She kept right on going. “I was still on the phone with Marine when call waiting popped up and I thought it was going to be Sasha’s mom calling back to tell me where you and Kevin were but it was Paige. Paige had woken up, too, and wanted to know what all the fuss was about, and when they told her, she calmly said, ‘Have you checked the balcony? Nat is probably sleeping under the stars.’ And here you are.”
“Correction: I was sleeping under the stars.”
“You should have left me a note in the kitchen. I was worried sick.”
“I’m sorry. I just never thought it would be a problem.”
I traipsed back to my bedroom, then, because the sun rises awfully early at this time of year. It took me quite a while to get back to sleep after that tirade. Now I know how stressed out I’ve made my mother with the P&P (party and police) incident. I’m going to have to straighten up because I don’t think she’s too stable. I’ve never seen her talk a mile a minute like that. Maybe she’s feeling especially fragile with everything that’s going on in her own life these days. Everything she’s still keeping in.
It’s kind of funny that she’s done some of the ground work. I’m dying to know where Kevin is too. Now I can scratch his mom and directory assistance off the list.
Evening
Mom and I have pretty much avoided each other all day. I’ve had a lot of time to think. I’m starting to come around to Lisa’s perspective. It sucks that Kevin did what he did and then vanished. He knows where I am. He could have found me.
It hurts.
Monday, August 16th, morning
Am having a major mope fest. Tried Googling and 411ing Kevin and his tree-planting company—no results. Combed my memory for “Diane”—has Sasha ever mentioned her? Was that the name of the woman Kevin supposedly knocked up last year? Maybe she did keep the baby. Maybe Kevin is a father! If so, it’s pretty cruel of Mrs. V. to cut off the mother of her own grandchild! Doesn’t Kevin have a legal obligation to pay child support? Or maybe he denies it—maybe they’re demanding proof of paternity, like on those talk shows where they make the guests argue for the whole show before they finally announce the results of a DNA test.
Mom just headed out again. Said she had to stop by the school. Yeah, sure. She’d fluffed up her hair and was wearing a new dress. The smell of sandalwood hung in the air. Her cheeks were pink from excitement, rather than makeup, I think. She has always pooh-poohed cosmetics. Unless … could she be a “lipstick lesbian”? That might explain her new interest in perfume. Guys at school talk about lipstick lesbians: They watch them on those porn sites with free video clips. I’m not sure if they exist in real life, though. It didn’t come up in Health class.
Should I raid the fridge to get my mind off all this? Mom would lose herself in a book.
Phone—saved!
Later
That was Petra!
She’s participating in a choreographers’ festival in Vancouver. It takes place the weekend after next. She hired professionals to remount the piece she set on our summer school, but one of them twisted her ankle and has to pull out. Petra was panicking, not sure if she could get anyone to learn it in time, when she remembered me.
She has invited me to perform!
I am going to dance professionally in Vancouver!
I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that this is the BEST THING that has ever happened to me at the BEST POSSIBLE TIME.
I’ve got to do laundry and pack. And go to that stupid appointment. I leave tomorrow morning—provided Mom approves, of course. But she will. It’ll be good for both of us.
Monday night
Holy crap. That sucked.
Lisa said the testing wouldn’t be too bad, but I think she forgot that I’d never had a pelvic exam before. Why would I? I wasn’t “sexually active.” And I’m still not. I don’t think one time counts as “active.” Like, if you do one long distance run one time and then stop working out completely, I don’t think you can honestly call yourself “physically active.” So why should it be different for sex?
The clinic was about a thousand times worse than the drugstore. I got lectured at both places, but at least in the drugstore I got to keep my clothes on. At least there, I didn’t have to lie back, naked except for a scratchy paper sheet, my feet in stirrups like I was about to give birth. At least there, no one stuck things inside me—something big and plastic, like a water gun; something dry and wooden, like a Popsicle stick; something that wasn’t a thing at all, but gloved and lubed fingers. I yelped. The doctor—and, oh yeah, it was a male doctor—kept telling me to relax in a crooning voice that I found totally creepy. A female assistant was looking on. That was supposed to make me feel more comfortable, but it didn’t help one bit.
