Days That End in Y

by Vikki VanSickle

  “Small world,” Bill says.

  “I’m not here to spy on you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Bill’s smile falters a little bit, and I enjoy how nervous I am making him. Last night he saw me at my worst. I don’t want him to think that I am a stupid, emotional girl who bursts into tears at the drop of a hat. Bill is about to get a dose of the real Clarissa, smart mouth and all.

  “Not at all. Look, I’m sorry I upset you last night. I was just so surprised.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I buy you a hotdog?”

  “Okay.” Even tough girls like hotdogs.

  Bill and I walk over to the parking lot. Some dads have set up barbeques there and are selling hotdogs, chips, pop and juice, everything for a dollar.

  “Pick whatever you want to drink,” Bill says, like it’s some noble gesture. As if being able to choose a free pop makes everything better. The drinks are floating in a cooler packed with ice that has already started to melt. I pluck a can of iced tea out of the icy water, which is so cold it makes my knuckles ache. Bill buys me a bag of chips, too.

  He watches me as I take the hotdog. “What, no mustard?”

  I shake my head, daring him to contradict me. “I like it plain or with mayonnaise.”

  “Whatever you like,” he says.

  We head back to the tree line at the edge of the school, where it’s shady. It’s a good place to eat lunch. The grass is dry and prickly beneath my legs.

  I look over at the bleachers and spy Mrs. Greenblat watching us, a very stern expression on her face. It’s nice to know she’s so concerned about me. I wave at her so she knows that I’m okay and not about to be kidnapped by Bill. She waves back and visibly relaxes, sitting down and focusing on the game. I bet she’ll continue to steal glances at us until I make my way back to the bleachers.

  “So,” Bill says, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he waits for me to say something. I take a few big bites of my hotdog and chew really slowly, in no hurry to talk. Let him sweat it out for a bit. Turns out Bill is the kind of man who doesn’t like uncomfortable silences. He’s the first one to break.

  “You’re what, thirteen? Fourteen? Heading into grade nine in the fall?”

  “I want you to tell me about Jack Handover,” I say.

  Bill is taken aback, like I just threw him a wicked curveball. “Look, I shouldn’t have brought him up. It wasn’t my place.”

  “Well, you did, so now you owe it to me to tell me about him.” I am cold and unrelenting. Bill Davies has seen me cry, and now he will see how tough I can be.

  “Did you talk to your mother yet?”

  “I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Look, I really think we should just sit down with your mother and talk stuff out. I was actually going to track her down today, after the tournament.”

  “She won’t want to talk to you.”

  “She doesn’t have much of a choice.” Bill sounds serious, but I’m not about to let that deter me.

  “Don’t change the subject. Tell me about Jack Handover.”

  Bill cracks open his can of Coke and downs it in one gulp. It’s a lame attempt to buy himself time. “This is the strangest conversation I have ever had.”

  I have been very good at keeping calm, but my anger is back. It flares hot and ferocious, and I explode, words rushing out of my mouth, hot and angry. “How do you think I feel? Up until this summer I never thought of you, ever.” I enjoy the way this makes Bill flinch. “Then you appear, back in town, and I find out that not only did you not even know I existed, but apparently my mother had another boyfriend. How do I know Jack isn’t my father?” My voice breaks just slightly on Jack’s name, almost blowing my cover. Curse you, feelings! You’re going to ruin everything!

  Bill takes off his sunglasses, so he can look me in the eye. He hesitates, like he wants to touch me, but thinks better of it. “Clarissa, I’m sorry if I made you think that. I’m obviously your dad; I can tell by just looking at you.”

  He’s right. There is a striking family resemblance. I bet all the people here at the tournament are thinking, “Oh look, there’s a father and daughter having lunch on a nice summer day,” like it’s no big deal, like it’s something Bill and I do all the time. If only they knew the truth.

  “I should never have mentioned Jack; it was a dumb ass move on my part. I do a lot of dumb-ass things. I’m sure your mother has told you all about them.” Bill smiles ruefully when he says this, as if being cute and self-deprecating can make it all better.

  I do not return his smile. “No, actually. She never mentions you.” I say this with all the cool disdain I can muster after my eruption.

  “Well, that’s probably for the better.”

  “I wish I never met you.”

  Maybe that’s hitting below the belt, but I can’t help myself. I want him to feel as awful as I felt last night. I’m not even sure I mean it.

  Discovering your dad is not a reformed deadbeat, pining after his long-lost daughter, but is actually just an average guy who had no clue, is pretty bad. But at least I only had a few weeks to build up our reunion in my mind. That’s not such a long time. I could have spent years imagining our perfect reunion, only to be even more disappointed than I am now. What if I got some crazy idea in my head that I wanted my birth father to be at my wedding, only to discover that he was a big loser? Then my life would be like some weird, twisted version of Mamma Mia!, but with no singing and no handsome birth father.

  “I bet you do,” Bill says sadly.

  We’re both finished eating, and it feels like there is nothing left to say. I stand and wipe my hands on my shorts. “Thanks for the hotdog.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I should go back to my friends,” I say.

