The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing (5 page)

God, what’s wrong with me today? Just because it’s Christmas doesn’t mean I have to go soft inside like a rotten banana. There are people who would love to have my cushy life.

Sometimes I can pep talk myself out of sadness and sometimes I can’t. This feels like one of the
can’t
times and I’m starting to surrender to gloom when Morgan and Jimmy arrive. The doorbell even sounds like Morgan somehow. Jaunty. Like it should make me feel better.

My dad answers the door and soon Morgan and Jimmy are carrying plates into the dining room for Mom. Jimmy’s the only male redhead I’ve ever seen that I would describe as good-looking. He has freckles, like most redheads, but the minute Jimmy starts talking to you they disappear. He and Morgan look impossibly glamorous standing in our kitchen in form-fitting shirts and black pants and a familiar jealousy slides under my skin. My brother shouldn’t be prettier than me.

“This looks fabulous,” Morgan says, stopping to give Mom a peck on the cheek. “My mouth’s been watering since we walked through the door.”

Mom looks pleased. “I have containers for leftovers. You can take some too if you like, Jimmy.”

“I most definitely will,” Jimmy tells her. “Thank you, Tessa!” Jimmy speaks in exclamation marks a lot but it’s always positive things. He turns to me and says, “Cute highlights, Serena. You look like summer!”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

My father has never quite figured out how to talk to Morgan’s boyfriends and usually ends up doing lots of polite smiling. Christmas dinner isn’t any different. Dad smiles and nods as the three of us listen to Morgan and Jimmy chat their way through dinner. Listening to them is easier than forming our own conversation, but eventually Morgan gets impatient. “You should’ve let me take you all to the King Edward,” he says, facing my mother. “It would’ve been so much less work for you.”

“I like to do it,” Mom says, although her face seems to project the opposite.

Morgan’s chin dips towards his collar. He looks like he wants to say something but Jimmy aims a cautionary glance his way. Morgan’s chin pops up again. His eyes settle on me across the table. “Do the Sandhars have their Christmas lights extravaganza up again this year? I thought I’d walk over there with Jimmy later and have a look.”

“They have an ocean theme this year,” I tell him as I cut into a piece of white meat. “All the lights are green and blue. Santa has a boat instead of a sleigh and three dolphins are pulling it.”

Jimmy laughs. “You’re kidding! I have to see this.”

“They do something different every year,” Morgan explains. “One time they did Noah’s ark with tons of animal statues covering the yard and roof —”

“They even had monkeys in the trees,” I cut in.

“They did.” Morgan smiles as he nods. “And they were holding fluorescent bananas.”

“Poseidon’s there this year,” I add. “He’s holding a … what do you call it … a pitchfork thing. He looks fierce.”

“A trident!” Jimmy suggests in an exuberant tone. “Poseidon in a Christmas display, I love it!” An impish grin tugs at his lips. “I just hope he doesn’t smite Santa. Disaster! Who would deliver the toys?”

“Maybe Neptune himself.” Morgan’s left hand brushes Jimmy’s right. For a second it makes me miss having someone to hold hands with. “We’ll check it out after. You can take some snaps.”

According to Morgan, Jimmy shoots photos of everything, for reference. When you’re an artist like Jimmy is you have to take notice of things.

“They hire the same team of people to put the display together every year,” Dad says with one of his polite smiles. “They must spend a fortune on it.”

The Sandhars’ spectacular Christmas lights give us all something to say, except Mom. I see that she’s barely touched her turkey and that there’s a mound of stuffing and garlic mashed potatoes left on her plate too. The vegetable medley is the only item she’s made any headway on, and when I notice that I lower my own fork and wonder if Devin even knows about the Sandhars putting up a Christmas Poseidon. It was in the Glenashton newspaper a couple of weeks ago but Devin probably wouldn’t see the Glenashton paper where he is.

Vancouver. New York. Mexico. Newmarket. It’s Christmas everywhere on the planet today, and wherever he is, I hope Devin hasn’t given up on getting well because I can’t give up on him, no matter how much I wish otherwise. I can help my mom make stuffing, ring up thousands of dollars’ worth of seasonal sales, and smile with Morgan and Jimmy about a Christmas Poseidon, but inside my heart’s pounding with a single half-broken wish: Devin, come home.

CHAPTER SIX

~

AFTER CHRISTMAS I BEGIN
to perk up. Why should I worry about Devin when he’s probably not giving any of the other LeBlancs a second thought? Most likely he’s busy being a paranoid asshole, smoking up, staying awake for days, and stealing from his friends (if he still has any).

