Wake

by Abria Mattina

  “Why do you smell like smoke?”

  “I was at Oma’s house.”

  Frank eyes the cookie in his hand. “Are you sure? These aren’t special, are they?”

  “Do they smell like weed? I don’t do that anymore.” I can’t fault him for being on his guard, but it still annoys me to be questioned like a delinquent.

  “Sorry.” He shrugs. “You’ve been all right so far, I guess. Your school hasn’t called me yet, so…” I have the urge to lower his expectations by telling him that it’s only a matter of time.

  Tuesday

  I try to volunteer at least once a week, and the hospital is my first choice of locations. I go to the volunteer station in the hospitality office to grab my green vest and check in with the volunteer coordinator. For the past few weeks I’ve been assigned to read books to the kids on the pediatric floor, which is great as far as I’m concerned. I’d much rather do that than push the squeaky book cart along the other wards. I might run into Jem again and have to deal with his bad attitude in class.

  I step into the elevator to go up to pediatrics. On the second floor the doors open and none other than Dr. Harper steps on. He’s scrolling through his Blackberry and doesn’t immediately notice me. I don’t say anything because he looks busy. Dr. Harper is the kind of person that looks permanently pinched until he smiles. I have to look very hard to find a trace of Jem in him.

  We both get off on the fourth floor. It looks like a clean break free of awkwardness, until he notices me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Willa?”

  “Hi, Dr. Harper.”

  “I didn’t know you were a volunteer.”

  “Yeah. I’m on my way to Pediatrics.”

  He smiles and says the more he hears about me the better I seem. When the hell has he heard about me? What has he heard?

  Dr. Harper’s phone beeps and we exchange a short goodbye before he hurries off to answer that emergency. I have half a mind to visit the Dialysis Clinic, just to see if Jem is in and to find out what he’s been telling people about me.

  Wednesday

  If I ask Jem what he said about me, he won’t give a straight answer. He’ll dodge the question or insult me, and that’s just counterproductive.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he demands during Soc.

  “I’m stealing your thoughts.”

  Jem leans in and stares right back, mocking me. Our noses are only an inch apart. His breath smells like mint and lime, and is surprisingly warm. I tend to think of Jem as cold—pale, anemically chilly hands, icy personality, etc. There are flecks of green in his blue irises.

  “Hey, your eyelashes are growing back.”

  Jem rears away from me like I’ve just spit in his face. He turns back to his work and rests the side of his face on his hand, blocking me from looking at him too closely.

  “I saw your dad last night.” Jem peaks over his hand like he’s afraid of what he’ll hear. “He seems to be under the impression that I’m a good person.”

  Jem smirks without humor and gives a soft snort. “My mom must have said something.”

  Yes, he is indeed behind it.

  Thursday

  It’s entirely Luke’s fault that I have to do yesterday’s homework at lunch. I was doing it last night like a good student, and then he called. Two hours of conversation later, when I realized what time it was, it was far too late to get everything done.

  I like talking to Luke. He’s interesting and takes a genuine interest in people. Chris teasingly scolds me when he notices I’m doing math at the lunch table, and it’s surprisingly difficult not to flip him off. Paige takes this opportunity to arrange a study date with Chris. I wasn’t aware that either of them was registered for practical Biology this semester, but I’m sure a little studying can’t hurt.

  I’m not making enough headway on this assignment. It’s too loud in here, and I have to turn this in by the end of the day. I take my books out of the cafeteria and find a quiet place to work. I end up in the stairwell behind the auditorium, sitting on the floor and listening to closing doors echo above.

  I’ve got twenty minutes to finish four more math problems. At five minutes each, I can probably get this done and make it to class on time.

  The stairwell door opens from the auditorium and Jem sighs impatiently when he sees me. “Kirk.”

  “Harper.” I move my books and papers to make room. He doesn’t take a seat.

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know, most people work in the library.”

  “Okay.”

  Jem huffs. I think my non-answers irritate him. “Math homework?” he says stiffly.

  My math textbook is clearly visible right next to me. “No, French.”

  Jem gives me that cocky smirk that I hate so much, and doesn’t say a word. He just folds his arms across his chest, watching me.

  “You got any plans this weekend?”

  “My brother and I are supposed to spend time together tomorrow.” Frank has been feeling a bit guilty about not spending enough time with me. Tomorrow we’re supposed to go to the Thorpes’ house for dinner, because even quality time with my brother can’t be spent one-on-one. We have almost nothing to say to each other. I summarize my plans for Jem while I conclude another math problem.

  “Friday isn’t part of the weekend.” His voice is a little tense. He follows that up with, “So do you go to Port Elmsley often?” I shrug. What does ‘often’ really mean, anyway? “Seriously, what are you doing this weekend?”

  “If I tell you, I’d be taking all the effort out of stalking me.”

  Jem snorts wryly. He doesn’t have a comeback, and we’re silent for the time it takes me to complete another math problem. Jem picks up the completed pages of my assignment and looks them over.

  “If you need more time for this, I can cover for you. I’ll tell Hudson you went to the nurse’s office or something.”

  “No, I’m almost done.”

  “But some of these are wrong.”

