Leap
Leap
by Jodi Lundgren
Second Story Press
Copyright
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Lundgren, Jodi, 1966-
Leap / Jodi Lundgren.
ISBN 978-1-897187-85-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-926920-27-6
I. Title.
PS8573.U542L43 2011 jC813’.54 C2011-900074-1
Copyright © 2011 by Jodi Lundgren
“Bedframe” by Graham Lazarovich.
©SOCAN 2002. Used with permission.
Cover photos © Cat London Photography
Edited by Alison Kooistra
Copyedited by Kathyrn White
Designed by Melissa Kaita
Printed and bound in Canada
Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.
Published by
Second Story Press
20 Maud Street, Suite 401
Toronto, ON M5V 2M5
www.secondstorypress.ca
Dedication
For Geri and Sue
June
Thursday, June 24th—last day of school!
Sasha and I scored seats high in the bleachers during final assembly. We scanned the crowd, spotting couples and deciding whether or not they’d done it. As the principal droned on, our checklist grew.
Category:
a) Haven’t done it but hoping to
Tell-Tale Signs:
Sparkly eyes. Frequent laughter at private jokes. Eyelids droop and mouths fall open when the couple touches.
Category:
b) Saving it for marriage
Tell-Tale Signs:
Ardent hand-holding. Lingering pecks on the lips. Issues of Bride magazine may sprout from girl’s backpack, as wedding likely to happen immediately after graduation.
Category:
c) Doing it and loving it
Tell-Tale Signs:
A healthy, happy glow. Appear to have just won gold medal for pairs in figure skating. Hands roam the other’s body like it’s an extension of their own.
It was my turn to make a call. “Fifth row from the front, two seats from the end. Category C.”
Sasha curled her fists into binoculars and peered. “Chelsea and Brian? No way! She’s a virgin! She nearly fainted in Sex Ed.”
“What happened?”
“It was when that chick from the Sexual Health Clinic came to talk to us. The one with blue hair, who looked about twenty? She told us she was ‘pro sex.’” Sasha put “pro sex” in quotes by pulsing the first two fingers of each hand. “So we should feel free to ask her anything.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Someone said, ‘What’s the difference between a dildo and a vibrator?’” Sasha choked on a laugh. “Pro-sex lady pulled out one of each and set them down on Chelsea’s desk. She was supposed to check them out and report back to the class.” Sash couldn’t hold back the giggles. “She got beet red and bolted from the room.”
I squirmed. When we covered Sex Ed in my Health class, we had the regular teacher, and she used a less hands-on approach. But I held my ground about Chelsea. “She probably felt guilty! Look at the way Brian’s draping his arm over her. His hand is kind of dripping off her body. Like he owns it.”
Sasha narrowed her eyes. “I see what you mean. But look at Chelsea.” She consulted the notebook and planted her index finger in the second column. “Where’s her healthy, happy glow?”
We could only see the back of her head, but even so, she didn’t exactly radiate. As we watched, she jerked her head so that we could see her profile, chin tucked, hand blocking her mouth. A nail biter.
“I think we need a new category,” Sasha said.
I flipped a page in my notebook and picked up my pen.
Sasha cleared her throat. “D. Doing it to stay together.”
I scribbled it down. “Tell-tale signs?”
“Nail biting and darting eyes.”
I sucked the end of my pen, choosing words.
Category:
d) Doing it to stay together
Tell-Tale Signs:
Nail biting and darting eyes. Looks weighed down when touched. Most commonly found in insecure girls.
Sasha read the entry aloud. “Hey!” She slapped my leg with the back of her hand. “If people do it to stay together, what about Staying together to do it?”
Another teacher took over at the microphone. One by one, students’ names boomed from the loudspeakers.
“Ew! Who would do that?”
Sasha scanned the auditorium. “What about Rob and Amber?” Rob, a senior who’d repeated a grade, starred at rugby. Amber used to cheerlead before the school axed the team. “They don’t even seem to like each other.”
I nodded. “He rolls his eyes at everything she says.” We eavesdropped on the seniors at lunch hour whenever we could.
“And she’s always flirting with other guys. It drives him crazy. But not enough to break up with her.”
I lifted my pen. “What should we call that?”
Sasha gripped the edge of her bleacher and leaned forward. “What did Mr. Hooey say in Science about Canada geese? How they mate for life but aren’t faithful? They engage in …” She closed her eyes.
“Extra-pair activity!”
Sasha sprang back to an upright position. “Bingo!” She peered over my shoulder as I wrote.
Category:
e) Staying together to do it
Tell-Tale Signs:
Eyes roll at each other’s comments. Extra-pair flirting, followed by flare-ups of jealousy. Mostly found in jocks.
“Perfect!” Sasha said.
“NATALIE FERGUSON!”
My name thundered from the PA system and I froze. How could the authorities bust me from so far away? Had they installed zoom-lens cameras to monitor us during assemblies? The girl on my opposite side elbowed me. “Go up to the stage!”
I fought my way down packed bleachers as the announcer called other names. The principal stood at a table piled with trophies and certificates. He passed them to the students who’d been singled out and shook their hands.
