Rough Patch

by Nicole Markotic

  Then she tells me that once her mom died, her dad kinda let Jayne be Jayne. My dad’s pretty slack with me, compared to my mom, but mostly he likes his daughters to be his girls. I think if I changed my name, he’d be eternally miffed.

  James shows up, and this time he doesn’t get out, but he turns off the car while he waits. In my family, there’s one car, and it’s mainly for Dad, so he can drive home in the wee hours and not have to cab it or wait for a bus for eighty-five minutes in the middle of the night. Mom takes the bus to and from work, and even Tyler only borrows the car when he’s got an official date. I walk to school and skating and take the bus to the dentist offices. Hm, if Jayne and I ever get to the official dating stage, will James be our chauffeur? That thought makes me snort, which is the last thing Jayne hears as they drive away.

  Alone on the curb, I realize that the Mom Police might already be home, wondering why I’m not helping Sam set the table. Or (way worse), she might walk up right now, and catch me... what? Catch me thinking about holding hands with a girl?

  Yes, I want to hold Jayne’s hand, and I want to get to know her better. Just me and Jayne, huddled together while the rest of the world, so jealous, passes us by.

  HET-GIRL ALERT: THINKS JUST HAVING A CRUSH ON A GIRL WHO MIGHT BE A LESBIAN MEANS THE OTHER GIRL SHOULD AUTOMATICALLY LIKE HER BACK.

  LESBO ALERT: DOESN’T SEEM TO CARE WHAT THE REST OF THE WORLD THINKS, JUST WANTS TO HOLD THIS GIRL’S HAND, NOW.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jayne and I share a free get-out-of-Backstrom period on Friday morning. We discover this on Thursday when we run into each other walking up to—and then away from—the lunch room. Sita’s in drama rehearsal, Amanda’s absent, and I just cannot stomach eating with The Three. So Jayne and I hang around the health-food vending machines (I inhale two energy bars), chatting about what we’re taking this semester, which teachers we like, blah, blah, blah. Then she asks about my schedule. Does she mean after school? How to explain my after-school job and ice-skating?

  As she speaks, she pulls her time-table out of her pocket and shows me her spares. I tell her mine.

  “Tomorrow we’ve got a match,” she says, squinting her lips. “Meet you at the Auxiliary Gym doors?”

  “You got yourself a date, girl!” I say and wince at the word “date” as I stumble over it, but with no way to stop the sound or take it back once it’s left my mouth.

  Jayne just grins. “Second period—see ya then.”

  Next morning, we deke out and spend fifty-two minutes telling each other about our lives. I talk about my too-young-but-not-fun parents and turd of an older brother; she already knows my fabulous younger sister. I tell her about my dental-office cleaning jobs (but leave the summer camp stories for another time), and of course, all about my skating. She tells me her mom died two summers ago. James took a year off school to get a job and help their dad out at home. No way can I picture Tyler putting his get-out-of-home plans on hold to cook and care for Sam and me. Not in a gazillion years. Just the thought makes me dizzy and I collapse against the gym doors, pushing them open to reveal a violent floor hockey game. Jayne and I grab the handle and pull the door closed again, laughing.

  “My mom stayed real calm until the end,” she says, and we step away from the gym doors. “She was the religious one, but my dad got much more devout after Mom left us.” Since the funeral, they’ve been going to church three times a week. “We’re a no-smoking, no-drinking, no-swearing, no-dancing family,” she tells me. In their church, girls aren’t allowed to wear makeup, and they’re not really supposed to wear jeans, either. In fact, Jayne’s dad thinks not wearing a dress to school is Jayne’s way of acting out. Letting her “act out” by wearing jeans is how he shows he’s a lenient parent. Wowsa, I may have to give Mom some slack.

  And even though James is Jayne’s best friend, she can’t tell him about her true self. “Not yet, anyway,” she informs me, like it’s all part of her coming-out plan. Yes, Jayne is into girls. She tells me: “I’m a queero-lesbo,” and doesn’t flinch or squint or run alllllll the way home.

