The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

~

MY SECOND SEMESTER CLASSES
are science, intro to business, civics, and history. Mr. Cushman, my science teacher, is recently separated (or so the rumour goes) and is mostly in a dire mood, but aside from that I don’t have much to complain about. It’s okay being back at school where everyone asks each other how their holidays were and what they did on New Year’s, like they’re really glad to see each other.

Not long after I’m back Morgan calls while Genevieve’s driving me and Nicole home from school. I could let the call go to message, but if I don’t answer a corner of my mind will wonder if it’s some kind of emergency I shouldn’t ignore. “Hey, Morgan,” I say from the back seat.

Morgan says hello in his giddy voice and quickly explains that Muzzy Ryan, this New Zealand band I used to like (but that he obviously doesn’t realize I’ve stopped listening to), are coming into the Much studio in two days. “They had a shake-up in their schedule,” he continues, “and it’s a last-minute thing but I know how much you like them. If you can skip your last class and make it down here I’ll be able to introduce you and give you a couple of minutes with them.”

Because I don’t want to rain on his parade I don’t mention that Muzzy Ryan’s last album sounded like paint drying but without the drama. “That would be cool but I have to work, Morgan.”

“Maybe you can get someone to switch with you,” he goes on. “Jimmy might be able to pick you up at school. I can check with him.”

Truthfully, I do have to work and don’t want to waste a sick call on something I don’t have enthusiasm for. I thank Morgan and say that I really don’t want the whole ditching class thing to blow up in my face. Morgan says he understands but sounds disappointed and after that’s over with we run out of conversation pretty fast. “So did they take Poseidon down?” he asks. “I’m surprised nobody stole that trident of his.”

“They took him down,” I confirm. “Back to business as usual until next year.” If I were talking to Devin there’d be more to say. I’d tell him how fantastic New Year’s was and explain what a genius appliance a fondue maker is. I could say that to Morgan too, but he goes to so many glamorous parties and happenings that if he told me it sounded cool I’d think he was humouring me. Poor Morgan, he can’t win.

Devin used to refer to our big brother as the golden boy. One time he said, “There can only be one golden boy in the family but at least you have a chance of being wonder girl.”

I laughed because I had no chance of outshining Morgan. He’d probably even look better than me on a baby blue scooter.

“Well, keep in touch,” Morgan tells me. “You know you can sleep over here whenever you want, if you need a change of scenery. There’s a lot to do in the city.”

My little finger slides along the edge of my cell. “There’s stuff to do here.”

“Oh, I know,” Morgan says genially. “But we have the subway here and the city never sleeps. It has a different energy to it. Clubs, theatre, festivals, there’s more than one person could ever keep up with. There’s nothing wrong with Glenashton. It’s just got those family burb vibes.”

He’s right — if anyone wants to do anything really cool they have to head for Toronto — but I don’t want to admit it. His life is cool
enough without me telling him how cool it is so instead I say to have fun with the band and get an autograph for me.

“Sure thing, Serena. Talk to you later.”

When I get off the phone we’re pulling into Nicole’s driveway. She snaps off her seat belt and says, “I can’t believe you won’t cut class and work to meet Terry Preece. He’s so sexy. Those cheekbones make me want to cry.”

Terry Preece is the lead singer of Muzzy Ryan. When I used to listen to them I kind of preferred their guitarist, who looks like the kind of guy who could keep a secret, if you can ever really sense something like that just by looking at someone.

Genevieve reaches over and pokes Nicole’s thigh. “Whatever happened to swearing off guys? God, you’re such a lightweight, Nic.”

“What’s the difference between drooling over George Clooney in a movie or drooling over Terry Preece at MuchMusic?” Nicole asks sharply. “Neither of them are real people to us.”

“Yeah, guys like that don’t count,” I say, siding with Nicole. “Only guys you’re actually in danger of making out with.” Which means Nicole’s dad doesn’t count either, not that I’ve been thinking about him, I swear.

“Rock and roll, babyyy!” Genevieve sings. “I bet Terry Preece would make out with anyone over fourteen and under forty.”

I bet he would too. Terry Preece is a total slut.

But it really is impossible to stop thinking about guys entirely. I’m not tempted to think about Laurier guys because even the ones who seem okay usually have a couple of friends who aren’t, and anyway, probably every last one of them has seen Nicole’s striptease, which should’ve just been between her and Liam Powers until the end of time. But sometimes I think about guys on
TV
or strangers I pass in the mall.

Every now and then an especially cute one, like that guy with the glitter heart sticker, wanders into Total Drug Mart too. I don’t flirt with them because I don’t want them to know I think they’re cute but I still think it to myself.

Actually, the first time I saw the sticker guy it didn’t occur to me that I might see him again, but he must live nearby because he comes in to Total just a few days later and buys a bag of milk and a box of Cheerios. I wonder if his mom asked him to buy cereal and milk for her or if he lives alone and will be the only one eating the Cheerios. I can’t really look at him hard enough to figure out how old he is and which scenario is more likely, because if I do that he’ll think I’m checking him out.

My voice rasps as I’m telling him the total for the Cheerios and milk. I really don’t feel that sick but I’ve been losing my voice on and off all day and there’s a tickle in my throat that makes me want to clear it every twenty minutes or so. I grab my half-full water bottle from beside the register and swallow some down before repeating myself.

“Should you be here?” the guy asks with a sympathetic look. “You sound terrible.”

“It sounds worse than it is.”

“It sounds bad,” he tells me, his grey eyes hanging on mine. “It sounds like a good excuse to go home early.”

“Ah, but if I leave early I won’t get a full night’s pay.” My voice wobbles on the word
early
and the sound makes the guy wince a little. “It doesn’t hurt,” I insist. “It’s just annoying.”