  I snatch the papers out of his hand. I don’t need an A+ in math; I just need to pass with a decent grade. “Bugger off, Harper.”

  He doesn’t. He rudely grabs the pencil right out of my hand before snatching my assignment back.

  “You factored wrong.” He erases the work for three problems and redoes them in an impersonation of my handwriting. It takes him just three minutes, and then he gives back the pages and puts back my pencil.

  “See you in class.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You owe me.”

  I’m going to regret this.

  Friday

  I don’t think the potato salad is going to make it to the Thorpes’ house. Frank has been eyeing it all evening. We’re heading to Port Elmsley at five to have dinner and spend the evening. There’s probably a game on that Frank and Doug will watch. Mr. Thorpe will be there of course, and Luke’s little sister Briana.

  It’s weird, but going to Port Elmsley feels more like going home than any place else; like Frank and I belong there, in the Thorpes’ house. I was worried I wouldn’t feel like that anymore when I decided to move back to Smiths Falls, but I’m glad I do.

  Jokes about the appetites of teenage boys practically write themselves. Two burgers and six hotdogs later, Luke and I are in the kitchen washing dishes. ESPN is on in the other room, and Briana is blasting music upstairs. She’s changed, just like her brother. Her clothes are pretty tight and her makeup is awfully heavy for a fourteen-year-old.

  “Want to take a walk when we’re done?” Luke says. “It’s a full moon tonight. We might be early enough to see it rise.”

  We finish cleaning up and walk down to the edge of a ravine that runs behind the house. I can hear moving water down below; it hasn’t completely re-frozen from the afternoon melt.

  “How have you been?” Luke casually takes my hand and I slowly pull it away. It might be warmer with my little hand wrapped up in his
big mitten, but I don’t do hand-holding. Luke’s brows draw together; it’s the only outward signal that he’s the slightest bit miffed.

  “Better. I’m more settled at school now.”

  “Making friends?”

  “I don’t think I’m fit company for anyone just yet.”

  “Sure you are,” Luke says, and shoves my shoulder—it’s a little more than a playful push. He has no idea, and I don’t feel like talking about it, so I change the subject. I tell him about my plans to apply for a job in town. He tells me about a recent pep rally at his school where a cheerleader fell off the stage. I remind him of the tentative plan to go skating, and that improves his tender mood.

  “Let me know when.”

  Jem: March 2 to 9

  Sunday

  Around ten, I borrow Mom’s car and drive over to Willa’s house. Neither of the Kirks’ cars is at the house, so I sit on the front porch and wait for her to get home. It’s Smiths Falls on a Sunday, what could she possibly be doing that would take more than an hour? She’s probably just at the grocery store or something. I don’t immediately consider the possibilitiy that she might have made plans with other friends—especially the friend that lives in Port Elmsley, the one that thinks it’s okay to touch her whenever he feels like it.

  It starts to drizzle so I sit in the car instead and listen to music for a while. The clock slowly creeps closer to noon. Where the hell is she? Maybe she’s out with her other friends, Paige Holbrook and Hannah Trilby and whoever else.

  Not Chris Elwood, anyone but Elwood. Even that baby-face Luke is preferable.

  I should go home. I can hang out with Elise and Eric and pretend I was never here at all. And Celeste is in town, so there’s the vague promise of a family dinner tonight.

  When I get home I park Mom’s car by the garage, get out, and stand there staring at Willa’s car. She was here the whole time. Now I need a cover story for when she asks where I’ve been for the past two hours. I can’t just admit to a girl that I’ve been loitering on her porch all morning.

  When I go inside the house smells like sugar and warm chocolate. Mom is laughing in the kitchen and Elise is chirping away about something. I can’t tell what because she talks so fast the words run together.

  “Sothenhesaid—”

  “C’mere, Jem,” Mom says when she sees me, and offers a beater for me to lick. Willa is up to her elbows in flour, rolling out dough for cookies. It smells like Christmas in here. While she rolls and cuts, Elise is decorating the cookies with squeeze-tube icing and chocolate chips.

  “Where were you?” Mom leans in to kiss my cheek. She smells like cinnamon.

  “At the library.”

  “Sothenhesaid ‘maybe I’ll see you around’ andIwaslike, ‘okay’ andhewaslike, ‘cool,’” Elise continues to chatter in Willa’s ear. Willa has her smirk on; I think she’s sort of enjoying Elise’s one-woman catastrophe.

  “She got her crush’s email address,” Mom informs me, sotto voce. “They were chatting online.” Oh crap. There’s a whole arena of interactive space where I can’t watch over her and counsel her not to make a fool of herself.

  Willa puts the last cookie cutouts in the oven to bake and begins to clean up the counter. Elise is still talking.

  “Imeanthat’scool, right? Iwas, like, justtryingtoplay, y’know, laidback or coolorwhatever—”

  “Yeah, wonderful,” Willa agrees when Elise pauses for breath.

  “You think so?”

  “How old are you again?”

  “I’ll be seventeen in two weeks.”

  “And how old is he?”

  “So do you think it’s too…I don’t know, eager for a girl to ask a guy out? Or should I just ask? Or is that too pushy?”

