The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing (12 page)

For some reason the idea that we could still be hanging out in the spring makes my face tingle. We spend a long time talking about ghost-hunting and I tell him a bit about Clara. That gets Gage even more excited than the soccer and he asks me a ton of questions. I wish I could remember more for him. He says young kids seem to be more “sensitive” when it comes to ghost sightings.

“I think maybe Clara even used to talk to me,” I say. The memo ries are so faded that I feel like I’m making them up but once upon a time I remember
remembering
the sound of her voice, hushed and lyrical, an accent probably.

We’re still on the subject of the supernatural when we get to the movie theatre. Afterwards, walking to the car, we pick apart some of the stupider points of the thriller we’ve just seen. Then, out of the blue, as Gage is starting the car, he says, “I thought I saw my dad once. In the backyard of our old house about thirteen years ago.” Gage stares out the front window, blinking as he continues in a steady but quiet voice. “The sun was coming up. He smiled at me through the sliding door in the living room.”

At first I don’t know what Gage is talking about. Then, in a lightning bolt moment, I get it and feel like an idiot. Gage is talking about seeing his father’s ghost. Gage’s dad is
deceased
. This is something I should’ve clued in to earlier in the evening. All along he just mentioned his mother and I never even thought to ask about his dad; I assumed his parents had split up and that his father wasn’t in the picture.

“My mother said it was one of those things you imagine when you’re still half-asleep,” Gage continues. “And maybe it was.” He shrugs lightly. “Who knows?”

The car’s moving now, and as we navigate our way out of the parking lot I feel a rush of sympathy for him. “Maybe it really was him,” I say. “Maybe he was checking in on you.” I swallow the dryness at the back of my throat. “How long has he been gone?”

“Since I was two,” Gage says. “Leukemia.”

“I’m sorry.” My cheeks are heavy. I stare down at my lap.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. I mean, obviously I would’ve liked for him to be around, but I can’t really remember him. That time in the backyard — I only recognized him because of the photo and, well …” Gage nods a little. “It
felt
like him. I can’t really explain it.”

I nod too. Then I notice we’re driving back exactly the way we came. Another few minutes and we’ll be on my street. “Are you taking me home?”

Gage swings a look my way. “It’s late. Your parents will probably be waiting up.”

Maybe. “I thought we could talk for a couple more minutes.” I don’t want to end the night on a sad note. Besides, Gage could be right about my folks and the possibility alone means we’ll barely be able to share a kiss in my driveway. Even if my parents aren’t waiting up they might hear us pull up to the house and feel some kind of legal guardian compulsion to peek out the window.

We definitely need more time alone. Gage can’t just drop me off, leaving us both with this unfinished feeling. I gaze hopefully at him, trying to convey all that without seeming skanky.

Gage blinks slowly back, the air in the car feeling spiky with expectation. “My place isn’t good,” he admits. I can see my disappointment reflected in his eyes. “We can get coffee somewhere,” he adds. “Or maybe …” Gage’s cheekbones tighten. He presses his lips together and stares at my legs. They’d be more tempting if they weren’t covered by thick grey tights but it’s nice to see him checking them out anyway.

“Or maybe what?” My heart’s speeding. It feels good to be wanted again.

“I know someplace close that we can talk for a while.” Gage looks me in the eye, a more intense look than I’ve seen on his face so far. “Somewhere no one will bother us. It’s deserted at night.”

“Okay,” I tell him. My lungs feel like they’re expanding, like whatever oxygen I can take in won’t be enough for them. “That sounds good.”

“You might not think so when you see it.” Gage laughs lightly. “Promise me you won’t be insulted. We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

I take the fact that he’s offering me an out as a good sign. He doesn’t just want me with him; he wants me to want it too. He hasn’t touched me all night, unless you count our hands brushing against each other in the popcorn tub. The anticipation is starting to make me a little crazy. I want to sink my teeth into his neck like a vampire. He has beautiful lips. I can’t wait to find out how he kisses.

Gage cruises into an industrial area, weaving his way casually through dimly lit streets like we’re stuck in a maze he’d know blindfolded. Finally we pull into the parking lot of what’s clearly an abandoned structure. A sign proclaims the narrow two-storey building “J.N. Malzar.” There’s a letter missing between the “l” and “z,” which I guess makes the defunct company something like Maltzar or Malezar. Crooked shutters are still hanging inside some of the windows, making the red brick building look even more dilapidated.