When the two of them finally ran out of things to do, they left the room to let me get dressed. It felt goopy where the lube had been. I should have wiped with a tissue from the box the woman waved at me, but I was in too much of a hurry to cover up. I thought I could split, but there was more. The woman came back, tied a tourniquet around my arm, and told me to make a fist. She said, “You might want to look away,” but I watched. She stuck a needle in my elbow and filled up two vials with my blood. It made me feel queasy and light-headed.
As I staggered out, the receptionist stopped me. She wanted to know where to send the results, so that was another problem. I had to call Lisa at work. Luckily, the lady at the clinic said it was okay to send the results to Lisa’s place.
“We’ll see you next year.” Her voice was chirpy, like a hostess at The Keg.
I just stared at her. No, you WON’T.
But I glanced at the pamphlets they’d loaded me up with as I walked home. I read that sometimes the infections won’t show up in tests until months later. Also, once you’ve become “sexually active,” you should keep having a pelvic exam every year, even if you stop having sex!
I threw the pamphlets away in a street-corner garbage can.
So here I am. Presumed healthy until proven infected.
Tuesday, August 17th
I’m sprawled on a life jacket container on the upper deck. The sun is shining and tourists stroll past. They snap photos and point at the islands. The ocean stretches blue and choppy on all sides. Otters dive and seagulls ride the ferry’s backdraft. The wind lifts my hair, and the sleeves of my jacket ripple and snap like flags. Every so often I see a dark-haired, lanky guy, and my body tenses. I’m looking for Kevin everywhere.
A girl about my age is standing at the edge of the deck, forearms propped on the railing. Her shoulder blades wing out of her back like Sasha’s. I guess it makes sense that I would see her everywhere too.
The girl just turned her head in the direction of Victoria and scowled.
It is Sasha!
Later
When I realized that Sasha was on the ferry, I zigzagged through passengers to her side. “Hey.”
She wouldn’t look at me. She held the side of the ship and I stood beside her, facing the scenery. Others lined the railing, laughing and talking. The two of us were trapped inside a bubble of tension.
“Why don’t you just leave me alone?” Sasha clenched her jaw.
My arms pulled tight against my ribs as if I’d been shoved. I took a few breaths before speaking. “I don’t want to leave you.”
We stood in silence as the Gulf Islands unspooled before us: evergreens, cliffs of gray rock, and rust-colored arbutus trees that reached for the water.
Sasha sniffed a few times and wiped her face with her sleeve. I pretended not to notice she was crying. Her voice was hoarse and shaky when she finally spoke. “I’m running away. Things are totally out of control at home. Dad is trying to get Mom to go for treatment but there’s a wait list. He’s never home anymore. He sleeps in his office or stays in his friend’s basement.”
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br /> An image of Mrs. V. holding a tumbler of whiskey and swearing at Sasha from the front door came back to me. “So you’re alone with your mom?”
She fixed me with her gaze for the first time that day. Mascara had smudged around her bloodshot eyes. Her punk-rock appearance matched her words. “It’s fucking brutal.”
Her dad is trying to get his own apartment for September first and wants Sasha to move in with him.
“Mom’s threatening to kill herself. Like, she says, ‘I might as well slit my wrists if you move out. I’ll have nothing left to live for.’”
“Is she serious?”
“Does that sound like a joke you?”
“No, of course not.” I bit my lips. Mrs. V. was way more messed up than I ever imagined. “Do you think she’d really do it?”
Sasha shrugged. “She’s going to kill herself one way or another if she doesn’t get some serious help.”