  Now I’m supposed to say, “Me too,” and then we’ll kiss. “Do you have a plan for exactly when you’re going to tell your dad and James ... that?” I ask her instead, too shy or cowardly or whatever to even name what “that” is. The hallway is mostly abandoned at this hour, but chocolate bar wrappers and dusty class notes litter the floor. She points at a large room next to the gym doors, crammed full with sports equipment.

  “Well, I don’t know that it’ll be on a Friday at 3:45 three years from today or anything like that, but I do have a plan.” We hide behind the football gear piled up for practice. Okay, not hiding exactly, but nobody besides football players wants to be around smelly jerseys and mud-caked shin pads. “You wanna hear my plan?” And she squishes her lips to the left, like this is serious business.

  “I want to hear all your plans,” I tell her. And it’s true. Turns out, I don’t just miss having someone to talk to, I miss the listening part too.

  “Okay. The big picture. Here goes.” And she squishes her lips to the right this time and gives me her strategy: First, finish high school (obviously), then take a year off to work full time. Tell her dad and brother that she’s saving to attend their church college. “If I totally scrimp and am really frugal, at the end of that year I’ll have enough money saved to move out on my own. And that’s when I’ll tell them. They’ll hate me for a while. My dad says being gay is the worst sin of all sins.”

  “But James is different, isn’t he?” I ask. “He supports you, right?”

  “Not about this. James loves me. He really loves me. But finding out about the real me will push him over the edge. Big time. But eventually, he’ll forgive me, don’t you think?” she asks. A football topples from above us, and slams into the floor, bouncing at our heads in a zigzag, stopping at her left knee.

  “Of course he’ll forgive you,” I reassure her and use this as an opportunity to put my hand on her shoulder. And I believe my own words because James really does love his Jayne; I’ve seen it.

  “And I’ll be eighteen, so they’ll maybe even think of me as a legal adult, right?” She says this part with a laugh, cuz families never seem to see us as anything but perpetual kids.

  “You’ll be almost nineteen?” Yes, I’m fishing for her birthday. Mine is mid-January, so I’m older than most of my classmates. Backwards though I am in the hooking-up department, I’ll be the first in my class to hit legal maturity.

  “Well, my birthday’s in May, but I accelerated grade three, so I’ll only be seventeen when I finish high school. Just barely.”

  Crap on a cracker. Okay, I know this is petty, but this detail throws me for a loop. I was kind of hoping that my first-ever encounter with a girl would be with an older girl (hence the Dianne crush), so I’d have someone experienced leading the way. If I’m the older girl, am I supposed to lead the way?

  When the bell rings, I think: “Saved. By. The. Bell,” and I’m happy to rush back to Social Studies. Okay, not happy, exactly, but not entirely dreading the pop quiz Mr Rempel has planned as Jayne and I get up, shove the football on top of some stacked goal posts, and head off to our different classrooms.

  This whole week has been a series of take-home exams, mid-term essays, and “surprise-it’s-not-a-surprise” quizzes. Since losing Sita, my time has been full of blanks anyway, and I racked up a few A-minus grades to balance out the lower grades that will slip in while I’m concentrating on Regionals. Assuming the Mom Police still lets me compete. So far, I’m allowed out for practice. All I’ve done is study, hit the skating rink even earlier, go to my part-time jobs, and go to bed the same time Sam does. A pukey fortnight. But now I have Jayne’s company to look forward to. And a potential future kiss. On the lips. With a girl.

  Huh. The prospect of getting a girlfriend still seems more scary than joyful. Maybe I should have grabbed Jayne’s hand as we ran through the stairwell together? But like I said, the bel
l saved me from having to decide who was going to be the coach and who the trainee. Sheesh. At least today I’ll get to talk to my best friend, again. By now, she’ll have gorged on my apology text like it’s a plate of cookies.

  So I give Sita a little wave when I walk into Social Studies, and then a much bigger one, and finally an arm-beckon. She doesn’t even blink, just flips open her textbook and thwacks her pencil against its pages. Obviously, she hasn’t accepted my apology. After Rumpled collects our exam booklets, Max points at Sita and makes a joke about her being the perfect choice to play a second-rate singer. Not that funny, but half the class laughs. Including me.

  “Max, don’t you wish,” Sita says quietly, “that you’ll someday get popular enough to stop trying to make everyone think you’re popular?”

