Rough Patch

by Nicole Markotic

  Tonight at supper, the parentals have gotten under Tyler’s skin and he whispers, “I wish I could pack you two in a crate and ship you out to Vancouver ...” When my mom stops pouring water and my dad stops scraping the last of the leftover stir-fry onto his plate, Turd realizes his whisper hasn’t even been close to a “whis.” But does he stop? Oh no. “Where your hippie friends have all gathered for the great unpacking.”

  He slurps the last of the rice noodles and tosses his fork onto his plate. Astoundingly, my mother laughs. My dad, too, but his bray is a few beats behind my mother’s. He clutches at his own fork a little too tightly to make me believe he enjoys the joke. Still, he does laugh, so Turd is off the hook.

  But Samantha isn’t.

  “Hippies from Vancouver!” she yells and clanks down her fork.

  “Manners,” Mom admonishes.

  “Little Miss,” my father co-admonishes. “You’re going to have to learn how to behave like a proper lady at the supper table if you ever want to be a guest in someone’s house.”

  My parents often punish Sam—nothing too serious, cuz she’s, like, seven—but it does seem like Sam gets it more than anyone else. I tap one of her wheels under the table with my big toe to let her know it’s okay.

  “Do not kick Samantha’s chair!” Mom bellows. Like I’m the ogre. Whatever.

  My father just slams back his chair and leaves the room, without even a single “hasta la vista.”

  Whatever, squared.

  Tyler makes it up to Sammie by agreeing to play her favourite card game after supper with us. In the middle of our second game, Sam calls “Cheat!” because Tyler claims he’s got all four Jacks. In Cheat, the point is to cheat, but if you get caught, you end up with more and more cards. Whoever’s out of cards first wins.

  Sammie shuffles her three remaining cards then announces, “Three Queens.” The odds of Sam having three Queens right when it’s her turn to bet Queens is way too lucky. But Sammie never cheats. Never. That’s how she always wins.

  “Cheat!” Tyler shouts, falling for her ruse, and Sam flips over the Queen of Hearts, Queen of Spades, and Queen of Clubs. So Tyler has to pick up her cards and the rest of the pile. The rules say he and I should play on to see who comes in second, but: No way, José. Not a chance, Lance. When Sammie wins, the game is done, and we pack up for bed.

  LESBO ALERT: BECAUSE OF SKATING, SHE WEARS HER HAIR DEAD-SHORT.

  HET-GIRL ALERT: BECAUSE OF SKATING, SHE WEARS CUTESY SKIRTS.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As I’m usually up eons before she is, Sita often awakes to a text from me. “gud morn! grab a latte for me b4 bell?” or: “S, r u ready 4 test?” and I go to bed with advice about how I should skip icicle practice tomorrow and join her in watching grade ten boys zip through the library because they’re trying to avoid grade twelve boys or a description of the length to which her parents went over her math homework, even though the answers are in the back of the book. Sita’s texts sometimes continue onto a part two and sometimes even a part three.

  Yes, I’ve been a complete coward about outing myself to my best friend. But as we start our third week of school, I’m still hoping to confess my summer news. I get dressed in a rush, rush through skating practice (“This is not a race, Keira,” shouts Winnie. “We’re not speed-skating here!”), and rush through breakfast back home. Despite all my hurry, I’m late and only get to school by the second, tardy, bell. Tomorrow, I pledge, tomorrow we’ll have a real chat. Once I talk to Sita, really talk to her, then that will be it. Problem is, I really don’t know the best way to tell the story of this summer. After I own up to kissing Surge, I’ll be set as a het-girl.

  “Just decide,” someone on one of the “bi-curious” websites advised. “Don’t wimp out by pretending you like everyone.” I don’t like everyone, but why do I have to like only one kind of someone? Sita and I always talk about boys. Always. So depending on how I tell her my news, there might not be any wiggle room any more.

  I know some boys get weirded out about how much girls tell each other, but without Sita’s background information, I would be lost, lost, lost about how to behave around boys. Even loster than I am. Because when you’re basically a virgin, it actually helps quite a bit if your best friend is a dating expert. Or at least if she thinks she is and so has already navigated the whole “Are we ready to plunge into that?” thing.

