All week I ate alone. I spent English class alone. I trudged home alone. The only time I saw Sita outside class was yesterday by the lockers. She was about to head off to Drama Club, and I thought that maybe I could walk her to the theatre room. I started toward her locker, but she slammed it shut to head off in the opposite direction. Right at the same time, Jason Billings was passing by and called her a “slut” right to her back (brave boy). Her shoulders slumped. This was my cue.
Except this time, I kept my mouth shut. My stomach crawled with baby snakes for not defending Sita, but instead of saying anything, instead of running to catch up with Sita, I just let Jason get away with being the kind of creep he’ll always be. When he walked by me, he smirked and gave me the finger.
Today, Rumpled takes our class to the library for a Research day, which means that besides the teacher, we also have a librarian hovering around. Instead of rows of desks, we sit in groups at round tables. We’re supposed to compare research methods, so we’re allowed to quietly chat.
I arrive first, and grab a table by the doors as Sita sits at the table farthest from me that she can find. She’s in the Arctic and I’m in Mexico. Or the other way around. I’m not sure who’s the most frozen these days.
My table starts chatting about how we get Monday off for Thanksgiving, then how soon the first dance is coming up at the end of the month. Since Hallowe’en falls on a Friday this year, we’re pretty hyped.
“You’re going solo, right, Keira?” Amanda asks, waving her pencil case in my face. So she’s noticed that lately Sita and I haven’t been sewn together at the hip.
“Yeah, we could walk there together,” I answer.
“Um, no, I’m going with Titus,” Amanda replies. “We hooked up at last week’s kegger. You weren’t there, were you?” Guess she was oh-so-deliberately not handing me an invite. My turn to feel like the idjit third wheel. After that, I actually spend library time doing research for my term paper.
Then Jason creeps into the library—either he has a free period, or he’s skipping what he refers to as “Physics for Phags”—and whisper-yells, “Keira’s a big fat lezbo!” Which is kind of ridic, given that, if anything, I’m an ultra-skinny lesbian.
Everybody’s heads slowly swivel towards me. The worst part is, I’m sure my sarcastic thought about me being too skinny to be a fat lesbian is exactly what Sita’s thinking, but she doesn’t say a thing.
Max Bledsoe is the one who stands up in my defence. “Look, man, on behalf of my cousin the art-fag, it’s an insult for you to go around complimenting undeserving girls by calling them lesbians. Lay off the straight girls and pick on some of your own brethren, okay?”
Yep, he saves my Ice Princess ass with his class-clownery. Everyone applauds, and Jason gets a look on his face like he’s figuring out that Max’s comment just might be a dig about him being gay. Then Mr Rempel pokes his head around the encyclopaedia stacks and says, “Back to work, people!”
People! Like teenagers are a separate species, or something.
Winnie calls in the morning about an ice rink cancellation and tells me to get my butt down to the community rink on Friday after school. No biggie, I have nothing to do then, anyway. When Sam hears this, she invents a sob story for her bus driver so that he’ll drop her off at the rink and she can watch my new routine. (She told him that our mom volunteers at the bingo hall inside the community centre to raise money for kids like her who don’t even have a mom. That kid is going to make an amazing politician some day: she can talk anyone into anything. Except our parents.)
“Your routine is HEX-cellent, Keira!” she shouts to me when I emerge from the change room. “I like the part where your bum kissed the ice. Twice!” She’s pretty pleased with herself that she’s managed a rhyme about me falling.
“Yeah, well, I’m still working out the kinks.” I shove my skates and mega-tonnage of books into the netting that swings under Sam’s seat, then tug open the arena doors so she can zip through them.
“Bobby Robbie at school says ice skating is for bent boys or kinky kids. Is that true?”
Her question sets off the live snakes inside my belly. How early do kids start learning these kinds of insults? “His words or yours?” I ask.
“Bobby Robbie says ‘bent’ means the same as ‘queer,’ and I like what you do when words all start with the same letter, you know, bent b—”
“His name is really Bobby Robbie?” That stops her. Sam’s thinking now. And I can tell she was also expecting a lecture about how it’s not nice to call names, yada yada.