I’d won an award?
What had I accomplished this year? Decent grades, but not top of the class. Outside of PE class, I didn’t play sports. I hadn’t joined any clubs.
“Ow!”
“Sorry!”
As I waded into the sea of latecomers and grade eights forced to sit cross-legged on the floor, I crushed hands and feet, tank-like. No one watching would have guessed that I belonged to a dance team. Dance team. That had to be it, even though it was an out-of-school activity. I rolled my shoulders back and tried to show more poise.
When I reached the podium, the principal’s assistant whispered, “Name?” Her reading glasses sat low on her nose, and their chain dangled, jowl-like, by her cheeks.
I whispered back. “Natalie Ferguson.”
She consulted her clipboard and jutted her chin towards the wings. When I didn’t move, she raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes, then shoved my arm. I stumbled off stage, where a couple of kids were already skulking.
“What’s going on?” I asked the guy next to me. The only thing hanging lower than his bangs were his pants. He shrugged and pulled out his Nintendo DS.
A girl
wearing black lipstick and a dog collar grimaced and shook her head. “We’re probably getting the Underachievers’ Badge of Shame.”
We did form an ill-assorted clump, unlike the proud row of award-winners who spanned center stage, displaying their certificates. The boy standing closest to the wing, seemingly no bigger than a fire hydrant, had won first place in Grade 8 Math. He caught me staring and gave me a superior (if miniature) grin.
The principal’s assistant breezed past us and grabbed a vase of flowers off a table. She thrust it into my hands. “The principal is turning sixty-five today.”
The kid with the DS perked up. “Does that mean he’s going to retire?”
The assistant’s face kind of puckered. “Yes, Lewis, you’ll be able to start over with a clean slate next year. Give that to me.”
She pocketed the console. The goth girl snickered.
“That goes for you too, Danielle.”
Fortunately, this lady wasn’t on a first name basis with me. Until today, that is.
“Natalie, you, Danielle, and Lewis all share Mr. Harbinger’s birthday, so when you hear me announce it, go out there and give him these flowers. Everyone is going to sing.”
Unbelievable. I was supposed to be spared birthday attention this year while my friends counted down to three o’clock and summer. The principal would have to hit retirement age. Not that it came as a shock. With his white hair and raisin-like complexion, he looked about eighty.
Ms. Pucker-Face approached the podium and tapped the mic.
“Today is a very special day,” she began.
Like it or not, we had to make an entrance, so I tried to corral my fellow birthday boy and girl into some kind of formation. It posed the biggest choreographic challenge of my life. The armful of lilies and gladiolas blocked my view, and the pollen made my eyes water.
“Mr. Harbinger took his teacher training in the 1960s and first worked in our school during his practicum. His classroom was opposite the Home Economics room, and the girls served him up many tasty meals—obviously trying to impress this handsome young teacher.” The other staff on stage tittered at that. Beyond lame. “Then in 1968 …”
I tugged on the other birthday people’s sleeves and ducked my head towards the floor. With my toe, I sketched a triangle to show where each of us should stand. They looked confused and slightly hostile, and my eyes itched. I gave up. I tucked the bouquet under one arm and, with my free hand, dug my knuckle into one eyelid, then the other.
“Mr. Harbinger turns sixty-five today. After a lifetime of selfless service as a math teacher, soccer coach, rehearsal director, and principal, he is heading for a richly deserved retirement.”
I dropped my hand from my eyes. The principal was exactly half a century older than me, ending his career before mine even started. What was I going to do with the next fifty years? The unknown yawned before me with no suspension bridge in sight. I stared into space, unblinking.
A sharp nudge broke my trance. Silence boomed. Her speech finished, Ms. P-F was twisting towards our wing and grinning desperately. I struck out on my own, and she turned back to the mic. “Three of our students are also celebrating birthdays today, and they’ve graciously agreed to present Mr. Harbinger with a token of our appreciation.”
With teary eyes, the principal accepted the flowers. “That speech got to you too, I see. Thank you, dear.” My eyelids had practically swollen shut. I could have killed for an antihistamine.
At the sound of applause, I tipped forward to bow, out of habit. But this wasn’t a dance performance, and I squeezed my legs together to stop myself. It probably looked like I had to pee. A snort of laughter made me turn to see that my fellow birthday girl and boy had trailed behind, after all.
When the clapping died down, the whole assembly broke into “Happy Birthday.” I have to admit, it was touching. Even the goth girl twitched her spooky lips in a kind of smile. As the mass choir roared, Mr. Harbinger and the three of us scrunched together, shoulder to shoulder. What would Sasha have to say about the whole scene? Something cutting and funny, no doubt. I searched the bleachers but couldn’t see her anywhere.
Friday, June 25th
Sasha invited me for a swim at her town house today, just the two of us. At first, I couldn’t believe my luck. The sun was shining and, for once, we didn’t have to share the complex’s outdoor pool with Sasha’s neighbors. We lathered on sunscreen and stretched out on our towels. Ripples slapped the pool’s rim and, in the distance, traffic buzzed. Sash and I see each other almost every day at school or the dance studio, but nothing beats one-on-one time. I was looking forward to a quiet afternoon of tanning and gossip.
