Saying Good-bye to London

by Julie Burtinshaw

  That satisfied her and the moment passed. Francis breathed a sigh of relief, and they continued in silence to the park. By the time they got there, Ralph’s excitement had reached a fever pitch. “Okay, boy. You’re free now.” Francis unclipped his leash and Ralph let out a joyous yip before he galloped over the long grass toward the trees.

  “Look,” Sawyer said, laughing. “I swear that dog is smiling.”

  “He loves this place almost as much as I do,” Francis explained. “And he’ll spend the next hour sniffing around to see if any of his friends were here today. See?”

  Ralph trotted over to a gnarled tree, sniffed, and lifted his leg.

  “Nice,” observed Sawyer.

  “He’s marking his territory.”

  Sawyer kissed him on the lips. “Me too.”

  They sat down at a picnic table under the dark branches of an old-growth cedar while Ralph tore around them in circles, sneezing with excitement, his breath hanging in the cool evening air. Francis found a sturdy stick and threw it as far as he could, hampered by the fact that he had one arm, his pitching arm, around Sawyer.

  “He could do this for hours,” he said, pulling her closer.

  “So could I.” Sawyer leaned against him and wrapped her leg around his.

  Before Sawyer, Francis had never even held hands with a girl. He’d held hands with his mom when he was a kid, maybe his dad, and, of course, Nate and Devon, but this didn’t feel anything like that. “Well…,” he started “so…”

  Sawyer knew what he was talking about, even before he said it. “It wasn’t so bad, was it? I expected a lot worse. I thought you didn’t want me to meet your family because they were weird or awful or something.”

  How could he tell her the truth—that he’d been afraid that his mom might not like her—or worse yet, let on that she didn’t approve of him having a girlfriend at all?

  Politeness had won out. He was sure Sawyer had no idea of his mom’s true feelings. He did, though. He knew exactly what she’d say. “Fifteen is too young to get serious about one person.”

  She’d already made it clear that she wasn’t pleased with the amount of time he’d been spending away from home. Since that night when Sawyer so boldly asked him to dance, they’d spent almost every day together after school, usually at Sawyer’s apartment on her tattered living room couch, or better yet, on her narrow bed.

  As if reading his mind, Sawyer spoke up. “I know why you like being at my place better.” Her face clouded over. “I hope you like me for more than just ‘afternoon delight.’”

  He felt the color rise to his cheeks. “Of course I do—it’s not just that. I like that we have your apartment to ourselves, because it means we can be alone together.”

  She considered his response and smiled. “Good. And don’t worry about your mom; she will get to like me.”

  “Maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “I hope so.”

  “She will. Once she gets over the fact that I’m poor and have a single mom and wear weird clothes.” A note of bitterness crept into her voice. “Oh, we love London.” She did a perfect job of mimicking his mom’s tone of voice and body language.

  Francis felt ashamed and shocked that she’d read the situation so well. “You’re taking it the wrong way. She’s weird, but she’s not mean.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Ralph flopped down at their feet, panting. Sawyer caressed his floppy ears. “Like velvet.” She yawned, pulling out her phone. “God, it’s only six. It feels like eleven.” She stood up. “Time to frappe la rue. I’ve got a ton of homework, and I promised my mom I’d do dinner.” She turned to him with a frown. “I bet you’ve never cooked a meal in your life.”

  “That’s because my mom loves to cook.” He looked bewildered. “I guess. I never really thought about it.”

  “Not my mom. She’s wiped out after an eight-hour shift at the library.”

  “You never told me your mom is a librarian.”

  “That’s because she’s not. She’s a clerk. But she loves books, so that’s okay.”

  “If you’re both tired, order in. Chinese or pizza or Indian. That’s what we do, like three nights a week minimum.”

  “Not everyone is a millionaire, Francis.” Sawyer moved slightly away. “Not everyone can do exactly as they please, just because they feel like it.”