It sucks to be fifteen! This has got to be the worst possible age in life. We have adult experiences, adult responsibilities, adult worries, but a kid’s resources. We need support. We need role models. We need attention and love. Sometimes we even need supervision! But most adults can’t even take care of themselves. They just give little kids the illusion that they’re in control. At fifteen, you see through it and discover you’re on your own.
“So what are you doing on the ferry by yourself? Getting revenge because you didn’t get to go to Toronto? Gee, Nat, life is rough.”
I had to tell her about Petra’s invitation.
“Aren’t you the special one? I’d better be on my way. Don’t want to drag the prima donna down with my problems.”
I weathered her sarcasm. If there was ever a time not to take what she said personally, this was obviously it. I urged her to bus into downtown Vancouver with me. The thought of her wandering around by herself made me sick. We both knew that dealers and pimps lay in wait for girls like her. When she finally agreed to come with me, her face relaxed a bit. On the ride into town, her mood improved enough that she wanted to categorize the other passengers. The “blue-hairs” who ride the ferry free on weekdays and take the city bus to the mall. The neo-hippies with dreadlocks, mud-caked boots, and enormous backpacks who appear to have just left the bush after months of squatting, but who never actually leave the city limits. The mothers who struggle up the steps, block the aisle with strollers, and receive two kinds of stares: either, Isn’t that cute? or, Can’t you make that baby stop screaming?
At the bus stop, Petra looked startled to see two of us, but she invited Sasha to stay the night at her place. Petra lives with her boyfriend, Michel, who’s away until the weekend. As soon as we arrived at their apartment—a character suite in a house with a bay window, an alcove kitchen, and a fire escape balcony—Sasha called her dad (at Petra’s insistence) and worked it out: She’ll stay here with Petra and me for the next three days while her dad arranges a place for them to stay. In the meantime, Sasha can take the warm-up class Petra gives to her dancers, watch rehearsals, and hang out with me. She also offered to poster for the show.
I hate to think of where she might have ended up tonight if I hadn’t run into her. But it’s freaking weird to be sleeping next to her on a blow-up mattress when not long ago I shared a bed with her brother! I haven’t dared mention his name.
Wednesday, August 18th
This morning, Sasha and I pulled stools to the kitchen counter and ate breakfast while Petra made herself a sandwich. She offered to pack lunches for all of us, but, to save her trouble, I said that we wanted to try some of the local restaurants. It was sort of true. Since I discovered Con Brio, I enjoy eating out: It makes me feel older.
Petra caught me scraping my unfinished oatmeal into the garbage. “Didn’t you like it?”
“It’s not that—I’m just too nervous to eat!”
Petra snapped the lettuce container shut and stowed it in the fridge. “Don’t be intimidated. Just use the rehearsal as a learning opportunity. I’ve got full confidence in your ability—and yours too, Sasha.”
Sasha was reading the Georgia Strait. She grunted without looking up.
We bussed to the rehearsal hall on the edge of downtown. A skateboard shop with iron grids in all the windows occupied the ground floor. Petra stopped at the landing beside it and pulled open a heavy door. A long, narrow staircase led up to the second floor, where the studio awaited us.
Sasha said, “I don’t think I’ll take class, after all. I want to explore.”
Panic surged in my chest. “Are you sure?”
I hoped Petra would encourage Sasha to stay, but she held the door handle in silence. Judging by the concentration on her face, her mind was already in the studio. Sasha patted her backpack, which held a roll of packing tape and a stack of posters. “I’ll hit some lampposts along the way.” We arranged to meet on Robson later. I tried to send telepathic messages: Stay out of trouble. Take care of yourself.
Upstairs, a high-ceilinged, rectangular room with latticed windows and one mirrored wall formed the rehearsal space. The four other dancers were already stretching on the floor. Petra introduced me to Katrina, Halle, Beth, and Monique. They nodded and said, “Hi.” Would I even remember their names? I followed Petra to a curtained alcove where we changed into our dance clothes.
“Ready?” she said.
“I hope so.”
