Under the Moon

That last possibility makes my stomach holler. My eyes flip back open. Yeah, come to think of it, a chocolate McCool’s ice cream bar would hit the spot about now. And Ben does owe me after that icky french fry situation from last time. Maybe I can wrangle an explanation about why he slapped away my help in Ms. Pinski’s class.

I walk over and peer through the window, ready to wake him up from his nap. But I almost stop breathing when I see him. And not just because of his looks this time. Ben is sitting straight up in his seat with his jacket on — like he’s been waiting for me to appear. The black leather jacket from before is gone. In its place is a thin, faded denim jacket that looks like it’s been through about a bazillion wash cycles. The room is neat as nerds and, unlike last time, there’s no iPod or half-read novel in sight. Before I have a chance to blink, he slides the window open a thin crack and holds up a finger.

“Wait there — don’t move.”

And then with a slam of the window, he’s gone.

What the …

Moments later, the red door swings open and Ben is standing beside me. He’s holding two McCool bars in his hand. “Let’s get out of here. I’m dying of claustrophobia.”

Is he serious? I glance back at the crappy little cubicle that suddenly looks so sad and empty without him. “But you can’t leave it unattended. What if there’s a customer?”

He presses a hand to my back and pushes me along. I almost trip over my feet trying to keep up with his long strides. “There are no customers, don’t you get it? That’s why I took this bogus shift. So I wouldn’t have to actually do anything.” He rips open the wrapper and hands me one of the ice cream bars. “Come on, let’s go.”

Chocolate. How did he know?

“Okay. Thanks.”

So we walk along the lakefront pier toward the end of the strip, licking our ice creams and listening to the waves slap up against the sand. The giant moon has lit up a squiggly path on the surface of the water. I have to hold back the urge to jump in the lake and see where it’ll lead me.

But to tell you the truth, it’s even harder to hold back the urge to attack Ben with a million questions. I want to ask him why he was so rude to me at school. I want to find out who the initials on that ring belong to. I want to ask him why he wouldn’t take my help. And why he works in a drive-thru but owns all kinds of expensive things. I want to ask him why he moved here from Toronto. With very few exceptions, people move away from Big Bend. They don’t move into it.

All of these questions are circling around in my head. But I chicken out and don’t ask him anything. I guess I’m too nervous. Let’s face it, silence is so much easier than a battle of words. Ben must be feeling the same because neither one of us says anything for a long stretch of time. Which is weird because usually most people feel the need to fill the awkward silence that inevitably goes along with my company. But Ben doesn’t seem to mind it. Maybe he’s kind of introverted too. I like that thought.

After a while, he turns to me and asks, “So, what time do you have to be home tonight?”

I can feel my cheeks get warm. Hopefully it’s too dark for him to notice. “No time. I’m, um, actually going to a party.” God, why do I feel so embarrassed admitting it?

His eyes amble over my outfit, but he doesn’t say anything. A twinge of nerves jabs at my insides. Are my clothes all wrong? Why do I even care?

“Want to come with me? It’s at Todd Nelson’s house. I hear he has a pool.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Holy crap! Did I really just ask Ben Matthews out on a date? Suddenly, my underarms start to feel all prickly and hot with nerves. Dear God, please don’t let me get sweat rings under my pits! Why did I do that? He’s going to say no. Of course, he’s going to say no.

And he does. But not before laughing first.

“No. Thanks, anyway.”

It feels like a punch in the stomach. But I do my best to cover up my disappointment. “Well, I kind of have to make an appearance,” I say, struggling to keep my voice casual. “I promised someone I’d be there. So …”

Ben stops walking and points at my arm. “You’re dripping.”

Oh God! My pits? Horrified, I look down at myself. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see that it’s the ice cream bar melting and not me. Sending out a silent thank you to the universe, I lean over and lap up the long strings of chocolate before they can fall on my shoes. An utterly non-dainty and un-flowerlike slurp escapes my mouth. Great! Why can’t I eat ice cream with a bit of dignity, instead of coming off looking like a messy preschooler? Why can’t I ask a guy to a party without getting laughed at? Why is everything about me so wrong on so many levels?