“I like your bathing suit,” I said. She wore a red velvet bikini that set off her dark hair. “It reminds me of the curtain at the McPherson Playhouse.”
“I know! That’s why I bought it.”
Muffled squeals sounded in the change room. As I eyed the door, it burst open and three other girls from dance team stampeded out. Before I could react, they surrounded my towel and smashed water balloons on the deck. I jumped as water and bits of rubber spattered me. They all shouted, “Happy Birthday!”
“Belated birthday, that is,” Claire said. She swiveled to look at the pool, and her blonde ponytail whipped her neck. “We were going to dunk you, but we figured you suffered enough yesterday.”
Jamie grumbled and crossed her arms. Not many dancers chose to bulk up as much as she did. If she owned a car, the bumper sticker would say I’d rather be pumping iron. “I still think we should dunk her.”
Lisa tousled Jamie’s hair. “Down, girl!”
Sasha darted a glance at me—neither of us could get away with teasing Jamie like that. But everyone respected Lisa, our unofficial team captain. Jamie sighed and snapped her towel to spread it out. We all settled down to sunbathe.
Lisa lay closest to me in a blue halter-top bikini with boxy bottoms, Marilyn Monroe style. Her knees were bent into triangles and her skin already gleamed a smooth golden color. A twelfth-grader, she didn’t usually spend time with us outside the studio. I let my head loll in her direction. “I’m glad you came.”
She shaded her eyes and looked at me. “Me too.”
“I wish you were taking the summer school this year.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” She sat up. “Hey, everyone—I’ve got news. My parents decided to pay for the summer school as a graduation gift. I get to dance with all you lovely people one last time!”
Three cheers and one groan met Lisa’s announcement.
“Claire? What the hell? Was that you?” I said.
Claire lay next to Lisa, looking like an Olympic diver in her sporty one-piece. Every year, coaches try to recruit her for the soccer and basketball teams, but she has always chosen to dance instead. She hid her face in her hands. “I didn’t want to tell you now and spoil the party. But … I’m not doing the summer school this year.”
We all turned to her. “Why not?”
She uncovered her face and let her arms flop wide. “I got a job at The Ice Cream Place. When I’m not working, I just want to swim, camp, bike, and play volleyball on the beach.”
No one said anything.
“We’ll still see each other! You can come by the store anytime.”
“It won’t be the same.” I pulled at a frayed thread on my towel. Why do things always have to change?
“Lighten up,” Jamie said. “It’s only dance team.”
Sasha cleared her throat. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m still recovering from the show. How ’bout we trade massages?”
“Great idea,” Lisa said. “Cramming for finals put a few kinks in my neck, too.”
We formed a circle like a seated conga line. Behind me, Sasha found knots of spasmed muscle I wasn’t even aware of. When she pressed, the pain stabb
ed. After a while, it dulled, and the tension in my shoulders, neck, and back eased off.
Jamie wriggled in front of me. She was wearing a tank top—or, muscle shirt as she likes to call them—and shorts. She spends her share of time in leotards and tights, but outside the studio, she shuns “girly” clothes, even bathing suits. I was kneading her neck with delicate, circular motions of my fingertips. “More pressure!” She slapped her hands on top of mine and flattened them. In partnering class, she digs in too hard and leaves finger-shaped bruises. Apparently, she likes the same technique in a massage. Poor Claire: she ended up in front of Jamie.
During our massage session (coincidence? I think not!), Sasha’s older brother sauntered down to the pool and smirked at us. I remember him best as the skinny, pimply thirteen-year-old who would dangle a rubber rat over our shoulders when Sasha and I were trying to do homework, but he has filled out into a buff guy with curly black hair, five-o’clock shadow, and just the right amount of chest hair. He wears a plain silver chain around his neck, and he’s always chewing something—gum or a piece of grass or a toothpick. Today, he was drinking a glass of lemonade and crushing ice cubes between his teeth. “How old are you now, Natalie?”
“Fifteen.”
“Sweet fifteen and never been kissed!” Jamie offered.
Kevin laughed, but only with his eyes. “I’ll bet she’s not as innocent as she looks.”
“Na-ta-lie Fer-gu-son has-n’t been kissed!” Sasha said.
Someone always had to revive the limerick issue. In Grade 8, my English teacher pointed out that my name had perfect dactylic rhythm, which means it sounds like a waltz: one-two-three, one-two-three, Na-ta-lie Fer-gu-son. She instructed the whole class to make up rhymes about me. (Technically, they were reverse limericks, as if that helped.) I’ve never lived it down.
Claire chimed in. “Went to the doc-tor to see what she’d missed.”
After a long pause, during which I hoped they would give up, Kevin pitched in.
“Lie down right here, I’ll breathe in your ear.”
Jamie wrapped up (with great originality): “Na-ta-lie Fer-gu-son has-n’t been kissed!”