  Today is the two-week anniversary of our not-friendship. And I not only texted Sita first, but I tossed out a total remorse message (and not a wimpy “I’m sorry your feelings are hurt,” either, but a true, “I take the blame” type of apology). And that was days ago. She hasn’t called my house or waved to me in the halls, and she’s still being rude. She’s still acting like ...

  It suddenly hits me. Sita doesn’t know my phone’s been confiscated—what if she did text me back and is hurt because I’m the one not responding? When the bell rings, I drag myself and all my anger to Sita’s locker. I need to get this friendship back on track. I see her before she sees me, so I can read that she’s not having the best day of her life. When she notices me by her locker, she blinks. That’s something, I guess.

  “Look, Sita,” I start. “I know you think I didn’t answer your text, but—” She clutches her books tightly against her chest. Like I’m suddenly a predator, for Pete’s sake?

  “Which text?” she answers like she can’t wait to get out of this conversation.

  “You probably sent me a text in the last couple of days,” I persist, my chest brimming with hope bubbles. “And I never got it, cuz Mom—”

  “I never sent you a text.” She sort of nudges my elbow so she can get into her locker. “Why would I send you a text?” And she flips her locker door open, blocking my face. I’m staring at dull metal and she’s heaving her books in as if this is the normal way to have a conversation. Maybe this is the only way she’ll have a conversation with me. I take a step back.

  “Yeah, why would you?” I ask the locker door. And by the time she slams it shut, I’ve already gone down the hall and out the door to another blank Friday. Grounded for one more weekend. No texting with Sita, no phoning Jayne, no hanging out with anyone my age. Good thing my parents screwed up on the birth control, cuz without Sam in my life I’d really go crazy right now.

  Trudging home, I wonder if maybe Mom snatched away the phone just as I was pressing “send.” Maybe Sita never got my apology and thinks I’m still mad. Except I know I hit “send.” I saw the bars light up, which means Sita’s so done with me that even a full apology won’t bring her back. All through these past two weeks, I truly believed that Sita and I have (had) a better friendship than this fight. Stronger. That one of us would come round and bring the other one with her. But now even that hope bubble has popped.

  At home, Sammie and I play Fiddler’s Faddle till it’s time to set the table. I do the plates and Sammie whizzes around placing the forks and knives right beside each other. At dinner, Tyler natters away about his great football practice, about how great he was in football practice. Nobody notices that I’m sad. Nobody cares. Until Sam pipes up: “Can we invite Keira’s girlfriend over for supper on Sunday?”

  Six eyes swivel toward me. Tyler looks like he’s going to sneeze, which means he’s thinking hard. Probably digging deep so he can revive his childhood “lezzie” insults. The Mom Police just looks like this is the next thing she’s been waiting for, her eyes wide and crinkled at the same time. Like grounding is a hassle-free holiday compared to what I’m getting next.

  “Keira’s grounded till midnight on Sunday, so no friends for supper,” Dad pipes in. Then he genuinely saves me from whatever mean words Mom is about to spout. “And Samantha, some girls call their friends ‘girlfriends,’ but you should save that word for the dates Tyler goes on after he plays winning games.” And then Dad winks at me, like Sammie’s too young to understand grownup language. I’ve never been so happy for a parent to be so wrong.

  IDJIT ALERT: DO I REALLY NEED TO SPELL IT ALL OUT, HERE?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You have to make up with Sita,” Jayne announces, once I’ve told her the short and pathetic story of sorta coming out to my best friend. I tell her just about the part where Sita informs me I like girls and then freaks that I might like her. Or expect her to be like me.

  “Are you out of your mind?” I ask. “I don’t even know exactly what freaked her out, only that I admitted liking girls. And now we’re not friends.” As I say the words, I feel our friendship circling down, down, down a drain, and my eyelids feel droopy. “We’re done.” I add. The Surge story can wait for some other confession box.

  Jayne’s walking home with me. Long before Mom (or even Sam) gets home, she’ll call James to pick her up. Again. And he won’t mind. Again. We can spot Sammie’s bus coming from where we sit, but I’m still nervously crumbling yellow leaves in my hands, waving the red ones like miniature flags.

