Love is a Four-Letter Word

by Vikki VanSickle

  “You don’t have to run the whole thing, lots of people walk it,” Denise explained. “It’s the thought that counts. Well, that and the sponsors. Besides, I could use a little tuning up.” Denise attempted to flex her arm and ended up flapping the skin where the triceps should be. Disgusting.

  Mom and Denise are perfectly positioned to get lots of donations. Mom set up a stand with flyers and information on how to donate right at the front desk when you walk into the Hair Emporium. All of my mom’s clients already knew about her having cancer and they just love her to pieces, so of course everyone can find a little something to donate. Denise spends most of her time sweet-talking people into buying lipstick, so it’s not hard for her to talk up her best friend’s battle with cancer and how they’re doing something to give back.

  “Hey there, Minipop!”

  I didn’t think it was possible to meet someone more annoying than Denise. I was wrong. I just hadn’t met Janine yet. After training, Janine and Denise come over for tea and protein bars, taking over the kitchen with their gossiping and casual stretching. The whole room smells like Lycra. In order to get to the cereal, I have to duck under Janine’s leg, propped up on the counter for a hamstring stretch.

  I mumble a reply and rummage in the fridge for whatever milk substitute my mother is subjecting us to this week. Looks like soy. Oh well, soy milk is better than goat’s milk.

  “Your mom tells us you’re going to be a big star,” Janine chirps.

  “Well I don’t know,” I demur. “I haven’t got in yet.”

  “What, are you crazy?” Denise cries. “You’re the biggest drama queen I know! Of course you’ll get in!”

  The ladies titter at Denise’s bad joke.

  “We’ll be able to say we knew you when,” Mom says with a smile. “You and Benji both.”

  “Who’s Benji?” Janine asks. “Your boyfriend?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, he’s just a friend.” After seven years of people assuming Benji is my boyfriend it doesn’t bother me anymore.

  “Oh sure, for now,” Janine says, leaning in and giving me a wink. “But you’d like him to be more, right?”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, Clarissa,” Denise says. “Falling in love with Benji is a recipe for disaster. Remember George Blakely?” She looks at Janine and Mom and all three nod and make sad noises.

  “I am not in love with Benji. I am not in love with anyone, thank you very much.”

  “Good for you, Minipop. Love is more trouble than it’s worth. Look at my husband, Gary. A more clueless man you’ve never met. Spends half his time at work, half his time with the boys doing god-knows what. I’d probably be better off with a mop. But I love the guy, so here we are.”

  Poor Gary. I’d make myself scarce if Janine was my wife, too.

  “Don’t scare the poor girl, Janine!” Denise scolds. “Some men are worth the trouble. Like Doug … wouldn’t you agree, Annie?” Both women look slyly at my mother, who has been suspiciously quiet this whole time.

  Mom smiles her blithe, Mona Lisa smile. “He is what they call a good egg.”

  Denise snorts. “A good egg? He’s an omelette!”

  Janine shakes her head. “Honey, that man is a whole chicken!” She high-fives Denise and the two of them howl with laughter.

  If you ask me, there are two too many people in the kitchen. Mom looks at me and winks.

  “Annie, can you give me a little trim?” Janine asks.

  “Sure, let me get settled.” Mom heads down to the Hair Emporium and Denise helps herself to a third protein bar.

  “Well if you’re going to get your hair done, I might as well stick around and chat for a bit,” she says.

  Janine smiles at me. “What do you say, Minipop? Wanna join the girls for some girl talk?”

  I’ve spent a lot of time with girls today. Besides, I can think of a million things I’d rather do than talk about menopause or dating after forty with Denise and Janine. Luckily, the perfect excuse lives right next door.

  “No, thanks. I told Benji I’d stop by.” And before anyone can make another egg joke, I’m gone.

  Gone

  “What in God’s name is the matter?”

