I talk to Keelor for a few more minutes. Our conversation gives the situation a weird kind of normality that it didn’t have before. “I’ll call you when I get back,” he says. “And don’t think this gets you out of New Year’s.”
“I’m not in a party frame of mind,” I protest.
“We’ll just chill,” he promises. “We can leave early if you want.”
“Shut up. You know you never leave a party early.”
“Well, this time I will. Look, take it easy the next few days, okay? Maybe you should give the old man a call, make him feel useful.”
Maybe he’s right and maybe I will, but it’s Nathan I call next. Telling him is harder than telling Keelor because he understands right away. It’s not just about being scared shitless and I know he knows that. His voice is clear but quiet. “When’re you going to see her again?” he asks.
fifteen
I tell Holland that I’ll be at Nathan’s for the next few days and swear her to secrecy. She gets mad all over again because I won’t tell her what’s going on. Believe me, I don’t even want to tell her about missing the tournament, but someone needs to know where I am. “If Sasha or Dad calls, tell them they can get me on my cell,” I instruct.
“Sasha?” Holland repeats. “Are you back together? Mom said she was here on Christmas Eve.”
“We’re not back together. We’re just friends.”
“Friends?” Holland says skeptically.
“Trying to be, okay, Holland?” I frown and dig my hands into my pockets. “You’re as bad as Mom sometimes, you know that? Can you mind your own business for five minutes?”
“You want me to lie for you, but you don’t want to tell me anything. You think that’s fair?”
“Okay, so do whatever you want.” I throw up my hands in defeat.
“God,” Holland growls. “Fine. Okay. Whatever you say, Nick. Just remember that you owe me.”
“Fine,” I growl back. I’m in a bad mood with almost everyone, but it’s worst with Mom and Holland. They’ve been talking about me, you see, trying to figure out what in the world is the matter with Nick. I expect that of my mother, but Holland should know better. I don’t talk about her behind her back.
I toss some clothes in my backpack and walk over to Nathan’s. It’s not snowing, but the wind is fierce and Nathan does a double take when he sees me. “Look at your face,” he says, motioning to the mirror behind him in the front hall.
I peer at my reflection and study my icy red cheeks. They don’t actually feel cold; they feel warm. “Christmas Eve was worse,” I tell him. “I’m fine.”
I take off my coat, drop my backpack in Nathan’s room, and join him in the kitchen. He’s in the middle of making hash browns and he throws a couple in the frying pan for me and makes me a cup of coffee. “So you never told me what you were doing for New Year’s,” I say.
“Yeah, we never got around to that.” Nathan grabs the spatula and flips over a hash brown. “This girl at work, Bethany, invited me to a party in Toronto. Her sister is this wild librarian there and her and her roommate are having a party in their loft. I’m not sure I’m gonna go, though.”
“Why? Sounds cool.”
“Well.” Nathan looks up at me. “What’re you doing? I thought we could hang out or something.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. “But you should go to the party.”
“There are always parties.” Nathan shrugs.
“Not at lofts in Toronto.” There aren’t any remotely cool librarians among Mom’s acquaintances, but I’ve heard rumors of their existence. “Besides, Keelor wants me to go to Marc Guerreau’s party.”
“Who cares what he wants?” Nathan says. “You’re the one dealing with shit.”
“He’s just trying to help.”
Nathan shrugs again. “It’s up to you what you want to do.”
We eat the hash browns and then watch TV and play video games until his dad gets home. After dinner Nathan drives us over to the theater and we catch a spy movie based on a bestseller neither of us has read. I can’t keep track of the plot, but the action sequences are semi-distracting.
When we get back, Nathan’s dad stands in the hallway jingling his pockets. “You’re staying the night?” he asks, scrutinizing me.
“Jesus, Dad,” Nathan snaps.
Nathan’s dad nods as his gaze leaps over to his son. “I know he has a girlfriend, but you young people are all so flexible now that I have to wonder if that even matters.”