When I’m done cleaning up the drips, I glance over at Ben. He’s finishing off his ice cream bar (neatly, of course) and smiling at me. Probably holding back another laugh. I want to pound him. But instead, I hurl the remainder of my ice cream bar in a nearby garbage container and do what I can to change the subject.

“So, you sure you’re not going to get in trouble for ditching McCool’s?”

He shrugs. “Trust me, they’ll never know I’m gone.” Then he smiles and points to a stretch of sand up ahead. “Let’s go sit on the beach for a bit.”

I look around and see that we’ve reached the Docks — the area of our village that got its name from the armada of sailboats anchored here during the tourist season. This part of the lakefront is like a national park around here — big open space, soft white sand, sun-bleached picnic tables, and a lake that might as well be an ocean for as far as it stretches toward the horizon. The Docks is the prettiest spot in all of Big Bend. And also the crowdiest. I practically lived on this beach when I was a little kid, playing in the sand and splashing in the water. Now that I’m older, I prefer to come here alone in the early hours of the morning to watch the boats bouncing on the waves and the fishermen bringing in the morning catch. From a distance, of course. As soon as the beach starts to get busy, I skedaddle.

And does it ever get busy around here in the summer. Pretty much every kid in my school works a summer job in the tourist trade. From manning Beachy Keen (our annoyingly adorably named beach shop), to lifeguarding, to day-camp counselling, to waitressing at the Spotted Dick. According to my mom, they all love it. And, according to my mom, I’m the only teenager within a hundred-kilometre radius to opt out of all the summertime fun. Plus, according to my mom (if you still care enough to listen to her ramblings at this point), the definition of summertime fun includes the following: parties, bonfires on the beach, suntanning, and easy, breezy no-strings-attached teenage flings.

But alas, General MacArthur’s not-even-halfway-normal, forever-a-disappointment, oxymoronically named, and permanently introverted daughter avoids the tourist crowd scene like the plague. Large groups of fun-seeking, rich, big-city people are about my least favourite things on the planet. And I’m definitely not looking to sunbathe. Unlike the majority of Big Benders, Dad’s Sri Lankan roots have blessed me with naturally tanned skin. So instead, I’ve chosen to spend my summers helping out with the filing system at Dad’s office, working on my writing, and hanging out at Aunt Su’s cottage. As you can imagine, all of those things give General MacArthur the bonkers.

Good times!

As soon as we find a spot to sit, Ben kicks off his sneakers and digs his feet into the sand. After surviving the near-armpit-disaster, I’m not about to take my shoes off and risk a bad case of smelly-foot-trauma. So I just kneel on the beach and tuck my feet under my butt. The air is definitely cooler here. And breezier, too. I shiver under my bulky sweatshirt, but Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy staring up at the moon.

“It’s full tonight. Did you notice?”

The corners of my lips twitch with amusement. Did he just ask me if I noticed the moon?

“Yeah, I did.”

Another stretch of silence. I listen to the breeze over the water. It sounds like a little kid learning how to whistle.

“You know, when I was really young I used to think my dad lived up there,” Ben says after a while.

I turn to look at him. “You did?”

“Yeah, he worked so hard that he was never around. Well, except for Sundays and during our yearly vacation. I used to dream about him quitting his job so he could be there to do the stuff I knew all my friends’ dads did. You know … tuck me in to bed at night, read me stories, take me to McDonald’s, drive me to hockey practice. Whenever I’d ask my mother when he was coming home, she’d always say he’d be back late at night — after I was sleeping and the moon was out. I guess somehow I turned that around in my head and imagined that he lived on the moon.”

