by Diana Wieler
It had been that — a game of high sticks and hairtrigger tempers. The second period took forever to play. It was studded with clashes.
It wasn’t just me, A.J. thought. But it felt like it was just me.
The home crowd was coming to know him. After two periods of traded goals — and elbows and profanities — the crowd was roaring every time A.J. made a check. Just into the third period, Weitzammer got himself into a blistering altercation. When A.J. chucked his gloves to get Weitzammer out of it, the noise in the arena almost lifted him out of his skates.
A.J. took his five-minute penalty without complaint. He accepted the tied game without regret. He carried the sound home with him and took it to bed, thinking, They love this. No matter what Lloyl says in the paper, or all the fuss about violence and sports, they love this.
It frightened him how it made his heart pound. He struggled to squeeze it into perspective; he struggled for control. But the crowd and their noise and the name — his name — kept him thinking until he could fall asleep. It kept him safe.
And A.J. knew he wasn’t safe. Ever since the night of the bar and the bathroom in Regina, he’d had to be on guard. If he didn’t focus — on the game or something specific — he knew what he would think about. He knew how he would feel. It could creep up on him any time: doing lab experiments at school; showering after practice; but especially when he was lying naked under the covers, waiting for sleep.
He tried to shame himself. This is sick, A.J. It’s crazy. Just stop, for Christ’s sake, he ordered desperately. But the feeling would not stop. It crept up and overwhelmed him with its heavy, hypnotic heat.
He would not give in. Even when his mouth was swimming and the rest of him was bursting, he rolled over onto his stomach, his hands clenched into fists under the pillow. He was so lonely he wanted to die.
The last week before Christmas vacation was cold and frantic. Mid-term exams seemed to come on more abruptly than any other year., and A.J. found himself scrambling to absorb the information that he’d scrawled in his notebooks. He couldn’t remember taking it down. Even biology, one of his best subjects, was a blur.
To make matters worse, the temperature dropped to a bone-chilling minus twenty-five, and stayed there. It was an ordeal just walking to school. Last year he hadn’t had to face any of this. The Mustang had just appeared at his door, sometimes late but always warm. Now the air seemed to freeze his nostrils shut, and the snow was as brittle as Styrofoam under his sneakers. Midway through his first class every morning, his ears and toes sang with pain.
It was a bitter Wednesday morning when Treejack showed up at his locker. A.J. had just arrived, lightheaded from the sudden shock of warm air, still blinking the condensation out of his eyes. He could barely see the numbers on his combination lock.
“Hi,” Treejack said.
“Hi,” A.J. said, but he kept concentrating on his locker. He had been avoiding Treejack lately, or maybe they had been avoiding each other since their skirmish in the men’s room of The Ranchman.
“I’m having this party,” Treejack said. “Sort of a mid-term, Christmas bash. Saturday night. You want to be there?”
A.J. felt a small gush of relief and forced an apologetic smile up on his face. “Sorry — can’t. We’ve got a game …” It wasn’t a lie. The Cyclones were pairing off against the first-ranked Broncos. A.J. had been tied up in knots about it for days.
“Yeah, but it’s an early game, right?” There was just the hint of a twist to Treejack’s smile. “You’ll be out of the arena by nine. Lots of time. Get loaded and celebrate. Bring a girl. Bring Summer Brown.”
A.J. started, he knew he did. And Treejack knew it, too, even though A.J. was staring intently into his locker, pretending to shuffle through his books. But the boy managed to shrug his big shoulders. “Kinda short notice,” he said.
“Oh, come on.” Treejack cuffed him, a deliberate taunt. “She’s just so wild for you, right? She couldn’t say no to A.J. Brandiosa, defense superstar. Not after she’s been saying yes again and again and again …”
A.J. looked up sharply, the skin on his face stretched taut and white.
“And you like Summer Brown, don’t you, Bad Boy?” Treejack said softly, eyes glittering. “You do like girls …”
A.J. caught him so fast Treejack sucked in his breath. One arm, one strong arm, was all it took to pin him hard against the lockers.