  I step back, surprised to see Benji’s father on the other side of the door. He is rumpled and grumpy looking with pillow creases on his rather stubbly cheek. Normally he’d be at work at this time. He must be on nights this week, which means I’ve interrupted his sleep. Waking Mr. Denton is kind of like waking a bear; a big, hockey-playing bear. Not a good idea if you can help it. There’s a reason his old hockey buddies still call him the Dentonator; years after his days as a goon on the local Junior A team, he still looks like he could knock you right into the Arctic Circle with one shoulder.

  “Oh, sorry Mr. D. I was looking for Benji.”

  “He’s not here. He had to go to the theatre for something or other.”

  “The theatre?”

  The Dentonator grunts. “That’s what he said. I figured you were with him. Didn’t you know? Well?”

  I’m so caught off guard it takes me a moment to realize that the Dentonator is staring at me, waiting for me to say something. “I’m not sure, Mr. D. He never mentioned anything about the theatre to me.”

  The Dentonator frowns. “Huh? I thought you two were attached at the brain.”

  It is weird. Benji never does anything without telling me about it. Why would he go to the theatre without me? Then again, I went to the park with Mattie without inviting him. A pang of guilt stabs me in the gut. What if he called and found out I was with Mattie? What if he saw us leave the house? Maybe this was karma.

  “Did he say when he’d be back?” I ask.

  “Nope, but I’ll tell him you were here.” And with that the Dentonator shuts the door, probably lumbering back to his room to hibernate.

  I have to do something to keep my mind off Benji’s mysterious trip to the theatre. Television didn’t work. Homework certainly didn’t work. How am I supposed to focus on exponents when my best friend is hiding something from me? I couldn’t even paint my toenails. Where is Benji? What is taking him so long? I positioned myself in the dining room so I can see the Dentons’ side door — the only door they ever use. When Benji comes home, I’ll be the first to know.

  Four o’clock slips by, then four-thirty, and somehow it’s five. I can hear Mom chatting away to a client, laughter travelling up the air vents from the basement to the dining room. It’s a nice sound. She’s almost back to a full-time schedule. At first she was worried that her customers would find a new stylist. She underestimates the power of a good head massage. That plus the vanilla-scented candles.

  Unable to stand it a second longer, I shove my arms into my jacket, run down the basement stairs, and stick my head into the Hair Emporium.

  “Mom? I’m going to the theatre.”

  Mom looks over from blowdrying Mrs. Seto’s hair. “It’s almost dinner,” she says.

  “I won’t be long,” I promise.

  Mrs. Seto sits up, flipping her freshly cut hair back over her shoulders. “Clarissa, I heard you auditioned for the musical.”

  I shoot Mom a look. I know she’s a hair stylist and everything, but does everyone have to know our business?

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “But I don’t think it went very well.”

  “That’s too bad,” says Mrs. Seto. “I’m stage-managing and if you want to get involved we always need people backstage, or making props and costumes.”

  Costumes! Of course! Benji probably went to the theatre to submit his costume designs. It’s so obvious I feel stupid for not figuring it out before. I’m so relieved and grateful to Mrs. Seto I tell her that I would think about joining her crew. Unlikely. I am meant to be on stage, not behind it.

  I go to the theatre anyway, to walk Benji home. I’m so proud of him. Benji is a really great artist. He draws all sorts of things, from comics to costume designs to goofy cards. If he wasn’t so darn shy maybe he’d get more r
ecognition. I don’t understand him sometimes. You can bet if I could draw even half as well as he can, I’d be showing the whole world. It must be nice to be that good at something. I was kind of hoping that acting would be my thing, but that didn’t seem to be working out as well as I’d hoped. If only I could sing. I bet if my mother had put me in singing lessons when I was little I’d be just as good as Charity Smith-Jones. Maybe I would be the one with the Tim Hortons commercial.

  At the theatre, the parking lot is surprisingly full. People are hanging around the front steps in groups of twos and threes, chatting. I weave through them to the big double doors and head inside. In the lobby, a desk is sitting in front of the auditorium doors, just like it was at the auditions. The sign that reads SHHH! AUDITIONS IN PROCESS is still taped to the front from yesterday. I can hear muffled voices from inside the auditorium, but there is no one in the lobby.

