Rough Patch

by Nicole Markotic

  “Look, can we walk around a bit?” I ask. “I know it’s Arctic weather out there, but the company in here’s getting kinda stuffy.”

  We grab our bags and transfer from mugs to paper. Sita will allow to-go cups as long as we recycle when we’re done. It would be easy to change the topic now, but something inside me doesn’t want to.

  “So, what’s the diff if Daz gets called a homo or one of the ‘gay’ guys in drama?”

  “Because the gay guys are homos. Duh.” Hand wave. I chew on the paper cup while Sita delivers boring Drama Club info about soft costumes and stiff ghosts from past performances. I’m already regretting our move outside; neither of us have worn scarves, or even decent jackets.

  Our school’s first production, I Am a Camera, is scheduled to coincide with Hallowe’en. Except it took the Drama Club forever to get permission from the principal to put on a production that inspired the musical Cabaret. Which is hilarious because if they’d just asked to do Cabaret, they probably would have gotten permission, no problem. Sita’s dying to play Sally Bowles, especially with Daz as the obvious choice for male lead.

  Sita tells me that she’s told Daz about how she and Lucien made out before school started—even though it was a summer fling and barely lasted two minutes. Her reasoning? “I tell the truth, for Krishna’s sake!”

  Lucien isn’t into Drama Club, and he isn’t a jock, either. He’s the good-looking guy who melts your knees when you walk by him and he smiles. And he almost always smiles. Tyler’s friend Jason is cute but would climb over dead bodies to get ahead. Lucien is sort of the opposite. He’s nice. Really nice. He talks to grade ten kids, he lets anyone join a conversation he’s in. He makes out with my best friend in early August. He just doesn’t do the long-term relationship. Lucien’s rumoured agenda is to sleep with a hundred girls by the time he graduates from high school. And he actually tells girls this. Instead of being the school creep, he comes off as honest and direct. Funny thing is, most girls respect him. It’s the boys who can’t stand Luscious Lucien.

  “I told Daz about Lucien because I want him to know I’ve been with a pretty great kisser, but that I choose him.”

  “Um, that’s how you put it to him?” I ask. I’m no expert, but letting your new boyfriend know you’re still daydreaming about your most recent kiss-buddy can’t be the way to secure his heart. But then, what do I know about securing anybody’s heart? I haven’t even had a text from Surge in a couple of weeks.

  Sita just shrugs. “I also told Daz about Lucien because I want him to trust me. He doesn’t have to, but I’m not going to beg him to.” And that statement defines Sita in a nutshell: She’s boy-crazy, but she also wants a guy who thinks she’s a catch, not a consolation prize. She wants to be lead girl in all the school plays, wants to date the lead boy, and wants her boyfriend to be grade eleven Daz-the-Jazz. But if none of that is enough for Daz, he’s just gonna have to live without her.

  Even though it’s only early October, today is so ridiculously cold that we end up just walking home. Sita takes my empty cup when we part at her place. We don’t see each other all weekend because of our crazy schedules, but I figure out that Daz must have got a similar lecture, because next thing you know, Sita and Daz get caught in a serious make-out session behind the scenery in the drama room.

  Not only does the drama teacher catch them, but at least five kids who walk in with the teacher see the porn flick. When they turn on the lights, Daz runs out, abandoning Sita with her sweater up around her neck.

  And then today, the school’s incredibly efficient gossip machine is fuelled by a note Jason Billings very deliberately passes during his grade twelve Social Studies class. Jason is obviously itching for Mr Rempel to lend weight to the note by snatching it out of his hand. He does, but not before eight kids have already read it and passed it along. It doesn’t even have a destination. Just Sita’s name, and “S-L-U-T” in curlicue letters beneath.

  One night of snow, and the city is covered in white. Flakes are still coming down when I walk to skating practice in the morning. My footsteps are the first on the block, the first to reach the community centre. The weather is totally ridic, but it’s also magic. It’s minus twenty-seven Celsius in the sun, which means if you’re me and late getting into the shower after you get home from skating, you have to run to school with wet hair. By the time I arrive, my hair ends have frozen into tiny pointy icicle formations, like I’m a punk ’80s girl, which I am so not.

  “Hey, it’s the Ice Princess,” Max Bledsoe comments when I walk into Social Studies just as the second bell rings. It’s like he’s invented a whole new punchline today. Like he’s funny. The entire class hoots. I guess nicknames never get old.

