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  Alone on the senior side of the change room, Sasha was undoing her hair, her arms raised and her elbows pointed towards the walls, like she was about to do a sit-up. “Secret admirer?” Sasha said when she saw the flowers. “Kevin will be jealous.”

  “Give me a break, Sasha. They’re from my mom and Paige.”

  “Must be nice.”

  It struck me that Sasha’s parents hadn’t been in the lobby. I’d taken it for granted that Kevin wouldn’t come; he never attended any of her performances. But her mom always came, and her dad often joined her. What had happened tonight? I softened my voice. “Actually, it is nice.”

  Sasha turned away and rifled in her locker. I stepped out of my flowy pants and pulled on my jeans. Sasha’s shoulder blades winged out as she bent forward, and the fine hairs on her neck caught the light. Her ribs rose and fell. Her legs pushed the ground away, lean and strong. But without Jamie at her side, she seemed smaller, almost fragile. She stopped moving. I miss you, I wanted to say. I was about to ask her if anything was wrong when she snapped, “Quit staring at me!”

  “Sorry.” She moved aside to reveal a mirror in the locker door, small and cracked but obviously still functional.

  “Good show, Sasha. See you later.”

  “Sure. Have a nice life.”

  I took a step towards her. “Why are you so mad at me? Is this still about Kevin?”

  Sasha was flinging her clothes off and on. It made me think of tears in motion. If she moved fast enough, she wouldn’t have to cry. I knew she didn’t want me to interrupt. “Call me if you want to talk, okay? Sasha?”

  She slammed the locker shut and hoisted her pack to her back. She was going to beat me out the door. “Whatever.”

  I caught up with Mom and Paige and we escaped into the summer evening. Mom offered to take us out for dessert, but I opted for a walk on Willows Beach. We drove the short distance and cooled our feet on the sand—fine and silky, if you avoided driftwood and cigarette butts. The surf pulsed, the moon lit the water, and the air eddied around us. Paige grabbed a stick and ran ahead while Mom and I sauntered. When we caught up to her, she had written NAT RULES on the shore. I went to hug her and she shrieked, “No! You’ll squeeze the stuffing out of me!” She ran around in circles and I chased her till Mom called, “Girls, girls! Calm down. It’s dark down here and someone is going to get hurt.” We collapsed on our backs and laughed up at the stars.

  Wednesday, July 28th

  Paige leaves tomorrow. As she packs, she keeps asking, “Do Dad and Violet have Harry Potter? What Wii games do they have? Do they have flippers in my size at the cabin?” It’s getting on my nerves. I told her not to assume they had anything to keep a ten-year-old girl entertained. Dad shed most signs of us when he moved to his new place. A couple of outdated pictures of Paige and me hang as evidence of his former life, but otherwise he was born again as a freewheeling divorcé. (How come that doesn’t sound right? What’s the word for a divorced man? There isn’t one, is there? Mom would have a field day. It bugs me when she’s right about stuff like that.)

  It’s just as well. I’m not sure I could stand to walk into his condo and see the clay bowl that I made in Grade One and proudly presented to him for Father’s Day, my thumbprints still visible where I pinched the sides into shape, a matte patch where I missed with the glazing brush. I wonder what ever became of it? Dad’s décor is what you would call minimalist. Bare walls; a big, black television; a couple of tall lamps that stand in the corners like awkward newcomers at a party. The only bit of character in the living room is contained in the black CD stands that climb the walls. Not the stands themselves, but the music inside them: jazz, blues, classical, and even some experimental electronic music and indie pop. Last summer, I worked my way through his CD collection as I danced in the living room. By myself.

  Next week, Mom vacations at the cabin with Marine. I haven’t talked to Sasha since the night of the show. Claire says The Ice Cream Place isn’t hiring. Opportunities have dried up all over. The Summertime Blues strike again.

