One Lonely Degree

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  Audrey still thinks I should talk to someone about that night, even if I don’t want to do anything about it. She’d have let Jersy fight Adam if it was up to her, but she knows I wouldn’t like it. We’re doing this my way all the way, and Audrey knows I want to be completely off Adam’s radar. The less he notices me, the less likely it is that anything really happened to begin with.

  It’s a system, sort of, and it’s more or less worked up till now. Between Audrey and the system I’m mostly doing all right. She’s been a therapist, bodyguard, and best friend rolled into one. For three weeks after the party, she raced around escorting me between classes. Then she got a written warning about her lateness. We spent so many hours talking on the phone that my mother suggested we should cut back to allow time for “other activities.”

  “Friendship isn’t meant to be quite so intense,” Mom admonished. “You see her every day at school—what could you possibly have to talk about for two hours afterwards as well?”

  I lied and told her Audrey was heartbroken over Massy. In actual fact Massimo had stopped registering her existence shortly after the party, without explanation. Obviously he’d chosen to believe whatever bullshit story Adam had fed him, and Audrey told me she was glad nothing had happened between them. “If he’s that controlled by other people’s opinions, I had him all wrong,” she said bitterly. “Especially if he’s listening to guys like Adam Porter. He must be a real prick. I can’t believe how he had me fooled.”

  I don’t know how you ever really know people—even when you’ve spent your whole life with them. I thought my dad was the kind of person who didn’t have any secrets. Now I wonder where he goes when he’s out late. Could there be someone else?

  “I can’t imagine your dad doing that,” Audrey says as we stroll through the mall with Jersy one day after school. “He’s too nice. Besides, your mom would kick him out.”

  That’s true and I nod at Audrey, trying to be positive. She’s been so happy since she and Jersy made it official that lately I feel extra gloomy in comparison.

  Come on, that’s not exactly a surprise, is it? The attraction energy was obvious that day at my locker. Honestly, I’m pretty happy for the two of them. It’s not like I could handle a boyfriend now, and Audrey isn’t the kind of girl who deserts her friends to worship at a guy’s feet. I haven’t lost her; I haven’t lost anything.

  Audrey’s so sensitive about including me that Jersy’s nearly become a second best friend to me in the last four weeks. The weirdest thing about that isn’t the time frame, which is a personal record for an anti-socialite like me, but that we’re wildly different. Jersy’s into any kind of extreme sport you can think of. He’s broken more bones than I can name and thinks Beyoncé is a goddess. He’s at least as smart as me but twice as lazy. The range of drugs he’s into officially qualifies him as a stoner, but he doesn’t act like one. Stoners don’t have self-proclaimed social outcasts as girlfriends or hang out with brainiacs and dramaheads part-time.

  “People don’t always split up when someone cheats,” Jersy adds as the three of us wander by Old Navy. “Sometimes they work it out.”

  “Maybe.” Audrey shrugs. “Wouldn’t be me, I can tell you that. It’s disrespect.”

  “You’d never get the trust back,” I add. “What good’s a relationship without it?” Listen to me, the relationship expert. Everything I know about love comes from song lyrics.

  “Yeah,” Jersy says, nodding. “I know what you’re saying, but marriage is different.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants. “With a long-term thing like that, you have to expect some hiccups.”

  “Hiccups?” I repeat, unconsciously slowing down as we approach HMV.

  Jersy glances at the store as if suddenly remembering something. “I need new headphones—busted mine last night,” he says, charging towards HMV before Audrey or I can protest.

  Audrey glances apologetically over at me as we cross the threshold. “Jazz section,” she whispers, but of course I’ve already spotted him. As if I could ever in a million years walk into HMV and fail to notice Record Store Guy’s presence. For one, he’s so keenly edible that he may as well be made of Belgian chocolate. His curly hair and Celtic tattoo are giving me a fever. Not to mention the way his chest fills out his T-shirt. It’s all hitting me bad, which is good, but it scares me just the same. Wanting someone that much is dangerous. Somebody should stamp a warning on Ryan’s chest for people who don’t already have the message stamped into their heads the way I do. Jersy’s already halfway across the store, in search of replacement headphones, and I’m relieved that Ryan’s busy talking to a middle-aged woman in a blue hijab. Maybe I won’t have to feel weird about making conversation while Jersy and Audrey listen in. Not that they would, but the thought makes me edgy anyway. Since September the thought of speaking to Ryan makes me nervous no matter who is or isn’t around. It’s just not the same.

