February, fall in love
By February, I was essentially living in Shar’s room full time. It was not exactly the most convenient set-up. Most Dylan Hall rooms aren’t designed for double occupancy. My room had become a (very expensive) storage closet where I kept all my stuff, like, for example, the notes and books for the classes I wasn’t really attending.
I’m not sure if there were any rumours about WHY Shar and I were sharing a room or what was going on IN the room. It wasn’t a sex thing. I mean, nothing really happened between us, sex-wise, although I guess I thought there was always the possibility that something might.
A lot of our cohabitation had to do with the fact that, since her visit with security, Shar rarely left her room. The very idea of it stressed her out and made her really angry. We’d almost always have some sort
of weird fight when talk switched to the possibility of leaving the room. Shar would get all cold and super pissed whenever I uttered some derivation of “What’s wrong” in relation to this topic.
It was kind of crazy making, but then on the rare occasion we did go out, Shar developed this habit of grabbing onto me, leaning on me. All of which made things, not okay, but, I don’t know, it made sense somehow.
Shar needed me.
In related news, with the investigation ongoing and unsolved, Katy’s parents came from Halifax and moved her into a condo downtown that had this really fancy security system. Katy told people it was because she didn’t feel safe at Dylan.
The day before she left, which happened to be the day before Valentine’s Day, she came to Shar’s room to drop off a present for me—a gift from one survivor to another, she said, handing over a large paper bag. It was a shell, a big white conch shell with a pink, sort of sexually pink-looking, inside. It was heavy and cold to the touch, like marble.
“Wow.”
Down the hall, Katy’s mother, a frizzy-haired woman dressed in mom jeans and a sweatshirt with a big
anchor embroidered on the chest, paced, swinging a set of car keys around her finger.
“Take care of yourself.” Katy said.
“Okay. Wow. Sure. Thanks, Katy.”
Later, turning the shell over and over in her hands, Shar frowned. “Why are people always giving you stuff these days?” she asked.
“She probably just doesn’t want to pack everything,” I offered, rolling over on the bed and brushing the pizza-crust crumbs out from under me.
“Or maybe you’re shell sisters now?”
I grabbed the shell from her and placed it, pink up, on the desk. “No such thing,” I said.
“It looks like a vagina,” Shar snickered.
Not surprisingly, Valentine’s Day was a big deal at St. Joseph’s. In fact, St. Joseph’s didn’t just celebrate Valentine’s DAY but Valentine’s WEEK, a whole calendar of events, launching with “couples’ romantic dinners” at the various dorm cafeterias, where valentines enjoyed Sloppy Joes served on kaiser rolls cut into heart shapes, Caesar salad on the side.
I cannot imagine why anyone would want to have
a romantic dinner in a dorm cafeteria. At one of the
other residences, couples got pelted with rolls by renegade (I would imagine single) students.
There was a Valentine’s RAVE. Hope went. It was run by the engineering department. Apparently, there was a booth where you could go to make out and get your picture taken making out. They had to shut it down halfway through the night because people were using the booth for purposes other than kissing— with photo evidence to boot. A couple of happyfaced-boy and back-of-girl’s head pictures ended up very briefly on the college online social board.
And finally there was the film club’s anti-Valentine’s ZOMBIE LOVE party for the launch of the musical
To Zombie, with Love
. There was a big green oozing zombie heart on the poster. Carly embroidered a large green heart on the back of her coat and pasted up posters all over campus. The week before the party she and the film people in Dylan Hall all dyed their hair bright green, leaving a wake of green foot and fingerprints, sinks stained Jell-O green, and shower curtains tinted toxic yellow.
I’d caught sight of them all crossing campus from Shar’s window, a whole flock of evergreen to minty coloured heads, bright against the snow, loose turf heading to class.
True to form, after a week of decidedly not making special Valentine’s Day plans and making fun of the
people who did, on the day of, out of the blue, Shar decided she wanted to go out. One minute she was sitting on her bed turning Katy’s shell over and over in her lap, the next minute she was up and getting dressed.
“We’re going out,” she said.
“Where?”
“Out.”