  Willa looks at me helplessly and I try, once again, to sell Elise on the idea of the Order of St. Clare. “You’d make a really cute nun,” I tell her.

  She stamps her foot. “I am not a frigid lesbian!”

  “Elise!” Mom scolds her. “Why don’t you give Willa a tour of the rest of the house?” Mom says to me. She’s just trying to break Elise and I up so I’ll stop torturing her. “I’m sure she’s sick of the kitchen.”

  “Oh, never.” Willa grins. It’s weird.

  “Come on.” I get off the island stool and lead the way through the rest of the ground floor. “The bedrooms and the library are on the second floor.”

  “You have a library?” She says it like I’ve just informed her that we have a dungeon.

  “Yeah, it’s sort of an all-purpose office space with lots of bookshelves.”

  “Can I see it?”

  I’m leading the way upstairs when Willa stops on the third step and grabs my sleeve. Something outside has her attention. When I step down to look through the window I see Eric and Celeste in the backyard, making a snowman.

  “Is that his girlfriend?” she asks.

  I snort. Right, like those two would ever date. “Of course not. That’s Celeste. She’s down from Ottawa for the weekend.”

  “Is she your cousin or something?”

  “Nah, she and Eric have been friends since kindergarten. Lord knows why.”

  “But they aren’t dating?” Willa cocks her head to the side like the situation is somehow puzzling. What’s so complicated about it? It’s just Eric and Celeste, best friends, building a lopsided snowman with tits.

  “She has a boyfriend in Ottawa.”

  Willa smirks. “That’s nice.”

  “She’s not.” Celeste and I have never gotten along. She thinks of herself as assertive, but in reality she’s an aggressive harpy, which explains her entourage of frenemies back home. Celeste is one of those girls that other girls love to hate. She’s got so much going for her: amazing body, brains to go with it, popularity, an affluent family, and a boyfriend that completes the image of upper-middle class perfection—key word being ‘image.’ Celeste has an empty life, but she still likes to rub it in everyone’s faces.

  I take Willa up to the library and she immediately gravitates towards the bookshelves. Eric’s homework lies abandoned on one of the desks.

  “Wow, it’s really organized,” she says of the shelves. All the books are grouped by subject: medicine, architecture, fiction, music, art, etc. Willa pulls down The Canterbury Tales. I don’t think that book has been opened since Mom completed her English requirement as an undergrad.

  “Do you like Chaucer?” she asks me. Until she mentioned his name, I had no idea who wrote the book.

  “He’s okay.”

  “You seem like The Miller’s Tale type.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think you’d get the most pleasure out of laughing at those characters’ stupidity and hedonism.”

  “I’m only an asshole from nine to five, you know.”

  “This totally is your kind of humor.” She starts reading aloud from the book and I don’t catch a word.

  “Is that written in Elvish?”

  Willa just smiles and shelves the book. “The cookies will be done soon.”

  Monday

  Last summer my first round of chemo turned me into a night owl. Between fatigue and nausea I felt best between midnight and four a.m., and Mom and me ended up sitting awake a lot, drinking tea and talking. She’s been a chronic insomniac for years. She used to take sleeping pills for it, but she stopped when she had kids because she wouldn’t wake up if we cried in the night. She had only been back on the drug for a few years when I got sick and she immediately quit again. She was terrified that something would go wrong in the night and no one would be able to wake her up. Sometimes she still takes them on the nights that Dad is home, but if he’s on call or on night shift she goes without and stays awake.

  We would sit in the kitchen—the farthest room from the bedrooms—and talk about stuff. She told me about how she almost switched her major from Architecture to Women’s Studies as an undergrad.

  “Give me a break,” she said when I expressed my disgust
. “I was young and idealistic. I grew up in the seventies, for crying out loud.”

  She told me about deciding to study for her Masters right before she got married, because she wanted to keep at least one area of her life open for new possibilities.

  “I thought you and Dad got married when you were already working?” They were living in Ottawa at the time and Mom worked for Simons & Co.—I knew that for a fact—and she had done her Masters in Toronto.

  “Mmm-hmm.” She sipped her tea. “I meant my first marriage.” That was the first time that she ever mentioned being with anyone other than my dad. I couldn’t picture it.

  “We met through mutual friends,” she said with a smile I couldn’t read. “We started dating, and we dated some more, and the rest just sort of…happened. We were happy together, but the love was shallow.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was twenty-four.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well, marriage is difficult,” she said vaguely. Mom got up to pour herself another mug of tea and when she came back to the table she told me that her first husband—she didn’t call him by name—had wanted her to drop out of grad school and get a full time job.

  “I was only working part time, you see. And when I got pregnant he hounded me day and night to stop working and stay home. He had it in his head that he could boss me around now that we were married.”

  The latter half of her explanation was lost on me. I was hung up on the part where she got pregnant.

  “Let’s not tell your brother and sister about this conversation, all right?” she said when I asked about it. “My first husband and I had a little boy about two years after we got married.” I scrambled to do the mental math. Given her age, that would have been three years before Eric was born. It floored me that I had a sibling that I never knew about, old enough to have finished university, possibly living in Toronto with his dad.