Genevieve, Nicole, and I have the best New Year’s Eve ever. Actually there are seven of us altogether (including Izzy — Marguerite came down with bronchitis and has to stay in bed). First we kill things mercilessly onscreen. Then we dance, eat huge amounts of tiny edibles, and toast each other with champagne at midnight. Genevieve brought over an old movie with George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez and it makes us all so hot that we’re practically climbing the walls.

“Thanks, Genevieve,” Nicole says with a pronounced pout. “How are we supposed to stay off guys when you force us to watch movies like that?”

“C’mon, you ever see a guy that smooth around here?” I ask. “There’s no comparison with the Laurier guys. Zilch. George Clooney’s like the perfect man in that movie, except for being a bank robber.” There’s always
something
, isn’t there? Because if a guy’s too perfect he’s either boring, like in chick lit flicks where guys seem like they’ve had every bit of personality drained out of them along with any
potential savageness, or unbelievable: the guy who acts like a bad boy with everyone but the female lead.

We drink a little more champagne and make Swiss cheese and mushroom fondue from Genevieve’s recipe. Nicole’s dad comes down for a beer and samples some of the fondue. I can tell he likes being surrounded by all us girls. Not that he flirts or anything, but his eyes sparkle. I wonder what it would be like to go out with an older guy, like George Clooney in the movie or Mr. Lapatas, if he wasn’t Nicole’s dad. Would someone older be better about things like doing up your buttons?

Okay
. Obviously I’ve drunk too much champagne. And that sexy paperback Genevieve lent me hasn’t helped. I have to quit reading the sex scenes over and over.

It’s time to stop snacking so much too. Otherwise all the clothes I bought at the end of August won’t fit anymore. Even if I’m not going to be with anyone I don’t want to go back to being a girl that a cute guy would only make out with if he’s drunk.

“There’s lots left,” Genevieve says, stirring the pot. “Does anyone want more?” I’m the first person she looks at, and I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it, but it makes me silently repeat my vow.

“We can save the leftovers,” Nicole says. “I looked it up online.” With all of us full to the brim with cheese and champagne, Nicole insists that it’s time to dance again. If aliens landed on earth and made the human race their slaves Nicole would still find the energy to dance.

Her dad tells us good night and, “Have fun, girls.” Once he’s gone the seven of us break into wild and hilarious movements, dancing however the hell we want because there’s no one there to watch us, no one to impress. I fold the bottom of my top into my bra and wriggle around like a belly dancer to “Girls Chase Boys.” Then Pharrell comes on and we all sing and do chorus line kicks. Izzy tries to belly dance too and then I know I’m not the only one who’s had too much champagne because normally Izzy doesn’t do anything silly.

I wish every day could feel like this. I don’t want the night to end, but even when it’s time to go, hopefulness clings. With friends like this, the new year won’t be like the last. Nicole and Genevieve don’t care who my brother is or whether I go back to being chubby. When I’m around them I don’t even care how popular or unpopular I am. We’re all in this together.

***

There are seven Total Drug Marts in Glenashton, and the one I work at is in a plaza with a flower store, toy shop, Quiznos, Starbucks,
TD
Bank, The
UPS
Store, The Nutty Chocolatier, a nail salon, and a dentist’s office. As you can see from the list, there aren’t many places to buy food. Total Drug Mart carries some frozen dinners and essentials like canned vegetables, cereals, and milk but there are times when I really don’t want to eat something out of a package for dinner and then I usually opt for a small honey bourbon chicken or turkey ranch sub from Quiznos. They’re the two subs that have the fewest calories.

Today I go in to Quiznos at about ten after seven and get served right away because the only two other people inside are already sitting down at a table, munching on salad and sammies. I watch the woman behind the counter set my honey bourbon chicken sub on the grill conveyor belt. I’m so hungry right now that I could eat something crazy like a prime rib cheesesteak sub with oatmeal raisin cookies for dessert, but the chicken will be fine. Everything’s fine until Jacob and Wyatt barrel through the door bringing the cold air with them. We see each other at school all the time but at school I’m never trapped with them; I’m not near them long enough to feel the full weight of their hostility.

Jacob looks at me for a split second. His eyes say: you bitch.

I have to move away from the counter so they can order. Wyatt keeps his face pointed at the menu like he’s determined not to see me. Then he turns to Jacob and says, “I can’t believe you were almost hitting that. You got out just in time, dude. She’s packing on the pounds again.”

