by Melanie Mah
He shrugs. “Thought I’d try on a bonnet, go churn some butter at the museum.”
“We could, umm, grab that pizza if you want?” It’s hard to look at him.
Something in his eyes, like we’ve been through lots of shit together already. I look away then back like it’s a scary movie I wanna watch. “I’m vegetarian now. Did you know that?”
He nods like an old farmer chewing straw. “It’s the better way,” he says.
We walk up the street together, side by side.
GETTING TO KNOW someone is a kind of journey. At first we’re as wary as guard dogs, but gradually trust grows. Things are fun, things get easier.
One day, Conrad brings this set of fake fucked up plastic teeth he bought from a vending machine in Edmonton. He puts them in before ordering at the Dairy Burger, and gets no reaction at all from Sara Stephenson. I laugh and laugh. He wears them the rest of the day. We go for a walk and he keeps saying hi to people we see on the street. It’s awesome.
Another day, he gives me sea glass. One piece is flat and round and blue. The other is green and has an arc to it. They’re frosty, smooth, and hard. I don’t know what they are at first. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I have more.”
But I do worry. Conrad lays off on the I like you stuff, but I know he feels something because of how he looks at me sometimes. It makes me shy. But he’s been there for me.
Most of our hangouts are spent walking and talking outside. It’s freezing cold, but Stef once said I should only do what feels comfortable, and that seems like good advice for a time like this.
AROUND THEN, CHRISTMAS happens. My parents and I are in a low mood. I try to make them happy. I find Christmas cartoons on tv for my dad, then give him an expensive frying pan and say, “Your wok is too big. If you use a frying pan, you’ll make smaller meals.” I give my mom a ceramic cottage, a special order from the gift store, for her collection. It makes her cry. Christmas is a hard time for us. She wipes snot and tears from her face with a used paper napkin, then gives me clothes from the store. She says they’re from my dad, too.
Later in the day, she says, “Nei yaht yaht huey bin?” Where do you go every day?
“It’s not every day. It’s only, like, once a week.” And I go to my room.
The worst my mom can do is worry and nag. My dad is the one who can do real damage. To be honest, though, I’m not that worried because he’s not the observant type.
NEEDLESS TO SAY, I don’t visit Conrad in Eckville. He’s cool with that, says he’s glad to come in because it gives him a reason not to spend time with his dad.
“You really don’t like him,” I say when he calls me at the end of February.
“Yeah,” he says curtly and doesn’t elaborate. I shouldn’t’ve brought it up.
“But, like, he’s your dad.”
“Yeah, to like or not to like as I see fit. It’s not as if he’s not in my life. I do live with him five days out of seven.”
“Okay,” I say, guard up. He’s gonna get mad, even madder than he already is. He’s gonna get mad and he’s not gonna want to spend time with me.
A spoon clinks in a cup on his side of the line. “Like, most kids with divorced parents want them back together,” he says. “Me? No. I’m glad they’re apart, even though Bob’s like —”
“Why are you glad?”
He pauses. “Because my mom, she’s nice — really nice — but she’s fragile, too. My dad was mean. Called her fat, even though he knew it really hurt her. She took up jogging, every day in the morning — she’s not a morning person — and she lost, like, thirty pounds, and he still didn’t love her. Man, she used to ask me what I thought was wrong with her. How do I fuckin’ know? I’m a kid. She’d come home from work and make a nice meal, and before my dad got home, she’d come into my room with two dresses and ask me which one I thought he’d like better. But the problem wasn’t her. Obviously. He’s a fucking coward. If you don’t wanna be with someone, you should end it. You know? Or you should try and see if there’s something in them you can love. Don’t have a fucking affair. You know?”
I don’t know. My parents fight and sometimes the fights get bad, but at least they stay together. My dad knows what my mom likes and tries to give it to her. Sometimes he’s mean or annoying, but she tolerates it, and maybe she gives more than he does, but they’ll stay together. I wouldn’t call it love. Or maybe it is, just not the kind I want. When I was younger, I tried to get her to leave him, but she didn’t and she won’t and I guess that’s a good thing.
