At the end of class, the teacher reminded us that we needed to either sign up to teach a class or choose a paper topic by the end of next week. Claire eyed me from the other side of the field, but I pretended not to see.
She caught up to me as I was ducking out of the change room. I was still shaken up, and as we left the school I told her what had happened. “I was forced to be violent! It goes against my beliefs. Maybe I can launch a protest. I conscientiously object to grass hockey!”
Claire's cheeks quivered. It looked like she was suppressing a smile.
“I should have known you wouldn't understand!” I scissored my legs to outstrip her. “You probably like spiking the volleyball into people's faces. It probably gives you a thrill.”
Claire sped up and grabbed my arm. “Slow down a sec.”
I looked back at the school. The grass hockey field was receding into the distance. I relaxed my pace.
“You're making a good point,” she said, “but I'm the only one hearing it. Don't you think some of the other kids in the class might be feeling the same way? What about the girl you hit?”
“Sara.” I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “She's going to have a massive bruise.”
“Right. Sara is probably thinking she hates sports too. But, unlike you, she might be thinking that she hates being active altogether because team sports are all she's ever been exposed to.” Claire twisted her upper body to face me as we walked, her arms raised and her hands splayed. “Don't you think people like Sara deserve to know about other types of physical activity? Don't you think Sara deserves a dance lesson?” As we reached an intersection, kids waiting to cross the street turned their heads at her raised voice.
It was my turn to choke back a laugh. “Since when did you hire a speech writer?”
Claire dropped her arms and slapped the sides of her legs. “How'd I do?”
The light changed, and we crossed. “Pretty good. But I don't feel ready to teach. I'm not confident enough in myself to encourage other people.”
“I can see the obituary now.” She spread her hands in the air as if framing a billboard: “After an unfortunate incident in her Grade 10 PE class, Sara chose a life of inactivity. This led to her untimely death. If only she had stayed active, she might still be alive today. Instead of flowers, please send donations to the Y
.
”
I laughed. Claire must have been born confident. My insecurities carried no weight with her. “You really are playing dirty, my friend.”
“Besides, Nat, you don't have to face the class alone. We'll do it togetherâthat's the whole idea.”
I agreed to think about it on one condition:
she
had to consider taking classes with me at Eastside. We shook hands on it.
Lance starts teaching next week. Maybe he will inspire me.
Wednesday, September 22nd
Kevin finally called. “Are you free on Friday night?” He might have been a skydiving instructor shouting
Jump!
while I huddled inside a plane. The receiver slipped in my hand. My heart pounded. I swallowed and said, “Yes.”
After I hung up, the adrenaline wore off and crabbiness set in. At dinner, Mom asked if I would babysit on Friday.
“I have plans.”
She looked super disappointed. Apparently, Marine has a piece of art in a group show that opens in Nanaimo this weekend. “I promised to be there.”
I gripped my fork and knife. “You should have checked with me before you made promises.”
Paige spoke up. “You don't need to worry.
I
have plans too.”
Guilt tugged at me for acting like Paige was a burden. Mom's face mirrored how I felt.
“I'm having a sleepover at Jessica's.”
“That's great, honey!” Mom squeezed Paige's shoulder. “That'll give you a chance to use your new overnight suitcase, the one that Vi bought for you.”
I wish she'd left Vi out of it. The mention of her name soured my mood even more. I pushed my chair back from the table.
“Aren't you going to finish your lasagna?” Mom said.
“I'm not hungry.”
From the kitchen, I overheard Mom filling Paige in about teenagers, hormones, and moodiness. Ha. If she only knew.
Thursday, September 23rd
Today was my first day of modern class.
Lance faced us at the front of the studio. A short, sixty-year-old man in forest green sweat pants and bare feet, he pressed his shoulders back like a matador's, lengthened his spine, and held his head high.
He told us how to carry ourselves. “Imagine your line of vision as a searchlight that pierces the dark and reaches all the way to the horizon.” Like a superhero with X-ray eyes, he swiveled his head at a slow, even pace.
In between exercises, he told stories. The life lessons went right over the head of some of the girls, but I ate them up. “Everyone has passion when they're young, but so many people get red lights, whether from teachers or parents or even from other kids. The spirit is tender and easily crushed by ridicule and rejection. People say, âYou have to develop a thick skin,' like it's a necessary life skill. But what happens to sensitivity when you thicken your skin? What happens to passion? They get buried. You see so many people on the bus, behind the counter at the store, and they're just going through the motions. They're dead behind the eyes, they've stopped truly living years before. And you wonder, who could that person be if they'd been given green lights instead of red?”
Lance teaches in order to shine a green lightâthe opposite of Ms. Kelly. All those years of her bootcamp-style instruction didn't strengthen me; they just built up my defenses. Now, my confidence is slowly growing from the inside out. Lance still corrects usâhe believes in precisionâbut I don't leave his class doubting my self-worth, the way I often used to do. In his class, we dance to celebrate movement. We've been given beautiful instrumentsâour bodiesâand now we are learning to play.
When I got home from Lance's class tonight, Claire called to find out my decision about teaching, since tomorrow's the deadline. “Okay,” I said. “I give in. But you better do most of the talking!”
Friday, September 24th, night, pre-date
Mom approached me after school today when I was fixing my afternoon snack. Paige was packing her overnight bag upstairs. Mom asked how I would feel if she stayed overnight in Nanaimo tonight.
My guts seized up.