  Oh no, here we go again, Francis thought. I can’t say the right thing no matter what. Sighing, he attempted to defend himself. “I didn’t mean—”

  She cut him off. “Oh, yes you did. You’ve got everything, but you don’t appreciate anything. You’re kind of spoiled, you know. Actually, really spoiled. Must be nice, being in the one percent and all.”

  Her sudden flash of temper caught him off guard. “Hey! I’m not complaining about my life. And for your information, I’m at Hudson on a scholarship. We’ve got money, but not as much as you seem to think.” Ralph whined and pushed his damp nose against Francis’s leg. “And, you’re upsetting my dog.” He gave Ralph a halfhearted pat on the head.

  “One more thing you forgot to mention: you’re a brainiac too—a scholarship student, no less.” She dropped her chin into her hand. “Forget it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Actually, that’s not true. It’s just that you don’t know how lucky you are. At least compared to me.” Her voice hardened. “Just forget I said anything.”

  “I don’t even know what we’re arguing about, so it will be easy to forget.”

  She thrust her chin forward and glared at him. “We’re arguing because you don’t tell me anything!” Anticipating his objection, she held up her hand like an angry crossing guard. “I didn’t know, for example, that you have two adopted brothers who are super-cute or that you live in an almost-mansion or that you go to Europe, instead of the beach or a movie for vacations, or that you’re on scholarship at your hoity-toity school for boys! I don’t appreciate my boyfriend keeping secrets. I’m calling you on it.”

  “Fine. But my family is off-limits. Don’t imitate my mom.” He struggled to keep his voice even.

  “Oh, now you’re trying to tell me what I can and can’t do? Grow up! At least I say what I think.”

  “So do I,” he protested.

  “Seriously?” Francis could see she was furious. “I know you think my mom and I are cute and underprivileged. I know you think our apartment is quaint and bohemian, but you’d hate to have a bar across the street from your house, wouldn’t you?” She stood up and turned her back to him. “Don’t even bother to answer that.”

  Francis leapt up, his patience gone. “Bullshit. I never said that, none of it.”

  “My point. You think it, but you don’t even have the guts to say it.”

  “Okay. Fine. True that. Happy now? News flash: I’m with you because I want to be with you, not because of where you live or any of that crap. Yes, we’re different, but how is that my fault?” He grabbed Ralph by the collar. “I’m outta here! Come on, Ralph.”

  “Go, if you want to.” Sawyer stood perfectly still, watching him, daring him to leave.

  “Fine. Come on, boy.” He stormed off, sneaking a parting look her way as he left the park. Sawyer was nowhere in sight. She’d left. He’d blown it. He should have stuck around and finished the fight. “Shit! Ralph, I’m such an idiot.”

  Ralph licked his hand as if to say, “No, you’re not.” At least, that’s how Francis chose to read it. And how much of an idiot was he, really? It was Sawyer who was hung up on money and house size and crap like that, not him. He hadn’t done anything to deserve her anger except the one thing he’d dreaded doing—taking her to his turf to meet his family. What a mistake.

  When he got home, his mood hadn’t improved. The shrieks of the twins splashing and squealing meant bath time. Softly, he crept up the stairs, hoping not to attract any attention, but his mom heard him. “Is that you,
Francis?” she called. “I could use some help in here.”

  “Sure.” Reluctantly, he entered the twins’ bathroom. Despite his bad mood, the sight of his brothers splashing in the bath brought a slight smile to his face. “God, there’s water everywhere. Why can’t you guys keep it in the tub?”

  His mom, perched on a chair just out of reach of the splash zone, sighed. “The million-dollar question. Can you grab some old towels to soak up some of it?”

  “I don’t see the point until they’re out.” Francis plunked himself down on the other chair. “Don’t get me wet, guys,” he warned.

  “Like this?” Nate splashed him. Devon followed suit.

  “You’re just putting ideas into their heads,” his mom said, laughing. When he didn’t respond, she looked at him more carefully. “How was your walk?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She tossed a towel at him. “Okay.” She paused. “Let’s get these guys out and ready for bed.”

