ROUGH PATCH
Copyright © 2017 by Nicole Markotić
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.
ARSENAL PULP PRESS
Suite 202 – 211 East Georgia St.
Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6
Canada
arsenalpulp.com
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada (through the Canada Book Fund) and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program) for its publishing activities.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.
Cover and text design by Oliver McPartlin
Edited by Susan Safyan
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:
Marcotić, Nicole, author
Rough patch / Nicole Marcotić.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55152-682-9 (ebook)
I. Title.
PS8626.A735R68 2017
jC813’.6
C2017-900682-7
C2017-900683-5
for Suzette Mayr: bff & f & f
(thru thick & thru all-things-gerbil)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER: THE END
POST-TRAUMATIC EPILOGUE SYNDROME
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Hello! My name is Keira, and I’m bisexual ...
Don’t you think high school would be a lot easier if we all had nametags that blared our true selves? I imagine wearing this nametag as I glide onto the skating rink, first thing this early, early September morning (pre-morning for most people), the ice pristine and non-judgmental and virginal. The air smells like baked cloves and mint and the Ice Capades, which (dork alert) I used to beg my parents to take me to. I haven’t been on the ice for a month, and my body misses the shivery chill and goose pimples I get along my arms to my shoulders. Coach won’t be here till tomorrow morning; today is just warm-up. So why am I shivering? I’m nervous that having been away will skewer my chances at winning anything this year. But my feet remember this early-morning routine. I skate out to a smooth patch, long easy strides, because my body knows what to do. On the ice, that is—no clue how to navigate the first day of high school. Today. If I wore this actual nametag, it’d be a way of getting myself out there, without having to explain, well, everything.
Yeah, right.
Wearing this nametag would pretty much be the demise of high school as I know it, and I don’t even know it yet! The first day of classes would turn into the last. Finito. The End. Shortest memoir in history: I wore a nametag to school, announced my deviant sexual orientation to every teen I passed in the halls, and was then transferred to a fundamentalist reform school where the rumour was that I was a big lesbo but the kids mainly left me alone because, hell, I was already headed there. At this thought, my left foot wobbles, and I nick my first flaw onto this flat sheet of polished ice.
Let me try again: My name is Keira. I’m fifteen years old, live in Alberta, have a mom who micromanages too much of her kids’ lives, a dad who’s really lenient (except for those times when he’s not), a little sister Samantha—Sam to me—who I adore, an older brother Tyler, who I don’t (more on him later), and today I start grade ten. I have a best friend, Sita, and I love winter, mostly because I’m smitten with figure skating. Oh, yeah, and I’m bisexual. I think. And single, natch.
Figure skating gear is pretty pricey, and I have to pay for extra ice time. I’d like to get some individual coaching, which is expensive, but Mom doesn’t want me to work because she thinks having lots of cash will make me think a dead-end job is better than an education. But rather than put it that way, she said, “You’re busy enough with school and skating, Keira. I want your focus on studying.” Bleh. Still, she agreed to let me take a summer job. And yesterday when they picked me up at the end of my four weeks away, I decided to take the plunge and talk to them about an after-school job. No Tyler in the car, so no bickering between us, and no evidence of bickering between Mom and Dad. I hugged them both and threw my junk in the back seat. Soon as Dad picked up his coffee mug, I burst out, “I want to talk about getting more work.”
Red light. They both sipped from their coffee (caffeine in stereo, man). I already cleaned one dentist’s place once a week. And he’d told me a gazillion times that he had colleagues who’d hire me on his recommendation alone, but Mom said once a week was pocket money—any more and it’d be a real job. That’s what I wanted.
“Listen, I’m finished junior high, and I get okay grades, right?” Start with the highlights. “And I know my skating hobby costs money, but I’m dedicated, yes?” No, I do not think skating is a hobby, but you absolutely have to use parent-speak when begging. Green light. Mom put her coffee back in the cup holder; Dad clutched his with both hands.
“Truth be true, I don’t want to have to ask you guys every time I need to buy a new pen or ruler for school.” Yeah, like that’s why I want a job, so I can stock up on school supplies! “So how about we make a deal?” This is the tricky part, because parents never like deals. They like making rules and having their kids follow those rules. A deal sounds too much like negotiation. But if you treat them like they’re idjits, they retaliate by refusing, no matter what you’re asking for.
“Hear me out,” I said, waving away their unspoken rebuttal, smiling at Mom in the rearview mirror. “You want me to get good grades so I can go to university and get a good job, right?” They didn’t even nod; everything I said was so obvious and indisputable. “If—I said if—you let me get a job, just a few more shifts a week, I promise I’ll get a B or higher in every course. And I will never let the job get in the way of studying.” I took a breath. This conversation was a one-way street. Maybe broaching this topic in the car wasn’t such a good idea. “Best of all, the job will help my goal of getting to university.”
Mom studied me for a moment in the rearview mirror. So far, me getting to university has always been her goal.