We headed uptown, ending up at this crazy fancy martini bar. It was all velvet and black leather. All the drinks had fancy names and came with a salad of garnishes. When our Goodfellas arrived, topped with black olives and giant pickle slices, Shar pulled the shell out of her bag and set it on the table next to the orchid centrepiece. Picking up her drink, she sucked the olive off the little plastic sword then reached over and clinked the shell with the side of the glass.
“Cheers, Allison. Here’s to YOU taking CARE of yourself.”
I paused, my lips on the rim of my glass, and watched Shar as she gulped down her drink and smiled.
“DO it.”
“What?”
“Toast the shell! Toast to your good health, Allison!”
My glass hit the side of the shell with a half-hearted clack.
By the time we left the bar, the world was a blur. We zigzagged down the sidewalk and across the street, me following Shar as she charged forward and walked out the door.ed me toward a little bridge. When she got to the middle she stopped and steadied herself against the railing. After struggling a bit, she pulled the shell out of her purse again and held it high over her head.
“What are you doing?”
She grinned, held the shell over the side of the bridge and, with little fanfare, opened her hand to let it drop. It hit the road below and shattered into a million porcelain skull-like fragments. There was a squeal in the distance, the sound of truck brakes grinding, rubber skidding against asphalt. We turned and ran, off the bridge and up the street, Shar cackling hysterically. Tomato juice and vodka pumped through my body, crude oil.
Many many blocks later we ground to a halt at the gates outside campus. With one hand leaning on a tree, gasping for breath, a shout jumped out of my throat.
“FUCK, SHAR!”
She grinned, wobbling on the grass as her heels sunk into the now soft turf. “Ha ha!”
“Whatever. That was MINE.”
“Oh wah wah! You sad you lost your shell from your BFF?”
“What? No!”
She stepped forward and into me, pushed me against the tree. She planted a kiss on my lips, then another, this one hard, teeth flashing over my bottom lip until they sank down, bit in.
“Mmphf!”
A soft chuckle pushed into my mouth, down my throat. The bark of the tree on the back of my head. Shar’s icy hands on my face.
It is apparently possible to feel a million things at once, have them pop up and down in your insides like lottery balls.
Stop. Don’t stop. Stop. Don’t stop.
When she pulled away she had that familiar look on her face, a look of determination and smug contentment. Black eyes. Pushing off the tree, she backed up, focused on me.
“Let’s go, Sonny.”
Just north of where we stood, we could hear strains of the Clash. Green light leaked through the doors and windows of the Student Union building.
Zombie party. Grabbing me by the elbow, Shar beelined toward the light like a moth drawn to a green flame.
I didn’t want to see Carly. More than anything, at that moment, I didn’t want to see Carly or any of the film people with their green turf heads. I especially didn’t want to be in the same space with Carly and Shar, Shar and anyone really, but especially Carly and Shar.
“No no no no. Let’s go,” I whispered, jerking my elbow back like a frightened puppy on a leash.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m tired and I want to go home now. I’m drunk.” I’d managed to pull us to a halt and was now intent on standing my ground. “Plus we have to pay to get in.”
It seemed important, at that moment, to focus. I tried very hard to breathe in a level of sobriety from the cold air but it just made my head buzz more.
I didn’t see Carly and Danny until they were right behind us, all painted up, arms full of plastic bags loaded with party snacks.
“Hey!” Danny trilled, his face blurred by a mask of white and black and red. “More party-goers! Amazeballs! Are you coming to see our masterpiece? We’re doing a midnight screening.”
I could feel Carly standing beside me, hear her shifting the bulky bags in her arms. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her minty green face, red lips. “Yeah,” she said, kind of quietly.
Shar snickered. “Oh yeah, right, the ZOMBIE movie! Nice face, Superstar.”
Danny arched a caked white eyebrow. Carly nudged my shoulder.
“If you want to come in,” she said, her voice low, measured, and careful, “you know you’re more than welcome. I’d love for you to see the movie. But if tonight’s not a good time, I can show it to you later.”
“SUPERSTAR!” Shar chuckled. “Why. Are. You. Talking. So. QUIET. LY?”
“You know what, Shar?” Carly snapped. “I’m not actually talking to you at the moment, okay?”
“Okay, Superstar,” Shar singsonged. “Don’t want to rile up the Oompa-Loompas!”