It’s the first time he’s ever told me something so personal. I watch his expression carefully, hoping it’ll tell me even more. But his face stays as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. Suddenly, a picture of a much smaller Ben pops into my head. A little boy sitting alone and slump-shouldered in front of a window, watching and waiting for the day when his father’s car would finally pull up in the driveway.

“So sad,” I hear myself mumble, then bite my lip and glance at Ben’s face to see if he heard. It’s one of those thoughts you don’t really mean for anyone else to hear but somehow just kind of slips out.

I don’t know if Ben heard me or not, because his face still isn’t giving anything away. He shrugs. “Now my dad spends every minute of every day at home — something I only dreamed about as a kid. Goes to show … you gotta be careful what you wish for.” And with that, he points a finger toward the sky and abruptly changes the subject. “Look at that, you can totally make out the moon’s surface tonight. It sort of looks like a big bruised-up cantaloupe.”

I bristle. “It does not.”

“Yes, it does. Look again.”

I purposely look away. This is just too much. “Sorry, but I don’t see cantaloupe. And anyway, scientifically speaking, the moon’s really more like a massive, volcanic garden of deep craters and unfulfilled seas.” My words are quick and snappy. Ben notices.

“Why are you getting angry? I’m just being honest.”

Why am I getting angry? Calling something a banged-up piece of fruit isn’t exactly an insult. Maybe I’m being too defensive. This lack of sleep must be making me cranky. And after all, Ben’s entitled to his honesty. A feathery breeze blows in from the lake, bringing the aroma of a giant spring rain puddle with it. I fill my lungs up with the smell and let it out slowly. Honesty. Ben’s right. This is good. And quite possibly a quick shortcut to getting some answers out of him. Deleting all traces of snap from my voice, I angle my body a bit more toward him and say:

“Know what? I like the honesty thing. The moon’s not holding anything back tonight. Let’s do the same.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?”

“We’ll ask each other questions. Anything goes. But only the truth, okay?”

I hold my breath and wait for Ben’s answer. Will he go for it? His face looks like a beautiful question mark. After a second, the punctuation disappears and he gives a short, little nod. “Okay. But you go first.”

I let the breath out. A blizzard of questions falls down around me. Which one to ask first? Want to tell me why you act like such a jerk all the time? immediately springs to mind. But that seems a bit too abrasive. Even for me. Who’s SB and why do you wear her ring around your neck? Are you a writer like me? Can I read some of your stuff someday? But those ones feel a bit too personal to start off with. So instead, I ask this:

“Why did you move here, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking? I mean, isn’t Toronto supposed to be ‘all that’?”

He flops back on the sand and closes his eyes. “You don’t want to know. It’s a really long story.”

Yup. Witness protection program. No doubt in my mind. “Okay, how about you tell me the short version. I’ve got time.” I take a deep breath and steel myself for the gritty truth about what he’d witnessed. Homicide … gang activity … terrorism … kidnapping? My brain whirls with big-city criminal possibilities.

After a few seconds, Ben starts talking. His eyes are still squeezed tight like a couple of raisins.

“My family’s had a cottage here for years. We’ve been coming up every summer since I can remember. This year, Dad decided he’d had it with city life and moved us here permanently.”

“So it’s just the two of you?”

“Yup.”

“Where’s your mom?”

“Vancouver with her new boyfriend.”

Ouch.

“Why don’t you live with her?”

“She doesn’t want me there.”

I wait for him to say more. But he doesn’t. He’s holding stuff back. I can feel the weight of his secrets crowding the air around us.

“So that’s it?” I press.

“You asked for the short version, didn’t you?” He looks at me and the raisins turn back into eyes. So dark and blue, the huge body of water in front of me fades away into nothingness.

“Okay, how much for the longer version?”

He doesn’t even crack a smile at that. Covering up my disappointment, I slash witness protection program off my mental list and move on to the next question. “So you’re a writer?”

“Me? Nope.”