“What the fuck are you saying?”
Treejack’s eyes were wide with fear, but he knew he had the upper hand. A.J. would not risk suspension by fighting in the hall. He pretended hurt astonishment.
“Hey, back off! I’m just doing you a favour. You know, being nice?”
Treejack’s voice carried. A.J. became aware of where he was again, and that people were watching him. Self-consciously he let Treejack go.
“What kind of a favour?” he said, unable to keep from clipping the words.
Treejack took his time straightening his clothes. “The spare room,” he said finally. “In my basement. I’ll save it for you and Summer. Nobody’ll bother you. You two can have your own private party.” Now he did smirk. “That is, if you want it.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but started walking away slowly. “I’ll tell everybody you two are coming. We’ll watch for you. And, hey … loosen up, Bad Boy.”
A.J. could not loosen up. He could hardly breathe. He watched Treejack’s back disappear into the current of kids. There were only three possible reasons for what had just occurred.
Treejack was punishing him for his outburst in the bar. He was punishing him, and this innuendo was the lowest, cruelest shot he could think of. Or else the sky had fallen and Treejack had found out about A.J.’s old friend, Tulsa Brown.
Or else, A.J. thought, a slow chill crawling over his scalp, he was somehow wearing his nightmare on his face and the whole world, including Treejack, could see it. “I can’t believe you!” Summer said, charging ahead, not looking at him. “You’ve got more guts than brains.”
A.J. had caught up with her on the way home from school, before she got to her bus stop. His legs were longer than hers, and she had the handicap of highheeled boots, but still he had to struggle to keep up.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” he mumbled into the collar of his jacket.
“Funny how you’re sorry now, not a month ago.”
He knew she was referring to the game in Swift Current where he hadn’t so much as waved.
“You said come and I came,” Summer continued. “I had to drive down on a bus full of sick perverts because my ignoramus brother is too stuck up to let me ride with him and his friends. But I came.”
For a moment the only sound was the snow squeaking under their feet. “Do you realize I hate that stupid game?” she said, a quiver of despair in her voice. “I spent two hours in that freezing arena watching something I literally despise …”
All so that I could see you. She didn’t have to say it. A.J.’s chest felt like a cavern under his jacket. He’d hardly thought about Summer or the game in Swift Current. But now, so close, absorbing her the way he used to, the realization struck him full in the face: the day was a wound to her.
You stupid, stupid ass, he cursed. He didn’t want to take her to Treejack’s party. He didn’t want to take her anywhere near that grimy bunch.
But panic knee-jerked him back to reality. He didn’t have a choice. All he could see was Treejack’s face, his intent, merciless eyes. You like Summer Brown, don’t you, Bad Boy? You do like girls …
“I had a bad game,” A.J. said, as if that would explain everything.
Summer sighed, a short blast of irritation. “The game again! Don’t you guys have anything else in your lives? Tully snaps my head off every time I talk to him. What is it? A bad game. You invite me out to see you, then treat me like dirt. What’s the problem? A bad game.”
Her legs had caught up to her anger; she was hurrying again. “Well, I’m sick to death of the game, A.J. G
od, how can you let it manipulate your whole life?”
They had arrived at the bus stop, and went inside the plexiglass shelter to wait, settling against opposite walls. It was warmer here without the wind, and quieter. Summer leaned on her shoulder and stared out the doorway. A.J. leaned on his back and stared at Summer.
Her tilted chin and wind-wild hair cut a crisp silhouette against the clear plastic. She held herself straight with anger and indignation, but sideways, she seemed slight. A knot swelled and hardened in A.J.’s throat.
“You just think I’m always there,” Summer said suddenly, her gaze still pinned on the street. “You don’t call, you never come by. When you pop up you expect me to drop at your feet.”
A.J. didn’t move.
“And I’m not Godzilla,” she continued. “You’re talking about Saturday night. Did it ever occur to you that I might already have a date?”