“You’re creeped out,” Gage notes. “I knew we should’ve gone for coffee.” He taps the fingers of his right hand against the steering wheel. “Sorry, we’ll go somewhere we can get a decent cappuccino.”

“No.” I reach out and touch his arm. “This place is pretty creepy, but you don’t have to be sorry. Just come here.” I unbuckle my seat belt and lean brazenly across the divide between our bucket seats, before either of us can lose our nerve.

Unfortunately, Gage has no idea I’m planning on lunging for him and our teeth collide. The noise sounds like something you hear in a dental office. I’ve never knocked teeth with anyone before and it makes me feel like a complete amateur; I want to shrink into the space between our seats and disappear. Gage laughs at me. I recoil and frown into the fake fur of my coat, embarrassed.

“Hey,” Gage says. He unbuckles his seat belt, his hand landing on my thigh and squeezing. “Hey, come back. Do I only get one shot?”

“You’re laughing at me,” I point out. I feel like sulking, and it makes me wonder if I’m ready for any of this. Maybe I need longer to deprogram myself from Jacob and my fat-girl thought patterns.

“I’m laughing because I’m an idiot,” Gage explains, his thumb stroking my thigh as his four fingers remain motionless. “I’m laughing because I’ve got a beautiful girl sitting in my car, in front of this sleazylooking dump of all places.” He motions over his shoulder at the remains of J.N. Malzar. “And she
still
wants to kiss me, but I can’t even do that right.

“What else can I do but laugh at the idiocy of that, Serena?” He takes his hand off my leg and touches my hair where it spills over the shoulder of my jacket. “C’mon, I swear I won’t laugh this time, no matter what happens.” He leans closer towards me, his face so close that I imagine I can feel his breath. I let him press his lips softly against mine, softer than anyone has ever kissed me, the way you kiss someone in their sleep if you don’t want to wake them. He lets the kiss rest on my mouth for three long seconds before repeating it, his bottom lip dropping open a little. Our lips rub and catch, catch and rub, our tongues sliding cautiously out to explore. We’re teasing each other, giving just enough to make the other demand more.

“Hold still,” I demand finally, impatience getting the better of me. I grab the back of his head and hold him there in front of me. His tongue slips into my mouth and he kisses me deep and long, exactly like I want. One of his hands rests on my neck. He strokes my hair, pulls it just enough to make me feel good but not enough to hurt.

“Do you want to get in the back seat?” he whispers, his face still close to mine. “We’d have more room.”

“Okay,” I whisper back. It doesn’t occur to me to step outside and open the back door; I climb over my chair and into the back seat. Gage gets out and slips into the back with me. The cold air from outside gusts in with him and makes me shiver.

“I can leave the car running,” he says, about to swing his door open again.

“No. Stay.” I grab the end of his jacket, helping him out of it. Then I press my hands against his shirt, feeling his heart beat under my palm. It’s running as fast as mine. I tell him that and lay his hand over my own heart to prove it. “See?”

Gage nods and slowly shifts his hand, his eyes on mine as if to ask whether I’m okay with this. I’m perfectly okay. Better than okay. Gage scoops his hand around my breast, one of his fingers circling my nipple. We kiss hard, making ourselves comfortable in the back seat, his hands boomeranging back to my breasts every chance they get. My sweater’s only in the way and I yank it over my head, my cheeks stretching into a smile as Gage stares at my bra. “Does this open at the front?” he asks, his finger resting on the centre clasp.

“Yeah,” I murmur, waiting for him to do it. What’s the holdup? I know he wants to. The feeling’s taking over his whole face.

“Serena,” he says. His tone is almost stern, and I watch his jaw turn rigid and feel the dynamic between us start to shift. Maybe he doesn’t want this as much as I do after all and he’s already figured out that the next time he sees me he’ll want to pretend none of this happened.

“What?” I ask. But if it’s something bad like that, I don’t really want to know. Everything’s gone pretty well so far tonight and I mean to keep it that way. I go for Gage’s pants before he can answer me. The zip slides down easy. The boxers are easy too. I find my way inside with no problem. I bend over him, my hair falling down around my face.