“Okay.” He points at me the way Genevieve does when she’s being bossy. “Drink some more water at least.”

I uncap my bottle again and go for it because it happens to be what I want to do anyway. The guy swipes his
ATM
card and punches in his
PIN
as I’m gulping. It gives me an opportunity to look at him some more while he’s too busy to notice. Then I hand him his bags and he groans and says, “I suck. I keep forgetting to bring my cloth bags with me.”

“Next time.” I offer him my customer service smile, thinking that he probably won’t be in again for months and that even then we won’t notice each other because I’m hardly Total Drug Mart’s only cashier.

Wrong. He gets in my line again three days later with batteries, a four-pack of fruit cups, and a Dora and Diego book that he must be buying for a young sibling or cousin. This time he has cloth bags with him and a beat-up-looking
DVD
in his left hand. I squint at the cover, which seems to say
Haunted Hunting
. He notices me checking out the
DVD
and says, “I borrowed it from a friend,” as though I’m about to accuse him of shoplifting.

I’m reading upside down but I think I see the words
Canadian Edition
underneath the title. I swipe his batteries and then the rest of his things. “You like that paranormal investigation type stuff?”

He answers my question with a question: “You’re not into the supernatural?” His hand rushes through his hair. Now that I think about it his shaggy hair reminds me of Muzzy Ryan’s guitarist. Maybe the guy standing in front of me plays in a local band that practises around the corner and lives on Cheerios.

He’s not a real person to me, like Nicole pointed out about Terry Preece, so I can make up a backstory for him and think whatever I like. It won’t mean anything in the real world.

“I believe in it,” I say honestly, “which makes it too creepy to watch stuff like that. If there are any spirits around my house I just want them to keep quiet so I don’t have to know about it.”

His head dips as he smiles. “I know what you mean. It’s a freaky thing, people hanging around after they’re gone, but then there’s the flip side.”

“Flip side?” I motion for him to swipe his card.

He follows through with the transaction and then stands in front of the counter with his hands on it like we’re not done yet. “If there really are ghosts that must mean there’s some kind of afterlife,” he says.

I nod, thinking of Clara. I always took it on faith that there was an afterlife, but even if I needed proof, I don’t think I’d want it to come in the form of shadowy figures and flying objects. According to Devin, I didn’t feel like that about Clara, though. She seemed almost like a friend.

I hand the guy his cloth bags and don’t say any of the things that are charging through my head.

“Thanks,” he says. I think I catch him checking out my name tag for a split second but I can’t be sure. “You sound better today.”

I am. I stayed home from school for a day so I could avoid talking, and the day after my mom gave me a note to show all my teachers, explaining why I’d be staying silent in class. Today I didn’t need the note but if I have to shout I bet my voice will let me down.

“And you remembered your bags,” I say cheerfully.

He smiles and holds them up triumphantly before turning to disappear out the sliding doors and towards band practice or whatever it is he does in real life. A tall woman in a fur coat thunks a value pack of tampons down in front of me so I don’t have time to add any details to his fictional backstory. It turns into a busy night, as though every family in Glenashton ran out of at least one essential item at the same time and Total Drug Mart was the only store open for miles. For a while I don’t have time to think of anything beyond Total, not even with the portion of my brain which is usually reserved for remembering that Devin is missing. I’m just a cashier girl, scanning makeup remover, cough syrup, and cottage cheese like a robot with a human face.

***

The big news at school the next day wouldn’t come as a shock to anyone who was at Wyatt’s birthday party. Everyone’s forwarding a video of Aya Yamamoto making out with a drunken blond girl I don’t recognize. Their lipstick is smeared across each other’s faces and there’s plenty of tongue involved. Now Aya’s officially the slut of the day and Nicole says she feels sorry for her.

Maybe I should feel bad for Aya the same way I felt bad for Nicole, but I can’t. It was different with Nicole, she thought she was just doing a striptease for Liam, but Aya’s acting like a trained seal for the crowd. If she hadn’t gone and tried to pull me into things that time in November, I might be more understanding now. As it stands, I look past her when I see her in the hall.

In the cafeteria later Nicole nudges me and points to the spot where Aya and her friends normally hang out. Most of Aya’s friends are sitting there, talking with their heads close together, but not Aya. “I wonder where she is,” Nicole says. “I bet she’s afraid to come in here in case people start acting up.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “She should’ve thought of that before.”

Nicole frowns at me. Her fingers tighten around her plastic fork.

“I told you what happened at Wyatt’s,” I go on. “Obviously she’s just like this all the time. Maybe she
wants
all the guys talking about her.”

“In communications this morning she hardly raised her head,” Nicole says, still frowning. “Does that sound like somebody who wants all the guys talking about her?”

I glance over at Aya’s friends across the cafeteria. They’re like an Asian version of Devin’s high school friends — studious, quiet, and well-behaved. What do they think of Aya now? I squash the sympathy pang that’s beginning to twist in my chest.
Remember
Aya’s butterfly lashes blinking slowly at me, her hand on my knee?

“We should talk to her,” Nicole continues. “Stand by her.”

I nod reluctantly, not wanting to say no to Nicole but wondering why it should be up to us to perform some kind of intervention.

Nicole clicks into her let’s support Aya/common sisterhood spiel again for Genevieve when she’s driving us home later, and Genevieve says, “I saw her crying in the hall today, stupid girl. It’s like she learned nothing from that time with Serena.”

Because Genevieve’s driving she doesn’t see Nicole fold her arms, her chin drooping into her puffy white and blue coat. “So is that what you guys think of me too?” Nicole blurts out. “That I’m skanky and starved for attention?”

“Nic! Of course not!” Genevieve shakes her head, her red hair shining in the sun. “All of us here have made mistakes, but Aya’s starting to make hers seem like a habit.”