That throws me for a bit of a loop. “But Pecker said you were the editor of your school paper last year.”

Ben waves his hand like he’s swatting an invisible fly. “That was just something I did to look good. Same thing with the student council and Junior Achievement. The top schools are pretty competitive and extracurriculars look good on an application, you know?”

“Top schools? You mean universities?”

“Yup.”

And then he lets out this strange, snorty kind of laugh that sounds about the farthest thing away from jovial you could imagine. What does that mean? And why is this guy so hard to figure out? I scramble for another question.

“All right. And so, why did you take the graveyard shift at McCool Fries? It’s not exactly a job that’s going to stand out on your university application. And you don’t look like you need the money.”

He grunts. “I don’t?”

“No. Definitely not. And even if you did, aren’t there better jobs around?”

“Dad thought it would be character building to get a job.” Ben hooks his fingers around the words “character building” to make it clear it isn’t his lame choice of expression. “I saw an ad for the overnight shift at McCool’s. The pay was good. It looked easy and, well, since we’re being honest, anonymous.”

Anonymous. Yeah, that’s something I can totally understand.

“And it has been pretty much anonymous … except for you.” That kind of sounded like an accusation. But, strangely, his face doesn’t look the slightest bit angry. And his eyes are pressing down into mine. Hard. But gentle at the same time. Where to look? What to think? All I know for sure is that my cheeks are starting to get warm again. And I definitely don’t want him asking for an honest answer about that! So I point my eyes down, dig my fingers into the sand, and look for pebbles. The silence that follows is a relief.

A minute passes. I can hear a gust of wind blowing toward us across the lake. When it reaches my face, it’s surprisingly cold — like a glass of ice water over my head. I shiver and pull my knees up to my chest. A moment later, something soft and warm falls over my shoulders.

What the …

I turn to see Ben’s jean jacket covering me like a blanket. It smells like watermelon shampoo and french fries. My eyes jump to his face. His head is bent over and he’s studying the sand at his feet like it’s one of those optical illusion puzzles. Under the jacket, he’s wearing an old black T-shirt that’s faded down to grey from too many washings. And the big expensive watch I’d noticed the first time we met seems to have mysteriously disappeared from his wrist. In its place is a black plastic digital D’watch — on sale for half price at the Big Bend dollar store last week.

“You were looking cold, so …” Ben’s voice trails off into silence.

The jacket is still warm from his body. More than anything, I want to slip my arms through the sleeves, take it home, and tuck it under my pillow. More than anything, I want to throw it back in his face and tell him I don’t need his stupid jacket. What to do, what to do …

He starts speaking before I can decide.

“So … I think it’s your turn now.”

My turn? So soon? The soft sand goes suddenly lumpy in my hands.

“Okay, what do you want to know?”

A smile inchworms across his lips. “Well, for starters, what are you doing wandering around at all hours of the night? Don’t you sleep?”

Sleep. Just the sound of it sends my stomach spinning in circles.

Deep breath in. “That’s definitely a longer story than yours.”

“Try me.”

I lean back on the sand and stare up at the sky. The truth swells painfully against my lips. It would be such a relief to talk about it with someone. But what if Ben has the same reaction as Dr. Vermin? What if he laughs? I lower my eyes and sneak a peek at him through my eyelashes. There’s a trace of a frown on his face, like he’s worried about what my answer will be. You should be worried, buddy. My eyes float back up to the sky. I wonder if that big, bold moon is giving me an extra dose of courage tonight, ’cause a second later I actually come out and confess the truth to Ben. Well, part of it anyway.

“No, I don’t sleep. Ever since my aunt died, I can’t. Like, not even a little bit.” The words scrape my throat raw on the way out.

Long pause.

“Sucks about your aunt,” he says.

Deep breath out. “Yeah, thanks.”

Another pause. Another chilly gust from the lake. I slip my arms through Ben’s long sleeves.

“But really, how do you know for sure?”