“WOW,” Danny mouthed, and moved closer to Carly, who dropped her bags at her feet.
FOURTEEN
Accidents (keep) happen(ing)
The car that almost hit me was driven by a woman in her thirties who I guess was (also) having a really fucked-up day. Her front tire stopped about an inch away from my splayed-out hand, which I would later discover was covered in road rash. When I raised my head, only recently cracked against the asphalt like a walnut, I could see the warbly reflection of my bloody upper lip in her bumper, which was splattered in dirt (and almost my brain).
“JESUS CHRIST,” the woman screamed as she jumped out of the car, her heels
click, click, clicking
as she ran over. “JESUS CHRIST! JESUS what happened!?! YOU! Do you know this girl?! What happened!? Did she trip?”
From my vantage point I could see the scratches on her high-heeled patent pumps.
I heard Shar’s voice, what I thought was Shar’s voice, but I couldn’t make out the words.
“Hurts.” The word spurted out with a cough, a piece of my front tooth, and a horror-movie amount of blood.
Shar’s voice, getting closer, zoomed into focus. “My phone’s not working! Call an ambulance!”
“Is this your friend?” driver woman screamed, dropping to her knees, beige nylons with little white flowers, and putting her face, very tan, white eye makeup, close to mine. Apparently my face was a source of some concern. She bit her lip.
“CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Shar screeched.
Tell them it’s me, I wanted to whisper, but my mouth hurt too much.
Fumbling through her purse, the woman found her phone and dialed frantically.
“JESUS CHRIST! Hello 911? There’s been an accident. A girl just fell. On … WHAT STREET IS THIS?”
I went to roll over onto my back but the woman put her hand down on my shoulder, pinning me with two pointy fingers.
“Oh for fuck’s sake don’t roll over. That’s the last thing I need. Lose my job and then fucking paralyze
some kid. Yes. We need an ambulance, there’s been an accident. No. No, she’s not hit. I don’t think I hit her. I think. I think she fell. Yes. She’s bleeding. Yeah it looks like a lot to me!”
I closed my eyes.
“OH! Hey! Hey! Don’t fall asleep okay?! She’s losing cons— She’s passing out. Hey girl!” She snapped her fingers twice at me, her gold nails flashing in the headlights. “HEY! YOU! Come here and look after your friend. Keep her awake.”
There was a pause. Then footsteps as Shar stepped around me. Sat down on the street in front of me. Took my scraped-up hand in hers a I was thinkingy%;margin-left: 0em;s I let my face sink to the pavement and waited for the now familiar sound of the ambulance siren.
The result of breaking my fall with my face? Five stitches on the inside of my lip, one on the outside where my tooth actually cut right through to the other side. I had scrapes and bruises on my hands and knees. A scratch on my cheek. My tooth would need to be capped.
I was patched up, told I could go home. I was also told that I was very lucky.
“If you’d been hit by a car instead of just hitting the pavement,” the ER nurse tut-tutted, “you’d be dead.
Think about that while I go get you something to help with the pain.”
Shar sat in a little plastic chair by the bed with our coats in her lap, staring at the floor, periodically making eye contact then pulling her eyes away. The curtain that hung around the bed for privacy was giving everything a soft minty tinge, so her hair looked kind of elfin. A couple times I almost forgot she was there she was so quiet. When the doctor discharged me Shar watched while I got my coat and shoes on, kind of out of the corner of her eye. Then we caught a cab back to dorm.
I just sort of autopiloted to her room.
I sat there for a while in silence, perched forward on her bed, Shar standing over me, still in her coat, her arms crossed over her chest.
“You should sleep,” she said.
She took a few steps toward the door and stopped.
“Are you staying?” I asked, still blurry, reeling.
Steps and voices echoed through the hallway.
“Sure.”
I crawled under the sheets and, after a while, she crawled in behind me. She slept like a porcelain doll,
barely curled up next to me in the bed that was really too small for two.
At one point in the night I felt her touching my back, whispering.
“What did you say?” My voice was scratchy.
“Nothing. Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
She was up before I was the next day. Left a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a muffin from the cafeteria next to my bottle of pain meds on the table, with a note.
Take one with food. Gone to class.