“Look, I’m straight,” I assure him. “You don’t have to worry.”
“I didn’t think so, but I have to check.” His dad’s staring at me like I understand, but I just feel embarrassed for him. “Nathan and I made a deal. He can be in that club at school, but I don’t want anything else going on. Somebody has to look out for him and I’m all he’s got.” I focus on a spot on the wall behind his forehead as he continues. “I don’t want him to make mistakes. He’s young now. He doesn’t know what he wants.” Of course he does, I think, he wants Xavier or Diego. “I have to limit the damage.”
“I don’t think you can limit damage like that,” I say, peeling my eyes off the wall to meet his. “People can try and tell you not to do things, but sometimes you do them anyway. Everybody does things.”
His dad’s eyes get really small. He tells me I can sleep on the pullout couch in the living room.
When Nathan and I are alone in the living room later, I apologize. “I don’t know why I said that. I should’ve kept my mouth shut—I don’t want to make things any worse.”
“They’re not worse.” Nathan grins. “Just more interesting. Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned you were straight.”
“Hey, I need somewhere to sleep tonight,” I remind him, cracking a smile.
Nathan points out that I’m probably not sleeping much anyway, which is true. I describe my recent consultations with the Magic 8 Ball. It sounds pretty weird, I admit, and Nathan starts laughing under his breath. The rasp of air seeping out between his lips and through his nostrils sounds hilarious, like a snoring asthmatic, and he tries to stop, but the noise only gets louder until we’re both laughing so hard that tears run down my face.
“Sorry,” Nathan splutters. “It’s not that funny.”
“It’s you.” I shake my finger at him. “You laugh like a freak.”
“I am a freak,” he says, gasping for breath. “Didn’t you hear my dad?”
I howl at that, although it’s not that funny either. The last time I laughed this hard I got the hiccups. Holland was pinching me around the neck during a road trip up north to see Mom’s parents. You wouldn’t think that’d be so ticklish, but it totally disabled me. All I could do was shake with laughter. Mom made Holland stop, but the hiccups started up as soon as the laughing stopped. Those hiccups were painful, extra-strength, but I wouldn’t mind having them now.
“So do you think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?” Nathan asks once we’ve calmed down.
“Maybe I won’t even try,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll just watch TV.”
“Yeah, that might be better,” he says sympathetically.
“Otherwise I’ll probably just lie here thinking too hard.” I slouch down on the couch and push my legs under the coffee table. “Do you remember when you were talking about having a connection to someone?” Nathan tilts his head and nods. “I still feel it, you know. I don’t know how she feels, but it’s still there for me.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“If we were still together, things might be different. Maybe we could do this.”
“She might have it,” Nathan says. “Maybe you will do it. You told her you’d be involved, right?”
“Yeah, but we won’t be together. Not in the same way. I keep thinking…” I clear my throat, which is dry from laughing. “I keep thinking it’s my fault.”
“You can’t let yourself think like that, Nick. Accidents happen.” Nathan sits forward and turns towards me, as though there’s an
invisible booth between us. “You said you wanted to go to the clinic with her. What else were you supposed to do?”
What Nathan’s saying is a version of the truth and I appreciate it, but I know what I know—I convinced her to sleep with me the first time. I got us started. “I’m a natural predator,” I quote. “You said it yourself.”
Nathan shakes his head. “You weren’t like that with Sasha.” I stare down at my jeans and nod unconvincingly. “Believe it’s all your fault if you want to, Nick, but she messed this up too.”
“It doesn’t make any difference.” I run my left hand roughly through my hair and glance at Nathan. “It’s done.”
But it’s not nearly done. Everything is undecided and I’m more confused than ever. I fall asleep with the TV on and sleep all morning. My cell phone wakes me up just after noon. At first I’m too dazed to understand what’s happening, but then it hits me. I roll onto my chest, grab hold of my backpack, and dump its contents onto the floor. The still-ringing phone slides under the pullout couch. My hand shoots in after it and yanks it to my ear. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Sasha says. “I was wondering if I could come see you, but Holland says you’re at Nathan’s.”