  “Don’t let them pressure you,” she advised me the first time we had a conversation about going all the way. At this point, most sex was way “academic” for both of us. We were in grade seven. I had a crush on Tommy Ito, mainly because he played the saxophone and stood in front of me during band practice. Sita had been dating since grade five. She’d already made it to second base with three of her boyfriends, and we were discussing whether or not she should try for third.

  She lay down on her back, and spoke to the sky. “But we’re not talking about going-all-the-way sex, here. We’re talking about when you should let guys push you into doing something—anything—you don’t want to do. You know when? Never.” She licked her popsicle, making the lick as dirty as possible, and I cracked up.

  Sita’s three older sisters all used to brag to baby sis about their boyfriends. And gave details about length of kiss (looooong), where hands should go (inside the shirt, but above the waist), and how far to go with a boy (never as far as they suggest). Sita even spied on some of these real-world boys kissing her sisters. I tried licking my popsicle in a dirty way, too, but just got orange goop in my nostril. That cracked her up.

  She continued with the sex lecture. “Look, be yourself because, well, there isn’t really anybody else to be. If you pretend you like the band Cum4tMe, which you actually hate, just to impress a guy who’s really into that band, you’re gonna have to listen to that music for the next hundred and five dates in a row.” She rolled onto her side so we were facing each other.

  I really did detest Cum4tMe, and the idea of one of their songs repeating over and over and over inside shared earplugs did kinda depress me. But how was I supposed to talk about things like music with boys? At that point in junior high school, the only songs I really knew well were skating songs.

  Sita reached out for my arm, as if she were about to impart some serious medical advice. “Look, it’s way less complicated to just say what you think, feel what you feel, and hope the two of you click. If you don’t, well, better off discovering that after a couple of dates than after you’ve been going out for a year!”

  She rolled onto her back again, and I took the (nearly) true confession plunge: “I’ve got a crush on Tommy Ito.” Way back then, I knew I had crushes on girls too, but I thought (assumed? hoped?) they’d go away. That having a crush on a boy meant I still had a chance at being a real girl.

  “Tommy may be cute, and he might be a fab kisser. But you’re not gonna find out by pretending you like sticking your tongue deep into his left nostril when all you want is for him to melt his bottom lip over your top one.” I snorted at that. Then I admitted that we’d held hands once in the library, but nothing since then.

  “Maybe he’s a homo.” Sita said “homo” like it was some rare type of frog. Like something you’d dissect in science class. Something other people are, not anyone we’d ever get to know.

  “Sita—that’s so rude.” I sat up abruptly, wiping imaginary grass stains off my knees and shins.

  “Is not. You said you guys held hands and now you don’t. You didn’t even lock lips. Straight guys want to kiss the girls they hug. He did hug you, right?” She tapped my elbow to check, as if I’d maybe got part of my own story wrong.

  “You think any guy who might be interested in me has to be gay? Why would you say—”

  “What?” She must have heard the panic in my voice because her next question was, “Are you afraid of being gay?”

  “Don’t be an idjit,” was my answer then. Anything to escape that conversation without honestly answering her question. I wonder, though: if Sita asked me
now, what would I say?

  We’ve had versions of this conversation for about three years. She tells me about her latest guy, and I have to say, for the most part, I like them. They’re not at all like the rabid take-what-they-can-get boys she’s always warning me about. Perhaps it’s something about her sisters’ boyfriends? Unlike Tyler, they’re friendly—as friendly as a guy who’s four or five years older can be. They say hello, we chat about what courses they’re taking in university, they grab a granola bar, and then exit. Freakin’ friendly, compared with my older sibling.

  Sita puts up with my passion for swirling around on top of frozen water (“frozen dirty water,” she once sniffed). She likes Sam, doesn’t let Tyler get under her skin, and manages to impress my parents with her university-aimed goals. No matter that those goals are her parents’. Sita never abandons me when she has a boyfriend, and she gives me embarrassing details about what the two of them do together (like what goes where and for how long). But I’ve never given her any specific sex stuff about myself since that grade seven “confession,” because one tiny detail might lead to another bigger detail and next thing I know, I’ll be telling her I daydream about girls. Sometimes. This is why the Surge confession is so hard—how do I tell Sita without telling her everything? Do I want to tell her everything?

