Love is a Four-Letter Word (8 page)

Apparently Mattie wasn’t going to let the whole Josh Simmons thing blow over, because at lunch on Monday, she sat with Amanda and Min instead of at our usual table with Benji.

“You still haven’t apologized?” Benji asks.

“Not really,” I admit.

“You should go over there and do it before it gets worse.”

“And give Min and Amanda the satisfaction of seeing me grovel? Never.”

“You don’t have to do it in front of them.”

“I don’t think I should have to apologize at all.”

“But Mattie does.”

“Fine.” I down the rest of my juice box and stomp over to the table where Min, Amanda, and Mattie are sitting. Min and Amanda stop talking and Mattie refuses to look up at me.

“Hey,” I say. All three of them give me the silent treatment. “I said
hey
,” I repeat. Still nothing. “Mattie, can I talk to you for a second?”

Mattie straightens up but still refuses to look me in the eye. “About what?”

“You know about what. Can you just please come back to the table for a second?”

Mattie sniffs. “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Min and Amanda.”

I grit my teeth and tell myself to remain calm. “Look, I know you’re still mad at me, but believe me when I say I don’t like Josh and I would never do anything to stop you from dating him, if that’s what you really want.”

“So you admit you knew that I liked Josh all along?” Mattie asks.

“Yes, obviously.”

“And you admit that what you said was hurtful and uncalled for?”

“Now wait a minute, you’re the one who took it the wrong way. You’re the one who overreacted!”

Amanda gasps and Min shakes her head. Mattie looks right at me, her cheeks turning pink with anger. She is madder than I’ve ever seen her before. “Overreacted?”

“Yes, overreacted,” I repeat. “I said I was sorry, can’t we just get over this?”

“Actually, I don’t recall you using the word sorry.”

“Fine. I’m sorry, Mattie. I didn’t mean it and you know it. I’m very, very sorry.”

“You have to mean it when you say it, Clarissa, otherwise it doesn’t count.”

Amanda rolls her eyes at Min and I am tempted to reach over and slap the smug looks off both of their faces. Mattie is making me look stupid on purpose. I am sorry, but right now I am also pissed off.

“Can we please talk about this alone?” I say between gritted teeth.

“Actually, I think I’m done talking about this,” Mattie says, and she turns away from me.

I make my way back to Benji, fuming.

“I take it that didn’t go well,” he says.

I help myself to his chips, stuffing them in my mouth by the handful to keep from screaming.

“You can always try again tomorrow,” Benji suggests.

I don’t get a chance to talk to Mattie on Tuesday either, though I go out of my way to catch her eye and smile at her in class. Each time she pretends not to see me, tossing her hair over one shoulder. I even stoop so low as to write her a note, entrusting it to Benji to pass along in Geography.

“Did she say anything about the note?” I ask after class.

Benji shakes his head, no. “Sorry, Clarissa. I don’t even know if she read it — she just stuffed it in her backpack.”

I’m not the kind of person who thinks it is acceptable to apologize in letter form. In my note, I told Mattie I was really and truly sorry and I wanted the chance to say so in person. But first she has to acknowledge my presence.

On Thursday after school, I wait for Mattie at her locker like I always do, but after waiting for fifteen minutes it dawns on me that she isn’t going to show. She’s gone home without me. All of a sudden I can’t get out of there fast enough. I walk home alone, head down, shocked at how mad Mattie is. I know she likes Josh and everything, but this seems extreme, even for Mattie.

At home, I turn on the TV and the radio, and walk from room to room turning on all the lights. I’m too restless to do anything else. Mom is at the gym with her running team and Doug, Benji’s at rehearsal, and Mattie is at home eating her healthy snack and singing along to Sheryl Crow and Sarah McLachlan without me. I stare at the phone, willing it to ring.

Finally it dawns on me that I’m the one who has to pick up the phone. Mattie’s is one of only three phone numbers that I know by heart. Maybe I should tell her that. Surely it’ll count for something.

“Hello?”

“Hi Cheryl, it’s Clarissa. Can I speak to Mattie, please?”

There is a pause and the sound of muffled voices, and then Cheryl says, “I’m sorry, Clarissa, she isn’t in the mood to talk right now. Can I take a message?”

