or working at the music store – when I wasn’t moping over Serena, that is.
“Thanks,” I reply.
He grants me a lopsided smile. “Have you packed?” he asks.
I push back the hair that’s fallen into my eyes. “I’ll do it in the morning.”
He levels his gaze at me, resting his temple against his thumb and forefinger. “We leave in the morning,” he replies with an edge of reproach in his voice.
I stare back at him. “And?”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re putting a lot of effort into this.”
“Packing?” I ask, wondering just how much effort I should be putting into it. It’s Florida: some t-shirts, cargo shorts and a hoodie should do it. I’ll need to find my band shirt, though.
“Or other things,” he answers cryptically. I raise an eyebrow at him. He raises me two in return. “I saw you in the hallway today after rehearsal.”
It takes me a second, but when I realize he’s referring to my standoff with Serena, I shift back in my seat and collapse with deliberate indifference.
“Is that really all you’re going to do about her?” His tone is laced with criticism.
Before I can even think, I’m leaning forward, back into gaming stance, my body rigid and ready for verbal combat. “What am I supposed to do? I’ve left her a hundred texts, notes, and voicemails. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me!”
“That’s not what I saw in the hallway.”
I let out a doubtful breath, and shake my head. “I don’t even know why she won’t talk to me.”
He gives me a disbelieving look. “You don’t?”
Hayden and I said nothing more to each other about Vanessa’s post. There was certainly enough innuendo in her message to make people believe that something was going on between us – which there wasn’t. Here’s the thing, though: when there’s some kernel of truth to a lie – some secret that you’ve held for a long time – it’s harder to shoot that lie down completely.
Hayden’s jaw is offset and his eyes are staring sideways when he asks calmly, “This thing with Serena – is it real?”
“What do you mean, ‘is it real’?” I challenge.
He looks at me pointedly. “You know what I mean.”
I squirm a bit in my seat. Neither one of us says anything for a full minute. I can see the uncertainty in Hayden’s eyes as they dart from side to side.
“Do you know why I was so mad at you that night after we delivered the fruit?” he finally asks.
I only stare at him, wary.
“You gave me that hug in the theatre after you met Bryan. And it just – it took me back to that place… so long ago. It made me question things all over again.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, even though I have an inkling of where this is going. I want to look away – I do – but he’s pinned me down with his gaze.
His eyes narrow, and then he spits it out. “Are you going to end up just like my dad, one day? Trying so hard to be ‘normal’” – his fingers make air quotes – “and straight, that you waste half your life with it?”
Shit. We’re here. And we’re going to do this.
“Hayden, it was never like that for me,” I exhale in barely a whisper.
He stands, abruptly, curling his hands into fists, his face pinched in anger. “Max, that’s bullshit! And you know it!”
“It’s not bullshit! Your dad didn’t turn gay. He was gay. Just like you. And I’m not!” I’m shaking my head vigorously from side to side.
His eyes are filled with my betrayal. “You and I both know what happened up there.”
I do know. I look away from him, my mind filling with the memories of “up there”: my backyard tree house.
During our Grade Seven sleepovers in the tree house, we did what young boys do alone in their sleeping bags. But by the end of Grade Eight it had turned into some mutual exploration. Sharing this experience with a boy didn’t seem all that unusual to me. What I mean is, it didn’t feel wrong – maybe not the way it might for a kid coming from a straight or an intolerant household. But when I secretly started imagining the hands of the cool girl from the comic book store, something about it just didn’t feel right, either. Even so, when Hayden met another boy in theatre camp over the summer, heading into ninth grade, and told me about his first kiss, it was strangely confusing. Hayden was my best friend; it felt like some kind of disloyalty. We got into a ridiculous fight, then, that lasted for weeks – something about borrowing comic books from the tree house without asking. Neither one of us said anything about the boy – but there were no more sleepovers in the tree house after that.
“Look, it wasn’t like it was terrible, or anything. It just wasn’t right. It was weird when I opened my eyes: I mean – it was you!”
“Oh, thanks,” Hayden mutters, his head dropping into his hands.
“Hayden, we were really young,” I plead with him. “Before that, I didn’t even unders
tand who I wanted to be with. I guess it actually helped me to figure out that I wasn’t gay.”
He looks up now, obviously offended. “That’s great. So, I’m the experience that spurred you to change teams.” He flops back onto the couch against the cushions and moans. “God! I can’t believe I uttered that phrase! I hate that metaphor.”
I stand, my palms both upturned, attempting to make my point. “I was never on the team to begin with! I was like… the batboy. You and our dads have the team. I’ve been the batboy for years!”
His hand is splayed in front of him, trying to get me to stop talking. “Maxwell, this baseball metaphor is only getting worse – it’s just all wrong. Please stop!” he pleads.
“I think it’s always been like that – all wrong…for me,” I say in a quiet, conclusive breath.
He pauses, and bites his lower lip before saying, “Well, it wasn’t like that for me.”
“Clearly,” I cut him off decisively with the obvious.
“No. I mean… with you. It wasn’t like that for me – with you.”
Our gaze, locked on one another, becomes weighed down with mutual understanding.
Oh. Shit.
Hayden looks unexpectedly vulnerable; Hayden never looks vulnerable. Suddenly, I remember a particularly awkward night in Grade Nine. We were sitting on the couch in my living room, watching a movie, when Hayden’s hand casually wandered over to my thigh. I stiffened – and not in the way you’d think – and discreetly moved away. Neither of us ever mentioned this again. That was the year that he came out. It was also the year that I first noticed Serena.
He takes a deep breath and looks up to the ceiling before facing me again.
“Listen, Max. I know this isn’t going anywhere. But it’s been hard for me all these years, too. Sometimes, I just felt like you hadn’t given it a chance. Like, maybe if you and I…”
“Hayden! Batboy! I’m the batboy, remember?”
“I know, I know! I get it now,” he says, “And, fuck! Stop talking about batboys, already! You should stick with music – you’re positively dreadful with sports metaphors.”