The Most Dangerous Thing

by Leanne Lieberman

  Slowly I forget about Paul, and even the field, and the distant traffic and buses. I only see the sky, and then words start to form in my head, in long chains: cloud, sky, fly high, fly high in the sky, little cloud, long and thin, and now you are changing shape, letting the elements break you down, build you up. I sit up and pull my phone out of my pocket and start jotting down words. Most of it is crap, but it doesn’t matter—I might find a few words I like later.

  While I write, Paul takes pictures of the sky with his phone. After a few minutes he pokes my leg. “Are you writing for your class?”

  I nod.

  “Oh. Can I hear something?”

  “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “Okay.” Paul lies back down. I try to pick up where I left off, but I’m feeling self-conscious now, so I put my phone away and lie back down on the blanket. Paul’s hand finds mine again, and this time it doesn’t freak me out as much.

  Paul turns to me. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I manage to say. Our faces are so close together I can see Paul’s individual eyelashes, the way they outline his dark eyes. There’s a pause when neither of us says anything, and it feels like a moment when we’re supposed to kiss, so I move a tiny bit away and prop myself up on one elbow. “How come you weren’t in class on Friday?”

  Paul exhales and lets his hands come over his eyes, his forehead wrinkling. “My dad was in town, and he wanted me to spend the day with him.”

  “Oh, where does he live?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  “You got to miss school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  Paul sighs. “It wasn’t.”

  “What did you do?”

  Paul sits up, his body hunched over his knees and his fingers worrying the edge of the blanket. “He wanted me to come to this business meeting he had, and then we had to go to this lunch with a bunch of people all talking and eating at once, and then we went to look at some development project he’s invested in, in Burnaby.”

  “Oh, that does sound kinda crappy.”

  “Yeah, he’s always trying to get me interested in his business plans.”

  I sit up so I’m across from Paul, my legs crossed. If I had a day with Dad, we’d go biking; with Mom it would be lunch and something cultural, like an art show or dance performance. “What would you like to have done instead?”

  Paul thinks about this for a minute. “Well, I like this.” He gestures around. “Nature stuff. There’s this ancient forest on Vancouver Island I’d like to see. They have amazing banana slugs and massive mushrooms.”

  “Would your dad be into that?”

  Paul raises his eyebrows. “Definitely not. I might get to go with my sister, Julie, this summer.”

  I nod. “That sounds good.”

  Neither of us says anything for a moment, and I feel like Paul might kiss me and I can’t decide how I feel about this. He’s holding my hand again, resting it on top of his knees, and I’m not sure how that happened.

  And then Paul leans forward and kisses me lightly on the lips, and I’m so stunned I freeze. The kiss only lasts a moment, and I open my eyes, amazed that I am still whole on the blanket, blood coursing through me, my eyes shining like stars, tips of my fingers and toes tingling. He kisses me again, for longer this time, and I feel like I could stay here all day with the breeze blowing over us and me inhaling the good smell of Paul’s shirt and skin.

  Six

  ON MONDAY MORNING I WAKE UP with a smile on my face. My body feels light, and there’s a song playing in my head, Paul, Paul, Paul! like the bird I sometimes hear on clear days from the pear tree in the yard. I reach for my phone, not because I need Sudoku, but in case there’s a text from Paul. There is. He’s written, Good morning.

  See you soon, I write back.

  Yes, it’s a good morning, even if it’s pouring outside. The sky is low and gray, and the wind whips the rain against the house in wild bursts. Even Dad isn’t biking this morning. Mom offers to drive Abby and me if we hurry. We bustle around, quickly making lunches and gulping down breakfast. I borrow a hot-pink miniskirt from Abby to wear over black tights, with a silky black sweater and silver flats. It’s a lot of color for me, that skirt, but it shows how I feel.

  Because Mom drops us off at school, I have a few minutes before classes start, and I go to my locker. Usually I arrive with just enough time to get to first class. “Good morning, everyone,” I sing to Sofia and Fen.

  “Hey, you’re early,” Sofia says. “How come?”