“Serena,” Gage whispers. One of his hands lightly cups my head. I hear a shivery awe in his voice that I used to hear in Jacob’s. He tastes different and sounds different, but that tone, it’s almost identical.

“Serena,” Gage repeats. “Serena.” The urgency makes me think we’re almost finished.

“Hey,” he says, removing his hand from my head. “Stop, Serena. Stop.”

I’m so into what I’m doing that there’s a second delay as my brain translates the syllables. Stop? Why?

“Stop,” he commands. “Stop!”

I raise my head slowly, averting my eyes as he pushes his hard-on back into his boxers and zips up his jeans. Gage gets out of the back seat, slamming the door behind him like I’ve done something wrong. Then he stands outside with his shoulders hunched as though he’s waiting for me to follow his lead. I have no idea what I’ve done, but I pull my sweater on and open the back door, my throat scratchy with regret.

Why did I think this time things would turn out right?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

~

“I’m sorry,” Gage says once we’re both sitting in the front seat again. “This was a bad idea. I’m just going to take you home, okay?” He glances warily at me from the corner of his eye. I guess the prospect of facing me is too horrible to contemplate.

“Whatever,” I tell him. I lost my cool there for a little but I’m not going to dissolve in front of his eyes. He doesn’t have to know how he’s rattled me.

“Sorry,” Gage repeats. I wish he’d quit apologizing every two seconds. It obviously doesn’t mean anything.

He called himself an idiot earlier, but I’m the real idiot, the grandmaster idiot. Thank God Genevieve and Nicole don’t have to know about this. No one at school does. It’ll be like tonight never happened.

Gage’s car is quieter than any library. I reach out and turn on his stereo. Considering what I did earlier, I’m not worried that touching his car stereo could qualify as overstepping boundaries. On the radio Natasha Bedingfield’s grooving about her “Pocketful of Sunshine.” Meanwhile my throat’s on fire. Inside I’m waging an epic battle to convince myself that I’m not really upset and that Gage is the one with the problem here, not me. Never mind that he seemed nice earlier, guys under thirty are a lost cause, just like Genevieve said.

I home in on the radio because it’s obvious that Gage and I don’t have anything left to say to each other. He hasn’t even bothered to explain himself beyond his minimalist
sorry
. I don’t have a “Pocketful of Sunshine” like Natasha does, but as I listen to the lyrics I find that they fit my situation after all. It’s one of those
I’m gonna be all right no matter what anyone tries to do to me
songs. Go, Natasha! Go, me! Goodbye, Gage.

But what did I do wrong?

Nothing
, I remind myself. It’s not you, stupid. It’s him.

We veer into my driveway, a thumping hip hop tune replacing Natasha’s triumph. Gage turns the volume down and glances at me, his hand back on his neck, kneading away in full stress mode. “Thanks for coming out tonight,” he says. Maybe he’s in a band after all and expects me to applaud.

I nod silently. If I open my mouth he’ll know how upset I am within two seconds.

“I’m sorry, you know …” He drops his gaze for a second before pointing it back at me. “I should’ve taken you somewhere else.”

“Maybe,” I mumble, unbuckling my seat belt. I open the door, slip out, and slam it shut behind me without another word.

Gage stares out at me from the car. He rolls down the window and leans over the passenger seat. “Are you okay?” He sounds concerned, but I’m not going to poke my head into the window and explain what he should already know. He didn’t have to yell at me and practically shove me off him, making me feel like a leper.

“Fine.” I wave him away, forcing myself to deliver an almost casualsounding, “See you.”

I step away from his car, the thought that Devin would’ve written Gage off from the start jumping up and down inside my head, making it ache worse than my throat.

Devin’s not here but he’s still right. I
am
here and I’m dead wrong.
Time to evolve into that new, improved version of myself Genevieve was talking about. I’m a little screwed up, I know, but I have no intention of being anybody’s cautionary tale.

***

I score fifteen out of fifteen on a science quiz the next day, which is funny because I feel unfocused and tired. Jon Wheatley bumps into me on the way out of class and catches a dazed expression on my face when he glances over to apologize. “Hey, your heart still pumping oxygen to your brain there, LeBlanc?” he asks as we head into the hallway. “You look like you’re about to go zombie.”