  “People!” calls out Mr Rempel, and we get down to studying the impact of globalization on local economies. Sita is in that class, but Rumpled makes us sit in alphabetical order, and that puts us diagonally across the room from each other. She fiddles with her elegant (read: dry) hair to show sympathy for my now dripping mop. By the time we open our books to the chapter on tourism, my stalactites have become a stringy mess.

  Jason Billings is a jerk, but he was really risking his life with that note. Nobody passes notes in front of Mr Rempel. Or behind his back for that matter, not unless they really, really want trouble. His nickname may be Rumpled, but it’s because he’s Mr Straight-and-Narrow when it comes to students behaving in his class. Jason didn’t just get detention for a week, he got suspended from the football team for one game. Another reason to hate us. To hate Sita.

  Sita and I don’t even wave when the bell rings, just rush to the next war zone. None of the teachers are as scary as Rempel, but high school definitely feels like it’s “us against them.” We don’t see each other for three classes.

  “Come out to the east foyer, I want to talk.” She grabs me at lunchtime as I’m heading to our usual table. Amanda is nowhere in sight. Joline and The Two have already slumped past us on the way to the library. Marly looked pretty cute in a retro bowling jacket, but she doesn’t notice me, and I pretend not to notice her chest. Sita knows I have a bag lunch, so we don’t need to eat in the cafeteria. So I grab my two egg sandwiches and two mango juice boxes and follow her.

  I assume she wants to talk about getting me my first kiss. I’m getting truly sick of only talking about half of my wish-kiss list (less than half, since girls outnumber boys on that list). I still can’t predict which girls might like me or why, but what I could do is tell Sita which ones I like. I start to twitch at the thought of saying, “Actually, Sita, my list is longer than you think. A lot longer,” but even when they stay inside my head the words sound loud. Too loud.

  One whisper to Sita and the whole school would know. Not that she’d tell. But too many secrets sort of seep through the school walls. If I say I like girls, to anyone, I’ll be labelled and pegged and cursed. If I ever say those words out loud—even if I’m standing there alone, breathing sub-zero carbon dioxide out into the bright, harsh air—someone will hear. And spread the news that the Ice Princess is the Ice Queen (or is that just a word for gay guys?).

  Still, not telling Sita feels like lying. And since the summer, that feeling is growing—every time we have a heart-to-heart (her heart to my half-hearted). Problem is, I still haven’t figured out a way to map out the words in my head. Like designing a skating routine, I need to know what I’ll say to Sita before I say it. So I twitch at her request, but I pretend it’s only from the cold as we leave the school.

  “Daz and I broke up,” she says as soon as the door closes behind us. “He left me to face the masses by myself.” Normally, about two dozen kids huddle around the east foyer, but today’s too cold even for the smokers, so we have the grounds to ourselves.

  “Cuz of the rumours?” What kind of jerk is Daz turning out to be?

  “Nope, he says he can’t get over me making out with Lucien. He can’t stop worrying that it was more than just kissing.” She slaps the brick wall, as if hitting somet
hing will help, but she doesn’t slap that hard. She’s angry at him, but obviously on the edge of forgiveness. “And I know it’s a lousy thing, but oh my god, Lucien kisses like his name sounds, and Daz, well ...”

  “Kisses like his name sounds?” I finish for her.

  “Actually, Daz has gotten better. Slower. He thinks about my mouth and not just his tongue in it.” She shrugs. “You think I’m an idjit?”

  “I think these walls gossip about us behind our backs,” I say, slapping the frozen bricks myself. Then I breathe into my cupped hands. “But I don’t think Daz said anything to Jason, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  That’s what she’s asking. Sita knows who she wants to kiss and why. She knows which guy she’s willing to get to various bases with, and she doesn’t like or dislike a boy because of his popularity rating. But no matter how much she likes him, Sita isn’t ready to forgive Daz yet. He did run away without her, but he has apologized. More than a few times.

