Love is a Four-Letter Word (13 page)

My phone call with Michael leaves me feeling light-headed and giddy, like my whole body is made of root beer or ginger ale or something fizzy. I have to walk it off before I am able to calm down and head over to Benji’s. But when I arrive and see how anxious he is, the fizzy pop sensation goes flat.

He’s downstairs in the den, seated at the edge of the big leather couch, his foot tapping like mad against the floor. He’s wound so tightly that he practically springs off the couch when I enter. “Thanks for coming. You’re my last hope,” he says.

Last
hope? My good mood deflates a little more. I know I’m not a professional actor like Charity, but I like to think that I have something useful to offer. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s my song,” Benji confesses, looking truly miserable. “I know all the words, but the director says I’m not feeling it.”

I don’t know exactly what that means, but I don’t like seeing Benji so distraught. It makes me hate Charity a little more, knowing that she was supposed to be here and now she’s let him down. Just because she’s a better actress than me doesn’t mean she’s a better friend.

“Let’s try it from the top,” I say, and Benji takes a deep breath and starts to sing.

I’ve heard him sing before, of course, but never thought
anything of it. Now that he’s been handpicked to be in a musical, I pay much more attention. He has a nice voice, kind of quiet, and maybe a little high for a boy, but it’s clear and natural.

When he finishes, Benji shoves his hands in his pockets, looks at me with his big eyes and asks, “Well? What did you think?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course, honestly,” Benji says, but he looks nervous.

“You sound great, but it’s not very Cowardly Lion, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay …”

“I mean you’re singing it like Benji, or like someone on the radio, not like a lion who is describing his dream.”

Benji thinks about this for a second. “So, you think I need more character?” he asks.

“Yes!”

Benji nods thoughtfully, as if he was expecting this assessment of his performance. “Charity says you should approach your songs as an actor first and a singer second.”

I am annoyed that even though she isn’t here, even though
she
ditched
him
, Benji still quotes Charity like she is the ultimate authority. “Okay then, so how are you going to approach this song?”

Benji thinks about it for a second, then says, “Proudly? Like a king?”

“Here,” I toss an old throw from the couch over his shoulders, “this can be your cape.” Benji holds the throw blanket-cape closed around his neck and stands up a little taller. “That’s it! Now try it again.”

This time, Benji sings with his chin up and makes all sorts of grand gestures with his arms.

“Yes! That’s it!” I cry, clapping wildly as he finishes.

“Clarissa, you’re really good at this,” Benji says.

“Oh, stop it,” I say, but it makes me feel good.

“No, really. You could be a director!”

A director! I’ve never thought about that before. Come to think of it, that might be fun — calling all the shots, casting all the actors.

“Maybe you could assistant direct. Charity says that they’re always looking for people to help at Gaslight Community Players.”

There’s that name again. Every time I hear it, it gets to me like a mosquito bite that won’t quit itching. “Charity seems to know everything,” I say curtly.

“What do you mean?” Benji asks.

“I mean she seems to be the be-all and end-all, where you’re concerned.”

“Well, she kind of is when it comes to acting. She’s —”

“Professional, I know, you’ve told me!” I snap.

“Are you mad at me?” Benji asks, surprised.

“All you can talk about is Charity! Are you in love with her or something? Well she’s not here now, is she? I am. Newsflash, Benji: She’s in high school, she’s a big star. She’s never going to look at you as anything but a kid.”

Benji is so genuinely shocked that his mouth hangs open and his makeshift cape slips to the floor. He looks nothing like a lion and everything like a person who has just had his feelings squashed by his best friend. I wish I could swallow those hateful words back up. I know he’s not in love with her. I don’t know what made me say those things. I’m so embarrassed I feel sick to my stomach. “She’s my friend,” Benji says eventually, lower lip quivering.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I mutter.

But Benji isn’t letting me off the hook yet. “You have other friends,” he continues. “You hang out with Mattie all the time without me and I don’t get mad at you.”

“But she’s your friend, too,” I protest. “Besides, you’d be hanging out with us if you weren’t at rehearsal all the time.”

“I thought you were happy for me.”

“I am.”

“You don’t act like it sometimes.”

