July

Thursday, July 1st / Friday, July 2nd, midnight

Hundreds of us packed the causeway from Laurel Point to the Inner Harbour and waited for it to get dark. People bobbed in canoes and outboard motor boats, too. The show didn’t start till after ten o’clock. Kevin and I claimed spots right by the garden that spells Welcome to Victoria in begonias and pansies. We saw the glittering explosions and their reflections on the water. Sometimes the light zoomed right at us, and the crowd gasped like one person. At the end, “O Canada” played, and red and white-gold sparks filled the sky.

Kevin smoked the whole time. That must be why he’s always chewing something when he’s at home—he’s not allowed to smoke in the town house. He looked amused by the whole celebration, and people usually smiled at him as they passed. I envied his confidence. When the national anthem played, he sang at the top of his lungs. Some drunken teenagers stumbled over to join him, and everyone linked arms, including me. As I swayed back and forth, scrambling to support the wasted girl beside me, it hit me: I was downtown at night without a parent, mine or anyone else’s. Freedom smelled of salt water and outboard motor oil.

As we walked back to the car, Kevin told me more about tree-planting, about the blackflies and the rain and working ten-hour days six days in a row, then going in to Prince George and getting drunk on his day off. He noticed me shiver as the wind picked up and put his arm around me. “For warmth,” he said. It seemed to me that we got some funny looks; was it because he’s so much older than me?

On the way home, he took the “scenic route” and stopped at a pull-off overlooking the ocean. He twisted the keys in the ignition and the car rumbled to a halt. Wind rushed in the window.

“Is this your first date, Natalie?”

I didn’t want to answer him. The amused expression that seemed to make everyone else warm up to him didn’t feel so good when he trained it on me. He was laughing at me with his eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay. Only, maybe you don’t know what to expect.”

I felt trapped in the car. “I don’t know what you mean, but I want to go home.”

“Already?” He reached out and smoothed back my hair. I could smell the nicotine on his fingers. The calluses on his palm scraped my cheek, but he touched me gently. It felt okay. “I was so surprised when I saw you downstairs the other night.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just—”

He shook his head. “No worries. But you want to know what I was thinking?”

His fingers brushed a sensitive spot on the back of my neck. I shuddered.

“I give up.”

“What a babe.”

In the center of my chest, something strawberry-sized melted into liquid warmth.

“After, I kept picturing you standing there, and that’s when I knew I had to call.”

He put his arm around my shoulders, pulled me towards him, and squeezed. His hands rubbed my back and razor stubble scratched my face. His mouth slid onto mine. I pressed my lips together but he tongued them open, his jaws wide. Yuck, smoker’s breath. He was suddenly breathing hard, like he’d just surfaced from underwater, desperate for air. It scared me. I jerked my head and twisted in his arms. “Let me go!”

“What’s the matter?”

I was huddling against the door on my side of the car. He seemed annoyed, but not for long.

“Never done that before, huh?” He winked. “It gets better. Cheer up, I’ll take you home.”

When he dropped me off, he gave me a light punch in the arm. He didn’t say he’d call me. I wished him luck with the blackflies.

Na-ta-lie Fer-gu-son now has been kissed.

Saturday, July 3rd

Mom, Paige, and I were grocery shopping when I spotted a woman weighing a grapefruit in her palm. One look at her coiffed hair—with its subtle gold and copper highlights and its complicated array of angles and flips—and I knew who it was: Mrs. Varkosky, mother of Sasha and Kevin. I tried to steer Mom over to the bulk food bins where she could busy herself scooping trail mix and organic rice. But she frowned and said she wasn’t finished in the produce section yet. I squeezed avocadoes absently and willed Mrs. Varkosky not to turn around.

Mrs. V. works as a real estate agent and dresses the part: skirts and blazers that change colors with the seasons, shoes with heels that change height and width with the trends. As Mom would say, she wears war paint and business armor. Mom’s own fashion motto is “comfort first.” True to form, she was wearing a sack-like dress and wide, flat sandals.

But Mom’s outfit wasn’t my biggest concern. There was what my mother might say. Possible gems: “What do you think of the budding romance between our children?” Ha, wouldn’t Mrs. V. freak if she assumed that Sasha and I were gay? Or: “It was very kind of your son to take my daughter out on her very first date,” like he’d performed an act of charity. Little does she know that Kevin’s not in it for the Cub Scout points.