  I wonder if they’ve started rehearsals already. That seems pretty soon after auditions to me, but what do I know about theatre? I can’t even get a part in a stupid community show. I can feel a bad mood coming on like a storm in August, but I try to shake it off. If I could just find Benji we could leave and I could go back to having a good day. Being at the theatre reminds me of how awful my audition was. This must be what criminals feel when they return to the scene of a crime.

  The corkboard beside the drinking fountain is covered in posters for music lessons and art clubs. So what if I’m not a good actress? Maybe I could take up an instrument. It would be pretty cool to play the fiddle. I think about tearing off one of the strips with a phone number for a music teacher named Miss Bell. That can’t be a coincidence. Then I see the schedule. Across the top it reads WIZARD OF OZ CALLBACKS. Underneath is a list of time slots with names pencilled in beside them. Halfway down the page, next to the slot labelled 3 to 5 pm, is Benjamin Denton.

  Lies

  I’m still staring at the callback schedule when the doors swing open and people pour out of the auditorium. I jump away from the notice board, ripping off one of Miss Bell’s phone numbers. I study it intently, like maybe I’m trying to memorize the number by heart. Someone with untied shoelaces stops a few steps away from me. I’d recognize those shoes anywhere. Benji is the only person I know who can wear shoes without tying them up and not trip all over his own feet.

  “Clarissa?” he says. “What are you doing here?”

  Do I detect a note of suspicion? I look up. Benji is flushed.

  “What are you doing here?” I repeat.

  Benji looks helplessly at the schedule. He doesn’t need to say anything. We both know I’ve seen it.

  “Oh, right, your callback.”

  “I was going to tell you …” Benji starts weakly, but I cut him off.

  “When?” I demand.

  Benji shrugs. He looks miserable. I feel bad. If I was Benji, would I want to tell me about the callback? Probably not. He’s always thinking about how other people feel. Time to change tactics.

  “Well? How did it go?”

  Benji brightens a little but he still looks wary. “Actually, I think it went really well.” He breaks into a smile. “Really, really well.”

  My heart lurches with jealousy. “Really? That’s great.” My voice sounds strained, but Benji doesn’t seem to notice.

  “So, what are you doing here?” Benji asks again.

  “I thought you came by to drop off your sketches. I came to pick you up.”

  Benji smiles widely. “Thanks.”

  Another group of people swings through the auditorium doors, including Charity Smith-Jones. She spots us and waves. “Hey, Benjamin. I really liked what you did in there. Good stuff!”

  Benji blushes. “Thanks, Charity. You were really great. I hope you get the part.”

  Charity looks over her shoulder at her friends, who are all much older. She leans in and whispers, “Don’t tell those guys I said this, but I hope you do, too.” Then she winks and jogs off to join the other kids who are now breaking into what I can only imagine is the audition dance.

  The second we’re out of earshot I turn around and give Benji the eye. “Hey, Benjamin? Thanks, Charity? You’re on a first-name basis with her now?”

  “She’s really nice,” Benji claims. “And she’s a really good singer.” He pauses before adding, “She’s probably going to get Dorothy. Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I sigh, even though, in my opinion, that is the kind of information he could have kept to himself. Reluctantly I ask, “So, tell me what happened.”

  It turns out he got a callback for the Cowardly Lion. He had to learn a bit of a song and part of a dance routine. Then they made him read lines with Charity and another girl I’ve never heard of before.

  “Wow, Benji. That’s great.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, Clarissa. I wanted to, but then Mattie said —”

  I stop walking.

  “Wait — Mattie said? Mattie knew about this?”

  “I had to tell someone,” he says plaintively, “and I knew you were upset about your audition so I called Mattie and asked her what I should do.”

  So many light bulbs are going off inside my head it must be like Christmas in there. Mattie was the one who said not to call Benji. Mattie was the one who wanted to leave the house and hang out at the park, which is in the opposite direction of the theatre. It was all a plot to keep me in the dark.