“Teacher calls him Bobby Robbie,” which, for anyone Sam’s age, is pretty good proof that it must be her classmate’s real name, cuz, like, a grownup would never make fun of other people, right?
“And your friend knows all about stuff like this?”
“We’re not friends.” Sam is definite in her dismissal of that possibility. “Bobby Robbie says his older brother did ice skating when he was little but their mom made him stop because if his brother had kept skating he’d be bent—and bent and queer and kinky all mean you’re going to hell.” Sam sometimes doesn’t even breathe when she talks; it just all comes out like one long, extended phrase.
Sam doesn’t really know why this kid’s mother yanked his brother out of skating. She doesn’t know what queer or kinky mean or how they’re being used by her classmates. She’s a good kid, and I don’t want to lecture her. But I’ve done enough not speaking up this week and for my entire life. Even if Sam doesn’t know these words, she’ll get to know them. The last thing I could stand is if my beloved baby sister some day hurled the lesbo insult at me. At anyone.
“Hey, lots of boys are bent, you know.”
“Like that tree?” She points at a tree split in two, with half its trunk growing along the ground. We’re at the curb waiting for the light to change. Sam reaches out her hand, cuz she’s not allowed to cross streets by herself.
“Sorta like that tree. But also not like that tree.” I take a deep breath. “Sometimes boys who like boys get called names. Like bent. Or fag. Mean names, you know?”
“Yeah, like Bobby Robbie calls me ‘spaz’ sometimes.”
At that, I have to keep my hands from forming fists and punching the poor tree. I keep forgetting what Sam has to put up with from other kids, from random grownups, even from teachers, sometimes.
“Tyler and his friends mostly like boys. Does that mean they’re all bent?” she asks.
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. I so, soooooo want to tell my sister that, yes, Tyler and his friends are all bent boys. But I’m on a mission here.
“Maybe some of them. But people usually call a boy ‘bent’ when he wants to be with another boy, like Tyler dating a girlfriend. But it’s not just boys who date girls. Some girls go out with girls, and some boys go out with boys. You with me?”
“Tyler says he doesn’t like to be in a shack with a girlfriend, but to date lots and lots of different fan-girls,” Sam explains.
Right. “Okay, but I’m just saying that liking boys or liking girls has nothing to do with skating or football or anything else you do, okay?”
“Okay-doe-KAY.” Sam’s done with this convo, so she zips ahead, rolling down the hill faster than I want to run. No wonder Mom worries she could topple over and crack a bone some day.
Once we’re home, Sam and I hustle to get inside before Mom finds out about the extra outing. “But you’re still Da Kinky Kid, right?” Sam throws her jacket on the floor as she enters. For me to pick up before Mom sees.
Which is in about two minutes. We hear Mom enter through the back door, saying, “We’re celebrating Thanksgiving on Sunday this year; your dad’s hotel bar is catering a private gig on Monday afternoon.” No, “Hey, Keira, I notice you’re home early these days, is everything all right?” Not that I’d tell her, but you’d think she’d notice this is the second Friday that I’m not squeaking through the door twenty-nine seconds before supper.
“Yay, tu
rkey!” Sam chimes in. I don’t blame her. We love a good turkey feast in our house, but Thanksgiving and New Year’s are the only two times a year we get to indulge.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey.” Mom gives Sam that “you’re-not-a-baby-any more” look. Which is a total hypocrite move, because she expects Sam to act like some sort of nineteenth-century grownup lady, but then treats her like she wouldn’t wipe her own nose after sneezing.
“It’s gum,” I throw in. “You have to be able to talk when you’re chewing gum or you never get to say anything.” I grab my skates out of Sam’s chair, making sure Mom doesn’t notice, and head to the bathroom to hang them up. “Meet you at the coffee table, Sam.”
Mom is never wrong. “Well, then, I guess we weigh our choices: double-mint chew or voicing our opinions,” she says to both of us.
Dad never rags on us like this about pointless rules. Her lecture continues: “And make sure there’s no mud on those wheels.”