So maybe that’s what’s wrong with me: I’m about to go zombie. Who knew that people were so fuzzy-brained just before they turned? The state’s eerily similar to what it feels like to be shunned by the good-looking guy from the drugstore while your missing brother shambles along Queen Street, probably looking for drugs and/or the money to buy them.

“Check your pulse,” I tell Jon. “You’re the one who walked into me, Wheatley.” I smile like I’m just kidding, but by the time the lunch bell rings I’m heavy with a sadness that I can’t hide. I stride up to Nicole in the cafeteria and command her, “Walk with me.”

Nicole’s eyes darken.

“Walk with me,” I repeat, my face falling. “C’mon, Nic.” My voice cracks, and Nicole’s up in a shot, her shoulder pressed against mine as we stomp across the cafeteria together and into the hall.

“What happened?” she asks on the other side of the door. “Is it Jacob?”

I shake my head and rub my eyes, catching any tears before they can wet my skin.

“His turd friends?” she continues worriedly. “What? Tell me what’s going on, Serena.”

“Maybe nothing.” I squash another tear under my finger and begin to describe Tuesday’s crucial events. They’re not the only reason I feel like someone ran over me with a semi, but talking about seeing Devin is easier than confessing what happened last night.

Nicole and I hang out between the inner and outer doors to the north parking lot and she listens to me, curving a hand around my shoulder. “Do you think he saw you?” she asks when I pause. “Maybe that’s why he jumped on the streetcar.”

“I don’t think so. He never even looked in my direction. I had my eyes on him the entire time.”

“Like a private detective,” Nicole comments. “Maybe you should hire one. Have him tracked down.”

“That would cost a fortune. They’re something like forty bucks an hour.” I looked it up on the Internet when Devin walked off last June. Part of me was sick to death of all the drama and almost relieved that he’d written himself out of the family picture but there was still a huge chunk that needed to know I could find him if I had to — or at least that my parents could. I never asked them if they thought about hiring someone, though. I held the idea in reserve. A last chance.

The funny thing about the Devin drama is it didn’t end when he walked out; it just mutated into the way my parents and I live now, like we’re forever waiting. I’m not even sure whether it’s something good or something bad we’re waiting for. Both probably. Hope for the best. Expect the worst.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Nicole nods thoughtfully. She folds her arms in front of her and leans against the wall.

“You can’t say anything,” I warn. “I told Morgan I wouldn’t let our parents find out.” Nicole’s head slants up, and I begin to explain our reasons for the secrecy, knowing that’s the question on her lips. I’ve never gone into any depth about Devin with her or Genevieve before. Unloading some of the details makes me feel at least two pounds lighter. “And maybe it wasn’t him anyway,” I add. “He could’ve lost more weight by now. I haven’t seen him in seven months. I might not even recognize him anymore.”

I know this is a logical thing to say, but in my heart I still believe there’s a good chance it was Devin I saw swallowed up by a Toronto streetcar. I wonder if that’s how Gage felt about seeing his father’s ghost. He admitted he could’ve imagined it but somehow I think he believes what his heart told him, just like I do. My lungs twinge at the thought.

“So …” Nicole says slowly. “Do you think maybe you can just think of it that way — decide for yourself that it wasn’t him and move on — or do you feel like you actually have to know?”

I freeze in place, my eyes dry. That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? “I don’t know.” My mascara has clumped. I stroke my sticky lashes. “I think maybe I should at least go back to Toronto, walk around.
See
.” I know that the odds I’ll find Devin waiting for a streetcar in exactly the same spot as last time are a thousand to one, but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to retrace his steps along Queen Street. If he passes by there a lot, someone might recognize him.

“We can comb the area,” Nicole suggests excitedly. “Bring a picture of him. Do you have one from before he left?”

I’m touched that she wants to help, and I realize I might have better luck if she, Genevieve, and maybe even Aya make finding Devin a group effort, but I don’t think I can do it that way. Even with what I’ve told her, Nicole doesn’t have any real idea of what it was like to live with Devin those last few months. Only my parents and maybe Morgan know what it was like to watch him be possessed before our eyes. Somehow involving anyone else would make the effort feel small, like a summer project to build a deck. I know Nicole has only the best intentions and I feel bad for not being able to work my way around the feeling that Devin is our problem — Morgan’s, my parents’, and mine — but I just can’t.