“I know, I just feel …” Jealous? Angry? Upset? I can’t tell him any of that without looking like a big baby. “… I miss hanging out with you. It’s not fair. Charity gets you all to herself.”

“We’re hanging out right now, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, and look what happened. We’re fighting!”

“You could hang out with us too, you know. I’ve invited you to come to the SAPS with me, but you just made fun of them.”

“I know,” I mutter. “I’m sorry. I just hate hearing about all the fun you’re having. I wanted to be in this show too, remember?”

“I know,” Benji says. “Don’t get mad at me when I say this, but it’s not my fault that you didn’t get in. I wanted you to get in, too. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even be in the play. I never would have tried out if you hadn’t made me.”

Even though it feels good to hear him say that I am the reason he’s in the play in the first place, it still doesn’t make me feel any better about the whole situation. Benji continues, “I really, really like it, Clarissa, but I feel like I can’t tell you about it because you’ll get mad at me.”

The whole ugly truth sits between us. It’s more than just an elephant in the room, it’s an elephant with a wonky eye
and a gnarled tusk and oozing scabs all over its legs. We sit in silence, me braiding the tassels on the throw blanket and Benji doodling on the soles of his running shoes.

After a minute, Benji clears his throat and asks, “Is it okay if we keep practising? I think your suggestions are really making a difference.”

I recognize an olive branch when I see one. “Sure! This time, I want you to wear this.” I take off my headband and place it on Benji’s head, like a crown. “I guess it’s more like a tiara than a crown, but you get the idea. Now try it again.”

Benji belts out his song again. This is the best he’s sung it yet, complete with facial expressions and a lion-like prowl. He really is very good. I see why they cast him; he’s a natural!

“What’s going on down here?”

Benji stops singing mid-sentence. The Dentonator stands in the doorway, the TV guide in one hand, a can of beer in another.

Benji and I respond automatically. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” the Dentonator says.

“Well, not nothing, exactly —” Benji falters.

“We’re rehearsing,” I say.

The Dentonator scratches his right eyebrow with his pinky finger. “Rehearsing?” he repeats.

I roll my eyes. “You know, for the play?” Cripes, how thick can you be?

“It’s for
The Wizard of Oz
,” Benji says, “Remember? I’m the Cowardly Lion?”

“Yeah, yeah; I remember now. I didn’t know there was singing in this play.”

“It
is
a musical,” I point out.

The Dentonator narrows his eyes and nods in Benji’s direction. “What’s that you’ve got on your head?”

Benji touches the headband. It slips over one eyebrow, like a fallen halo. “It’s supposed to be my crown,” he explains. “You know, because I’m the King of the Forest?”

The silence that follows is excruciating. Benji squirms as his father takes a long swig from his beer, never once taking his eyes off the headband that is now clenched in Benji’s fist.

“Are there many boys in this play?” he finally asks.

“A few,” Benji says.

“About how many?”

Benji shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe four, five?”

The Dentonator’s eyebrows disappear into his ball cap in disbelief. “
Maybe
four or five?”

“Five,” Benji confirms.

“That’s not very many.”

“I guess not.”

We all stand there, looking anywhere but at each other, until finally the Dentonator downs what’s left of his beer. “Well, I guess I’d better let you get back at it.”

“No, wait!” Benji says. The Dentonator pauses on the stairs. “Did you see the ticket order form I left for you? On the fridge?”

“I must have missed it,” the Dentonator says. “Why?”

“We’re supposed to bring our advance ticket orders in on Monday.”

“Oh, right. When is this show of yours happening?”

“In three weeks. I wrote it on the calendar. There’s a show every night from Wednesday to Saturday, with a matinee on Sunday.”

“I’ve been working the night shift lately.”

“I know, that’s why I wanted to tell you now. So you can switch with someone.” Benji smiles hopefully.

The Dentonator doesn’t smile back. “It’s not that easy, Ben. You can’t switch just a single shift.”

“I know. I thought if you had enough notice you could request to be put on days for that week.”

For the third time in less than half an hour, an uneasy silence settles over the room.