  Bill puts his sunglasses back on, stands, and then we hang out by the tree for a minute, not sure what to do next. “We’re not done here. I still need to talk to your mother. Maybe we can—”

  “Don’t bother,” I say, but I stop. Maybe it would be easiest to walk away and erase everything that happened this week. No one knows the whole story except me, Bill, Michael and maybe Mrs. Greenblat. I could lie and tell Benji I never went to the Lilac Motel. He’d be so relieved about not having to go there that he’d probably drop the subject of finding my father completely. I could forget all about running around like a maniac, trying to track Bill down. And after a while the details would become fuzzy, and this whole week would become a hazy memory. But he’s being so nice, I’m not sure what to do.

  “Can one of you please explain to me what the hell is going on here?”

  As I was saying, it might have been easiest to walk away, but unfortunately my mother decided to bring me a lunch. Now she’s standing in front of us, clutching a paper bag so hard her knuckles have turned white. I never should have told her where the tournament was.

  “Annie,” Bill says. “Long time no see.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Calm down.”

  Uh-oh. You never tell Annie Delaney to calm down. You would think an ex-boyfriend would remember that.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. I come looking for my daughter and find her sitting with you? You have ten seconds to explain what is going on before I completely lose it.”

  My mom doesn’t lose her temper often. When she gets angry she tends to get cold and mean. Now she looks about ready to explode. People are starting to notice.

  “She found me! Imagine my surprise when some kid — some teenager — waltzes up and says, ‘Hi, I’m your daughter.’ If anyone has some explaining to do, it’s you.”

  I don’t like the way he calls me “some kid.” Not that I was ever on his side, but I’m feeling less sorry about the royal smackdown he’s about to get from my mother.

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you. It was years ago. We were over. You moved away. The end.”

  “That’s bull, Annie, and you know it.
You could have got ahold of me if you wanted to. They have phones in Vancouver, you know. And the internet. Were you just never going to tell me?”

  A small crowd has gathered, and pretty soon there are more people watching us than the baseball game.

  “And what was she missing, exactly? What would you have offered?”

  Bill tries another tactic. Maybe he’s noticed the crowd and decided he doesn’t want to be labelled public enemy number one. “Let’s go someplace else to talk about this. I don’t really want to put Clarissa through this.”

  So he does remember my name.

  “Don’t you tell me what my daughter has and hasn’t been through. You spend five minutes with her and you think you know what’s best for her?”

  In some ways, I feel like I’m watching a play: Shakespeare in the Park, or a trashy, small-town version of it. I almost forget the person they’re arguing about is me.

  “What’s going on here? Annie, are you okay?”

  Doug appears, carrying three ice cream cones. I could faint from embarrassment. The Shakespeare-in-the-Park version of my life has now officially become a soap opera. Behind me, people are whispering, relishing the drama of it all.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The boyfriend.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “Her ex. That’s their kid.”

  Mom looks like she might be sick. Either that, or she’s steeling herself to attack Bill. “Doug, just give me a minute. Take Clarissa and go home. I’ll meet you there.”

  Doug doesn’t look convinced, possibly because Bill has started ranting. “You don’t get to decide what did and didn’t happen, Annie! You tell her I’m not a bad guy; that you’re the one who cheated on me. You were messing around with Jack for weeks before you had the guts — no, the decency — to break it off with me. You know, if it wasn’t for the resemblance, I’d demand a paternity test. Given her age, I’d say she has a fifty-fifty chance of being his kid.”

  The rest happens so quickly, it takes a moment for my brain to catch up with what I’m seeing. Doug shoves all three ice cream cones into my hands, saying, “Hold these.”

  Then he steps between Mom and Bill, hands out, like a peacekeeper. “I get that you’re mad, Bill, but let’s all take it down a notch.”

  But Bill is too angry. “Who do you think you are?” He lunges forward, arm spring-loaded and ready to fly.

  “Don’t!”

  The scream that comes out of Mom’s throat is ragged and demanding, like one of those ancient Greek super-goddesses who can freeze people with just her voice. Or maybe I made that up. I don’t pay a lot of attention in history. She throws herself at Bill, wrapping herself around his arm. He looks at his fist, as if he’s not sure what to do with the human mitten that has attached itself to him. I’m so shocked, I don’t even move to wipe the chocolate ice cream that is running down my hand.

  A TOTALLY WEIRD DAY

  Not surprisingly, we are all asked to leave the tournament.

  Mom calms down enough to agree to sit and talk with Bill.

  “I want to come,” I say.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Doug says, steering me in the opposite direction, toward the parking lot. “We need to give those two some time to talk things out. They have a lot to catch up on.”

  I am incredulous. “And you’re just going to let her go with him? A violent man like that? Aren’t you mad?”

  “I’m mad at myself for letting the situation escalate like that.”

  “He was going to hit you!”

  Doug looks stern. “And I might have hit him back, if your mother hadn’t stepped in.” He shakes his head, clearly disappointed in himself. “No matter what happens, it is never okay to sock someone in the face, okay, Clarissa?”

  I try hard not to roll my eyes. “Well, obviously. How long do you think this talk will take?”

  “An hour, maybe two.”