“What? That she’s dead?”

“No. How do you know you’re not sleeping?”

“What do mean?”

“I mean, how can you be sure? Are you video recording yourself?”

I twist my neck around to stare at him. “What do you mean? How does anybody know if they’re not sleeping?”

“Easy. Sometimes you can be so tired, you can just fall asleep without realizing it so then you think you’re awake. It happens to me all the time. Especially in trig, for some reason.”

I sit straight up. A thin trickle of sand runs down the back of my shirt into the crack of my jeans. Something about what he said is making my brain twitch. There was something on that National Sleep Research Project website about this. Something about how people can fall asleep with their eyes open and not even know it. But I would know if I fell asleep. I’m sure I would.

Wouldn’t I?

“I think there’s even a name for it,” Ben continues. “Micro-sleeping, or something like that.”

My throat tightens with irritation. “Yeah, well, that’s not what’s happening to me,” I snap back. “I’m not micro-sleeping. I’m not sleeping at all. Which means I’m probably …” I have to squeeze my lips shut to keep the word dying from falling out of my mouth.

Shadows fall over Ben’s face as a cloud passes over the moon. “It means you’re probably what?” he asks.

I swallow hard and twist my finger inside the hole in the left knee of my jeans. “I-it means I’m probably a complete freak of nature,” I say, doing my best to change the subject. Honesty pact or not, I’m not ready to share the other part of my truth with him yet. Especially when he’s so obviously holding back secrets of his own.

“A freak of nature?” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

I lift my eyes back to Ben’s face. His eyebrows are arched up into a pair of perfect crescents. “That sounds pretty harsh.”

Is that a laugh hiding behind his words? Or am I just totally paranoid?

“It is harsh, for your information. I haven’t slept in over eighteen days. Do you have any idea how unprecedented that is? It’s, like, completely out of the realm of documented human experience.”

I hold my breath as the words fill the space between us. Is he going to read between the lines and figure out the rest of the awful truth? That I’m on the fast track to an early death?

I wait. Ben’s eyes drop down to my mouth. “And even worse, your face is covered in chocolate.” Leaning over me, he reaches a hand out and wipes at a spot on my cheek right near my lips. My skin burns in the place where he touches it … like his fingers are mini blowtorches. Recoiling back, I reach up to cover them before he can see me turn red.

“So, you’re saying you don’t believe me about not sleeping?” I demand.

He actually has the nerve to smirk. “It’s a bit far-fetched.”

I pound a frustrated fist into the sand. “Ben, I’m telling the truth.”

“Okay, relax.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. You’re a total freak of nature, all right? You don’t have to get so upset about it.”

But I don’t think he really believes me. Just like that quack Dr. Vermin. And all of a sudden, our little honesty pact is completely off the table.

“I’m not upset at all,” I say. Yes, I am. “You can believe whatever you want.” You big, dumb, jerk. “It’s late. I guess I’m just cranky and overtired.” And dying a torturously slow death.

I pull my arms tight around me and drop my gaze back down to my jeans. Suddenly I’m regretting this whole honesty thing. Tears burn at my eyes but I blink them away before they can leak out. Ben is still watching me. I can feel it. But I don’t want him seeing me like this.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him check his D’watch. Then he lets out a noise that sounds kind of like a half groan blendered with a half growl. “Man, I hate myself for saying this, but I better get back to the drive-thru.” He yawns and pulls himself to his feet. “So, you still going to that party?”

Nod.

“Come on, I’ll walk you there if you want.” He reaches a hand down to help me up. His blowtorch fingers waggle in front of my face. I ignore them and stand up on my own. Maybe it’s stubbornness, but I don’t want his help.

Just his jacket.

“You don’t have to walk me,” I say, clapping the sand off the back of my jeans. “I can make it there on my own.”

He laughs again and tilts his head up to the sky. “Are you sure about that? The lunatics will be out tonight in droves.”