  Her glumness over Daz means that today Sita lets me off the hook for being socially inept. Getting off my ass is kinda important today. This morning I had a spectacular wipe-out during practice. Badder than usual. The kind they should give medals for. I went down so hard the other girls stopped their own routines, and Zoë even skated over to make sure I wasn’t unconscious. But conking out wasn’t my big worry. Because of the way I hit the ice, I have multiple skin abrasions. On my butt. Winnie’s worried that I’ll fall myself into an avulsion fracture, where basically, it’s like a part of your body detaches from the rest. Ga-ross! She advised me to warn the school nurse. No way am I letting my teachers or fellow students know that I nearly broke my ass—while figure skating. The first bell rings, and we two glum girls head back inside.

  HET-GIRL ALERT: EMBARRASSED THAT HER PEERS MIGHT DISCOVER SHE’S A FIGURE SKATER.

  LESBO ALERT: EMBARRASSED THAT HER PEERS MIGHT DISCOVER SHE’S A FIGURE SKATER.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Every crack of dawn this week, I hurry to practice, skate, dash home, then run to school with my hair sprouting icicles. Every Social Studies class, Max Bledsoe comes up with another way to call me an Ice Princess. “Frost Fairy” is today’s moniker.

  I’ve not only crossed him off my kiss-list forever, I’m ready to cross everyone off, girl or boy. Too much cramming takes a ton of energy, especially if you cram for six subjects at once. At practice, Winnie says I look like a decoration on a wedding cake. I’m wobbly on two legs when I should be jack-pine solid on one. Training has kicked in with a vengeance, and it’s more than just my legs that ache. I want my parents to be proud of me. I want Sammie to be proud of me, her sister who competes because she loves the game, not the trophy. Ha.

  And Sammie. She got sick back in September and took too long to recover. Just the flu, but it hit her hard. She missed a ton of school, and Mom and Dad had to hire a sitter. “I don’t need a babysitter!” Sam yelled every morning.

  “Oh, hush,” was Mom’s only reply, though she threw in a little pat on Sam’s head. Mom’s always sneaking in affection that way, like she doesn’t want us to know how much she cares.

  Dad’s reply was, “Babysitter? Honey, for you we hired a personal jailer.” Sammie didn’t even pretend to laugh, though she usually cuts Dad some slack when it comes to his gawdawful humour. We both do, cuz we like it that Dad indulges “his girls.”

  So for weeks Sammie had to stay home from school with a stranger, and she only perked up when either Tyler or I walked through the door, offering to play some serious Funny Bone or Crazy Eights or Mouse Trap—board games and card games, nothing too strenuous. And nothing outdoors. No wonder she’s gone stir crazy.

  Sammie coughed, and Mom made peppermint tea. Sam wiped sweat from her forehead, and Tyler set up the summer fan. Sita and I put a hold on a lot of stuff, just so I could spend my extra minutes with Sam. But by early October, Sam went back to school. My shoulders feel like they’d been hunched up at my ears for weeks and are finally lowering down to shoulder height.

  “It’s Friday,” I announce to Sita when we meet at lunch. “Meet you at your locker before last bell has finished ringing today.” After school, we’ll head to our coffee shop. Even with a balmy Chinook blowing through the province, I want something hot and sweet to drink. Something with whipped cream. When we get there, Sita treats me to a double with extra whipped cream. No Drama Club today, no part-time jobs, no skating practice till tomorrow. Sammie seems all better. Exams may loom, but the Chinook has blown away all our worries. Life is good. Life is grand. Life is—

  “So,” Sita breaks into my happy thoughts. “You ever going to get a boyfriend or what?” She slurps her mocha and a tuft of whipped cream lands on her chin. Her delicate, cute chin. I can tell about five guys in the place would be willing to lick it off for her.

  “Um,” is my brilliant reply.

  “Oh, for Thor’s sake!” Sita says in her best Viking impression. We haven’t finished our drinks, but she’s signalling that we’ll finish them while walking. My heart settles a little lower in my ribcage. The coffee shop—called Lactose Tolerant—is on a slight slope on the crescent above the elementary school we used to go to. This time of day, the playground is teeming with mud rats, and their screams reach in every direction. Most teens avoid the crest, so we’re alone. Sita and I walk over to a good-sized boulder wedged between the parking lot of the strip mall and the elementary school fence and lean on it. We can rest our feet against the wire fence and our backs against the boulder, and if we lean way back, we can let our faces absorb the bracing, blue sky. Absolutely nobody will interrupt us. I pull my head away from the rock, then lean back again. How to start?