I swallow, wondering if Mattie has told her mother about our fight. She probably hates me. I can’t say that I blame her. I hate me a little right now, too. “Would you please tell her that I called to say I’m sorry and that I really, really mean it.”

“Yes, Clarissa. I’ll tell her. Have a good night.”

Doubtful.

The Sunday before the tournament, Mattie finally returns my calls. It seems the tournament is still a go, and she has decided that we need to brush up on our badminton skills.

“What skills?” I ask. “It’s badminton.”

“Don’t you want to win?” Mattie asks.

“I guess.” I don’t care so much about the tournament. I’m only doing it to win Mattie back. This past week was horrible. I had no idea how much I liked Mattie until she refused to talk to me. With Benji always at rehearsal and my mother spending every spare second with Doug, it feels like I’m losing people left, right, and centre. I don’t want to lose her, too.

We agree to meet at Mattie’s place after lunch. Benji is at rehearsal (of course) and I’ve done as much of my homework as I’m likely to do, so I’m as free as a bird. It’s one of those spring days that feels more like summer. It seems like the whole world is out, gardening or walking or just finding reasons to be about, smiling in the sunshine.

I ring Mattie’s doorbell, hoping to avoid her mother. Even though I know I’m not at fault and Mattie claims to have forgiven me, I still feel low-down about the whole thing. I don’t like the idea of other people’s parents thinking bad things about me.

“Clarissa!” Just my luck, Cheryl Cohen opens the door. By the way she says my name, I can tell she knows about our fight. I smile at her and pray to whoever’s listening that she doesn’t ask me to talk about it. The Cohens love to talk things through.

Cheryl is smiling at me expectantly, waiting for me to volunteer information. No, thank you! Mattie’s mom has never been anything but perfectly nice to me but I’m uncomfortable about how much she knows about my family. She was my mother’s nurse after her surgery and has seen both Mom and me at what should be the most private of times. I guess in most cases your nurse is a person you never expect to see again, so you can cry, curse, or do any number of embarrassing things and it’s like they never happened. But Mattie had to go and ingratiate herself into my life and now I see her mother at least once a week.

When it becomes abundantly clear that my lips are remaining sealed, Cheryl gives my shoulder a squeeze and says, “Mattie’s in the backyard waiting for you. Go on.”

I smile and thank Cheryl but not before she pulls me in for a quick hug and says directly into my ear, “I’m glad you two made up.” I mumble something between thank you and see you later and get myself out of that situation lickety-split.

In the backyard, I find Mattie bouncing a birdie on a brand new racquet. I hang back, unsure of what to say. This is the first time we’ve hung out together since Min’s party, which already feels like a million years ago. I am about to launch into another apology when Mattie spots me, smiles, and says, “There you are! I’m just testing for the sweet spot.”

“The what?”

“The sweet spot is the part of the racquet you want to hit the birdie with,” she explains, sounding suspiciously like a text book. “You want to avoid hitting it off the frame, which is called a wood shot.”

I pick up the extra racquet that’s leaning against the deck. Nothing about it looks wooden. “Why is it called a wood shot?”

“Because the frame is wooden. Well not that particular racquet, it’s aluminum, but originally all racquets were made of wood.”

“Is aluminum better than wood?”

Mattie shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s the only kind they had at Canadian Tire,” she admits.

“How do you know so much about badminton?” I ask.

“I looked it up. Here, I printed you a copy of the rules.” Mattie hands me a neatly stapled stack of paper with paragraphs cut and pasted from different websites. I can’t think of anything more boring than reading about badminton.

“This is at least ten pages,” I say.

“So?”

“I just want to play badminton; I don’t want to read about it.”

“This will give us an advantage!” Mattie says. “Don’t you want to know everything about something before you go ahead and do it?”

This is where Mattie and I differ. I prefer not to think about something and hope that everything turns out for the best. If I knew everything about something then I’d for sure find a reason not to do it. Last year, Mr. Campbell read us a poem about two roads diverging in a wood. He said whenever we find ourselves at an impasse in life we should think about those two paths and really consider our options. What
he really meant was, take the path less chosen. You can bet that before she takes any path, Mattie Cohen has consulted every possible map and GPS device, written a pros and cons list, and conducted a poll. Today, badminton was her path, and I was along for the ride.