  Thursday, July 29th

  Paige chattered all the way to the airport, reporting what she’d read online in a kids’ encyclopedia about air travel: security checkpoints, cabin pressure, landing strips, baggage handlers. She wore a pink Hello Kitty backpack and carried a stuffed unicorn under her arm. When I hugged her goodbye, my eyes teared up and hers widened. Great, I was upsetting her. Luckily, the flight attendant arrived just then with a hundred-watt smile on her face. Her white teeth actually sparkled like in the cartoons. They’re probably veneers like Sasha and I saw on Oprah: People have their teeth whittled away to stumps and covered with ultra-white falsies. Fake teeth or not, the flight attendant obviously knew how to interact with kids. Paige perked right up again and hurried through the gate. The lady had to prompt her to turn and wave.

  When we got home from the airport, Mom and I made egg sandwiches and green tea. As we ate, I was reading the paper, and she, totally out of character, wasn’t reading anything. “Have you thought any more about inviting Sasha to come and stay with you next week?”

  I stared. Had I actually mentioned that idea to her?

  “Your father said you were thinking about it.”

  That’s right. Dad and I did discuss it. During the same conversation in which I complained about not going to Toronto and he asked about my friend Hannah. I was about to snap back that Sasha and I weren’t even talking to each other, in case she hadn’t noticed, but I thought better of it.

  “I haven’t asked her. We haven’t been hanging out much lately.”

  “Have you two had a fight?”

  I was reading the entertainment section of the newspaper. A young, locally born pop singer rose to fame this month. I turned her winning smile face-down and looked at Mom. It unnerved me to see her eyes focused on me. Normally, she’s lifting her head from a book, dreamy-eyed, and gazing at some point past my shoulder. She uses books the way some people use illicit substances. Is there a support group for that? Hi, my name is Denise and I’m a recovering bookworm.

  Maybe she is recovering. I suppose a month of nonstop reading might make even the most hardened addict wonder if there’s any more to life. Either way, I sensed Mom might actually be able to hear me today, so I said, “Sort of.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to rehash it, especially since Mom didn’t even remember the Gina Incident. “I think her family’s going through kind of a … rough patch.”

  “She could probably use a friend right now, then.”

  “You think I should invite her to stay here?”

  “I don’t want you staying here by yourself. But it might be fun for you and Sasha to be independent for a week, don’t you think? You could buy groceries and experiment in the kitchen and … play your music. I would phone every day. Of course, you’re welcome to come to the cabin too. Marine said, ‘Be sure to tell Natalie she’s welcome.’ I just don’t want you to be bored.”

  Meaning, cranky.

  So, it has got me thinking: maybe it’s time I made a real effort to heal the rift with Sasha. I did go behind her back to date Kevin. Worse, I stopped calling her.

  Speaking of Kevin … I still fantasize about him, but three weeks have passed since our trip to the lake. The last time I saw him, we were cycling in the dark, and that was already two weeks ago. The intensity of his image is fading a bit. Maybe he has even left town.

  Later

  Called Sasha. Her voice sounded guarded. I kept things light and asked if she wanted to go to the beach tomorrow. She said she couldn’t. (What’s she doing all day, scrubbing the floors?) She hesitated a bit and then said, “You can stay over tomorrow night if you want. No one will be here.” Where is everyone? I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t: prying would make her angry. These days, the slightes
t thing sets her off. I just wish I understood why.

  Friday, July 30th

  The horror. I can’t think about it yet. I’m too shocked to sleep. My legs twitch from all the walking. I’ve had one charley-horse already. I’m going to toss and turn all night. Maybe some music.

  Saturday, July 31, 11:00 a.m., beach

  I’m sitting on a log, my sandals kicked off. I crunch and release my toes and burrow them into the sand until I hit the wet stuff. I trace patterns on the slate of wet sand until I have to move to another log to find a smooth surface again. I’m hoping that focusing on my feet will lead to peace.

  But it’s not working. I’m still in shock. There’s only so much I can take.

  3:00 p.m., Con Brio

  Came here seeking refuge. Lisa isn’t here, and neither is Petra, but this place reminds me of them and their support. I’ve ordered a bowl of soup and a panini (I hope that’s Italian for sandwich). I’m going to review the whole weird story. I certainly can’t go home until I have.