“Anyway, yeah. D’you wanna come over?”
“It’s a sheet of ice outside. Didn’t you hear about that twelve-car pileup?”
“Yeah, that’s on the highway, though. I’ll come get you if you want. My mom wants to meet you.”
Why would she want that? “Sure,” I say.
His mom is nice. We make pizza, and his mom talks to me: “Jack’s Western Wear. That’s you?” “So you go to Palliser.” “You know I see him more often, now that he’s met you.” — as I cut vegetables for a salad, looking over at Conrad from time to time, the muscles in his arms as he presses out the dough, then throws it like that guy I saw one time at Papa John’s during a field trip. “Look at you!” I say to him. “Show-off!” When he starts to explain why you throw it, I say, “Centrifugal force,” and he smiles.
Before we eat, Conrad’s mom and stepdad pray. I try not to watch, but honestly, I’m curious, envious. God’s a simple explanation, somewhere to direct your hopes and dreams. The pizza is amazing. I’ve never had pizza like that. Basil, homemade sauce, the crust shatters in my mouth.
After dinner I help his mom with the dishes, and as she’s telling me they have Monopoly and that four is a good number for it, Conrad grabs me by the arm and starts pulling me to the door. He says to his mom, “We’re going now. I’m taking the car, okay?”
I give her an apologetic shrug on my way out. “Maybe next time,” I say. “It was nice meeting you.”
Outside it’s cold, and the air makes a sound like cracking ice. We get in the car and he calls me a suck. “Better than you,” I say. “‘I’m taking the car, okay?’ You don’t even wait for her to answer. Your mom’s nice. Plus, it’s rude not to help. She fed me, right?”
“I fed you, too.” We drive down the highway, turn off at the Voyageur Motel, then cruise past Spring Hills Elementary. We move slow and safe like sleep. “I got an idea.”
“Yeah?”
“You ever walk along the edge of town?”
“No.”
“Would it be fun for you to do?”
Trina listening to Athapascan punk rock on an ice floe, making friends on the fly. How would it be to live like that? “Maybe?”
The car slows down at a stop sign. Conrad’s got his hand by his mouth like he’s an undercover bad guy in a cartoon and whispers, “I think we have ourselves an afternoon plan.”
WE’RE PARKED AT pudgee’s. The sky is white, and there’s ice on the ground, tamped down snow that’s thawed and frozen again.
“Ready?” he says.
I look at him. He gets out of the car. Come on, Chrysler. I get out, too. “Where we going?” I say.
“You trust me, right?”
“Maybe. It looks slippery.”
He runs ahead on the sidewalk, holding his arms out beside him, and slides two feet before falling on his ass.
“Oh, my god! Are you okay?” I say, catching up.
“You didn’t see that,” he says.
I help him up. Though there isn’t an obvious place to go, he guides me off the sidewalk and to a downward slope — the riverbank. It’s worn smooth from the bottoms of sleds, and slick.
“I’m not going down there,” I say.
“It’s not that steep. And it’s nice down there. You ever walk on the river before?”
“No,” I say, like duh.
“It’s pretty great. Or we could walk down to the bottom of the bank and just have a look.” He holds
out his arm. I take it, look down the hill, and don’t move. “Or we could stand like this all afternoon,” he says.
“How strong are you?”
“Strong enough.”
We find a place by the trees where sleds haven’t been. He lets me set the pace. I take a step, and another, and another. It still feels dangerous, but something about the adversity, my fear, makes it fun. Step. Step. Step. Slow. I watch my feet the whole way. A few times I tentatively ask if we can stop. It scares me to ask because he could say no, or maybe something worse would happen, I don’t know what. But each time I ask, we stop. He does that for me. Imagine asking for something and actually getting it — without a tease, without refusal or guilt or punishment or conditions.
This valley like I’ve never seen it before. The trees are covered in frosty gloves of white, the graffiti on the bridges is quaint and not just in an ugly way, the river’s solid, dark grey, and unmoving. And his arm is strong, I can feel it, wiry under his jacket, and when I slip, I grip it harder, his muscles tense, he supports me, and I don’t fall.