  I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Because of the gorgeous weather.”

  “What’s with you?” Fen stares at me. “You don’t usually even talk until Tuesday.” I sidestep around him to undo my lock. Fen turns to Sofia. “Now she’s dancing on a Monday morning?” He blocks my locker. “Did you win the lottery or something?”

  Sofia kicks him in the shins. “No, goofball, she saw a boy on the weekend.”

  “Did she, like, talk to him too?” Fen says.

  “Ouch,” I say. “I talk to boys. I talk to you.”

  “I don’t count,” Fen says, which makes Sofia and me smile.

  “Hey, you know what I mean,” Fen protests.

  “Fenny doesn’t count,” Sofia singsongs.

  Fen ignores her and says, “Who is making you capable of talking on a horrible Monday morning?”

  I smile and reach for my chemistry books.

  Sofia says, “It’s her lab partner, Paul.”

  “Paul? Paul, who she’s known forever? Paul, who doesn’t speak English?”

  “He speaks English perfectly well,” I say.

  “He didn’t in eighth grade when we had drama together. He hung out with ESL kids.”

  “Yeah, well, a lot can happen in three years.”

  “Wow,” Fen says. “I’m, like, totally shocked. A boy likes you.”

  I gently shove Fen out of the way. “Get over it, rugby boy.”

  And so I float through the day. Paul and I sit next to each other in chemistry and make shy small talk. He shows me some photos from our cloud watching and a video he made set to an EDM track. I tell him about the giant mushroom growing in my neighbor’s front lawn. At lunch Sofia makes a weak excuse about having homework to do so I can walk to investor’s club with Paul alone. I show him the investments I’ve made based on Zeyda’s advice. When the bell rings for the end of lunch, I even feel brave enough for writing class.

  At the end of the day Paul finds me at my locker with Sofia. She says hi and then tries to pretend she’s not there.

  “What are you up to now?” Paul asks.

  “Usually I visit my grandfather after school on Monday.”

  “Oh.” Paul looks disappointed.

  Behind Paul, Sofia mouths Cancel! at me.

  “I could probably visit him tomorrow instead,” I say.

  Paul perks up. “Really?”

  “I think so.” My heart is racing now. Sofia is smiling and nodding at me. “Yeah, I think that would be okay.”

  “Do you want to come over to my house? We could finish up that math homework.”

  It sounds like he really means homework. I hesitate a moment. His house. There probably won’t be anyone else there. Paul’s waiting for me to answer, and I wonder if maybe I should suggest the library or a coffee shop. Then Paul says, “It’s not far.” His easy smile makes it hard to say no.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll call my grandfather on the way.”

  When I turn to look back at Sofia as Paul and I walk down the hall together, she gives me a big smile.

  The torrential downpour has become a steady drizzle. We pull up our hoods and trudge through the puddles.

  I dial Zeyda’s number as we walk. The phone rings three times, and then Zeyda picks up. “Hi, Zeyda, it’s Sydney.”

  “Are you going to be late again?” Zeyda asks. His voice sounds old and croaky, like he hasn’t used it all day.

  “Act
ually, I’m going to come tomorrow instead of today.”

  “Oh.” Zeyda sounds disappointed, and guilt pokes me. I glance over at Paul, who is trying to walk beside me without looking like he’s listening.

  “I don’t have my bike today because of the rain.” This is true, although I could take the bus to his house. “Did you think about going to the JCC?” I ask, mainly to distract myself from my guilt.

  “Forget about that,” Zeyda says. “I was hoping we’d go to the casino.”

  “The casino? Today? How were we going to get there?”

  “I thought you’d take me in my car.”

  “Zeyda, I don’t have a full license yet.”

  “Nu, when are you going to learn? Your father told me he drove when he was fourteen.”

  “That was on a farm in Manitoba, and he drove a tractor on the weekends for a job. I don’t think he had to worry about highway traffic or parallel parking. And I am learning. I still need someone who drives to be in the car with me.”

  “Aha,” Zeyda says. “I can be in the car with you.”