“Can’t you just tell me the stuff I need to know?” I ask.

Mattie bristles and stands a little stiffer. She gets prissy when she’s angry. I’m not exactly out of the doghouse yet, so I make an effort to soften her up. “Fine, I’ll read it tonight, but for now, can you just give me a rundown of the basics?”

Mattie’s shoulders relax and she downshifts into teaching mode, which is one of her favourite states of being.

Half an hour later I’m so anxious I feel like my entire body is made of the strings on a badminton racquet, stretched tight and ready to go. There are a lot of rules in badminton. It always looked so simple to me, but apparently there are infractions, techniques, and strategies to consider. I’m almost certain I’ll never remember them all. Knowing Mattie, there is probably a test at the end of all this.

“So, did you get all that?”

Hallelujah! I jump to my feet and grab my racquet. “Yep!” I lie. “Let’s play!”

It is one of the sad truths in life that just because you have read everything there is to read about something, it doesn’t mean you will be any good at it. Poor Mattie might be the worst badminton player I have ever seen. She flails about, sending the birdie everywhere but toward me. Once she actually hit the birdie backwards over her own head.

“You know,” Mattie puffs, “a lot of people think badminton is just an easier version of tennis, but actually badminton is more aerobically challenging.”

I would like to agree, but I’m too busy trying to catch my breath from running all over the backyard after Mattie’s wild serves. After several deep breaths I am able to huff out a few words. “Can … we … take … a … break?”

Mattie frowns. “Don’t you think we should keep practising?” In response, I drop my racquet and flop onto the grass.

“Okay, fine. But just for five minutes. I’ll go get us a drink.”

I close my eyes, fling out my arms and legs, and wait for the earth to stop tilting. From above I must look like a human X marking the spot on some aerial treasure hunt. I take deep, slow breaths, inhaling the smell of new grass. A light breeze cools the sweat on my skin, and I can feel the full-body flush draining back into my body, where it came from. I feel tired and sore and relaxed and full of energy all at once. I really should exercise more.

Something is blocking my sun.

“Here you go.” I open one eye to see Mattie standing over me holding out a glass of water.

“Water?” I say. I am unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I was hoping for lemonade or root beer or something with a little kick to it.

Mattie nods. “It’s good for you.”

I sit up and take the glass. Mattie sits beside me and we down our good-for-you waters in silence. I like the way the coolness of the water spreads throughout my body. Finally the sound of my own blood pounding in my ears has all but disappeared and my heart is beating at a more peaceful pace. All those endorphins I whipped up during badminton are telling me that now is the time to bring up the birthday fiasco.

I have to clear my throat a few times before I can get the words out. Endorphins or not, apologizing is never easy.

“I just wanted to say, again, that I’m sorry about the party. I didn’t even know I was going to say what I said, I didn’t plan it, and I didn’t mean anything by it. At all.” Phew. There.

Mattie narrows her eyes at me. “So you don’t have any interest in Josh?”

I suppress the urge to shudder. “Not at all.”

“And you weren’t trying to humiliate me on purpose?”

I think the word humiliate is a little strong, but I keep that to myself. “Of course not! Why would I do that?”

Mattie shakes her head. “I don’t know, sometimes you are a closed book, Clarissa. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“So you immediately assume I’m always thinking something cruel?”

Mattie sighs. “No.”

“Well, then? You really think I would go after someone you like? Just to be mean?”

“No, I guess not. But some girls would.”

“Not me.”

Mattie smiles. “You’re right. Not you. I’m sorry. I guess I overreacted a little.”

A little? Now there’s the understatement of the year. But I let it go. I’m just relieved that we can go back to being friends again. “So, we’re good?”

Mattie jumps up and offers me her hand. Reluctantly, I let her pull me to my feet. “Better than good, we’re great,” she says. “Now let’s go over a few more serving techniques and we’ll be ready for the tournament. I included a diagram on page five of your package.”

Cripes.