  I scope out the farthest point of the store from the jazz section, which seems to be precisely where Jersy’s standing, examining various sets of earphones. When I get there, he looks up at me and then into the distance, like something’s caught his eye. “Hey.” Jersy knocks his arm against mine. “I think that guy’s waving at you.”

  Sure enough I turn to find Ryan waving casually in our direction, the woman with the hijab striding away from him. As I raise my hand to wave back, the woman swings around to engage him in conversation a second time. Ryan smiles at my return wave before refocusing his attention on her.

  “Who’s that?” Jersy asks, a pair of mid-priced noise-canceling headphones in his left hand.

  “Stop looking at him already,” I command.

  Jersy’s gaze flicks away from Record Store Guy and holds on me. “Why?”

  I raise my eyebrows impatiently. Do we have to do this here?

  “Do you guys have a thing?” Jersy continues. He says that so easily that it makes me feel more uptight.

  “There’s no thing,” I insist, crossing my arms against my chest and wishing that I didn’t feel compelled to answer. My big toe curls up inside my shoe as I lower my voice to a whisper. “I guess you could say I had a thing for him once upon a time.” I flex my toe inside my shoe and focus anxiously on Jersy’s headphones. “But it was nothing really.”

  Jersy shakes his head but smiles. “You’re not a very good liar, are you?”

  You’d be surprised. But that’s not the answer I give him. My arms fall back into place at my sides as I try to match his casualness. “We used to talk music a lot, but I don’t come in here much anymore.” I’ve been going to the record store on the main floor instead. It feels like cheating, but I know that’s ridiculous. I’m sure Ryan couldn’t care less if I ever set foot in HMV again. He’d wave at anyone he recognized. He’s just like that.

  My spine starts to tingle. If Jersy grills me about Ryan any deeper, I won’t know what to tell him. I can’t explain why I don’t talk to Ryan anymore. Jersy and I may be friends, but we’re not as close as that.

  “Are you getting those?” Audrey asks, swooping in out of nowhere and grabbing Jersy’s headphones.

  He walks over to the cash register to pay for them, and then the three of us go. Regret tugs at me as I walk away from HMV and leave Ryan behind. When will I be able to feel giddy again without worrying where the feeling will lead?

  If I was alone, I could get stuck on that question for hours. As it is, Billy Young cuts in front of us with two of his stoner pals outside HMV. “Hey, Mika,” he says, calling Jersy by his stoner nickname. “Hey, girls,” he adds, nodding at Audrey and me. The days of my rumored Billy infatuation are ancient history and not a problem. I don’t even think Billy was aware of the possibility to begin with.

  We nod back, and Billy slides his hands into his back pockets. “So, Mika, coming over to Joel’s on Saturday to do some damage?”

  “Sure thing.” Jersy’s all smiles.

  “What about you two?” Billy focuses on Audrey and me. There’s
no way in hell we’d ever show up at a stoner party, and Billy knows it as well as we do.

  “Maybe,” Audrey says politely, answering for both of us.

  As the three of us walk away, I can’t help but feel surprised, all over again, about being born-again friends with Jersy Mikulski. Sculpting my former feelings into friendship wasn’t rocket science, but it took some effort. There’s something in Jersy that I want to trust, and that makes this the best-case scenario in the end. Audrey’s super happy, and I don’t have to worry about fucking things up for myself. Plus, now I have other people to talk to at school, like Billy Young. He’s not a bad guy, despite the drug use and general lack of direction. Turns out he’s even an Our Lady Peace fan.

