When We Were Good

Chapter 11

Content Warning: Sexuality, Homophobia

The next day, Sunday, I tried to move as little as possible. I read more Alice Munro and took a bath until my fingers were all puckered and the water had turned cool around me. I waited for Marie to call, but she didn't. I thought about writing her a letter about what had happened, telling her how I wasn't sorry for drinking but that I thought Chantal's friend was a real asshole. A couple of times throughout the day I sat down with a pen and piece of lined paper, but I couldn't make myself write the words.

I thought about her while I was in the tub, kept picturing her hands. I thought about Josie and Ivan, too. The same endless loop that had played through my head while I tried to find sleep the night before kept rolling on, and I slid under the faucet as the bathtub filled with water. I fiddled with the knobs to make the water pressure stronger, then arched my back to get the angle just right.

Josie and Ivan and Marie.

Josie and Ivan and Marie.

Josie and Ivan and Marie, and the warm water where it fell and made me feel so good.

I felt the ripples rise through me and into my belly.

Josie and Ivan and Marie and the water.

Josie and Ivan and Marie.

And I came. Then I sat there, in my pool of shame—for the act, for my thoughts, for everything—for most of the afternoon.

I sat down to do my week's worth of homework, stopping only to eat some leftover pizza with the end of a bottle of wine I'd snuck up to my room from the rack that was always overflowing. Mom and Dad were both out—together, I hoped—so neither one noticed when I brought the empty bottle down a few hours later and placed it next to the other empties in the recycling.

I'd finally made some headway with In the Skin of a Lion, and probably the wine helped me wrap my mind around Ondaatje's words. We were only going to be spending one more week on the book, so I should have been on to the next one already. But it was driving me crazy that I couldn't get into a book that was supposed to be so beautiful and was supposed to be a story about Toronto—the tiny part of the world that I knew. Besides, we were reading Catcher in the Rye next and I'd basically memorized that book when I was fourteen.

So, I was reading about some labourers tunnelling under Lake Ontario, stopping only long enough to take a photograph for publicity's sake, all these people struggling to make a new waterway for the city. The main character, Patrick, is digging below the lake and he feels the whole continent in front of him. It made me feel claustrophobic and totally insignificant. I closed the book and tried to sleep. In a dream, I was digging a hole in the back yard, but it kept filling itself back up with dirt every time I put down my shovel.

***

The next day at school was uneventful. Marie avoided me and clung to her friends, Shawarma Girl and Number Three, and I tried to act like it didn't bother me. But just as we were let out of our final classes, Megan managed to corner me near her locker. The loud buzz of kids near us built a bubble around our conversation.

"I hear you hung out with Marie this weekend," she said, faking a casual tone. "How was that?"

How the hell had she even heard about it? I tried to remember if she and Marie had any classes together. Clearly it meant she'd been talking about me. I shuddered to think about what she was saying about our night at the Falter show.

"It was fine," I said, "we saw this band play at the Reverb."

"Ugh," Megan said, "that place is so gross. I went there once, remember, when I was dating Jason and he had that awful nu-metal band? The whole place smelled like—well, anyway, I just wanted to let you know what people are starting to say about you. I mean, I hate that they're talking behind your back, but if there's a reason they're saying what they are, I just thought you'd, you know, want to know."

I didn't move. I didn't even blink as I stared her down.

"What exactly are you trying to tell me here?"

"About you and Marie. What they're saying."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, you know she's bi, right? It just really seems like she's got a crush on you—she's so obvious about it. Anyway, it's probably good that you guys aren't talking much at school, but if you keep hanging out on weekends they're never going to shut up about it. And anyway, isn't she kind of weird? Like, she's so intense with not drinking and everything. How can you stand her?"

Marie had a crush on me? My stomach did a flip.

"Who's saying this stuff?" I said, "How did anyone even hear about me and Marie?"

"You know how these things go," said Megan.

Of course I knew. Too well.

I crossed my arms. "I mean, I'm not, we're not—" I uncrossed them and couldn't keep from gesturing wildly, "it's not like we're dating or anything. Like, I'm straight, obviously. You know that. I just wanted to go to this concert and we sort of went together. It wasn't a big deal or anything."

"I'm just saying, you better watch her. I know you can't control yourself around anyone who throws you, like, the slightest compliment or whatever."

"Hey," I said, "I thought you were over that."

Megan's gaze fell to the floor. "It still hurts, you know. And you running off and playing queer doesn't make me feel any better."

Queer. It was positive sometimes, but coming from her mouth the word had total venom. Like she was using it as a weapon: like I had killed someone, like I had done something awful.

"Shut up, okay?" I said, pushing back. "It's none of your business. I'm not—" The venom, that word, I couldn't say it. "God, don't you have prom committee now or something?"

"Okay," she said, turning to leave, "you need to calm down."

Screw that—I wanted to get angry. Now more than ever.

"And I know you're making fun of me," Megan continued, "but I actually do have a prom committee meeting to get to. I'll see you around, Kat."

With my backpack on, I wandered through the school's front foyer. I needed a distraction—anything to take my mind off Marie and the revelation from my ex-best friend that I seriously didn't want to think about.

A bunch of different clubs had set up tables to raise money for different charities. It was some contest they were having or something, which seemed totally offensive because it was like people were only donating money for these causes to help their friends win a free pizza lunch.

I could feel the bill, the red bill, throbbing in my wallet even through the wall of textbooks and gym clothes that filled my bag.

"Hey," said a guy in a long-sleeved polo shirt, "if you donate five dollars today to UNICEF, we'll give you this free pen!"

"No, no, no," said a girl at the table next to him, "come over here, the French Club is raising money for the Humane Society. We've got pictures of puppies, and cupcakes for anyone who donates a toonie."

"Over here!" someone else called, but I didn't even turn around to see who was yelling.

"Doctors Without Borders needs your support. And so does the basketball team!"

My face turned as red as Mackenzie King's—the man on the guilty fifty—and I got out of there as fast as I could.