  Looks like I have two problems: A) what if my best friend freaks out that I’m not trying out for the all-het boy-crazy girls’ club? and B) what if she doesn’t, but then is furious because I’ve never confessed to her before, even though she confesses everything to me? Yikes. Double-whammy best-friend conundrum.

  This third Friday of high school, we’ve settled into our regular coffee shop and our regular conversation topic. Sita starts with Daz, who volunteers at Planet Philosophy, working to make the city more bike-friendly. His car-free plans make Sita swoon. She actually says “swoon.” Then we discuss the possibility of me—finally, finally, finally—hooking up with some guy. By now, my loveless love life is so tragic that Sita says I should take anyone for my first kiss. Hmmmm. I bend my head and slurp the last of my latte foam.

  HET-GIRL ALERT: OF COURSE SHE’S AFRAID OF BEING LABELLED AS GAY, OF ANYONE THINKING she MIGHT BE GAY, OF THINKING SHE’D EVER JOIN THE GREAT BIG GAY CLUB IN THE SKY!

  LESBO ALERT: OF COURSE SHE’S AFRAID OF ANYONE FINDING OUT SHE MIGHT BE GAY.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  September’s settling down. Homework, lunchtime with Sita and Amanda (and “The Three”), Friday afternoons with just Sita and me, figure skating every morning, part-time jobs, studying, and evenings with Sammie. And there are assignments and quizzes that I abscama-lute-ly have to get fairly good grades in. The Regionals skating competition is the first weekend in November, and I need to nail that in order to concentrate on the Provincial Finals at the end of January.

  So spare me the lecture, Mom. She thinks now that I’m in high school, maybe she and I should have a regular study date so I can begin to prep for university. Her idea is that she’ll leave the office an hour early on Fridays, cuz things slow down right before the weekend. I’m supposed to give up my one free slot of friendship time to study? For university? With my mother? Forget that, Matt! I’m only in grade ten—uni is, like, three years from now. My parents crossed the country right after graduation, leaving everyone they knew behind. Maybe her high school friends weren’t important to her, but mine sure are to me.

  This particular argument is taking place while we’re shopping for groceries. Sammie’s zooming ahead, clearing the aisles so our cart can breeze along freely. This is her favourite shopping chore. That, and piling licorice into the cart (did I tell you I’m allergic to licorice?) without the Mom Police noticing. No point in me asking for snacks in the grocery store; that’s what job money is for. Besides, Mom and I have enough to argue about.

  “Look, Mom, after high school, Sita’s going to follow her many siblings into university.” So far, so good. My parents already think Sita’s a brainiac (which she is) and that her ambitions will rub off on me.

  I toss some frozen spinach into the cart to impress her with my dedication to all things healthy. Mom puts the package back in the freezer, saying, “Stick to the grocery list, please, Keira.”

  “So listen, she and I will study together. Sita needs to keep her grades high,” I point out, “so Fridays won’t always be just lattes and gossip.” Uh-oh, even mentioning the things you’re convincing your parents you won’t do reminds them about their concerns. “I promise.” And then I add, “Don’t forget our B-plus school/job deal.”

  We’re in line, and Mom’s going over every item in the cart to add them up before we get to the cashier. Embarrassing—doesn’t she trust the automatic tills? Sammie zooms through an empty cashier and waits for us by the doors, thrumming her wheel-spokes, making up a song: “You guys take too long / Longer than this song / Get a move along.” I’ll say this for Mom, though: like me, she can do all the calculating in her head, no pencil. Maybe she should go to university instead.

  The worst thing about Mom is that she’s rigid: she does not like to change her mind. But you can work that in your favour, too. We had a deal about grades so unless I don’t hold up my end, she has to give me my one day a week. I’ll get through high school with passable grades because that is my parents’ decree. But if I get into university, what will I do? I’m good at math, but that doesn’t lead to jobs any more than professional skating does. The cashier looks up right then and nods at me, as if we know each other, as if I’m already her work-buddy.