“We’ll see, Ben. I can’t make any promises.” The Dentonator turns and lumbers up the stairs. I wait until he has disappeared somewhere in the house before turning back to Benji and suggesting we start again.

“I don’t feel like singing anymore,” Benji says flatly.

“Want to watch a movie?” I ask.

Benji shakes his head. “No. I’m feeling kind of tired. Maybe you should go home.”

I don’t tell him that it’s barely eight o’clock; instead I gather my things and head back to my house. Before I leave, I look over my shoulder and say, “Benji, you sound really great. You’re going to make an awesome Lion.”

Benji smiles but doesn’t say anything. I know it’s wrong to hate your best friend’s dad, but sometimes I really hate the Dentonator. He has a way of making people feel small, especially Benji.

When I get home, Doug is reading the paper at the kitchen table, frowning.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Did your team lose?”

Doug shakes his head. “Nope. My teams are all rock-solid at the moment. It’s this crossword that’s driving me nuts. What’s an eight-letter word for abdicate?”

I shrug. Puzzling over the crossword is something I picture old people or librarians doing, not a giant personal trainer with a mop of a dog named Suzy.

I guess my feelings were written all over my face, because then Doug says, “Why do you look so surprised? What, you think I’m all brawn, no brains?” Before I can protest, Doug continues, “I don’t blame you, a lot of guys I know spend so much time on their pipes they don’t bother with their noggins.” Doug taps the side of his head. “But let me tell you something, the brain is just another muscle. It needs to be worked out just as much as your pecs or your gluteus maximus does. Do you know what the gluteus —”

“Yes, I know what the gluteus maximus is,” I interrupt. It seems to be the only scientific muscle name that any of the boys in my class can remember.

“Of course you do, you’re a smart girl. Anyway, doing the crossword every morning helps keep my brain in shape.
What good is keeping this in shape,” Doug gestures at his body, “if your head isn’t in top form?”

“Where’s my mother?”

Doug nods his head in the direction of the bathroom. “Beautifying, not that she needs it.”

Barf.

In the bathroom, my mom is humming as she applies what looks like a fourth coat of mascara.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

“We’re going out,” Mom chirps.

“Have a good time,” I mutter, starting to make my way to my bedroom.

Mom stops me. “No, I said we’re going out. Doug is treating us.”

“Us?” I repeat.

“Us,” Mom confirms, slipping her arm around my shoulder. “Won’t that be nice? We can all spend some time together, getting to know one another.”

Nice is not exactly how I would describe that scenario. “Where are we going?” I ask warily.

“Bowling.”

“Excuse me?”

Mom grins. “You know, bad shoes, ten pins, black light?”

“Doug is taking us to Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl?”

Just then, the devil himself calls from the kitchen, “The bowling train departs from the station in five minutes.”

Five years ago, a late-night manager of a video store won the lottery and decided the only thing he really wanted in life
was to own a bowling alley — but not just any bowling alley, a black-light bowling alley. And so Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl was built. It has ten lanes, real jukeboxes, custom bowling shirts you can order with your name stitched in red thread over the pocket and, of course, black lights. I’ve been there once before, for a birthday party, and found it seriously lacking in fun. As a date, it seems like a lame choice to me. Not that anyone else thinks so. Mom and Doug are positively giddy all the way there.

“I can’t remember the last time I went bowling,” Mom giggles.

Doug leans across to the passenger seat and squeezes her knee. “I’ll go easy on you,” he teases. Then he catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “Besides, it’s Clarissa I’m going to have to watch out for. If those badminton skills transfer over to the lanes then we’re both in big trouble.”

I roll my eyes, not that the two lovebirds in the front seat take any notice.

It is surprisingly busy at Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl. I guess there really isn’t anything else to do in town on a Friday night. How sad is that? Doug barters with the manager for a lane while Mom and I pick out shoes.

“You know, when we were kids we used to steal shoes from the bowling alley,” Mom says, looking wistful. “Do you want brown with red laces or black with green laces?”

I take a pair of black with green laces and try to imagine why anyone would steal such ugly shoes.

Doug comes back, teeth glowing under the black lights. His jeans and shirt are dark, so he looks disturbingly like the Cheshire cat, his fluorescent smile floating somewhere in the region of where his face might be. “All right, ladies. Lane seven it is!”