Just then, Mrs. Varkosky looked up and caught me staring. Two vertical lines have etched themselves between her eyebrows. Sasha said she’s considering Botox. A weary expression flitted across her face before she smiled.

“Don’t say anything.” I spoke into Mom’s ear without moving my lips.

Mom shot me a startled look and said, “Hello, Pauline.”

I found my voice. “Hi, Mrs. Varkosky.”

“It’s the Ferguson girls. How are you all today? Aren’t you grown up, Paige! Lovely performance the other week, Natalie. And how’s the exhausted teacher? Enjoying your summer vacation, Denise?”

Luckily, we only had time to murmur brief responses before Mrs. V. had to dash. Paige watched Mrs. V. weave her way through the crowded store to the cash registers. “That lady is nice, but in a mean way,” she said.

For the rest of the shopping trip, I was so distracted that even Mom noticed. When she teased me about it, I snapped at her. We didn’t talk the whole way home.

Sunday, July 4th

It’s settled: Paige is going to Toronto in August on her own. She’ll stay with Dad for three weeks, during which he has promised to take vacation. Paige always gets the benefit of Mom and Dad’s screw-ups with me. Last year, Paige and I were all set to visit Dad together, as usual, when she came down with appendicitis and had to have an emergency operation. Naturally, she couldn’t go. I hated to leave with her in the hospital. I kept seeing her greenish face dwarfed by the huge, white pillow. Everyone said there was no point in us both missing the trip, and besides, she was doing fine. I traveled alone. For the next two and a half weeks, I languished in Dad’s condo in Oakville while he dealt with an “urgent project” that had come up “without his control,” even though he had booked the weeks off. I was bored and lonely and to top it all off, the air-conditioner broke.

Dad’s girlfriend, Vi, wasn’t too pleased about it either. She had scheduled her holidays at the same time as he had and couldn’t postpone them. With Dad busy, she made a half-hearted attempt to entertain me. Our first and only shopping trip ground to a halt when I convinced her that, no, my parents didn’t give me a clothing allowance. Unable to fathom an adolescent girl who didn’t live to shop, Vi fled to her family’s cabin in Parry Sound.

At the end of my stay, Dad finally made time for me, and we raced around the city, packing in Science World, the CNE, the Shakespeare play in High Park, and Sunnyside Beach. He took two rolls of film in three days. Vi must have conveyed her shock about my wardrobe to Dad because he also took me shopping at the Eaton Centre on Yonge Street and bought me so much stuff it wouldn’t fit into my suitcase; I had to ship a parcel. When Paige saw the photos and the clothes, she wanted the same chance to hog Dad’s attention. So, this year Paige will visit that cabin on Parry Sound with Dad and Vi—they’ll canoe and swim and maybe water ski.

I’ll just have to make the best of it here. Mom might go to a resort with her friend Marine in August. They’ll haul a crate of novels each, I imagine. They’ll need a wheelbarrow to move them into the cabin. Mom said Marine invited both of us, but I don’t want to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere with not one but two middle-aged bookworms. So I might be living here on my own for a week. Maybe Sasha could stay with me. If we’re still friends, that is.

I wonder if Kevin will call me before he leaves town.

Monday, July 5th

Sasha and Jamie were basking in a lozenge of sunlight on the wooden floor of the dance studio when I arrived for the first day of the summer intensive. Sasha looked at me and darted her eyes away without smiling. She snuck another look at me in the mirror. Had Kevin blabbed to her about the date? Was she already thinking of me as “Gina the Second, Traitor”?

I wanted to approach her, but she wasn’t making it easy. She reached for her toes and all I saw was the curve of her back and her hair in its tidy bun. She was wearing a new, eggplant-colored leotard. As I moved closer, Sasha and Jamie burst out laughing. My intestines shriveled as I watched Sasha’s profile and Jamie’s face. The two of them have perfect complexions. My nose was starting to shine and my upper lip prickled with sweat.

Thankfully, Ms. Kelly flung open the door to the studio at that moment and strode in. “Good morning, girls! Find a place on the floor. Natalie, don’t stand there like a blue heron stalking minnows. There’s a spot down front.”