Sometimes I think Mom would make Sammie leave her wheelchair outside the front door, just to make her own life neater. But at least she doesn’t stop Sam from having some fun with me. For over an hour, Sammie and I play the Loco Licorice board game. Every time she lands in the Dumpling Dungeon, Sam blows a bubble.
“How much gum you got in there?” I ask, popping the monster boil so it’s all over her face.
“Hmmfre spuutskav blreisce,” she answers, shoving bits of bubble back into her mouth. Just our rotten luck: Mom sticks her head into the room at that exact moment.
“Sammie. Gum. Garbage.” Like she doesn’t even need verbs any more. Sam wheels toward the kitchen, and Mom adds: “Bathroom. Hands. And face.” I pick up the dice, ready for my turn. Mom knows I probably popped that bubble, but she doesn’t make me go wash my hands like a baby. “And Keira,” Mom starts, and waits for me to turn around and face her. I carefully set the dice back onto the board with a six and six facing up, to see if Sam will fall for my trick.
“What?” I ask. Not too polite, yeah, but Fridays are my time. Even if Mom hasn’t noticed that Sita and I are on a friendship hiatus, she should respect the one post-school afternoon I get for myself.
“What do you think if this Thanksgiving we have lasagne instead of turkey?”
Is she kidding? “No way!” I almost upset the board by slapping my palm down hard. “We only get turkey twice a year. Sam loves turkey!” I love turkey, Tyler loves turkey. “C’mon, Mom, Dad loves carving the turkey. He, like, gets off on being the provider-guy or something.” She doesn’t care what her kids want, but maybe she’ll cave for her own husband?
“Look,” Mom comes closer and actually lowers her voice. “This year money is a bit tight.” Her mouth stretches like she’s smiling and angry at the same time. “Your dad and I are trying to cut corners where we can. If lasagne doesn’t work for you, then how about—”
“No way, Mom. No—absolute—way.” I lower my voice too. “Okay, look, I get that you have to guard the dimes, I do, but...” And I stop there, because how can you argue when a parent tells you they haven’t figured out how to be smart with money?
“Keira, honey, don’t fret.” Mom pats my arm, like I’m too young to deal with big grownup issues like providing supper for your family. That does it.
“I’ll buy the turkey,” I blurt out.
Her hand snaps away like my sweater’s bitten her. “That’s not the—”
“Yes, it is the point. I have a job now. I can afford one lousy Thanksgiving meal. And I have a bank account.”
“You are not taking money out of the bank. Not for any reason. Certainly not for this reason!” And she actually stamps her foot. I almost laugh, but I’m not suicidal.
“I’m trying to help out, Mom.”
We both hear Sammie flush, and we both—instant presto—calm down.
“As a matter of fact, I do need you to do some shopping for me, thanks for asking,” Mom says, just as Sam wheels back into the room. Who knew my mother could be an expert at devious? “I’ll get the list, and here’s fifty dollars.” She doesn’t even have the decency to be embarrassed that she’s had the money all along. “If you come across a turkey smaller than ten pounds in the frozen meats, buy it and we’ll defrost it in the sink tonight and tomorrow.”
“I get to go! I get to go!” Sammie yells. Not knowing there’s been an argument brewing. Not knowing what the stakes are. I’m not so sure what the stakes are, either. If money isn’t the point, then what?
“A’ course you can come along, Sam,” I say before Mom can get in a word. Sam whooshes over to the front door to gather her coat and mitts.
Mom and I are both a little pissed off but playing nice in front of Sam. Which is pretty weird, as Mom is one of those parents who doesn’t do pretend nice. Not in front of her kids, anyway.
So, basically, life sucks right now: Mom wants to skimp on Thanksgiving dinner, I don’t think I have a boyfriend any more (Surge’s texts have stopped, probably cuz I’ve stopped, too), no girlfriend in sight, and now I don’t even have my best friend. That leaves Sam, and it’s a good thing we make a team against the rest of the world.
