I Know It's Over

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  And there he was, striding towards us in a golf shirt and cotton pants. “Sasha, did you put on sunscreen?” he asked, handing her a tall paper cup filled with water.

  “Yes, I put on sunscreen, Dad.” She said that with a wad of impatience, but smiled as she raised the water to her mouth.

  “And you’re here too.” Her father bunched his eyebrows as he scrutinized me. He always spoke to me in that same pinched nasal voice. “Does that mean we won’t have the pleasure of your presence at dinner this evening?”

  Let’s get things straight, I avoided Sasha’s family and house as much as possible, but this was a girl with a nine-thirty curfew who was under strict instructions not to enter my house without an appointment personally confirmed by my mother.

  “Dad, stop being such a pain,” Sasha lectured. Apparently she could get away with saying that kind of thing every so often as long as she played by the rules.

  “So sensitive.” Her father sighed, his thin lips drooping into a frown. “Don’t be late for dinner.” He turned and strode towards the parking lot, not looking back.

  “So sensitive,” I repeated sarcastically, once he was out of earshot. “What’s his problem?”

  “You know what his problem is.” Sasha beamed at me like she used to, like I’d done something amazing. “Us. There’s only one thing we can do to make him happy.” Break up. Wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. I can tell you, his attitude was really starting to piss me off, though. The rules were bad enough.

  My towel was hanging around my shoulders, waiting to hit the sand, and I knew I should let it all go, but I couldn’t. “I get that he doesn’t trust me, but he doesn’t have to be a total dick about it,” I said.

  Sasha sipped her water. “Not everybody is like your parents, Nick. Some people can’t even have boyfriends at sixteen. You probably just don’t know them.”

  No, I don’t know them. I just know Sasha and how much she’d hate to disappoint her father. Will he want to protect her from this too, or will it change the way he feels about her? I don’t want to be the one that changes her life like that.

  I burrow into the seat, listening to Dad and Bridgette discuss Christmas dinner. Her parents are going to be there, apparently, and some old uncle of Dad’s. Too many people. I don’t think I have a performance like that left in me.

  “Shit.” I clench my fists. Bridgette and Dad glimpse back at me, my first clue I’ve said it out loud. My backpack is ringing again. It won’t quit. It rings and rings and rings. She’s redialing and redialing and she won’t stop. I dig into my backpack, grab my cell, and press it to my ear.

  “So you finally decided to pick up,” Sasha says in a low voice.

  “I’m in my dad’s car. I told you I’d call you when I got there.”

  “You weren’t very convincing. Do you know what it’s like sitting here waiting for you to call me back, Nick? Every second is…” Her voice breaks on the last word. She swallows, pauses, and begins again, stronger: “Don’t make me call you back again.”

  “I can turn off my phone,” I threaten, and for a moment that makes me feel good. I’m not completely powerless; I can still hurt her.

  “You’d do that?” Sasha asks, her voice sinking. I imagine her lying on my bed like she did that first day, only this time she’s shriveling in front of me. What happened to her rules?

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I tell her, but it’s too late—Sasha’s hung up. Whatever power I have can only be used in bad ways. Nothing good will happen anymore.

  Bridgette and Dad are polite enough to pretend that nothing’s happened. They resume their conversation, their voices more animated this time, but I can’t do it. I can’t pretend. “Dad, we have to stop,” I say.

  “We have quite a distance to go,” Bridgette declares, flashing me her own special brand of irritation. “We’re already behind schedule.”

  I’m still holding the silent phone in my hand. It won’t ring again, not tonight, but I can’t fake it a minute longer.

  “Dad, we have to stop somewhere,” I plead. “Now.”

  Dad looks over his shoulder at me, frowning. “What is it, Nick?”

  “There.” I point to the Burger King up ahead.

  “What is it?” he demands. He veers into the fast-food parking lot and that’s it—I throw my backpack over my shoulder and head for the door. I rush through Burger King, past the two waiting cashiers, and charge into the washroom, where I punch Sasha’s phone number into my cell and pace the littered floor.