  While they dried the boys, Francis and his mom chatted. At least, his mom did. Francis listened. “Sawyer is an interesting girl—a little out there, but nice—and I can see she has a brain in her head. I know you’ve been spending a lot of time with her, and I feel better about it now that I’ve met her.” Without skipping a beat, she added, “I assume you’ve been to her house. Have you met her parents?”

  The last thing Francis wanted to do was discuss his girlfriend after they’d had a big fight. For all he knew, Sawyer had already dumped him. But he knew his mom wouldn’t stop digging until he offered her a few tidbits.

  “Yes, I’ve been to her house, and no, I haven’t met her parents. Not yet. Her mom works at the main library downtown, and Sawyer never talks about her dad. They’re divorced. I think he had a drinking problem, but for all I know, he’s dead.”

  Her brow creased. “So there are no adults when you go there?”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. Nothing’s going to happen. Nate, keep still so I can get your pajamas on.” His little brother wiggled out of his grasp, giggling.

  “Where do they live?”

  “Over on Main!” he yelled, chasing Nate out of the bathroom and down the hall.

  His mom followed, carrying Devon like a football beneath her arm. “That’s a long way.” She used a pick to detangle Devon’s hair. “Don’t move your head,” she told him. “It only hurts if you pull away.” She turned her attention back to Francis. “Do they live in a house?”

  “Yes.” White lie. They did technically live in a house, maybe not the whole house, but a house. “It’s this cool, old blue-and-white Victorian place.”

  “Does she have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Nope. It’s only her.” He did his best to wrestle Nate into his pajamas, but his brother had other ideas. “Is the inquisition over yet?”

  “Yes, Francis, it’s over. Although in my opinion, fifteen is too young to get serious about one person.”

  He rolled his eyes, taking care that she didn’t see him. “Okay, I get it. Is that all?”

  “For now. Can you read the boys a story?”

  “No, I can’t. I’ve got homework and it’s getting late.”

  “No worries. You concentrate on your homework and I’ll wrangle them into bed. Your dinner is in the oven. By the way, Dad called. He says good night. Maybe you could send him a quick text.”

  “Yeah, I will.” That’s how he communicated with his dad—text messages, less often a real phone call. No matter. They didn’t have much to say to each other.

  It took twenty more minutes, but at last Francis managed to get Nate into his pajamas and escape the rest of the chaos of bedtime. He rescued his dinner from the oven and took it up to his room to study, but he found it impossible to concentrate. He sent a short text to his dad, then a longer one to Sawyer:

  Sorry for being a jerk. I shouldn’t have taken off like that. And yes, U R right. I guess I can be a bit judgmental. I don’t mean to be secretive, though…

  I hope U R feeling better. Please forgive?

  She replied immediately.

  Of course I forgive you. I can be a jerk too, and there are things you don’t know about me either. I’m just tired. Come over tomorrow?

  Relieved, Francis typed a message back.

  C U after school.

  Feeling better, he stretched out on his bed and let his mind drift back to the first time he’d gone to Sawyer’s house without her at his side to direct him. He’d taken a bus, something he didn’t do often. He’d gotten totally lost. On her side of town, the trees weren’t quite as leafy and the lots were long and narrow, like parking spaces. You could hear the neighbors talking and laughing or arguing through the leaded glass windows, and fresh laundry fluttered in the wind on sunny days. When he’d finally arrived, she accused him of being late.

  Unthinking, he’d said, “I didn’t even know this area existed before you showed it to me. And I wasn’t really paying much attention that first time.” He smiled cheekily. “You distract me. Anyway, I got on the wrong bus. I mean, I grew up here, but I had no idea Vancouver had such a funky part of town.”

  He remembered how Sawyer had narrowed her eyes. “Funky?” she scoffed. “I’m going to take that as a compliment rather than assume you meant it literally.”

  Sawyer and her mom lived in a turn-of-the-century wooden house on Main Street. Like the other homes on the block, theirs had been converted to apartments when the price of real estate in Vancouver had shot up, making it difficult for most people to buy a home. They lived on the top floor, overlooking the busy thoroughfare below. The single-pane windows failed to shut out the cacophony of the busy street—especially late at night when the bars closed and throngs of revelers poured out onto the crowded street.