“Your dream is really to clean up other people’s spit?” Dad asked. He should talk—he gets paid to get strangers drunk. Who says you have to adore your job to be happy? Here I am, close to sweet sixteen, training in a sport that has no career opportunities, and I don’t like any subjects at school except math. If Mom has visions of her daughter becoming some high-powered lawyer chick, she is so going to be disappointed. I ignored Dad’s question and kept talking.
“I promise that half of what I make goes into the bank, into an account I never withdraw from, ever. It’ll be for tuition, for course books, for whatever they’ll charge students by the time I graduate from high school.” I took another breath. A big one.
“Okay, B-plus.” Except I couldn’t promise too much here. I am not a stellar student like Sita. I rolled down the window, then rolled it up again. “Look, I’ll occasionally get a lower grade on some of the assignments. But at least a B-plus as a final grade in every class, okay?” Then I held my breath. Unless I blew my finals, I could usually make a B in all my subjects. I’d have to up my game a bit. Really cram, even for quizzes. And tie pretty bows around take-home assignments. Teachers like it if it looks like you made an extra effort.
“Done,” Dad said, before the Mom Police could digest the full extent of my deal, and he rolled down his own window, letting in the end-of-long-weekend traffic racket.
“And no garbage,” Mom added, turning into our street. Like I was going to spend my hard-earned cash on e-cigs or nose piercings. Most of it would go to skating—she should know that.
Soon as we got home, I emailed the dentist whose offices I cleaned to tell him I could work on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school and one afternoon over the weekend. I’d have to really zip it to the bus after school, though, cuz dentists don’t work late. Mom should go back to dental school. That might make her happy! Though does anything ever make Mom happy? Certainly not what she calls my “extra-curricular” gliding, like skating is some sort of bungee-jumping hobby. Skating is just the opposite: when I’m on the ice, I glide through air while slicing across frozen liquid.
SPOILER ALERT: THIS CHICK CAN’T EVEN FIGURE OUT IF SHE WANTS TO KISS A BOY MORE, OR A GIRL—DEFINITELY AN ICE CAPADES QUEEN!
CHAPTER ONE
I’m still going over yesterday’s bargain about work and grades at 6:30 in the morning. But I need to focus on the ice now. I pass a sprinkling of other skaters looping their figure 8s, tracing lines that look like the Möbius strips we learned about in math last year. Maybe the goal is to create a perfect symbol of infinity, which explains why we ice geeks get up at the crack of dawn to go round and round and round but never get anywhere. No, not nowhere—as the medals and ribbons that line my wall attest. And this year, Winnie (yes, that’s my coach’s real name) has talked my parents into letting me compete nationally. I’m gearing up for the Regionals here in town and the Provincials in January (in Alberta for once!), with smaller Wild Rose and Silver Ice competitions in between, then the Nationals in April. Winnie has mentioned the World Championships, depending on how I do in the Nationals, which does make me sweat a bit, even on the ice.
I shiver again, then scrape a small X with the heel of my skate and begin to etch out my first figure 8. I’d rather leap right into the leaps and jumps, but practicing balance and precision makes sense first thing in the morning, especially since I’ve been away for four weeks. Makes a lot of sense, especially with a body as ungainly off the ice as mine can be: I’m tall and thin, but with thick leg muscles. And now I’m thinking about my bi-quest all over again: I’m itching to lust after someone who lusts after tall and thin, but strong. You’d think lusting after all kinds of bodies would generate a little action. You’d be wrong. Except for one exceptional lip-lock in August, I am still pretty much a virginal cliché.
I like boys; I like girls. There were about seventeen girls and three boys in my last school that I would have liked to kiss. About twenty more of each that I was willing to kiss. But none of them would kiss me back. Well, maybe “back” isn’t exactly the right word. In order to kiss me back, I would first have had to actually tried to kiss one of them ... maybe at a junior high dance, when the chaperones were out sneaking smokes, or at a drunken party where the parents had retreated upstairs and the lights had pretty much disappeared. Never happened. In fact, I have yet to snog a single schoolmate, male or female. Why? Um, because I’m a second-rate homo and a first-rate coward? Because, at some point, I’d have to explain myself?
Of course, I wouldn’t have to explain anything. I could let Sita match me up with a boy and go on merrily (what, you want me to say “gaily”?) dating him until we broke up for some dumb reason, like he forgot our second-month anniversary (by the way “anni” means year—you cannot have a monthly-yearly—I googled it during Life Skills class) or because I didn’t like his friends always dragging him off to play World4War when we should’ve been kissing. Simple—no mention of girls, no mention of how my body is, like, conflicted, and could he just be patient while I worked the whole thing out.
Again and again, I trace the number 8 with my feet. Circle, cross, circle, cross: an even number and a mirror of itself. Or, I could kiss a girl. I really wanna kiss a girl. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking, this chick’s just a big fat lez who doesn’t want to come out, so she’s invented the bisexual story to cover up her true lust and hide, just a little, behind “normal.” Sigh. Your reaction is almost entirely exactly why I don’t tell anyone, not even the gay kids at school (especially not the gay kids), that I am a by-sex-you-all. Even after a month up in the boonies at my summer job (more on that later), skating practice feels like the most normal thing I do. After I’m done with my figures, I practice spins and toe loops and a Lutz. But not an Axel jump yet; I’ll need way more time on the ice before I’m totally up to speed.