She touched my shoulder. “You’ll do fine.”
Petra launched into the warm-up class with no introduction. She kept up a fast pace and didn’t give much feedback; she obviously wanted to warm up our bodies rather than actually instruct. The inside of my chest hollowed out. I really had to work to keep up with these women, these professional dancers. They looked so strong and moved with such power. I felt small and awkward in comparison.
My confidence trickled back when we ran the piece. I had already performed the dance and the others were still learning it. “Since you already know the material, think of enriching your movement,” Petra said. She suggested that I watch the other dancers, look for qualities that I liked, and experiment with them. “Don’t worry about copying them,” she said. “It always looks different on another body.”
After rehearsal, the others checked cell phone messages as they thrust arms into sleeves and pulled on pants. Everyone hurried except Monique, a petite twenty-two-year-old from Quebec, who asked me questions and chatted about herself. She finished a dance degree in Montreal just a few months ago, and she still feels a bit out of place in Vancouver. “It’s tough coming to a new town, especially when it’s not your culture,” she said. We descended the stairs together, slowly. I liked to kick out my foot and let it hover in the air until gravity pulled me down and I sank to the next step, bending my knee like a spring. Monique noticed what I was doing and followed suit. “That makes me feel loose in my joints,” she said. “Thank you, Natalie!” I like the way she says my name, which according to her is French. She puts equal stress on all three syllables: Na-ta-lie, and she really pronounces the t. In English, everyone says, Na-duh-lie.
When we reached the street, she checked her watch. “Oh, mon Dieu, I’ve got to run! I have to be at work. À demain!” The sidewalk was too crowded for running; she skipped and hopped to dodge people, and turned at the corner.
I still had half an hour, so I found a coffee shop and ordered a tuna melt. I needed to fortify myself before meeting Sasha. She probably wanted to check out the clothing stores on Robson Street. She likes to try on designer stuff and then buy second-hand clothes to mimic the style with her own twist. She should really look into fashion design as a career. I was making a mental note to suggest it when the waitress set my plate in front of me. Gooey orange cheddar dribbled over the sides of the open-faced Kaiser bun. A crisp dill pickle for garnish. My mouth watered. After skipping breakfast and dancing all morning, I was starved.
Lat
er
At our meeting spot, Sasha grabbed my elbow and pulled me down the street. We walked for a few blocks without stopping. She showed no interest in any of the stores we passed. At the entrance to an office building, an alcove formed a haven from pedestrian traffic. She halted with her back to the street and opened her pack. “Look what I got!”
A silky dress, marked down to $120, in peacock blue and emerald green. The material slid under my hand and I longed to feel it swirl around my legs. “Gorgeous.”
Sasha smiled and stuffed the dress into her backpack. That’s when I noticed there was no store bag. I stiffened. “How did you afford this?”
“Boring question, Nat. You think it’s gorgeous?”
“I said so. But … how did you pay for it?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Sasha, answer me.”
She hummed to flaunt the fact that she was ignoring me.
“Did you steal it?”
“How would I steal it? You know the kinds of security systems they have in those places.”
“You just answered my question with a question.”
“You just answered my question with a question,” she mocked.
“Listen, Sasha. I hooked you up with a place to stay in Vancouver. We’re Petra’s guests and there’s no way I want her to be getting a call from the cops to come and bail you out for shoplifting!”
A passerby glanced in at us, startled, and Sasha glared at me. “Keep your voice down!”
She slung the bag over her shoulder and started walking. The Choreofest posters caught my eye in the outer pocket of her pack. She had no right to represent Petra. I hurried to keep up with her. She teetered on the curb at a red light, scanning oncoming traffic for a break, her chin jutted out. Steady traffic kept her from jaywalking. A cop car idled in the left turn lane.
We turned up a side street where the crowds thinned out. “Look, Nat, I’m sick of you playing all high and mighty with me. I know exactly what you’ve been up to this summer.”
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