  You’d think she’d be waiting for my call. You’d think she’d snap the phone up right away. But no, not Sasha. She knows I’m bad news. “Hello,” a voice says at last. “Hello?” Her father’s voice. If he doesn’t hate me already, he will very soon. I’ll always be the one who ruined everything for Sasha. He won’t understand that she’s the one too—the one who ruined everything for me.

  “Can I talk to Sasha?” My voice doesn’t even sound normal. I sound like a 911 call, but what difference does it make?

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a long time, then a click as though someone’s hung up. The line doesn’t go dead, though; Sasha’s been on the line, listening to me, for some time.

  “Sasha,” I say. “Talk to me.”

  “What for?” she asks, sounding light-years away. “You have nothing to say, Nick. All this time I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to call and the problem didn’t go away once. I’m still pregnant.” She laughs and falls silent. “You see. You still have nothing to say.”

  “Sasha,” I begin. My stomach is churning and my mind is in knots. I’m not somebody’s father. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. I have a part-time job in a sports store and another year and a half of high school. I don’t know how to make anybody happy. I remember Sasha’s father that day on the beach, bringing her water. His rules were in my way. That’s how stupid I am.

  The door bangs open behind me and I swing around, the phone still glued to my ear. I’m not hanging up on Sasha this time—not for anyone.

  Dad stares over at me like I’m a complete stranger, the guy behind you in line at the ATM. “Nicholas, what are you doing here?” he asks, unnaturally calm. “Why don’t we get back in the car?” He must’ve decided that I’m on drugs. He’s read some article, or Bridgette has, and this is the way you’re supposed to approach the whacked-out addict. No sudden movements.

  “Go on,” Sasha says bitterly. “Why don’t you call me back later?”

  “No.” I clutch the phone harder and lower my backpack to the floor. “I’m not hanging up.”

  “Nicholas, what’s going on here?” Dad repeats.

  “We have to go back.” I’m shaking on the inside, speaking through a fog. “I have to see Sasha.”

  On the other end of the phone, Sasha sighs. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Okay, come.” And I know she knows. Yes, I finally got it.

  “She’s pregnant,” I say, looking him in the eye. “I have to see her now.”

  Dad’s face falls. His eyes pop open and he rocks back and forth on his heels, speechless. This is a book he hasn’t read. I know how he feels—I haven’t read it either. “Dad, please,” I say. “Please.” This is the best I can do. I don’t know what comes next.

  Dad’s lips bite the air, forming an unspoken word. The lines in his forehead deepen as he takes a stranger’s step towards me. His right hand reaches down for my backpack. He lifts it up, slings it over his shoulder, and nods into the space between us.

  two

  There are three types of girls at my school: girls with high-pitched laughs that act like they’re trying to get with you, even when they aren’t; girls who act like they don’t give a shit whether you’re in the room or not; and finally, the rarest kind, girls without an act—girls who smile when they feel like it and stand next to your locker when they have something to say or when you want them to listen. That last kind is the rarest but most important. If they say something nice, you feel it; if the
y tell you that you’re an asshole, you wonder if it’s true.

  I didn’t think Sasha Jasinski was that kind of girl. For one thing, we barely spoke. We’d nod vaguely in each other’s direction when we passed in the hall. That was about it. Sometimes I’d watch her scribble down notes in English class. She was okay to look at if you stared hard enough. No makeup or anything, but nice lips, dark eyes, and a killer body. Her concentration face, the corners of her mouth dipping and eyebrows drawn tightly together, made her look angry. I wondered if that’s how she looked when she was actually pissed off. Not like I thought about her all the time; I just noticed certain things about her. For example, Ms. Raines, our English teacher, was deeply impressed with her. She’d cross her arms, her head sloping in Sasha’s direction, and nod in agreement as Sasha made these intelligent observations on Shakespearean themes or whatever we happened to be discussing at that particular moment.

  Anyway, I thought Sasha was a type-two girl if I ever saw one, but that didn’t stop me checking her out from time to time. It didn’t make me right either. See, she was as far from being a type two as any girl I’ve ever met.