  By the time we get home, Mom’s dropped this particular conversation, at least for now, to focus on dinner preparations.

  End of September, and Sita and I are already talking about the Hallowe’en dance. We walk out of the cafeteria wrapped up in a discussion of costumes and cliques and my constant complaint about a certain older sibling. We’re not really paying attention to which kids are still in the cafeteria. There are two lunch supervisors and two teachers assigned as guards, but that still makes about 350 kids per four adults. You do the math.

  I’m in the middle of mentioning that slow dancing with Brady Campbell—even if he was wrapped in a Dracula cape—would be way too yucky an experience for me. He’s on, like, every team the school has. But from what Tyler told Sammie last night, Brady never showers—not even after gym class or football games. “Probably not even in the morning in his own house,” said Tyler.

  This is what I’m telling Sita as we exit the cafeteria when—thwack—I get hit on the shoulder. Caramel pudding. I turn to gloop it off and glare at whichever idjit flung it there. Probably Tyler, impressing his friends. But no, it’s Jason Billings, who I’d always thought was kinda cute, even if he’s got a dump truck of a personality. Tyler slaps him on the back, and Jason waggles his tongue at me. He knows I can’t fling anything back and I can’t shout anything either, as Sita and I are right by the doors. The teachers may be busy chatting with each other instead of monitoring the room, but they can still hear.

  So I let it pass. At least the bell hasn’t rung yet. Sita walks with me to the washroom and stands guard while I take off my shirt and scrub the neon-brown stain with industrial-strength institution soap. Now it just looks like Barbie threw up on my shoulder. Or worse than threw up.

  “Starting tomorrow,” I announce, “I’m keeping an extra set of clothes in my locker.” I button up the shirt, motioning to Sita that she can unguard the door.

  “Hey, good idea, let’s go,” she says, pulling my arm as the first bell rings.

  “Wait!” I pull back. “Let me get under the hand-dryer for a minute.” I scrunch down, trying to position my shoulder for maximum drying.

  “No time, we have to get to the gym lockers.” She’s still tugging. “Come on.” She yanks really hard, and I fly toward her. “You can use your gym top. It may be a bit stinky, but at least it’s not radiant khaki.”

  That was Tuesday. On Wednesday, we walk out of the cafeteria backward, nearly tripping over the six volleyb
alls that mysteriously materialized there. Tyler and Jason again, though what Jason’s getting out of all this is beyond me. Maybe the grade twelves feel they didn’t have a good enough run with us tenth graders during Frosh Week and have extended the torture period? More likely Tyler just gets off on causing me public humiliation, and Jason loves the ride. Point is, this all takes place in the cafeteria, so lots of other jerks start to notice. And not just the jerks, but everyone. Bad news if you’re busy trying to be invisible.

  On Thursday, Talia Sitkins accidentally sprays the shower at my back after I’ve already changed out of my gym clothes. I get soaked, but I have actually remembered to bring an extra shirt to keep in my locker, so it’s no big deal.

  “This is a big deal,” Sita says, as she walks me to an extra skating practice on Thursday after supper. She won’t stay and watch, but the rink isn’t far from her place, and she does attend my competitions.

  “Talia Sitkins is such a follower!” I spit out. “She’ll do anything anybody tells her to do, even ride her bike over her own mother.” I have more things to say about Talia, but aiming your shower at a girl just because her brother is already making her life miserable is just too junior high. Talia Sitkins doesn’t warrant further discussion. We’re almost at the rink, so we both instinctively slow down. Winnie won’t love it if I’m late, but I am adding these extra Thursday practices, so she won’t complain too much.

  “Exactly,” says Sita. “It’s not just Tyler and his goons any more. You have to take action.” Like we’re in a Hollywood flick, like we’re cops or tough guys. Maybe Sita expects me to fling my skates at somebody.

  “I know how to deal with Tyler,” I reassure her. “He only likes to bug me if it bugs me. That’s why he got Jason to fling the food, pitch the pudding, toss the tapioca—” Sita stops walking and so I stop alliterating. “Point is, he’ll stop.”