“Yeah.” I rub my eyes with my other hand. “Do you want me to come over?”
“Peter and my mom are still home. I can get her to drive me over there.”
“No, meet me at home. My mom won’t be home for hours.” Somehow I don’t feel right about talking things over at Nathan’s. My mom’s house is the most comfortable option—even if Holland’s home.
We arrange to meet at one-thirty, but I make sure I’m early. I expect to find Holland watching TV in the living room or holed up in her bedroom working on her mysterious blog. I’m part right. She’s in the living room—a guy’s body stretched out on top of hers on the couch. They’re making out like they mean it and my neck jerks in surprise. I swing out of the room, pad noisily into the kitchen, drop my backpack on the tile floor, and wait. Holland rushes in twenty seconds later, her hair full of static electricity and her lips puffy.
“What’re you doing here?” she demands. “I thought you were staying at Nathan’s.”
“Sasha’s coming over.” I stare at the empty space behind her. “So who is it?”
“What difference does it make?” She looks anxiously over her shoulder before adding, “It’s Diego, if you must know.” She juts her chin out. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Diego,” I echo. The guy is seventeen years old and all but engaged to some girl in Quebec. Or is that just something he uses?
Holland holds her head steady, her chin up like she’s daring me to say something and I mean to, but the doorbell rings. “That’ll be Sasha,” she says, shoulders relaxing.
I stride out of the kitchen without another word. Sasha’s standing on my doorstep. Her mother’s car is idling in the driveway and Sasha turns to wave goodbye before stepping into the hallway. I squeeze her shoulder and she hugs me quick. I catch a whiff of watermelon before she pulls away and I want to pull her back towards me, but I don’t. Sasha struggles with her coat. The buttons are stiff. I know this from working them myself in the past. She drapes her coat over the banister and stands with her arms by her sides.
“We should go upstairs,” I say in a low voice. “Holland and Diego are in the living room.”
“Diego?” Sasha repeats. “What’s he doing here?”
“Crushing Holland into the sofa.”
“For real?” Sasha’s eyes widen. “Since when? What about Elodie?”
“I don’t know. It’s news to me.”
We walk up to my room and Sasha sits down at my desk. The Magic 8 Ball is resting on top of my computer monitor and Sasha picks it up, silently reads the message, and flips it back over again. She’s wearing a brown turtleneck and her hair looks freshly washed, like a shampoo commercial. I feel myself staring at her, taking in every single thing about her, and I try to stop, but it’s hard. “How’re you feeling?” I ask. The words sound as awkward as I feel, but it’s better than silence.
“My body feels weird,” she confesses, looking over at me on the bed. “Extra-sensitive, like things smell stronger than usual—I can smell the Christmas tree no matter where I am in the house—and my breasts are heavy.”
“I thought that kind of stuff didn’t happen until later.”
Sasha chews her lip. “I read about it. The counselor gave me some pamphlets and some women can feel it even earlier—nauseous and peeing a lot too.”
I’m about to ask if the counseling helped, but there’s something I need to get out first. “I’ve been thinking about it and I really think we can do this if you want to,” I say, my voice as level as I can manage under the circumstances. “I know it won’t be easy. I have no idea what it’s like to have a kid and I don’t know if I could be a good father, but I can try.” I smile, but my eyes don’t meet hers. “I’ll do whatever I can to help—babysit, do your homework for you, whatever you need.”
Sasha studies my face. One of her tiny hands disappears into her sleeve. “That wasn’t what you wanted, Nick.”
I hunch over and scratch my head. The weed wedged inside my stomach is actually a man-eating plant. It’s chewing its way out into the world bit by bit. What happens once it’s loose is anybody’s guess. “I know,” I tell her. “It was a shock, but I’ve been thinking about it the past couple days and maybe it’s the right thing.”