“I can’t believe you’re not scared,” I say.
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You fall, break your neck.”
“Okay, but what’s the most likely bad thing that would happen?”
I look at him. He looks back, smiles.
“Thank you,” I say, like I know I’m a burden.
“You’re doing well.”
He’s right. I’m doing it. I really am. And I know it would be easy for someone else, but it doesn’t matter. It’s hard for me, and I’m doing it. When we get to the bottom, I feel so good I say, “Fuck it. Yeah,” and rush ahead onto the frozen river. I can do this. It’s only deep in a few parts, and I won’t go on those parts. I turn to him.
“You did it,” he says.
“I did it!”
He catches up to me, and we walk. I keep holding on to him. He gets his flask out and asks if I want a drink. I say okay, take a little swig and it burns my mouth and throat.
“This tastes like shit!” I say.
“Point taken,” he says. “Wait here?” He starts walking away.
“Where you goin’?” I say, but he’s already gone, sliding down the river and running up the bank.
He’s mad at me. He’s abandoned me. Or it’s revenge for me hurting him before. I think of things that could happen. Thieves in pursuit and me a slow runner and bad slider. The river cracking and swallowing me whole, even though it’s three inches deep where I’m standing. Why did I come here? Why did I do this? I hold the ends of a tree and walk back in the direction we came from, one foot ahead of the other like a toddler learning to walk. It’s the slowest I’ve ever done anything.
When I’ve made it off the river and have started to climb the bank, I see him at the top. He starts walking down, fast, he’s almost running, and in about eight seconds he’s beside me, asking where I’m going.
“Me? Where’d you go?”
“I went to Pudgee’s. I bought you something.” He pulls a ginger ale from his pocket. Another can, orange pop, comes out of his sleeve like a magic trick. He lets me pick the one I want.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll just take the other one.”
I look at him, trying to figure out which one he wants. I pick orange. We start walking again, under the bridges, between trees and tall, dry grass on either side of the river. A whole new vantage point. I hold on to his sleeve. He carefully pulls out his flask again, tips some into his open pop. “Would the lady like a drink?” he says. I nod and he pours some in, and it doesn’t taste as bad this time.
We walk and drink and slide. We pee in the bushes. Don’t look. I won’t. And when we get too cold we go back, stumble up the hill in the dark. The sun sets at four-thirty in winter here. I’m uncoordinated, but it’s faster going up than going down, and I’m not afraid. Not really. I look down and notice I’m holding his hand. I let go. We get in his car. It’s quiet, cold, and still.
“You can’t drive like that,” I say, taking another swig.
“I won’t drive like this.” His smile. Whoa.
“Yeah, so that was fun.”
“Yeah, it was,” he says with an even bigger smile and his eyes on the dashboard, and then fast, before I have time to react or even think, he leans over and kisses me.
What? Umm. Oh my god. No. Yes. No. No. Yes. No. Yes. So much fear, but I kiss him back, it must be instinct. I kiss him again, and again, blind fear and desire mixed together. Is it desire? Kiss. Yes. I yawn open, you could yawn open like the sun, till you’re all mouth, and we kiss, and we kiss, and we kiss, his fingers on my neck, light, breathing, it’s mine, why am I breathing like that, and then he unzips my coat, and I gasp.
“What’s wrong?” he says and kisses me on the neck, under my ear.
I close my eyes and tilt my head to give him room.
“Does that feel good?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re so amazing,” he says. “You’re so pretty and smart and —”
“What?” I pull away.
“What?” Confusion on his face like a distress call.
“No.”
“What do you — What?” Hurt colouring his face like ink in water.
“No. Just —” I shake my head. “No.”
“What?” He makes a face. “What?” he says louder, more emphatically. “Why?”
“I just — I’m sorry. I don’t know. Can you take me home?”
“Just tell me what you’re feeling.”
My hand in my hair, closed eyes, crumpled up. “Sad.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Why?”
“You’re just — so nice to me.”
“You deserve it,” he says.
“I have to go.”