Mom laughs. Doug pretends to look horrified. “What, do I have something in my teeth?” He hams it up, picking at imaginary food between his two front teeth. I don’t get the appeal of black light. The novelty wears off after a few minutes. So what if your teeth and the lint on your t-shirt glow? It’s also pretty hard to see what you’re doing.

It turns out badminton is not the only useless sport I am good at; I am also a bowling pro-star. I win the first game, surprising everyone. Doug keeps offering his hand and saying, “up top, down low” or asking me to “give him some skin.” How many lame ways can there be to say high-five?

Mom is having a rough go of it, slipping in her ugly shoes and tossing the ball into the gutter every other throw. She doesn’t seem to mind, though; she laughs and cheers when Doug or I knock down pin after pin.

“How did my daughter get to be so good at bowling?” she teases.

“Clearly not from her mother,” Doug says, winking. “Clarissa, you want to come over here and give your mother a few pointers?”

“Nah,” I say. “I know a hopeless case when I see one.”

Doug bursts out laughing and offers his hand yet again for a high-five. Without thinking, I reach out and slap his palm with mine.

Mom pretends to pout. “You two are picking on me.”

“Okay, okay, time out.” Doug waits for a smaller ball to spit out of the dispenser. He picks it up, walks over to my mom, and gives her a private lesson. Mom slips her fingers into the bowling ball and Doug stands behind her, puts his hand over hers, and guides her arm into proper bowling form. His other hand rests on her waist. He talks right into her ear and the two of them giggle like teenagers.

I can’t hear them from the bench where I’m sitting, but that’s fine with me. I slouch in my seat and take a few furtive glances in either direction. I am glad for the cover of black light. Everyone seems to be caught up in their own games and missing the spectacle going on in lane seven, thank goodness.

Finally, with Doug’s help, Mom gets her first strike.

“Hey-o!” Doug high-fives my mother and lifts her into a bear hug, swinging her feet right off the ground. The foghorn sounds, cuing the strobe lights, which hit the disco ball in the middle of the bowling alley, showering the place with drops of light. Everyone looks over and smiles as my mom does what can only be described as her happy dance, like the ones bad actors do on lottery commercials.

“Mom, cut it out, people are looking.”

“Let them look! I just got a strike!”

“Big deal, one strike.”

“Your turn, missy.”

Despite Doug’s one-on-one attention, my mom is still a hopeless bowler and I come
thisclose
to winning the second game, losing by eight measly points to Doug.

“What do you say we play best two out of three?” Doug suggests. “Loser has to buy everyone ice cream.”

Doug may be older than I am and a personal trainer, but he is also seriously distracted by my mother. Love may be great and everything, but it is a liability in bowling. I figure I have this one in the bag. “Deal.”

Doug grins and we shake.

“I like how you’ve completely written me off,” Mom says, rolling her eyes.

“If you win, I’ll buy you ice cream for a month,” Doug says.

Mom throws a mock punch and Doug staggers as if he’s really hurt before grabbing her head in an arm-lock and threatening to muss up her hair. For one awful second, I think they might start wrestling.

“Guys! Can we just play? People are looking.”

“All this winning is making me thirsty. Are you thirsty, Annie?”

Mom nods. “I could use some water.”

Doug grabs his wallet from his back pocket and hands me a ten dollar bill. “Here, grab two waters and whatever you want for yourself. Thanks, Clarissa. You’re a doll. And a good loser, too.”

I snatch the bill from his hand and make my way to the restaurant in the corner. It’s really more of a bar, with stools and a few sets of tables and chairs shoved against the wall. Two bottles of water doesn’t even come to five dollars, so I decide to treat myself to something nice. According to the menu, I can get a hotdog, fries, nachos, or something from the vending machine. Some restaurant.

“Hi there, can I help you?” The waitress smiles at me. She has dimples and the same terrifying glowing teeth as everyone else at Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl. Even though her shirt has the name Shirley stitched across the pocket and her hair is pulled back and threaded through the hole in her cheesy Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl baseball cap, I’d recognize her anywhere. Charity Smith-Jones.