  The whole thing with us started back in June. Everyone was in a good mood because the sun had finally come out to stay, everyone except Mom. Not that I blame her. She’d obviously bought into the “till death do us part” deal. I mean, there she was with a vegetable garden, a cushy part-time job at the library, and a reasonable facsimile of the perfect family. Then Dad blew it for her by escaping to this swanky condo in Toronto. No wonder she was pissed. But the fact is, life is like that. Things start to suck when you least expect it. Like now Mom has this crappy admin job and half her waking life is ruled by Mrs. Scofield, bitch of the century.

  Sometimes I can sit there and listen sympathetically to Mom’s complaints. I understand that it sucks and that it helps to have someone else say it out loud for you, but then again, how many times can I say it? The drill gets a bit much, especially when nothing ever changes and whatever I say doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.

  That’s why I went to the mall with Nathan that night in June, although it’s on the bottom of my list of appealing places to visit. My job at Sports 2 Go means I’m there enough as it is, and sometimes the fact that the mall seems like the only place to go makes me determined to stay home. But everything is situation specific, I guess, and in that particular situation—Mom itching to recap the latest evidence of Mrs. Scofield’s ever-expanding ego, and Nathan sounding bored out of his skull and begging me to meet him at Courtland Place—the mall genuinely seemed like the best option.

  But I had second thoughts as soon as I got to the food court. Nathan wasn’t alone. He and Sasha were standing by the railing, looking down at the ground floor and talking like they’d known each other forever, which knowing Nathan was highly possible. Think of that person in your high school that gets along with everyone—whether they’re a skater, a jock, or the most painful nerd in the world. Nathan’s that person—the guy that’s everybody’s friend. He’s been that guy as long as I can remember.

  “Hey,” I called, walking towards him and Sasha.

  “Hey, Nick,” Nathan replied, not offering an introduction because he knew as well as anyone that the entire population of Courtland Secondary was already known to each other—at least by name.

  “Hi,” Sasha said, abandoning her standard Nick Severson non-greeting. She was wearing loose cargo pants and a reasonably tight T-shirt and the minute I noticed that, she folded her arms in front of her chest as though she’d noticed too.

  “So what’re you doing?” Nathan asked Sasha. “You coming with us?”

  “I better call Lindsay and see what’s up,” she said, reaching into her side pocket and pulling out her cell phone.

  “Catch up with us later if she’s not showing,” Nathan offered. The two of us pushed off in the general direction of food. “She was supposed to meet Lindsay here, but she never showed,” he explained.

  “Yeah, I figured that out,” I told him. I didn’t mention that I wasn’t in the mood for another person. Nathan is the kind of guy I could say that to, but it was too late, his offer was already out there. That makes me sound antisocial, right? Most of the time that’s not true. Ask Keelor, my best friend in the universe. He’d tell you I was up for anything. Partying with Vix and the girls. No problem. Dodge math class, smoke a joint in the park, and laugh at joggers. Okay. Midnight hockey followed by endless amounts of beer, spilled in sleeping bags that’ll have to be washed out the next morning. Maybe a girl next to me in the sleeping bag. Maybe not. It’s all okay, most of the time. But every now and then I just want to keep things low-key. Have a quiet conversation or whatever.

  Nathan and I split up in front of Taco Life and I headed towards DQ, in the mood for something’s flesh. My order was in the middle of being assembled by some cranky Korean guy, who was probably a lawyer or something like that in his home country, when someone sidled up next to me and crowded my space. Why do people do that? Do they have some kind of mental retardation when it comes to personal distance?

  I squinted over to check for signs of mental deficiency and was surprised to find the complete opposite. Sasha was standing beside me, looking equally uncomfortable with the proximity. “Where’s Nathan?” she asked.

  My eyes scoured the food court and landed on Nathan’s red T-shirt in front of Gino’s Pizza. “Over there.” I tilted my head in his direction and glanced back at the Korean guy, who was happy enough to take my money, even though he couldn’t spare a smile. See what I mean? There are times when I shouldn’t be around people.

  “Hey, I ordered fries—not onion rings,” I told him, pointing to my full tray.