You know what’s wrong with the world? People, that’s what! There I am with Sammie, picking up a frozen turkey, a giant bag of rice, and celery for Thanksgiving stuffing. Sam’s having a ball because the week-long Chinook has not only melted all the snow, but the cool nights have refrozen the melts into clumps of porous moon debris that she’s trying to roll over with her wheelchair. We’re half-way through the parking lot, headed for the Dairy Bar—which I admit is totally ridic in winter, but Sam absolutely adores their hot chocolate. My clunky boots skitter all over the ice, but Sam’s motorized wheelchair can practically scale mountains. She keeps hooting every time my feet splay, so I just finally drop myself onto her lap.
“Drive, minion!” I command, and we chariot it through the rest of the parking lot.
And then some jerk leaning out of his four-wheel-drive truck yells at us. “This ain’t the Special Olympics!” he snarls.
“Yeah, well, getting into the Olympics is hard,” I yell back. Not the best rejoinder, but double stars to me for saying something out loud.
I hop off the wheelchair at the entrance to the Dairy Bar, Sam slaps at the blue oversized button, and the door slides open. “Hot cocoa, ready or not!” I turn to see if that jerk made her lose her appetite.
“Ready!” she calls back. Not much can make the girls in my family lose our appetites.
IDJIT ALERT: SADLY, THEY BLARE OUT ALL TOO OFTEN ...
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tonight, after our Thanksgiving dinner—with turkey, thank you very much—Sam and I clear away and do the dishes.
“Why are you mad at Sita?” Sam asks, handing me the ugly green glass salad bowl.
“I’m not mad at Sita.” I shove the bowl behind the camping mugs and plastic yogurt containers.
Sam snorts. “Then how come she wasn’t here for supper?” Good point. When our families celebrate holidays on different days (or different holidays), we usually eat at each other’s house. Sita and I haven’t talked in over a week, now. Nine-and-a-half days.
“The times they are a-changing, little sister.” I fold leftover turkey into aluminum foil and shove it in the fridge. Turkey sandwiches for a week. I’m not complaining.
Another snort. “Why are you mad at Sita?” she asks again.
“I’m not mad at Sita. We’re just not good friends any more.” Sorta true. It’s not that I want to lie to Sam, I just don’t quite have a story that makes sense. Not even to me.
“How come?”
Yeah, how come? How to tell my baby sister that I like girls and because I do, my best girlfriend doesn’t like me any more? Or because I like girls, it freaks her out that I might like her or expect her to join the lesbo club. Or something. I’m actually a bit confused about why Sita and I are fighting. Or even if we’re fighting. I hope we’re fighting, cuz that means we can make up. Right now, we’re jus
t not being friends. Which sucks.
“Don’t be silly,” I say instead. “I see her every day at school.” Lying is so easy when you do it by telling the truth. “After we’re done here, you wanna digest our delicious dinner with a round of Cheat?”
I grab an extra towel and help with the drying. So we finish the dishes, Sam rounds up Tyler and Dad (Mom’s in her bedroom working out next week’s family schedule), and everybody cheats and cheats and cheats, and Sammie wins the game. The whole time, I don’t think about Sita or Surge or Dianne or anybody. Till I’m alone in my bed.
I haven’t texted Surge in ages. We don’t have much to share, except different versions of goodbye and I miss you. I saved him up so I’d have a wow of a story to hand over to Sita—“Oh, didn’t I mention I have a boyfriend?”—but I waited too long. By the time I got around to telling her, I didn’t actually have that boyfriend any more.
Lying in bed, digesting what has turned out to be the most calorified Thanksgiving dinner ever (we not only had turkey, but Dad brought home a double-layer ice-cream cake for dessert), I taste vanilla when I lick my lips.
Have I mentioned that kissing Surge made me squirm? In a good way, obviously, but also in a totally I’m-freaking-out-here way. All I’ve wanted for the past few years is to shed my ultra-virgin status and at least kiss someone. I’ve been openly lusting after boys with Sita, and secretly lusting after girls with my pillow. I thought that if I just kissed someone—boy or girl—I’d find out who I am. Surge was the test case, right? I wanted to throw him on the grass and press my lips into his until we flew up into the night sky and became the Gemini constellation, our mouths melded, our hands forever clasping. But I also wanted to jump up and run away and hide in my dorm till after the north-bound bus left the next morning.
Rough Patch Page 10