Yes, I would like to kiss a girl, maybe get a girlfriend. But I would, after said kiss, have a lot of explaining to do. More so than with a boy, cuz judging from my limited experience, boys don’t really want to talk and analyze and describe and examine and then talk some more. I’m thinking that if you’re a fifteen-year-old girl and so together that you’ve figured out you’re a lesbian and come out at school and found another girl to kiss, well, you don’t want your girlfriend going on and on about how she still likes boys, right?
I spent most of the last two years staring at girls’ chests and boys’ shoulders. Come summer in Alberta, girls wear really low-cut tops and boys usually go shirtless. And I find myself drinking it all in. Secretly, of course—at least the boobs. But even staring at boys can get a het-girl in trouble. Girls are supposed to be sexy and tuned in to whatever guys have in mind, but we’re also supposed to be cute about it, following the guy’s lead, like this isn’t the twenty-first century. As girls, though, we lust quite lustily through our teen years as much as boys do.
Sita’s been bugging me to release myself from the skating squad and join the dating squad instead, but I’ve been dragging my ice picks, so to speak. Sita has never been a big fan of my skating life, especially when it intrudes on after-school hang-out times. But—finally!—I have news for Sita about this summer, news she’ll want to hear, but I still don’t know how to tell her—that’s how mixed up I am. That’s the problem with being bisexual—you have to kiss either boys or girls all the time, or everyone thinks you’re just a poser. Am I a poser? Does needing to prepare myself for a chat with my best friend prove it?
All the other skaters at the rink this morning except one are girls, and we’re covered neck to ankles. No fancy competition regalia so early in fall, just jackets light enough to let us move, dense enough to hug us warm during frigid practices. Still, under all those layers are sports bras and one jock strap and maybe even frilly panties. Picturing underwear and bare skin in this frosty space multiplies my chills. I shake my arms and legs and then glide around a small area to practice my camel spins. I lean my body forward, trying to stay parallel, with one leg straight out behind me. Not usually difficult for me, but I’m out of shape, and my balance is off.
“Go ahead,” Winnie had said, when I told her about my plan to miss a month of skate practice.
“I’ll do stretches every morning,” I promised. “And as many jump-squats as you assign!”
“No, I mean it: go ahead,” she repeated, and this time I couldn’t hear sarcasm in her voice. “Sometimes a break allows the body to remember in different ways.” She raised one eyebrow, which is her way of winking. “You wanna go hiking and camping, I’m not gonna stand in your way, and it could actually help in the long run, s’long as you practice jumps and squat exercises every day.” She paused, con
sidering adding some sit-spins to my summer mornings, then concluded, “I recommend a two-week break, but a superstar like you can manage twice that.” She raised the other eyebrow. Maybe a little sarcasm? “Not like you’re off chasing after boys.”
Allow me a short tangent, cuz I need to rant: You’re a teen and beginning to work out that, well, you get turned on a lot. Easy for boys—everyone expects them to be turned on, by everyone and everything. Once I was watching a Kids in the Hall rerun (the ’90s really crack me up) and in the skit, Scott Thompson was doing his recurring character of “Buddy,” queen icon extraordinaire. (Yeah, a gay guy playing a gay guy—how’s that for layered?) Anyway, I don’t remember the plot, but Buddy was going on and on about how he’d been sexed up by a fancy chair, turned on by its exquisite lines and sensual stance. Hilarious—because he’s gay, and all gay people think about is sex? Or because he’s a guy, and all guys think about is sex?
But girls are supposed to fend off the hordes of boys trampling each other to get us into bed. Where are these hordes? Oh, I admit that more guys are out there pressuring girls into the sack than the other way around, but the story absolutely everyone still believes is that girls don’t need sex. Except for nymphos. Girls supposedly wait for the boy train to make a stop at their station. Really fair, huh? About as fair as being gay in a straight world. Think about it: how many kids have to gather their parents into a sports-like huddle and “confess” that they’re attracted to the opposite sex? “Mom, Dad, hear me out, I’m straight. I know you’re disappointed, but ...” Yeah, like when has that conversation ever taken place?
Okay, end of rant.
My leggings are coated with ice from the rink, but my muscles are so warm my knees tingle. Except for the past few weeks of summer, I do skate practice at 6:30 every morning, five days a week. For me, there’s no, Let’s just play this sport for fun once a month or so. You’re either serious about heading for every skating competition within affordable range, or you’re only lacing up the figure skates every December for the holidays. No middle ground in ice skating, no in-between. Which, as I step out of the rink and head away from the one place in the world I feel comfortable in my body, brings me back to my personal quest of trying to survive high school along with my aberrant “in-between” lust.
Rough Patch Page 1