  “Clarissa, please don’t be mad. You know you would’ve been upset! I saw your face in there, you were upset! I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings …” Benji trails off.

  “I know,” I grumble.

  “I hate it when you’re mad,” Benji finishes.

  “I’m not mad,” I protest.

  Which is true. I’m not mad. At him.

  For the rest of the walk home, I try to convince Benji that I’m not mad and pretend that everything is normal between us. It is the best performance of my life. If only the audition panel could see me now.

  The second I get home I fly in the door and run for the phone.

  “Hey there, missy, dinner is in two minutes —”

  “One sec, Mom!”

  I dodge past her and start dialling Mattie’s number without even taking my coat or shoes off.

  Mattie answers on the second ring. “Hello, Cohen residence.”

  “It’s Clarissa.”

  “Hi, Clarissa! What’s up?”

  “You told me you wanted to spend time just us girls,” I say.

  “I don’t understand …”

  “This afternoon! At the park! You said you wanted to hang out just us girls!”

  I’m yelling now. Mom comes into the living room, frowning. “Clarissa, what on earth —”

  “You lied to me! You knew Benji had that callback and you didn’t want me to know so you lied to me! And you got Benji to lie to me!”

  “No, I didn’t —” Mattie protests.

  “Yes, you did!”

  “Benji was worried you’d be upset and listen to you, you ARE upset! You would have ruined his callback!”

  I’m so offended I don’t even know what to say. Mattie keeps going. “He needed your support but you would have freaked out, so I told him to wait. It was best for you and Benji! If you would just calm down and let me explain it to you, I’m sure you’d agree.”

  “Don’t tell me what’s best for me!” I shout. “You barely know me! And you don’t know Benji like I do! I would never upset him, I’m happy for him. The only person I’m mad at is you.”

  “Clarissa, I can explain,” Mattie whimpers.

  “What did you say this afternoon? Trust is everything? Well how am I supposed to trust you now?”

  There. That shut her up. I slam the phone down and take a deep breath. My throat hurts from screaming. Mom is staring at me.

  “Don’t ask,” I warn her.

  “All that yelling has given me indigestion. I think I have the right to know why my dinner has been ruined.”

 
“Maybe you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,” I say.

  Mom crosses her arms and stares me down. Her short hair makes her look even tougher when she’s mad. “That’s enough, Clarissa. I’ve heard quite enough from you just now. I don’t need any of that smart mouth.”

  I jam my teeth together and will myself to be quiet. If I don’t, I’ll just make it worse. Why does everything have to go wrong at once? Isn’t it enough that Benji got a callback and I didn’t? Why did he have to tell Mattie and not me? Why did they have to come up with a plan to not tell me? And now Mom is mad. I wish I could fast-forward to my twenty-fifth birthday. Or at least next year.

  Hard

  The phone rings when I’m in the bathtub, trying to calm down. Mom says the best place to cool down is in a hot tub. I don’t understand how or why it works, but it does. I’m scrubbing last week’s nail polish from my toes when Mom taps on the door.

  “Phone,” she calls.

  “I’m busy,” I mutter.

  “I can’t hear you,” she replies.

  “I’m busy!” I shout.

  “It’s Benji.”

  I drag myself out of the bath, wrap myself in my robe, open the door, and grab the phone from my mother. “I was in the bath.”

  “Sorry. I can call you back.”

  “No, no, I’m out now. So?”

  “So … I heard.”

  My heart beats a little faster. “And?”

  “I got in; I’m going to be the Cowardly Lion.”

  Not even the splittest of seconds passes before I launch into the congratulations I’d planned in the bathtub, just in case. “Benji, that’s amazing!”

  “I still can’t believe it. You should have seen my dad. He didn’t know what to say.”

  The image of the Dentonator trying to grapple with the idea of his son singing and dancing onstage makes me giggle and I feel a little less torn.

  “Are you okay?” Benji asks.