  Unfortunately, Audrey’s current boyfriend status has Mom homing in on my seeming disinterest in the opposite sex more than ever, and when I get back from the mall she calls me into the kitchen, sits me at the table, and says, “Finn, I know you say there’s no one you like at the moment, but I’m the last person you’d tell if there was, aren’t I?”

  “Maybe.” She has a point, but I’m sure this is just some new psychological tactic that has nothing to do with the real truth. “But there isn’t anyone. Maybe you think it’d be cool if I was having some secret relationship with someone you wouldn’t approve of or something, but it’s not actually happening, Mom.”

  “Why would I want you to be having a secret …” Mom stops, presses her fingers to her lips, and sighs loudly. “I never felt like I could talk to my mother when I was your age. She was so rigid. I don’t want you to feel that about me—that there’s no one at home you can speak to about things.” She jumps in again before I can protest. “I know you’re close to your father, but I thought it might be different when it comes to talking about boys and sex.”

  I want to cover my ears and run out of the room. “Mom,” I say forcefully. “There are no boys and there’s no sex, all right? I can’t invent things for you. Maybe if you hold on a few years, Daniel will talk about sex with you.”

  Why does she always have to push so hard? How come Mom’s practically begging me to hook up with someone, while Audrey’s parents flip at the thought of her and Jersy being alone in the house together? A couple weeks back Steven walked in on them, innocently pigging out on popcorn in the kitchen, and blew a gasket just for that. Mom would’ve probably congratulated me.

  “Can you stop being antagonistic for two minutes?” Mom sets her hands on top of the table and stares at me with determined eyes. “I’m here, whether you want me to be or not. That’s all I’m going to say. Now you can stalk off to your room and e-mail Audrey about how your mother doesn’t understand you at all, okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply indifferently, slowly standing. “What’s for dinner?”

  Mom snatches her hands off the table as though she’d like to strangle me. “I don’t know,” she barks. “What’re you making?”

  Hilarious. Both my parents are comedians. Somebody get a talent agent on the phone.

  We eat pork chops, cauliflower, and baked potatoes while Daniel slurps on a gourmet creation from Chef Boyardee. Because Dad isn’t home, there’s tons left over, and Mom packs it all into the fridge in plastic wrap. Supposedly my father is having dinner with a friend tonight. This friend is generic and doesn’t have his or her own name.

  Dad must still be with said generic friend later in the evening, because he sure isn’t here to walk Samsam one last time before we go to bed. Mom and I walk Samsam together instead. We walk quietly, like we have nothing to say to each other, but I don’t think either of us is mad anymore. If anything, I’m angrier with Dad for his recurring disappearing act.

  In the middle of the night I wake up, stumble out of bed, and stare out the window to where his car should be. Fresh snow has covered up yesterday’s tracks, and the empty driveway glows white in the moonlight.

  If he’s out with someone else, my mom should divorce him. Audrey’s right; it’s disrespectful. It’s not a hiccup; it’s wrong.

  I climb back into bed, bringing my MP3 player with me. I click on Moby and listen to him sing “We Are All Made of Stars.” It’s exactly what I need to hear, and I play it over twice before switching to Our Lady Peace. I fall asleep with Gravity rocking in my earphones, and when I wake up at eleven-thirty the next morning, I hit Moby again for a final refrain of positivity.

  If I could live my life by that soundtrack, nothing would be impossible, but it’s hard to keep that energy burning. I feel it slip away as I spy Dad’s car in the driveway. Maybe I should feel relieved to see it there, but I just feel edgy. I pull on my clothes and bound downstairs, waiting for something to happen.

  Mom’s left a note stuck to the fridge, explaining that she’s taken Daniel to the mall to pick out a birthday present for his friend. Apparently he has a party this afternoon. He has so many friends that he has a social engagement nearly every weekend. The constant gift buying must cost my parents a small fortune; Daniel would rather stay home than show up at a party with a less-than-stellar present.

  Aside from Samsam breathing next to me, the house is silent. Dad must still be in bed, exhausted from his night out. His keys are on the hook in the front hall, like always, and I stealthily free them. Samsam wags his tail, sure we’re going somewhere wonderful.