  Last night I heard Mom and Dad talking about my recent troubles. That’s the phrase they used, “Keira’s recent troubles.” Like they actually noticed something about my life? Like I’m a big worry to them? Gimme a break!

  If I sit right beside the heating vent in the bathroom, I can hear their voices climb the pipes from their bedroom. They sleep in the basement—they took over the rumpus room shortly after Sam was born—so kids and parents can each have our own floor. This is a sweet arrangement, as they don’t talk about anything important until after bedtime. On nights when Dad’s not working late, that is.

  I don’t always listen; mostly, they talk about what shifts Dad has coming up, if Mom’s doing overtime. Boring grownup gab. But last year, after Mom had been especially tough on all of us at dinner, I crawled into the bathroom and huddled over the vent, just in case. I heard Dad say, “Samantha.” And Mom said, “Three hundred bucks a lineal metre.” They were talking about the ramp we needed up to our front steps for Sammie’s new motorized wheelchair. A new ramp, big deal. We all use it, even the guy who delivers mail every day. So, yeah, most of their post-bed conversations are dull, but tonight I had to hear what they’d say.

  Because I’m used to waking up so early, I almost fall asleep with my ear resting on the bathroom floor waiting for them to climb into bed. My neck cricks, and my ear gets chilly, but it’s worth it. Mom’s voice creeps into my ear and rouses me, bad-mouthing me, natch.

  “Look, I know Samantha’s young,” Mom starts in, “but maybe she’s picking up on something about Keira that we’re not.”

  A grunt from Dad. He doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than I do.

  “Why would Samantha call this new girl Keira’s girlfriend, unless Keira said something?” Mom is nothing if not persistent. Does she really think I’d be idjit enough to use the word “girlfriend” out loud? In this house, with Tyler always in ear range? As if.

  “It’s just a word, darl, don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Dad always knows when a joke will side-track Mom’s zeal.

  It works, sorta: Mom laughs, but her voice sounds tight, like she’s forcing herself into pleasant mode. “Okay,” she concedes, “but I still think we should have a talk with her.”

  The sound of floorboards and bedcovers. I don’t know how Dad does it, but on nights when he doesn’t work, he still crawls into bed to match my mother’s schedule. But right now, he’d rather be sleeping than having this conversation. I can tell because he snaps the blankets hard and clicks the light off.

  Mom continues. “Keira’s nearly sixteen. Don’t forget she’s older than most of her classmates, and—”

  “Absolut
ely not.” Dad cuts her off before she can finish. He switches the light on again. Uh-oh, Dad’s got a mean streak that comes out when he’s tired. If Mom keeps it up, we’ll all be tip-toeing around tomorrow morning. “Being older than her friends doesn’t mean she’s more confused, quite the opposite. She’s had time to grow up, and she’s just taking her time in the dating game.” Then I hear the rustling newspaper, which means Dad will catch up on the day’s news while Mom drifts off.

  “Dating?” Mom sounds shocked that this is even a possibility. Come on, at my age, she’d already gone out (that’s what teenagers called it in the olden days) with two different boys. And hadn’t even met Dad yet.

  “It’s a good thing she’s got a new friend. She was spending too much time with Sita.” It strikes me that Dad’s a lot like James: he loves me, but he doesn’t entirely want to know me. I shift my bum around. Mom mumbles something I don’t quite catch.

  “Keira shouldn’t get too close to any girl, period,” Dad says. “High school’s all about meeting new people, expanding your friend horizon.” “Friend horizon”—who speaks like that?

  “Fine, you win,” Mom says through a yawn (she’s been saying that a lot, lately), and I hear her snap off the light again.

  Then I get out fast, before I hear any post-lights-out noises. Ewwww.

  Back in my room, I huddle in bed, thoughts of Surge and Sita and Jayne and Mom’s spidey senses going around and around inside my skull. Sammie sleeps securely through my alarm, little baby snores escaping her throat.

  I’m glad Dad trusts me. Yeah, okay, his trust is based on a giant, inflated lie, but I’ll deal with that later. They think Sita and I are not hanging out together just cuz we’re in high school now? Huh, how does that work? Makes me wonder if Mom had friends she ditched when they were teens because she was getting too old, too fast. No way I’m bringing Jayne around here for family supper. Not ever.