Of course it hadn’t. He hadn’t thought about any of it, just rushed out blindly after her in the schoolyard, a desperate, unthinking interception.
“Im not good at this,” A.J. said, his frozen breath catching on his sheepskin collar. “I … I don’t go out with a lot of girls. Maybe I don’t always think straight or I don’t know how to do things right, and I come off sounding like a jerk.” The knot in his throat was the size of a golf ball. “I like you,” he said finally. “It’s not always easy to like you, but I do. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
Summer didn’t reply; her expression hadn’t changed. A.J. dug his hands deep into his pockets thinking, to hell with Treejack. I can’t do this. He wanted to push himself off the wall and say, “Well, maybe some other time, okay?” and vanish.
There was a sound in the distance and they both looked up to see the Number 18 cresting a curve a few blocks away.
“My bus is coming,” Summer said. She took a deep breath. “What time Saturday night?”
A.J. stepped forward, hardly daring to believe. “Nine o’clock. Could … could you meet me at the arena, by the dressing room? We’ll go from there.”
“I won’t watch you play,” Summer said. They could hear the big diesel engine now as the bus surged closer.
“No,” A.J. agreed, following her out onto the sidewalk. “I don’t have a car. We’ll have to walk, if that’s all right,” he finished apologetically.
Summer smiled a crooked little smile. It was the first comfortable moment since they’d left Riverview High, and the Number 18 pulled up, ending it.
Summer turned. “I’d ask Tully to drive us —”
“No, don’t.” A.J. cut her off. “Don’t ask him, don’t tell him. Please?”
“Well, he probably wouldn’t anyway. He’s been in such a snit lately,” she said, starting up the bus’s steps. “I don’t know what his problem is.”
I do, and I wish I didn’t, A.J. thought. “See you Saturday,” he called, stepping back. Summer looked over her shoulder but the doors slapped shut and the dinosaur rumbled away, blasting the boy with noise and wind and diesel fumes. He watched the square back end until it was gone.
I’ll make it up to her. It’s going to be all right, he told himself over and over as he started the long walk home, his feet striking the snow as mechanically as clockwork.
THIRTEEN
A.J. was wrong. Sex was never a problem for Tully. Sex was a song that started in his head; he could hear it a long time before he was touched. It had rhythm and tone and heat. It started in his head but it sang in his body, and like all good songs, he could lose himself in it. Sometimes it was loud and fast, hard rock driven by raw guitar. Sometimes it was soft and slow, the very last number they played at the prom. Sometimes it was even air-guitar, a dance you danced alone, just for joy.
The problem was when the music stopped. Tully knew that moment. At a school dance or a wedding, there was sometimes a gap between the ending of one song and the beginning of another. You looked around, feeling stupid and shy, painfully aware you were standing with a stranger.
Downstairs at Derek’s house, in the rich, panelled rec room, the music had stopped. Tully trailed his fingers along the wall; he liked the unfinished texture of real wood. These last few weeks he had come to know this room so well — its walls and tables and pictures and bed. Funny how you could come to know a room, and not the person who inhabited it. He felt very, very alone.
“What time is it?” Derek said.
“I don’t know.” Tully didn’t move.
“Well, look, then. You’re the one with the watch.”
“It’s dark. I couldn’t read it even if I could find it.”
Derek let out a short exasperated breath. Tully heard the frustration and was glad. He’d been trying to short-circuit Derek’s cool lately, tear holes in the web he’d felt closing around him. At first it had been a game, but he didn’t want to play anymore. Ownership wasn’t friendship.
Soon he got up. The rustle of clothing seemed loud in the silence.
“I’m going home,” Tully said.
“Why? It’s still early.”
“I want to do some lifting,” Tully said, zipping up his jeans.
Derek sat up.
“Oh, right. I forgot. His weights are still at your place. It’d be a real problem to drop them off to him. He lives on the other side of the world.”
Tully paused, his muscles tensing. He had laid down very few rules with Derek, even less here, in this room. But since the night at Chicco’s, one rule was absolute. Don’t talk about A.J. Don’t ask about him. Don’t bad-mouth him.