“I’m going now, Nicole,” I say. “I’m going to ditch my afternoon classes, and you have that presentation in English later.”

“We can go tomorrow,” she tells me. “It’s Saturday, we’ll have all day.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.” I glance down at my shoes. “Being here feels like a waste of time. I’ll call you later, okay? Let you know if I find anything.”

Nicole frowns. “How’re you even going to get there?”

“I’ll take the bus.” There’s one at the Glenashton mall that hooks up with a commuter train travelling west to Toronto. My dad used to take it to work before he opened up his own audiologist practice in Glenashton. It’ll take me close to an hour and a half to make it to Queen Street, but it’s doable.

“You sure?” Nicole’s hair obscures one of her eyes as she tilts her head. “What if you need backup? What if he gets weird or …” She shrugs. “You sure?” she asks again.

I am. I let Nicole write a note excusing me from class for a dental appointment. “What’s your mom’s name?” she asks.

“Tessa. But she usually signs her name T. LeBlanc.”

Nicole signs my mother’s name as I described. It looks nothing like my mother’s real signature but at least Nicole will feel like she’s done something to help.

I hand in the note at the attendance office and then bus it over to the train station. In total my journey is a bus ride, one commuter train, and a subway ride long. An hour and forty-five minutes later I’m roaming along Queen Street, past clothing stores and coffee shops. It’s not as cold as it was on Tuesday but I can still see my breath in the air. Here and there, sitting outside convenience stores or in doorways that are the closest thing to warm you’ll find outside, homeless people sit begging. Some of them have signs explaining why they’ve fallen on hard times or what they’ll do with any money you hand over. I feel guilty strolling past them. Devin could be feeding himself this way, for all I know.

An old guy with a scraggly white beard and a spotted dog sitting next to him looks up at me as I approach. “Have any change for me, darlin’?” he asks. His cheeks are lined with broken blood vessels.

The dog looks up at me too. He has sadder eyes than the man.

“My best friend in this life,” the old guy tells me. “Everyone should have one.” I glance down at the tin can in front of the man and his dog on the sidewalk. I wonder how much money he’s gotten so far today. His cardboard sign doesn’t explain his life story; it simply reads: “Donation$ appreciated.” I notice his navy jacket is thick and has a good hood on it. I hope it keeps him warm.

“What’s his name?” I ask, pointing to the dog. “Or is it a her?”

“He’s a he.” The guy’s gloved hand lands affectionately on his spotted dog’s head. “Call him Bucky. Another old friend gave him to me. Got sick. Couldn’t take care of him no more.” I nod and listen to the man continue. “Not sure that I can do such a good job myself but at least we keep each other company.”

The beginnings of a sob are forming in my chest. I nod again to keep it trapped under my ribs. I don’t have much cash on me, and now that we’ve been having a conversation it feels like an insult to give the man money, but at the same time I know he could use it. I wriggle a five-dollar bill out of my pocket and press it into the man’s glove.

“You’re very kind,” he tells me, his lips jerking up. One of his bottom teeth is missing but he still has a nice smile.

I pull my cellphone out of my knapsack before I lose my nerve. “Do you think you could have a look at a photo for me and tell me if you’ve seen the person in it?” The man stares up at me, bewildered. I guess I don’t look much like a cop. “He’s my brother,” I explain. “He’s been missing since summer. I thought I saw him around here a couple of days ago.”

“Well, then.” He scrutinizes the image on my cell. It was taken about a week after Dad first brought Devin home from Queen’s University last March. He’d already lost about twenty-five pounds, and by the time he left in June at least another fifteen had vanished. Mom cooked up his favourite foods nearly every night (and even some mornings): steak smothered in mushrooms, chicken and ribs, fettuccine alfredo, fajitas, potato pancakes, deep dish peach pie.

I ballooned up worse than ever for a while, before the stress level surrounding Devin crushed my appetite. Sitting next to him at the table became the worst moments of each day, a test he almost always failed. He’d manage only a couple of bites before either making some lame excuse for why he didn’t have an appetite or just pushing the food restlessly around his plate until it got cold. Later he started getting angry with Mom, accusing her of wanting to keep him fat and saying things like, “The kind of things you’re putting in front of me, no one should be swallowing that garbage. What’re you trying to do — give me a heart attack before I’m thirty?”