I settled in next to the junior girls. Lisa slipped into the studio at the last minute. Outside the window, gravel crunched under the wheels of her boyfriend’s blue pickup truck. He used to honk as he pulled away, until Ms. Kelly put a stop to it. As Stretch and Conditioning class began, it occurred to me (for the millionth time) that Ms. Kelly should have been a drill sergeant. She makes us do push-ups and sit-ups, and she yells at the people who slow down, rest, or groan. In the center work, she stands beside each of us with a ruler held level with the tops of our heads and makes us kick it. Anyone who doesn’t reach it, she sentences to fifteen minutes of extra hamstring stretches and splits per day. Sometimes she prods us with that ruler—“Pull up your knees! … Turn out from the tops of your thighs!” Poke, poke.

When she choreographs, Ms. Kelly cleans each set of eight counts before she continues. She says that learning the whole piece before starting to clean creates lazy dancers with bad habits. So, in jazz class today, we repeated the first few bars of the piece ad nauseam: “Stretch your lines! Are those hands on the ends of your arms, or dead fish? Energy in the fingertips! … Point your feet! … Synchronize your movement! Natalie, this is not a solo!”

Sash and I didn’t talk all day. She was avoiding me, I think.

Kevin should leave to go tree planting soon. Then things can get back to normal.

Wednesday, July 7th

We thrust our hips from side to side. We rippled our torsos in body waves. We draped our arms over our heads. With our backs to the audience, we put our hands on our hips and turned our heads over our shoulders with a come-hither look. We slid in splits to the floor, leaned back on bent elbows, and fanned our legs.

At the end of jazz class, Ms. Kelly made us try on our costumes for a photo shoot: red Lycra unitards with plunging neck and back lines. We bunched up in a pose, and for a split second, when I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t tell which one I was. Then I zeroed in on the legs. I was the one with the thickset, bow-legged calves. Gross. Ms. Kelly circled us, snapping one photo after another. I checked out the rear view. The V-neck exposed a bunch of zits on my back that I didn’t even know were there. I can’t wear those stupid unitards anymore. I might have to quit dance altogether.

Ms. Kelly let the camera drop from her face and exhaled in exasperation. “Natalie, do you think you could wipe that sneer off your face?”

I flashed her a fake smile. Some of the other girls were goofing off, sticking out their butts and squishing their boobs together to make cleavage.

Ms. Kelly sighed. “I can see it’s hopeless to continue. You’ve obviously shut off your brains for the day. But before you go, I have an important announcement to make.”

Jamie and Sasha were bent over, looking through their legs into the mirror. “I can’t believe this is supposed to look sexy!” Jamie said, red in the face.

“Jamie and Sasha! May I have your attention, please?”

They whipped themselves upright, and Sasha staggered a little. “Whoa, head rush.” Jamie steadied her with a hand on her back.

“I’m happy to announce that next week, and the week after, you’re going to have a guest teacher, Petra Moss. Petra is one of my star graduates, and I want you to show her that our standards remain as high as ever! Understood?”

With mock obedience, we echoed in unison: “Understood.”

Petra Moss. Sounds like a bitchy prima donna. She’ll probably be just like Ms. Kelly, only younger.

Thursday, July 8th

Kevin called.

“I want to see you before I go, and I leave tomorrow, so what about tonight?”

It was already eight o’clock. “Isn’t it too late?”

“When does your mom go to bed?”

“She usually stays up late reading, why?”

“When do you go to bed?”

“Eleven or so.” On my bedside table, the clock’s second hand jerked forward.

“Could you pretend to go to bed, and then sneak out?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is your bedroom on the ground floor?”

“Yeah, but …”

“Could you climb out the window?”

I moved to the window and pulled my blind shut, even though it was still light out. “What for?”

“I just think it would be fun to see you before I go.”

I wanted to say, “Why didn’t you call me earlier, then?” but for some reason I couldn’t. “What time?”

“How about eleven thirty? I’ll meet you at the top of your street.” Tick-tock, tick-tock. Why couldn’t I have a quiet digital clock like most normal twenty-first century people?

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Sure you can. I did it all the time when I was your age.”

I didn’t say anything.

“If you don’t want to hang out, I’ll have no choice but to call my friends Tyler, Steve, and Brad. I have spent the last four nights in a row with them. All they do is drink, and I do believe my liver is starting to disintegrate.”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll think about it.”

He gasped. “I throw myself at your mercy for the sake of my health, and all you can do is think about it?”