Tully continued moving, pulling his shirt cautiously over his head, slipping into his runners.
“Just can’t say goodbye, can you, Tulsa?” Derek said softly. “What are you hoping for? Take it from me, partydoll. Don’t break your heart on a straight. Or maybe I’m wrong.” He paused. “You just never know, right? Maybe there’s something the world doesn’t know about the Big Bad Defense. Like maybe he’s just real, real care —”
Derek slammed against the headboard. He was frozen, by surprise and pain. His back and neck and shoulders were pinned helplessly. Tully’s fists were full of dark hair.
“Don’t,” Tully said, the word a blast of winter in Derek’s eyes. “Don’t even think about it. You smear him and you won’t have a face left to show in public. I promise you.” Slam. “It’s a small town, partydoll, a small fucking town.”
Tully pushed away, hard. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, swiping his jacket from the chair as he passed. Up the stairs, out the door, to his car. When he tried to put the key into the ignition, he missed. He tried once more and it was worse. He looked down at the key, but it was shaking so badly he closed his hand around it. The ridges dug into his palm. Tully stared at the steering wheel through water, then he hammered it with the side of his fist. And again. And again.
It was after six o’clock when he pulled up to his house. His father was shovelling snow off the walk, bent over as he dug, his beard frosted white. He looked so old. It was as though twenty years had passed since that morning, and Tully was coming home to a place that wasn’t the same.
Tully got out of the car and put on his mitts. He found the old shovel in the back porch. The family called it the bad shovel because the handle was cracked and came out of the socket sometimes. But if you lifted just right and tilted the snow off instead of tossing it, the shovel stayed together. Tully dug into the shadowed drifts that covered the long path on the side of the house.
The snow was wet and heavy. He had to dig the wide blade in and lift, not scoop. In a few minutes his muscles were blazing, and he was gulping the cold air like water.
Still, he liked it, the simpleness of it, the familiarity. And when he glanced behind him and saw the clean, clear trail he had cut, it was a relief somehow. Tully tore into the drifts ahead.
He was working so intently that the end of the walk came as a surprise. He struck grass and dirt so hard he almost dislocated his shoulder. Tully swore out loud and strai
ghtened up, and then he saw that his father was watching him.
“I thought it was your turn to cook tonight, not shovel,” Tully said, wiping the sleeve of his jacket across his damp forehead. He always felt awkward when his dad caught him cursing.
Mr. Brown was leaning on his shovel. “I don’t know. I just felt like it.” He nodded towards the fresh path. “You did a good job. Thanks.” Then he touched Tully’s cheek with his mitt. “You know what Grandma would say your reward is?”
Tully grinned ruefully. “Apple cheeks.”
“Since I’m the one cooking, supper can wait. You want to go for a ride, get something warm to drink?” Mr. Brown asked, setting his shovel against the side of the house.
Tully hesitated. He knew he was treading water right now, too tired to swim, too frightened to sink. To be alone with someone who loved him, someone who would listen to him, was a dangerous thing.
But his father looked so hopeful. For months they had only been passing each other in the doorway.
“Sure,” Tully said, and he leaned his shovel next to the other.
They met on the driver’s side of the Mustang, both expecting the wheel. There was an awkward pause, and then Tully relinquished the keys. He forgot sometimes whose car it really was.
Mr. Brown started the engine and eased it into gear. Tully couldn’t believe how gently his father shifted, how lightly he stepped on the brake and the gas. The boy felt a twinge remembering how he had just gunned the old car up and down Moose Jaw’s main strip, trying to burn away the memory of the afternoon.
“You know, the Mustangs were originally advertised as the ideal ladies’ car,” Mr. Brown said suddenly.
“You’re kidding,” Tully said. In his own eyes — and everyone else’s — it was the commensurate muscle car, the one that looked fast in the parking lot.
“Really. I’ve got the magazine ad to prove it. And you know why they sold it as a ladies’ car?”