  “Yes.” He shook his head in aggravated agreement. “I remember. There is a new girl today. I am sorry. I will get your fries.” He disappeared back to the grill to rip into the girl, leaving Sasha and me to our world of awkward distances.

  “So,” Sasha said. So? I leaned against the scrap of counter not occupied by my order and raised my eyebrows at her. A piece of her hair fell forward a bit and I swear, I almost reached out to slide it back behind her ear, just like that, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Well,” she added. Well and so. Must be my turn to jump in and expand the conversation. But no, she managed another sentence and saved me the effort. “I’ll grab us all a seat.”

  Off she went to complete her mission. Me, I waited for like five minutes while my order got straightened out and then the guy let me keep the onion rings too. By the time I got to the table, Nathan and Sasha were deep in conversation.

  “…call my dad,” Sasha was saying. “I can never think of anything to do at the mall. That’s Lindsay’s department.”

  “Like him.” Nathan pointed at me as I sat down next to him.

  I made a face that demonstrated how right he was.

  “So what’re you doing here, then?” Sasha asked. Her long brown hair was tucked back behind her ears again, and her eyes, so dark they’re practically black, were stuck on mine.

  I raised my eyebrows again and motioned, with exaggerated weariness, towards Nathan.

  “I guess it’s unavoidable,” Sasha said, smiling. “Everybody ends up here sometime.”

  “Twice a week at least,” I told her. “I work downstairs at Sports 2 Go.”

  She nodded. “I haven’t been in there in ages. What’s it like?”

  It’s okay actually. The guys there are good to joke around with. We all help each other out with the customers—make sure to throw some at whoever’s lagging behind in sales that day. I always have sales to spare anyway. Practically every girl that walks through the door approaches me. Seriously. I look a lot like my dad, which is a good thing, apparently. He’s got salt-and-pepper hair, but it used to be pitch-black like mine. I also have his green eyes and a lot of other stuff—his weird super-pointy elbows and his cat allergy.

  I told some of that to Sasha—the work stuff—and then the three of us m
oved on to Nathan’s job, which involves lots of chopping vegetables and rushing waiters. According to Nathan, the new waiter, some French guy named Xavier, was a real prick, acting like he was above the kitchen staff and spending more time on break than he did serving. The way Nathan complained made it sound more funny than irritating, though, unlike my mom.

  “What about you?” I asked Sasha. “You working?”

  Sasha eyed my onion rings hopefully. “Mind if I have some?” Nope. She thanked me and reached across to grab some from my tray. “Um—no, not really,” she said, getting back to my question. “I babysit for some people around my neighborhood, but my parents won’t let me have a real job during school. I’m teaching sailing at the lake this summer, though.”

  “Cool,” I said. “Have you been doing that long?”

  “Long as I can remember—my dad taught me.” She shook her head and let out a groan. “I can’t wait to start. The babysitting is such a drag. There’s this one family: twin girls and an older brother. The girls are okay, but the boy…” She bit into another onion ring. “He’s completely over-active, so he’s not supposed to have any sugar. Then one night I came downstairs after putting the girls to bed and he was in the basement with a half-empty box of Cocoa Puffs, playing with his dad’s saw.” Nathan and I traded looks as we laughed. “Yeah,” Sasha continued. “Then this other time I came down and he’d pulled the ladder out of the garage and was up on the roof.”

  “The roof,” Nathan echoed. “That’s wild.”

  “Yeah,” Sasha said. “I don’t think he means anything by it. I think his parents are just too restrictive, you know?”

  “Like somebody not letting their kid have a part-time job,” I offered, then wondered if Sasha would take it the wrong way and think I was putting her down, which I wasn’t.

  “Right.” Her lips jumped up into a smile, like a signal to keep going.

  “So what happens to people like that—aside from the roof climbing?” I flashed a grin back, wondering if I’d been wrong about her. Maybe she wasn’t one hundred percent serious all the time. Maybe she wasn’t one of those people who believed they had to play out their high school label. Sometimes I get so sick of that shit, you know what I’m saying? You don’t have to talk to me because our friends are tight and you don’t have to avoid me because they’re not. But I know that’s a hypocritical thing to think because I do it just as bad as anyone.