“It's only because Paige is going to be at a sleepover, otherwise I wouldn't ask.” She looked worried. “I really don't like crossing the Malahat in the dark. I was going to do it anyway, but they're predicting rain. That means there'll be a terrible glare on the road. I would feel so much safer getting a motel room.”
I couldn't blame her for not wanting to drive at night over the mountain north of Victoria: The highway is narrow, winding, and unlit. But her plan stressed me out. “Can't you get a ride with Marine?”
“She's staying over too.” Mom blushed and added, “The curator is putting her up.”
I didn't want to have the house to myself. Not on a night when I was going out with Kevin for the first time in six weeks. I didn't want the responsibility. Parents are supposed to be there as a buffer so you don't have to face situations you're not ready to handle. My God! Didn't she learn that the last time?
She was looking at me with such a hopeful expression, like
I
was the parent and she was asking permission.
“Let me think about it.”
She backed up a few steps and bumped into the table. “Sure. Take your time.” She crossed the room, moved a mug from the dish rack to the cupboard, turned in a circle, and fell to sorting the mail.
I considered my options as I chopped celery and sliced cheddar cheese:
1) Say
No, I'm not comfortable staying on my own
, and have Mom miss the art show and mope around, lovesick and frustrated. Or, worse, have her drive late at night over the Malahat, hit a deer, and total Kermit.
2) Say
Yes
, have the house to myself, and be taken advantage of by Kevin.
I forgot what I was doing and sliced almost the whole block of cheese. Considering Option 2 made me break out in a nervous sweat. Should I cancel my date and stay home alone? That didn't seem fair either. I packaged up the extra cheese and replaced it. The fridge door smacked and I spun around, inspired:
3) Say
Yes
, and not let Kevin
know
that I have the house to myself.
Ah yes. The Third Way!
“Okay, Mom.”
She dropped a stack of envelopes on the floor just as Paige wheeled her new bag into the kitchen. Mom bent over to pick up the mail and when she straightened, the blood had rushed to her head. “Honey, I'm going to stay over in Nanaimo tonight.” She sounded a little out of breath.
Paige searched my face. “So Nat will be here all by herself!”
A sob caught in my throat. How could Mom be so oblivious when Paige empathized right away?
“That's not very fun,” Paige continued. “Too bad
you're
not having a sleepover, Nat.”
I tried to reassure them. But why
have
we gone our separate ways again so soon? What happened to family night on Friday, with pizza and a video? Would it be any different if Paige and I were living with Dad and Vi, a normal couple, rather than with a woman going through her second adolescence at forty-two?
2:00 a.m.
I can't fucking believe it. Going to shower.
Saturday, September 25th, morning, Con Brio
Biked here at 7:30 a.m. It didn't open till 8 a.m. Manager eyed me suspiciously when he opened up. Probably thought I was a street kid who'd been loitering there all night.
Sipping latte. Warm. Medicinal.
Where to start?
Does it matter? Is there any point reflecting on all this stuff? I thought I was changing, I thought I was gaining control of my life. Then I repeat the same damn mistakes. Well, not exactly the same.
The evening started okay. Bussed to meet Kevin at the house where he's staying. He came to the door and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. “My roommate's home.” I couldn't tell whether we were giving the roommate his privacy, or seeking our own. We cut across the street to a small neighborhood park. Kevin led the way to the playground. He gestured like a butler to the equipment: “See-saw, madam?”
We teetered back and forth for a while, and then he planted his butt on the ground and trapped me up high. Because he's so much heavier, I couldn't get down. He smirked and chewed grass. When I demanded that he let me down, he faked a move to get up all at once, which would have made me crash to the ground. My stomach curled in fear. That was it.
I twisted my head, gauged the five-foot drop, gripped the seat with my hands, and flung myself backwards. I landed on my feet and staggered only a bit before I stormed to the water fountain. Kevin ran after me. “Sorry, Nat! It was only a joke.”
I leaned over the drinking fountain, cranked the handle, filled my mouth with water, and spat at him.
“Hey!” He jumped backwards and pulled his spattered T-shirt away from his body. He looked stunned, but shook himself out of it. “Are we
even
now?”
I pursed my mouth. “We'll see.”
Back at the house, his roommate (and boss?), the owner of the little brown car, was sunk in an armchair watching Japanese cartoons. I asked if he understood Japanese, and he shook his head, then a grin split his face. “Doesn't matter.” He had a couple of dead teeth.
He asked if we wanted to smoke a bowl. I shook my head but Kevin said sure, then offered me a beer. I didn't want to be called a “suck” again, so I accepted a bottle. We watched the cartoon until I started to zone out, maybe from the secondhand smoke.
“What do you think, Nat, want to go clubbing?”
I raised my eyebrows at him.
I'm fifteen, remember?
“You can see how the nightlife here compares to Vancouver.”
“When I was in Vancouver, I borrowed someone's ID.”
“Don't worry, we have a VIP pass, we'll get you in.”
I hadn't dressed for a night on the town, but in the bathroom, I reapplied lipstick, knotted my shirt at the waist to show a little belly, and teased my hair. My mind raced. Hadn't I made some vow to myself? Right: no driving with Kevin since he doesn't have a license. I sipped my beer. That was illegal, too, at my age. I didn't much like the taste, but to call it “criminal” did seem harsh. As for going to a bar ⦠I'd done it in Vancouver. It didn't seem too dangerous, as long as I went with people I knew. I communed with my mirror image:
Okay. You can have a drink or two, and you can go to a bar. But I draw the line at getting into a car with an unlicensed driver.