  I hate to disappoint him, so I clip on his leash and lead him into the backyard. Afterwards I’ll bring him for a marathon walk and let him stop and sniff anything he wants, but I have something to do first.

  I unlock Dad’s car, climb into the front seat, and ransack the glove compartment. A map of Ontario, car insurance papers, a cable bill, and an open box of Junior Mints are inside. One of my brother’s gloves is lying under the passenger seat. The side compartments prove similarly innocent: more maps, a pocket pack of tissues, loose change, Dad’s collection of jazz CDs for his ride to work.

  I don’t know precisely what I’m looking for, but whatever it is isn’t inside the car; maybe it’s in the trunk. I swing the car door open, set one foot on the snowy drive, and jump at the sound of Dad’s voice. “What’re you looking for, Finn?” he calls from the front stoop.

  I hop guiltily out of the car and slam the door behind me, locking his keys inside. “Shit, I just locked your keys inside,” I mutter, pointing to the car.

  “Your mother has an extra pair,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m sorry.” I trudge towards him, pulling my gloves out of my pockets and slipping my hands into them. “I was just going to take Samsam for a walk, and I thought I might’ve left one of my CDs in your car.” My dad doesn’t like listening to rock music when he drives; he says it makes him speed. “A new one that I picked up at the mall,” I add. “But it’s not there.”

  “You have so many I’m surprised you’d miss one.” Dad smiles like the same dependable father I’ve known all my life. It’s unthinkable that he’d cheat on Mom, even if they’re not getting along. “So where’s Samsam?”

  “In the backyard. I’ll get him.”

  Dad nods distractedly. “When you come back, I’d like to speak to you, okay?” If he gives me the same talk Mom gave me last night, I’ll explode. She was right; there’s no possible way I can discuss guys with Dad.

  “Okay,” I say nervously. “Do you want to do it now?” Either that or I’ll spend the duration of Samsam’s walk wondering what Dad’s planning on saying to me.

  “Sure,” he says, looking like he’d rather swallow nails. We go inside and sit down on the living room sofa, me picking at a hangnail and him scratching day-old stubble. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the way things have been around here lately,” he begins slowly. “And your mother and I would like to work on changing that.” Dad clears his throat and goes for his stubble again. “You’re usually home evenings anyway, and we’d really appreciate it if you could keep Tuesday evenings free to babysit your brother.”

  “For sure,” I chirp. “So it’s like a standing date-night thing?” Neither of my parents has
acknowledged their relationship problems to me before, and a breakup suddenly feels more possible, despite the date idea.

  “You could say that,” Dad says delicately, his eyes fixed on mine. “Actually, it’s counseling, Finn. But we don’t want you to worry about it—or us. That’s our problem, okay?”

  I shove my hands under my legs and lean forward on the couch. How can he mention counseling and expect me not to worry? “Do you think you guys are going to split up?” I gasp.

  “Nobody wants that.” Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. “We just want to get along better, and we need some help doing that.”

  “I’m not five years old, Dad,” I tell him. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me. Things have to be bad if you’re going to counseling.” I cough to break up the lump forming in my throat. “You’re never even here anymore.”

  “That’s not true, Finn.” Dad looks tired and rumpled. “Sometimes I just need a break.” He grips the back of his neck. “It has nothing to do with you or your brother, and even if your mother and I were going to separate—which we’re not—both of our relationships with you would continue on the same as always.”

  That’s a lie whether he knows it or not. Nothing ever continues on the same way forever. Something always changes.

  “I’m fine with the babysitting,” I mumble. “I should go walk Samsam now.”

  Dad nods quickly, relieved to have the conversation behind him. “I’ll let you know if I come across your CD. What does it look like?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, and then I’m gone.

  SO TuesDaY nIGHTS become my weekly babysitting gig. Mom and Dad trudge soberly out to the car and return hours later with take-out coffee and doughnuts. They sit at the kitchen table slowly sipping their coffees and speaking in level tones. It’s a ritual and I don’t like to disturb them.