  “I need someone with a valid license.”

  “Bah, there’s too many rules in the world.” Zeyda is still pissed he lost his license after his stroke. His car, a Lincoln Continental, is sitting in his garage. Mom has offered to sell it a zillion times, but he’s not interested. “Anyway,” he says, “we could take a taxi.”

  “All the way to Richmond? That sounds expensive. Besides, you have to be twenty-one to get into the casino.”

  “You could wait for me outside.”

  I snort. “That doesn’t sound very fun. Hey, why don’t you ask Crystal to take you? There’s probably a seniors’ hour during the day.”

  Zeyda hesitates. “Your mother told her not to take me anymore.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s worried I’m gambling away her inheritance,” Zeyda announces.

  I sigh. “Okay, Zeyda, I’ll see you tomorrow—at your house.”

  “Goodbye, Sydney.”

  I switch off my phone and turn to Paul. “My grandfather, my zeyda, he wanted me to take him to River Rock, the casino in Richmond.”

  Paul grins. “My grandmother likes to gamble too—mah jong.”

  “Does she live here?”

  “Nah, she’s in Hong Kong. I see her in the summer. Do you see your grandfather often?”

  “I try to. He’s pretty lonely since my grandmother died, but he’s kind of hard to hang out with because he’s very grumpy. My sister refuses to even talk to him.”

  “But you like to hang out with him?”

  I nod. “Yep. I usually go a couple times a week.”

  Paul gives me a slow smile. “You’re a different kind of person.”

  I feel my cheeks color. “Whaddya mean?”

  “Not everyone is interested in investing or willing to hang out with their grumpy grandfather.”

  “True enough.” I give him a sidelong glance. “Are you calling me a geek?”

  Paul laughs. “No, I’m not calling you anything. I thought you’d be the kind of person who wouldn’t laugh at me for sending mushroom pictures, and I was right.” Paul takes my hand in his. We’re holding hands. And we’re having a normal conversation. I knew you could do this, I tell myself.

  “Actually, the mushroom picture was pretty weird,” I say. “I mean, it was a really ugly mushroom.” Paul looks uncertain for a second, then pokes me in the side. “Okay, fine,” I say. “It was a great picture.”

  When we arrive at Paul’s house, I start to get nervous again. His house is tall and narrow, with a gold-colored door knocker and birds etched into frosted glass above the front door. Inside, there’s cream-colored carpet and a hall table with nothing on it except an empty bowl. Paul tosses his keys in the bowl, hangs up my coat and leads me past the living room and dining room to the kitchen. I’ve never been in a less lived-in house. There are no discarded gym bags, no briefcases or boots in the front hall, no books or magazines lying on the coffee table in the sparsely decorated living room, no sign of the dining room ever being used. The only decorations are some Chinese calligraphy and a black-ink painting of a turtle in the living room.

  The kitchen has a U-shaped counter with a breakfast bar, and sliding doors that lead to a small deck. The yard is a green square with a row of hedges beside the garage. The only ungainly thing in the kitchen is a giant shiny garbage can with a black plastic bag bursting over the lid. Beside it, takeout containers tower out of a recycling box.

  “Wow, your house is so neat,” I say. I want to say it looks like no one lives here, but that would sound rude. I sit on a stool at the counter.

  Paul takes two glasses out of the cupboard. “It’s just me here most of the time,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My dad lives in Hong Kong, and my mom got remarried last year, and her husband works in China mostly, so she’s there a lot. She’s here every couple of months to see me and make sure everything’s okay, read my report cards. She’s coming next week.”

  “You live alone?” I try to keep the surprise out of my voice.

  “Some of the time. My sister Julie’s supposed to be ‘taking care’ of me. She’s twenty-four, but she stays with her boyfriend, Tim, a lot.”

  “Wow.” I look around the kitchen again. Except for the towering garbage, it looks pretty clean. “Who does stuff around the house when your mom’s not here?”

  “There’s a cleaner and a gardener. And you know my buddy Wilson? I stay at his house most weekends and eat there. Do you want something to drink?”