Lunatics? Even through the dark, he must see the confusion in my eyes.

“Clearly you’re not as good with languages as you are with math.”

Obviously, he hasn’t heard me swear yet. Actually, I take enriched classes in French and English Lit. Confession time: I’m kind of a browner with words too. But I don’t need to prove myself to Ben Matthews. Instead, I pull off a sneaker and let a stream of sand pour out. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, forcing my voice to sound just as bored as his.

“Lunatic comes from the word lune. You know, French for moon? Haven’t you heard the theory that crime rates skyrocket when there’s a full moon? Something about the pull of gravity on our bodies.”

First the cantaloupe crack and now this? I finish emptying the other sneaker and cross my arms in front of me like a shield. Okay, I’m fully aware how weird this is going to sound, but I’m feeling bizarrely possessive about the moon — like nobody better be disrespecting it around me. “I’lltake my chances. Thanks anyway.”

“Still, I’ll walk you there just in case. You village people are all way too trusting for your own good. I mean, you guys don’t even lock your doors around here.”

“Yeah, and you city people are all too arrogant for your own good,” I growl back. He stares at me in surprise. Lifting my chin, I hold his gaze until he looks away. I hear him mumble a few words under his breath. It sounds something like, “Well, I’m not a city person anymore.”

Right. So maybe it’s time to start trusting people a little bit more. I don’t actually say that last part. But I wish I had.

He starts walking back toward the main strip. “So what street is this party on?”

“Birch.”

My voice is gruff and raw — like one of Mom’s double-sided emery boards. I follow a couple of steps behind. Silence surrounds us again — a welcome relief. Then, after about five minutes, Ben slows his strides so we’re walking side by side.

“Have you tried warm milk?”

I look at him in shock. A sleeping cure? Does that mean he believes me now?

“Y-yeah, of course I have.”

“What about counting sheep?”

I nod. “Fields of ’em.”

He’s quiet for a minute. And then this:

“Relaxing thoughts?”

“Yup.”

“Breathing exercises?”

I let out an exhausted sigh. “Ben, believe me, I’ve tried everything humanly possible to get to sleep. But nothing works. It’s like I’m fighting a losing battle.”

He doesn’t reply to that. We continue the rest of the way to Birch Street in silence. Ben walks me to Todd’s house, all the way to the top of the driveway. The Nelsons’ house is huge, which makes me think the garden and landscape business must be one of the only things thriving in this wrecked economy. The party has spilled outside. It’s a pretty messed-up scene. The front yard is littered with kids — some are smoking dope, some making out, some puking in the bushes, and a few are completely passed out on the grass. The entire house is pulsing with music. Lucky for Todd, his property is big. I know if there were any neighbours within earshot, the RCMP would be all over this place.

“Sure you want to go in there?” Ben asks.

Barely perceptible nod.

“It looks pretty wild.” He points in the general direction of a guy staggering across the lawn and chugging back a bottle of beer. I notice Ben’s eyes go dark and his lips press together into a hard line. Whoa, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was actually worried about me.

“I’ll be fine. Someone’s waiting for me in there. I better go.”

Ben sighs. “Okay, have fun. See you at school.” And with that, he turns and walks away.

Why is my stomach suddenly hurting to see him leave? I follow him a couple of steps down the driveway. “Ben! Wait … Why don’t you come in for a minute? Have a drink or something?”

He shakes his head and holds a hand up to stop me. “No, really, thanks. It’s not my scene.”

That surprises me. A lot. I make a mental note to scratch Mafioso son of a drug dealer off the list too. If he really was a drug dealer, for sure he’d say yes to the party. I mean, isn’t that the best kind of place to hook new customers? I peer at him as he walks off down the driveway. This guy is turning out to be more of a mystery than I bargained for.

“Okay … see you,” I call out. But I don’t think he hears me. I watch as he slowly fades into the darkness, following the path of the moon.