“Nick.” Sasha blinks quickly. “I don’t think so.” Her fingers peek out of her sleeve and then disappear again. “It’s great that you want to help, but I don’t think I can do it. At first I really thought I should have it, almost like I didn’t have a choice. It was like it happened and this is what I have to do, but…” Sasha rests her weight on her knees and looks into my face like it pains her to do it. “It was destroying me. It was like I couldn’t want anything for myself anymore. There was just this thing I had to do and that’s all that was left of me.”
“This isn’t because of your mom?” My throat’s sore as hell. It’s a miracle it even works.
“It’s not because of her and it’s not because of you either.” Sasha’s words are thin. They slow to a trickle as she continues. “The appointment’s next Wednesday. My mom’s bringing me. I’ll probably take the whole week off school.”
“Wednesday?” I repeat. “That’s so soon. We’ve barely even talked about it.”
“The sooner the better.” Sasha steps towards the bed. She sits down next to me. Our legs are touching and my face sinks into my hands. “You said you wanted what was best and this is best for both of us.”
“You’re fucking with my head,” I say. “It doesn’t even matter what I want, does it? It never mattered in the first place.”
Sasha reaches out and strokes my hair. “Don’t make it harder, Nick.”
My face is hot and I never want to look at her again.
“Nick?” she says softly. “Nick, are you going to talk to me or what?”
I close my eyes and listen to the sound of her voice. It’s still sweet and it shouldn’t be, considering what we’re talking about. “I don’t want to care what happens to you anymore,” I croak. “All this shit with you and you don’t even care. I’d get back together with you right now, you know that?” I raise my head and look at her. “Whether you want to have the kid or not because it’s you and it’s us. All that stuff you said about being on the same side—what happened to that? Because I was on your side, Sasha, and you weren’t on mine.”
“I was,” Sasha says sadly.
“No, you were on your side, looking out for you.”
“Then I didn’t do a very good job, did I?” Her eyes are red and I think I want to make her cry. She could cry over me at least twice. Anybody is worth that.
“This isn’t all my fault,” I rasp. “You were in this too, Sasha. I never made you do anything.”
“I never said you did,” she whispers.
We s
it silently on the bed, avoiding each other’s eyes. My head is throbbing. Everything I do is wrong. There’s no right thing between us anymore. “This isn’t going anywhere,” I say, and for a second it’s like I’ve been unplugged, like I can’t feel a thing.
“It’s not what I came to talk to you about.”
“I know,” I bark. “I’m still crazy and you’re fine. Don’t worry about it—I’ll get over it.”
“I’m not fine!” Her hands fly into the air. “I have bigger things to think about. This isn’t just about us. How do you think we’d get back together after this? Nothing would be the same. Look at us. We can’t even talk like normal people.”
I’m not sure that should be a goal—talking like normal people. I never thought we were normal people in the first place. Anyway, what I think doesn’t matter. It’s all over. I nod numbly and stare at my knees, feeling like a dead person.
“You think I’m not crazy anymore?” she cries hoarsely. “You think I don’t give a shit about you? You have no idea how much I wish this never happened.” She gets to her feet and grabs for the doorknob.
“Sit down,” I plead, reaching for it too. “I’m sorry.” My fingers automatically skim her hair. “I’m so fucked up, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Sasha sits down on my bed and presses her palms between her knees. “I feel sick,” she says, bending at the stomach. “Can you get me some water?”
I touch her shoulder. She looks pale as snow, almost translucent, just a turtleneck and wet eyes hovering above my bed. I bring her water and sit down at my desk. “I’m not over you,” I say honestly. “That’s the problem.”
Sasha lowers her glass and stares at me. “I’m not over you either.”
My stomach drops. I can’t take my eyes off her. “It makes it harder,” I confess. “I don’t know what to do.” I never knew what to do about Sasha anyway, but this is different. I have no chance of forgetting about her now.
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