  So, Part 1: Sasha’s Place

  As planned, I arrived at 6 p.m. with a change of clothes and a toothbrush in my knapsack. When I rang the bell, Mrs. V. opened the door, wearing a tracksuit. Her bloodshot eyes and blotchy face made me flinch. She slurred her words. “Whadisit? Are you the paperboy? Come to get paid? Where’s the paper? Can’t get paid if you don’t bring the paper!” She squawked a laugh. She was clutching a tumbler of amber liquid and ice cubes. When she saw me looking at it, she thrust it up in a toast. A bit of Scotch (?) sloshed over the side and I smelled alcohol. “Cheers, Natalie!” So she had recognized me.

  A lit cigarette hung from her other hand. I’ve suspected for years that Sasha’s mom smoked—underneath her Estée Lauder perfume, her pores exude the stale smell that I’ve noticed on other smokers. But I’d never actually caught her in the act.

  She sucked hard on the cigarette and squinted. She shifted her weight unsteadily and leaned on the door frame. She looked at me over the rim of the glass and her eyes sparkled. Something funny hung in the air, and despite myself, I started to return her smile.

  “So whatcha doin’, Nat? Sniffin’ around for my son like a bitch in heat?” She raised the tumbler and sipped.

  The words stunned me. I couldn’t move.

  From behind her came an outraged cry. “You are not my mother! Get out of my way, you stupid drunk!” Sasha shoved past her mother and slammed the door.

  The door opened as Sasha pulled me down the steps. “If you’re not my daughter, I guess you won’t be getting free room and board here anymore.” She called Sasha an ungrateful bitch.

  We walked. As if with one mind, we fell into step with each other. We walked in silence; no words were necessary, or possible. We walked together; separating was unthinkable. We walked to the water because it was the only place to go. We walked until we were tired and then we sat on the beach and watched the surf.

  After a long time, Sasha found a stick—half bat, half paddle. She collected stones the size of golf balls and stood at the water’s edge. She threw them up and hit them one by one. She swung so hard I worried for her shoulder. Eventually, the stick snapped in two, and she flung the bottom half out to sea. It twirled like a propeller, fast as it rose, lazily as it sunk and then smacked the water. She turned and approached me, studying her palms. She looked up and shrugged. “Splinters.”

  I fought an impulse to touch her fingers and kiss them better. Memories were falling into place. When Sasha and I used to hang out in her room and her mother called us from downstairs, she yelled louder than she had to, sounding harsh and annoyed. When I phoned on weekend mornings, Sasha often said she couldn’t talk to me because her mother was sick. A couple of times lately, Mrs. V. sounded vague and slurry on the phone, and later on, Sasha said she didn’t get the message.

  This is the twenty-first century and I know about alcoholism. As the Health teacher said, it’s an illness, people are biologically predisposed towards it, it’s not their fault, it needs to be managed, you go to AA, take medication, etc. etc.

  But this was my best friend’s mother.

  “How ’bout pizza?” I said.

  “Pacific Rim?” Sasha raised her eyebrows with the hint of a grin. Pacific Rim pizza was downtown. Our mothers didn’t like us to go downtown by ourselves at the best of times, but they forbade us to go without telling them. Our mothers.

  “You’re on,” I said.

  We widened our strides and swung our arms.

  As we ate slices of artichoke-heart and sun-dried-tomato pizza, Sasha filled me in. Her mom has always been an alcoholic, but she managed to stay sober for years at a time when Sasha and Kevin were growing up. Lately, she has relapsed more and more. She has sold hardly any houses for months. Her dad wants to move out but can’t afford to support two households and doesn’t want to just abandon her mom.

  Kevin got caught in the crossfire. When he started partying—just the ordinary teenage stuff—fights happened. Their dad came home and found Kevin and his mom drinking together a couple of times. Bottles were poured down the sink, glasses smashed against the wall. Kevin got blamed for their mom’s relapse. Now he couch surfs.

  Only crusts remained on our plates. “And what about me? I can’t keep living there with her ragging on me all the time. You heard her! She was supposed to go to my aunt’s for a few days and give me some peace, but my aunt won’t even talk to my mom if she’s been drinking.”