  When Francis first saw her apartment, he wondered how two people managed to live together in such a cramped space and not kill each other. Of course, he didn’t say that. Instead, he enthused, “Wow. This is different. Really cool!”

  Sawyer saw through his remarks. “We’re happy here, Francis. It might not look like much to you, but I love it.” She led him to her bedroom window. “At night I crawl out onto the roof. I watch the action. See over there?” She pointed. “That bar gets really sick bands. On a Saturday night, when the weather is good, I leave my window open and fall asleep listening to funk, rock, and indie bands. The noise would drive most people crazy, but not me. Sometimes, after the first set, people come out to smoke, catch sight of me on the roof, and wave. Other times, they have too much to drink and start a fight. Eventually, someone calls the cops. It’s like reality TV but better. I love it here,” she repeated. “Not everyone lives on the West Side, Francis.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. That’s not what I meant.” Although he supposed it was.

  • • •

  Francis bused to her house the next day. He was still thinking about yesterday’s conversation and it worried him. The tension between him and Sawyer wasn’t good. Maybe his mom had a point; maybe fifteen was too young to be in love. On top of this he felt guilty ditching Kevin—and, to be honest, a little resentful at Kevin’s neediness. His dad wasn’t doing well. But Francis couldn’t find the time to visit—not his proudest moment.

  A text from Sawyer interrupted his thoughts: C U at the bus stop. Have to pick up some things @ store. Ten blocks later, when he alighted from the bus, she was waiting for him.

  “Hiya.” She pulled him into a long, wet kiss.

  Francis noticed that she wasn’t heavily made up, and he thought she looked even prettier without the raccoon eyes. “You’re so hot,” he said, relieved there were no bad feelings left behind from their walk in the park.

  At the little market beside her house, they picked up a fresh baguette and a jar of strawberry jam. It was on the tip of Francis’s tongue to confess that he’d only ever eaten baguettes in F
rance, but he stopped himself; she’d been right about one thing yesterday—he was pretty lucky, and his luck was a sensitive subject for her.

  They took the jam and bread back to her apartment and ate it at the tiny kitchen table overlooking Main Street. Sawyer melted a dark chunk of chocolate into a pot of steaming-hot milk. “This takes more time than store-bought,” she said apologetically, “but it’s worth it; you’ll see. It’s my dad’s recipe. He loved to cook, back in the day.” Her voice faded. “Not that he was around much. I think of him as a cloud that got wispier and wispier until poof!—gone. Kind of like your dad, except he shows up now and again.”

  “Yup.” Let’s not go there, he said to himself. He prayed his enthusiastic nod would convince her, but she stopped stirring the hot chocolate and turned to him, her head cocked to one side. “Do you actually know what I mean?”

  “I get the analogy,” he offered. He nodded again, harder this time. “It’s a good one,” he added, hoping he sounded authentic.

  “Brilliant.” Sawyer smiled. She turned her attention back to the hot chocolate, turning the flame down on the old gas stove. “It’s easy to scald the milk and then it’s almost impossible to clean the pot.”

  Francis crept up behind her and wrapped his arms around her soft waist. “Would you like to tell me about your dad?” He kissed the top of her head.

  Sawyer kept stirring the chocolate in the pot. “When Dad left, he took his favorite things: his Swiss Army knife, his Blue Bombers jersey, the silver flask my mom bought in a Salvation Army store for his fortieth birthday, and his worn leather jacket. I didn’t care too much about the knife, or the jacket, but it pissed me off that he didn’t take anything to remind him of us. Of me.”

  Francis breathed in her hair—rose shampoo. “Like a photo, you mean?”

  “Hmm.” She shivered, and Francis held her tighter.

  “Go on,” he encouraged.

  “The sad thing is, and I’ve never told anyone this before, I used to wish him dead. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call a good provider, not like your dad. He worked on and off at different jobs, but he always got fired in the end, or he quit. It drove my mom nuts. They fought all the time. That’s what I remember—them yelling at each other over the sound of traffic.”