“Okay.” He starts the car. He’s drunk.
“I have to walk.”
He turns the key and the car dies. “I could walk with you.”
“I think I want to be alone.”
So I get out of the car, sadness filling me up. He’ll be mad or frustrated, and that makes it even worse, but this is what I have to do. I start walking up the hill, head down. He’s sad, too. Who am I to make him feel that way? I walk slow, not noticing the cold or the snow or anything but the black black black of night. Up Fiftieth, down Main, up the sidewalk stairs, then the yellow light of home, steamed fish for my parents and rice for me.
I go to the bathroom before I eat. My face. Will they be able to see? Conrad and me in the car, me like the sun. I dump a can of beans on my rice, my lips tingle as I eat. I look for signs on my parents’ faces — of anger, worry, recognition of what I’ve done — but no, at least I don’t think so. My dad asks if I want vegetables. Otherwise, the tv talks for us. After dinner, I go to my room, lie down, and there’s no one to talk to and nothing to say. I’m like King Midas, infecting everything I touch, and any good thing that’s ever happened to me is not something I deserve at all.
19
*
MONDAY MORNING, I’M lying in bed thinking of Conrad and me in the car, thinking of him. His eyes, his smile, his strong arm and patience as we went down the hill and slid across the river. I like how weird he is. He’s easy to talk to. We’ve got shit in common. What’s wrong with me?
At school, I ask everyone I can about love — and by everyone, I mean Kay and Maddy Hawkes. Luke is out for being a boy, Nancy and I haven’t talked in weeks, and I’m not close to anyone else. I’m not even that close to Maddy, she just happened to be there and I figured she could help. She and Kay claim they’ve been in love a few times and that it’s great. But how do you know when it’s love?
“Oh, my god. You slut!” Maddy says to me.
“What?”
“Ty Rodriguez?”
“No.”
“Then Luke? I always wondered if you guys —”
“We’re friends. No.”
Kay watching us like we’re playing Ping-Pong. Smil
ing.
“So who is it?”
“No one.”
“No one I know, no one you wanna say, or no one no one?”
“Bye, Maddy,” I say, signalling to Kay to start walking.
“See ya.” Maddy’s throaty giggle. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she says, loud enough for half the school to hear.
Breathe, I say to myself. Nothing confirms a rumour like a strong reaction. Just breathe.
Kay and I have a spare, and we wind up downtown at Marlene’s. She gets a bowl of broccoli cheddar. I get one, too, pay for both of them. Us with our bowls of liquid comfort.
It feels weird sitting here, asking her for advice. We’re not that kind of friends. Still, there’s no one else to ask. She won’t betray me. Can she help me? Her eyes are down, she’s blowing on a spoonful of soup. We’ve been friends for years, I’ve been to her house. I start us off. “It’s kind of weird talking about this.”
“I dunno. If something’s on your mind, I’m happy to help.” What is that in her voice? Is she being falsely chipper?
“Were you ever scared to be involved with someone?”
She looks at me, head cocked to one side. She shrugs, her hands on the table between us. Looks like she has tyrannosaurus arms. “I dunno. Maybe scared I’d screw it up?”
“Were you ever scared you’d hurt the other person?”
“Yeah, I guess,” she says lightly, maybe without thinking. Then she sees my face and starts laughing. “What?” It’s not something she’d be afraid of at all and she knows it.
We go back and forth. It gets less awkward. I ask her things — what is love? How should it feel? Do I really want it or do I only think I do?
She makes the point that most of the people I’ve loved have died. “You’re wondering if it’s worth the risk,” she says.
I don’t answer. And I sure as hell don’t tell her about Conrad, or the kiss. When it’s time to go back to school, I’m as confused as ever. If it were Stef or Trina here with me, I’d know how I feel. We’d have worked it out. It’s kind of amazing, actually, how good Trina’s advice was, considering she’s only a year older. But she’s experienced a lot in her life, or maybe just a lot more than me, and she’s understanding when she wants to be. Stef was five years older and a really good listener. Half the time with her, if you talked long enough, you’d reveal your own feelings to yourself.