Jacob smirks and glances my way to make sure I’ve heard. I’m still waiting for my stupid chicken sub to come out of the other end of the grill. My palms begin to sweat as I turn my head slowly away from Jacob, like him and his asshole friend don’t matter.

If we’d been at school or if Wyatt had said some other nasty thing, I would’ve told him to go fuck himself, but the comment about my weight caught me off guard. The words hurt. I angle myself towards the window and watch a dirty red minivan pull into a parking spot. It’s snowing lightly but not enough to stay on the ground. I don’t want my stupid low-cal sub anymore. I won’t be able to swallow a bite while I feel like this.

“Would you like a drink with that?” the Quiznos woman asks as she runs around the other side of the grill to pluck my honey bourbon chicken from the conveyor belt and wrap it in paper I’d normally tear off only seconds later.

I shake my head, my cheeks probably turning pink as I wrestle a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket. She plops my dinner into a bag and hands me my change.

I trudge to the door, hoping Jacob and Wyatt won’t say anything else to my back. They don’t, not anything I can hear anyway. The two people already seated and eating are talking about transmission problems and I walk past them, out into the snow. If my cheeks are red the way I think they are everyone at Total will think it’s because of the cold.

Across the parking lot, the Total Drug Mart door automatically opens for me. I head for the staff room at the back of the store, which is empty except for me, and snap my hand out over the garbage to drop my Quiznos bag inside. It’s a dumb thing to do and I regret it forty-five minutes later when my stomach starts to growl.

I hate that I don’t make sense. Jacob and Wyatt are trash. Why should I care whether I look hot to trash? My Total Drug Mart uniform isn’t exactly clingy like lingerie and I wore my winter coat over to Quiznos so how could they even know if I’d gained weight?

My stomach sinks as I scan in a box of tissues for the chunky woman in front of me. Why is it that the first thing I’ve noticed about her is that she’s overweight? Maybe she’s an amazing humanitarian or the best brain surgeon in the country.

For the record I’ve gained eight pounds back in the last six weeks. If I don’t stop I could
be
that woman and the first thing that cashiers will notice about me is my weight.

I act extra nice with the woman to make up for all mean things I’m thinking about us both. I need to get back to that headspace I was in on New Year’s; I can’t let a single comment from a loser like Wyatt bring me down.

The next guy in line takes all the items out of his basket for me and then hands over the basket itself. “Thanks,” I tell him. I scan his shower gel, shaving cream, copy of
Sports Illustrated
, and a package of ladybug hairclips, all the while thinking he probably jerks off to the swimsuit issue of
Sports Illustrated
, fantasizing about orgies. If he already knew me he’d smile at me to my face but secretly think that my chub was returning.

“Shit,” he says under his breath. His hands disappear swiftly into his pockets. “I don’t think I have my
ATM
card.”

“We take cash,” I tell him, sounding vaguely bored. He’s too goodlooking for me to want to smile at, but of course I can’t be rude.

“Yeah, I know.” He smiles at me. His almost shoulder-length hair is half a shade too dark to qualify as dirty blond, and he has grey eyes and a couple of freckles on his nose but not anywhere else. The grin makes him look like a nice guy, but do you think I believe that?

“Do you want me to cancel the transaction while you go look in your car?” I suggest.

“No, that’s okay.” He pulls out a wad of bills from his back pocket. “I have cash too.”

Congratulations
, I say silently.
You’re quite the superhero
.

The guy presses a couple of bills into my hands and waits for me to punch in the numbers on the register.
Hang on, what’s this?
I separate the bills he’s given me and stare at the glittering pink heart sticker in my hand. I flip it over automatically, like when you’re checking both sides of a twenty-dollar bill to make sure it’s genuine. There’s a wobbly “A” printed on the back of the sticker in orange crayon.

Does he think he’s being cute or was it an honest mistake? “Here,” I tell him as I hand the sticker over, “have your heart back.” I say it with a hint of accusation (because guys suck and good-looking guys suck the worst) but like I’m really kidding around underneath it all.

He makes a kind of
ah-ha
noise, like the thing must’ve gotten mixed in with his bills by accident, and slips it into his wallet. “Have a good night,” I say and present him with his Total Drug Mart bag.

“You too.” He pats his wallet in his front pocket. “Thanks for noticing that.”

How could I not notice? It was glittering and pink.

I nod and turn to the next person in line, my stomach gurgling at the sight of a box of Oreos in front of me on the counter. I don’t need them, I tell myself, and I don’t need to be hot either. I don’t need to be any one thing in particular to be happy. It sounds so true that I wish I could one hundred per cent believe it.