  “You can stay at my house tonight.” I dabbed a napkin at my mouth to soak up the grease.

  Sasha stared over my shoulder so long that I turned to see what she was looking at. There was nothing there but a blurry painting of a lighthouse in a storm. She blinked and said, “It’s okay.”

  “Are you sure? My mom really won’t mind.”

  “She’ll be passed out by now. I should go check on her. Make sure she’s not choking to death on her own vomit or something.” She checked to see how I’d reacted to that last comment. “I’m kidding,” she said. Her bitter tone made it hard to believe she was joking.

  We paid the bill and I walked Sasha home. The night hugged us, a dark cocoon. We turned off the main drag to escape the exhaust fumes. Wild roses scented the air. I ran my hands up and down my bare arms, chafing cool, goose-pimply skin. I hugged Sasha with one arm. We were alive, we were breathing, and that was all that mattered for now.

  We reached the row of town houses where Sasha lived. “Do you want me to come in?”

  She shook her head. “I’m used to it. It’s no big deal.”

  “Are you sure? Why don’t I just come in for a bit?” I started to move past her and up the cement path to their unit. She grabbed my upper arm and held it with a grip so strong, it made me suck in my breath.

  Sasha stuttered in a husky whisper, “I don’t … want you … to see her.”

  My stomach clenched. Slowly, I pried her fingers off my bicep. “Okay, Sash, I won’t.”

  There were no lights on in the town house. I waited until she made it inside and then, with a caved-in chest, turned and began the trek home.

  9:00 p.m., curled up on my bed

  I couldn’t face writing about Part 2 in Con Brio. I just wanted to be in my room.

  Mom made chili and we ate together in silence. She peered at me to see what was wrong, but she doesn’t suspect anything. She obviously doesn’t know I saw.

  Part 2: Our Place

  My legs were burning by the time I arrived home. I noticed Marine’s blue Honda in the driveway. A light glowed in the living room. Mom and Marine were probably watching a video. At the side of the house, jets of water were arcing and falling, arcing and falling. Mom had forgotten to turn off the sprinkler and the grass was soaked. A rivulet of water streamed down the curb, wasting itself in the street. To reach the faucet, I had to pass the living room window. I gla
nced inside and froze.

  My mother and Marine were embracing on the couch. Marine’s back was to me and my mother’s hands were gripping it. Their faces were joined and they were twisting and turning their heads as if they couldn’t get enough of each other’s mouth but wanted to dig deeper, get under something. Tongue wrestling, tonsil hockey, sucking face … Kevin. I’d never seen Mom and Dad kiss like that. Mom pulled away and looked past Marine’s shoulder right at me. She looked flushed and dreamy. I sprang back, afraid that she saw me, but I’m pretty sure all she could see was her own reflection.

  Or maybe she had a moment of mother’s intuition and knew one of her kids was suffering. Because I was. Suffering. I collapsed on the grass and soaked the seat of my jeans. The sprinkler continued to arc and fall, arc and fall; it traced feathers of water over my body on each pass until I was drenched. Despite the warmth of the night, I shivered and my teeth chattered. I had to get up. And since I had nowhere else to go, I went inside.

  In the bathroom, I peeled off my wet clothes and turned on the shower. Steam rose as water pelted the stall. They would hear me and have a chance to compose themselves. I dried off and crawled into bed. Sure enough, Mom tapped on my bedroom door.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t attempt to disguise my mood.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I’m trying to get to sleep.”

  “I thought you were spending the night at Sasha’s.”

  I’d totally forgotten. Mom thought she had the house to herself tonight. I softened my voice a little. “Sasha’s mom was sick, so they weren’t up for having me stay over after all.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. She obviously wanted to spend the night with Marine, and now that I had returned, Marine was going to have to leave. Well, tough! I live here. What am I supposed to do, go couch surf like Kevin because I’m in the way? Fuck that.

  “’Night, Mom.”

  “Good night.”

  I switched off my light but tossed and turned as my quads and calves threatened to cramp. I’d just dozed off when an engine revved in the driveway. Good night, Marine.