  I say sure, and Paul pours us each a glass of soda. “You know, that’s like every kid’s dream—to live alone,” I say.

  Paul frowns. “Yeah, it’s okay. No one tells me what to do, but it’s also kinda boring and lonely. Plus, if I mess up and, like, burn the place down or do crappy at school, my parents and my stepdad will totally lose it.”

  “Do they ever talk about sending you back to Hong Kong?”

  “They talk about it, but I’ve been here so long, and my Chinese reading isn’t that good, so I probably wouldn’t do well at school. Plus, I have asthma, and the air is better here.”

  I look around the kitchen. The only thing on the counter is a fruit bowl with some browning bananas in it. “Who cooks for you during the week?” I can’t imagine making all my own meals. I’d live on yogurt and fruit or cheese and crackers. Or I’d make a pot of squash soup and eat that every day for a week.

  “Mostly me. Wilson’s mom takes me grocery shopping sometimes. Julie shows up every now and then when she feels guilty and takes me out or brings me groceries. I eat a lot of takeout, but I can cook.”

  I nod. “Cool. What do you like to make?”

  “I can make hamburgers and pasta, but mostly I eat Chinese food—stir-fries and noodle stuff. You hungry?”

  “Sure.”

  Paul smiles and starts taking vegetables out of the refrigerator.

  I watch him mince garlic and onions and throw them in a wok with some peppers and tofu. “I cheat a little,” he says as he adds bottled sweet-and-sour sauce and precooked noodles from a package. “When my mom makes it from scratch, it’s better.” The vegetables sizzle as Paul flips them expertly with a long-handled spatula. A few minutes later he dishes the food into little bowls and hands me a pair of chopsticks. “Or would you prefer a fork?” he asks.

  “Chopsticks are fine,” I say.

  I should feel more nervous, being alone in Paul’s house with him, but I’m not. I’ve known Paul forever, and he knows me too.

  After we eat, we go down to the basement, where there’s a TV, leather couches and more cream-colored carpet. I spy a pool table through a door in an unfinished part of the basement. Paul says, “You like pool?”

  I nod.

  “We can play later if you want.”

  “Sure.”

  We work on the chemistry lab awhile, and when we get bored with it, we work on some math questions. For a wh
ile we concentrate, pencils scratching, Paul tapping at his calculator. I keep stealing glances at him, watching the way he tugs his hair when he’s thinking through a problem. Eventually he shoves his books away, rubbing his forehead.

  “You all done?” I ask.

  “For now. I have time to work on it later.” I think about Paul alone in the house. It’s only four thirty.

  “I should get going,” I say.

  “Wait.” Paul pats the couch beside him. “Don’t leave yet.”

  I sit back down, smooth out my pink skirt. It feels too loud now, like most of Abby’s clothes. I swallow when Paul takes my hand.

  My heart starts thumping in my chest. I want to hold his hand, I really do, but his other hand takes my shoulder, turning me gently toward him. If I start to break, I’ll never be able to put the pieces back together. Paul is leaning forward to kiss me. I close my eyes because I don’t know how to make it stop, and I don’t want to either. And then Paul’s mouth is on mine, moving gently. It’s warm and wet, and I want him to keep going. He leans back on the couch and I do too, and then his hands are in my hair, which also feels good. I want to enjoy the kiss, but Paul’s hands are snaking around to hold my back, like this is going to be more than kissing. I feel a rush of heat sweep through me, and I press myself closer to Paul even though my brain is wondering what the hell I’m doing. I’ve never felt this way, like I want to start unbuttoning Paul’s shirt or, even crazier, my own. My breath quickens, and I start to sweat. Then I pull away, smoothing my hair. “I think I need to leave now.”

  “Now?” Paul rubs his hands through his hair.

  “Yes, now.” I finger-comb my hair and start packing up my books.

  “Syd.” Paul grabs my hand. “You could stay and play pool or just hang out.”

  “Um, maybe another time.” My pulse is racing, and I want to get out.