Capricious

GABRIELLE PRENDERGAST

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright © 2014 Gabrielle Prendergast

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known
or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Prendergast, Gabrielle, author
Capricious / Gabrielle Prendergast.

Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0267-4 (bound).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0268-1 (pdf).-
ISBN
978-1-4598-0269-8 (epub)

I. Title.
PS
8631.
R
448
C
36 2014           j
C
813'.6           
C
2013-907624-7
C
2013-907625-5

First published in the United States, 2014
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2013954149

Summary
: Ella's plan to have two secret boyfriends backfires when both boys face separate
family crises and Ella is tormented by some girls at her school.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs
provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book
Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia
through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover design by Chantal Gabriell and Teresa Bubela
Cover artwork by Janice Kun
Author photo by Leonard Layton

www.orcabook.com

17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

For Margaret

Contents

Chapter
One: Unplanned

Chapter
Two: Unmasked

Chapter
Three: Unexpected

Chapter
Four: Insufficient

Chapter Five: Unruly

Chapter Six: Unseen

Chapter Seven: Imprudent

Chapter Eight: Unfinished

Chapter Nine: Unfeeling

Chapter Ten: Indiscreet

chapter eleven: Infinite

Acknowledgments

Chapter
One

Unplanned

AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION

I've never been a girl to make plans

Beyond about a week in advance

Some girls have their whole lives

Laid out like a spreadsheet

Instead I lay myself out

Samir's fingers tracing

The curve of my naked hip

On a blood-spotted white sheet

Are you okay
? he says, wide-eyed

Neither of us expected our reunion

To find us tearing at each other's clothes

In the narrow staircase.

He rested his hand on my thigh

As he drove us home from school

And I slid his fingers up and up until

His face flushed hot.

We kissed at the mudroom door and fell inside

Latching the lock behind us

Tumbling upward with arms and legs

And lips and tongues entwined.

It was unplanned and unprepared for.

And Samir is surprised by the blood

I thought you and David might have
…

I told you we're just friends, I say.

Though in my mind David flickers

Brightly and briefly.

The half-naked boy next to me

Is enough distraction.

We should have used a condom
, Samir says

Grave and shamed

Are you on the pill?

I reassure him: the wrong time of month etc.

Though worry niggles at me

I'll deal with it tomorrow

I know where the clinic is

Every smart girl does.

Samir curls his arm around me

And pulls me close

I've missed you so much, habibti

He says,
I love you.

Can we be back together?

Can it be like it was?

We won't do this again if you don't want.

We can pretend it never happened.

I stroke his nascent beard

Breathing in his sweaty sweetness

And touch him, everywhere

Claiming all of him back to me.

HIS PRESENCE

Makes my heart

Grow

Fonder

Stronger

Less inclined to

Wander.

Makes me wonder

At my plan

To pretend

That David is

“Just a friend.”

To play it out

This selfish drama

All the way

To the end.

MOTHER OF THE YEAR

Mom comes home with groceries

Samir and I are on the couch

The
TV
on, feet touching

Like nothing special happened.

Samir helps her bring the bags in

It's nice to see you again
, Mom says

Will we be seeing more of you
?

I hope so
, Samir says

And blushes so hard

It makes my heart ache.

When he leaves

I chop carrots and onions

And Mom fixes me in her stare

Until I feel I might crack

And crumble

My skin peeling off in strips

Like old paint.

Do we need to have “the talk”?
she says.

Boys look a certain way

When certain things happen

I haven't forgotten.

Your father still gets that look.

Ew, I say.

I suppose you're done with David then?

I want to ask her

What she thinks

If I can have them both

But I know she'll disapprove.

I'm just trying to be mature about it, I say instead

I'm friends with both of them

Nothing happened with Samir.

He's just happy we're talking again

And so am I.

LET'S REVIEW

There are rules

To being a white

Middle-class

Christian (sort of)

Teenage girl:

      1.Be obsessed with clothes

      (I'm not, apart from that one dress)

      2.Have a circle of BFFs

      (HA! My collection of friends is more like a black hole)

      3.Have at most ONE boyfriend

      (Who's counting?)

And some other things

NOT to do

DON'T take naked pictures of yourself

EVER

Just don't do it

DON'T have sex without protection

EVER

Because that's just stupid

DON'T lie to your parents

EVER

That always ends badly

DON'T take drugs

This last at least

I have under control

So far.

BUT THESE ARE MY RULES:

On Clothes:

Maybe I AM obsessed

But it's with the wrong clothes

Or the right ones

Depending on how you look at it.

Because girls' clothes

Speak loudly

She's a slut

She's square

She's a stoner

A nerd

An emo goth

A Muslim

A Mormon

A Jew

So loudly

We sometimes can't hear

Our own voices.

But I don't mind if my clothes speak for me

Though I prefer them to say

She's crazy

After all, it's better

If everyone knows in advance.

On BFFs and Black Holes:

One girlfriend might be manageable

But they travel in pairs

Or packs

And their density

Stretches me thin

Gravity sucking me

Down

Into the dark places

That are next to

Impossible

To escape.

On Boys:

I'm sixteen years old

Not sixty

Not old and bored

And married.

Are you guys together?

Are you, like, a couple?

What does that even mean?

Do the things I've done with Samir

Mean he owns me?

And the things I haven't done with David

Mean he doesn't?

What if I

Want to own

Them

Both?

LOGISTICS

There are details

That need working out

Some chess pieces that need

To be carefully placed.

But for now

I swish the spotted sheets from the bed

And bleach them

With my gym socks

And white cotton nightgown.

I watch a movie

With Kayli wheezing behind the nebulizer mask

She's sticking with homeschooling until June

Mom enjoys teaching her, I think

And she's learning stuff she never thought she would.

I watch Mom

Make dinner and eat dinner

And help her tidy up

And follow her around for an hour

Until I'm sure she won't barf.

I wait for Dad

He comes home with a pile of essays

And groans as he reads them

Undergrads
, he says, despairing

Confusing Constantine and Commodus.

Those morons, I say

Knowing I could never keep my emperors straight

They're all penguins to me

But the past has always confused me

I can barely manage the present.

FRESH SHEETS

I run my hand over the place

Where Samir lay

Wide-eyed

Breathless

I lied when he asked

Did I hurt you?

I want to hold that moment

They say you never forget

Your first

And I'm not likely to

But just to be sure

I pull out my sketchpad and pencils

And try to find the right

Lines and curves

The way the afternoon light

Dappled the sheets.

But I get stuck on his hand

Holding my face

As he kissed me

Like he thought

I might turn away.

Disembodied

I pin the hand above the bed

And watch it hover over me

Protectively

Possessively

Most of the night.

ANXIETY

I dream of condoms

And lies

And David

And wake up thinking

I am under arrest again.

GOOD FRIDAY

Mom makes fish and chips

Which we eat in front of the
TV

Watching
Jesus Christ Superstar

While I count the hours

Twenty-four, twenty-five

Twenty-six, twenty-seven

Since Samir and I

Did not use a condom.

The clinic is closed today

In honor of the Crucifixion

Of our Savior.

There is irony in there

Somewhere

But I can't be bothered

To winkle it out.

Instead

I smother my anxiety

In vinegary chips

And sneak a beer

It's half-drunk before Dad notices

And scowls at me.

Technically, I know,

I have seventy-two hours

But each hour that clicks by