  “I hate that they’re talking about me and I’m not allowed to be there.”

  “They’re trying to figure out what’s best for you.”

  “Without even consulting me? Don’t I get a say in what I want?”

  Doug sighs. “You know what I want? To go bowling. It’ll help take our mind off things.”

  So we end up at Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl. The only other people at the bowling alley are some kids at a birthday party. They’re wearing party hats and shrieking away in the kids’ lane, the one with the bright yellow bumpers lining the gutters. One of the kids has tied balloons to his wrists and keeps jumping off the chairs, like maybe he thinks he’ll actually fly. Kids can be so dumb.

  Doug and I play one full game, but my heart isn’t in it. I let him win, and then I go see if Charity is working at the snack bar, promising to bring back fries. Sure enough, there she is, leaning over the counter, reading a magazine, slowly dipping her finger in and out of a giant cup of Coke.

  “Hey, Charity.”

  Charity is thrilled to see me. She smiles, and her eyes light up. I am reminded of how star quality really isn’t something you can fake. No wonder Benji has a crush on her. “Clarissa! Thank god you’re here. I was just about to die of boredom. What’s up?”

  What’s up? My mom’s getting married on Sunday, and my long-lost dad just about got in a fist fight with her fiancé. That’s what up. But enough people in this town already know my business, so what I say is, “Nothing much.”

  “Nothing much here, either. Except the showcase, of course.” Charity is a bona-fide actress, dedicated to her craft. She does commercials in addition to starring in all the local theatre productions. She even had two lines in a TV show once.

  “Dean is the best thing that ever happened to us,” she goes on. “He’s the real deal, you know? I mean he’s studying theatre in the city and seeing all sorts of really ground-breaking shows … He’s really turned things around.”

  “Yeah, Benji seems to think so. He talks about Dean the way he used to talk about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were his theatre idol; he used to go around quoting everything you said. Now Dean is the one he can’t stop talking about. No offence.”

  Charity laughs. “None taken. Dean is all any of us are talking about. Have you met him?”

  “Once. At the mall.”

  Charity leans over the counter as if she’s about to share a secret. “Cute, right?”

  “Isn’t he a little old for you?”

  “Not really. Three years isn’t that big a difference.”

  “Do you think he’s interested in you?”

  Charity shrugs. “I can’t tell yet. But let’s just say I’ve started to wear mascara to rehearsal.”

  I can’t help but laugh. When Charity wants something, she usually gets it. Poor Teen Dream Dean doesn’t stand a chance. I wonder if Benji knows. He can’t seriously think he stands a chance against Dean, can he?

  “Come on, wouldn’t you?” she asks.

  “Nope. He’s all yours.”

  “Oh right, I forgot you’re taken. You only have eyes for that baseball player.”

  “His name is Michael, and I am not taken. Mostly I watch him play baseball,” I admit.

  “Sounds like love to me. Can you even name a single baseball team?”

  “A real one?”

  “A professional team, yes.”

  “The Toronto Blue Jays.”

  “Doesn’t count. Everyone knows them. Name another one.”

  I think of all the times Michael has given me recaps of “incredible” games that I’ve missed. Usually, I just nod and think about how adorable he looks when he’s excited, so no actual team names come to mind. I take a stab in the dark. “The Red … Wings?”

  “That’s hockey.”

  “The Red … Sox?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Fine. So I only go to baseball games because Michael’s there. Isn’t that what people do where they’re—”

  “Dating?” Charity finish
es, grinning wickedly at me. She’s enjoying this way too much.

  Then, abruptly, she changes the subject. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is everything okay with Benji?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s nothing, but he seems a little off lately.”

  “Off, how?”

  “Sort of distant. Like he’s hiding something.”

  Before I thought I was being extra-sensitive because of everything else that’s going on in my life, but now I’m not so sure. If Charity’s picked up on Benji’s weird behaviour, that means something is definitely up with him. “What sort of things have you noticed?” I ask.

  “Little things. Like usually a bunch of us take break together, go and talk to Dean, ask him about what school is like, but lately he hangs back and pretends to read his script.”

  “How do you know he’s pretending?”

  “Because I’ve caught him staring at me a few times. And yesterday Dean offered to drive me home after rehearsal, and when I told Benji I couldn’t walk with him, he sort of shut down. Then this morning he barely said hello.”

  For Benji to not be overly polite is alarming. “Weird,” I say.

  “I know,” Charity agrees. “Does Benji ever talk to you about girls? Like a crush?”

  “No, but I don’t talk about boys much, either. He embarrasses too easily.”

  “And you two never …?” Charity trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

  “Never what?”

  “You know, dated.”

  “God, no!”

  “Not even a kiss?”

  “Never. I don’t think of him like that. He’s like my brother.”

  “And you think he feels the same way about you?”

  “I know he does.”

  “Okay. Did you ever think—” Charity stops and takes a long sip of her drink.

  “What?”

  Charity continues, “Never mind. It’s none of my business. I feel kinda bad, picking the poor guy apart. Can’t a person have a few bad days? The bottom line is, the Benj is a straight-up cool guy, and we should cut him some slack.”

  “If you say so.”