  “You like girls, right?” says Sita. “Just straight out admit you’re a lesbian, and then we can get past this stupid charade.” Her words have cemented my butt to this rock. Does this mean I’m a known lesbian, now? “Tell me the truth, and we’ll go back in and order another round.” She crumples her cup but keeps it in her hand, waiting for me to concur with her conclusion, dispute her deductions, anything.

  What about ... I don’t know. In the sky, a band of pure white with scarlet streaks criss-cross above the arch. I know I am avoiding Sita’s question. Why? She’s given me a way to enter this conversation, but my body refuses to respond. My head stays lolled back, my toes touching the fence. Thirty seconds go by. A minute. Two minutes. Or maybe two hours have passed, I can’t tell any more. When I don’t answer, Sita gets up and heads back to Lactose Tolerant to flirt with the guy behind the counter. I’m guessing she’ll wait for me.

  I decide to walk around the boulder once, then go in. I’ll follow her and smile at the guy taking orders. I’ll reach into my pocket and not only pay but leave a huge tip. I’ll slap Sita’s elbow and sigh and tell her how glad I am that this pesky secret is out in the open and now we can really tell each other our secrets. Except the boulder won’t release my hand. I lift one finger off the rock, then the next. I lift my thumb. I can’t leave Sita hanging any longer. I realize that it’s getting to be that time when we should head home, and that if I don’t have this conversation with Sita now, I’ll have to have it on Monday. At school. Between classes in a crowded hallway or at lunch with Joline and The Two brushing our elbows. Definitely not.

  My fingers lift off the cool stone, my feet carry me toward the coffee shop, and my mouth starts to rehearse, saying words like “gay” and “lesbian” and “bisexual” and “experimenting.” I still don’t know what words I should use to tell my best friend about myself. Which of those words means me? I still don’t know if declaring that I’m “homosexual” will be an honest confession or just a cop-out. I still don’t know. I go into the coffee shop, sit down, and spill.

  LESBO ALERT: TOO SCARED TO TELL HER BEST FRIEND HER INNERMOST DESIRES.

  HET-GIRL ALERT: TOO SCARED TO TELL HER BEST FRIEND HER INNERMOST DESIRES.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mr Grier says writers should never begin a story with a climactic statement: “
The axe hung in the air above her neck!” because, really, there’s not much room after the climax for much else except getting your head cut off. The axe comes down on the innocent neck, or some hero saves the day. The End. In other words, after the climax, there’s only ever gonna be anti-climax. And usually, the anti-climax sucks.

  Maybe I remember his words because Sita’s waiting, no matter how long I take to join her. Maybe because the place is full, even if our seats are far from everyone except the guy behind the counter. Or maybe because—sex and everything being so complicated—I just have to start at the beginning. The beginning of the beginning. Once I plunk down beside her, I start to describe the bus ride to Nordegg.

  But Sita’s having none of it. “Please tell me I don’t have to hear more about forest-fire prevention and proper waste disposal methods. You’re getting to the kissing a girl part, right?”

  “Not exactly,” I reply and receive such a look of disgust I almost make up a sex scene right on the spot. “Look, let’s walk, please. Back to our rock?” Sita glares. I hop off my chair and pretend to dust off my brand-new retro jeans.

  “Fine.” She gracefully untangles her legs from around the chair and leads me out the door. Back at our boulder, I start by telling her about Dianne. “She’s older, but not by much—twenty-three—which sounds old, I know, but when I first saw her I thought she was another junior ranger, just like Surge and me.”

  “I figured you had nothing to kiss out there but skunks and beavers.” She has the decency to redden. “I mean otters.” Sita tucks her hands inside her sweater. Chinook or no Chinook, when the sun disappears on a winter day, it’s freezing out. “Your texts were enigmatic sentences about wildlife.”

  And with the sun disappearing, the Chinook warmth will quickly seep away, too. I pick up my storytelling pace. “Dianne had the cutest nose, and when she talked, her Aussie vowels hiked all over her tongue.” This is what Sita wanted to hear, right? That I don’t have a boyfriend because I, duh, like girls? “I cracked up every time she said ‘I know’ because it sounded like ‘Oiy naaaooow.’” I hear my story through Sita’s expression; does she want me to get to the kissing part? Or does it bug the hell out of her to hear her best friend finds some girl’s nose adorable? Or is my accent just that terrible?