I had to laugh. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. I respect a girl with principles. Go ahead and think about it. But remember, you only live once.”

He crushed some ice between his teeth as he hung up. I tried that the other day and it hurt! He must have no sensitivity to hot and cold.

My stomach is fluttering and one leg is pulsing, which makes my whole bed jiggle. I don’t know what to do. Sneaking out sounds like an adventure. I might get a second chance at kissing. But, can I trust him? I’m just not sure.

It’s a warm night, inviting, almost tropical.

Should I go?

Wee hours

I was just getting ready to attempt escape when Mom tapped on my door. “Natalie?”

Stupid me for leaving my light on. It was 11:20, and I was sitting on the edge of my bed. “What is it?”

Mom seemed to interpret this as “come in.” She opened the door. She was wearing her plaid housecoat and slippers. “You’re still dressed?”

My second mistake.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you tired from all your dancing?”

“I guess not.”

“Why don’t you come and play Scrabble, then? I’m not ready for bed yet either.”

“Don’t you have anything to read?”

“Oh, yes. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. It was one of my favorite books when I was your age. I’m rereading it to see why I found it so powerful back then.” She pulled off the headband that she uses to keep the hair out of her eyes when she’s reading and rubbed her scalp. “But I’ve just finished Part One, so it’s a good time to stop for the night. Besides, my eyes are getting sore.”

Figures. The only time she takes an interest in me is when she’s too tired to read. Well, bad timing. If only that author had made Part One a little longer. Thanks to him, I couldn’t meet Kevin.

“What do you think, Nat? Want to play?”

I sighed. “I guess so.”

She brewed chamomile tea as the kitchen clock ticked in the midnight stillness. A crane fly flew in the window and landed on my forearm. When I brushed it off, it wobbled into flight, all spindly legs and feeble wings. Mom made some good words, like brink and quest. I wonder if Kevin walked by and saw our light. It bothered me to think of him out there, but I felt thankful, after all, that Mom was awake.

Friday, July 9th

“Kevin’s mad at you,” Sasha said as we changed into our pointe shoes at the back of the studio.

“What do you mean?”

“He says you stood him up.”

I crisscrossed long pink ribbons over my ankle and wrapped them around my leg.

“He says he waited at the end of your street for half an hour last night.

I fumbled with the knot, my head bent.

“Is that true, Nat?”

“How should I know?”

“Is it true you were supposed to meet him?”

I couldn’t look at her.

“What were you two planning to do, anyway? Go have sex in his car? You know he got a girl pregnant last year, don’t you?”

Ms. Kelly called, “Sasha and Natalie, will you be joining us for pointe?”

My skin prickled.

“Coming,” Sasha sang.

Ms. Kelly divided the class into two groups for the long combination. During my group’s turn, Sasha and Jamie lounged on the barre, whispering and watching me. I could only cope with the relevés and echappés. After that, I lost my center. I couldn’t balance on the piqués and couldn’t pirouette. Ms. Kelly kept me after class for what seemed like a thousand repetitions.

“My star pupil, Petra Moss, is going to be teaching you ballet next week, and I’d rather you weren’t a total embarrassment to me,” Ms. Kelly said.

When her back was turned, I put my hands on my hips and flapped my lips open and shut: blah, blah, blah. I was already sick of hearing about Petra Moss.

By the time I left the studio, everyone was eating lunch on the grass. The seniors were clustered on the far side of the lawn, in the shade of an oak tree. When I approached, they all stopped talking. Someone muttered, “Slut.” It must have been Sasha. They all stared at me.

My stomach knotted up. The sun blazed and my toes were bleeding. I did an about-face and returned to the studio. In my mind, I remained with the girls on the grass and watched myself walk. I saw the back of my head, my stiff spine, my lumbering legs, the image overexposed in the bright noon sun. Someone called my name and I ignored it. I entered the building, blinded by the sudden dimness, grabbed my bag, and left.

Mom had dropped me off, so I didn’t have my bike. Miles from home, without a plan, I followed the road to the Dallas cliffs. Open ocean. I needed that breeze; I wanted that water to cool my feet. Stairs led down to the beach. I kicked off my shoes. The salt stung the ripped blisters but soothed the swelling. I burrowed in my bag for cucumber slices and apple juice.

Women with young children dotted the beach. On the cliff top, bikers sped past, and a couple of people flew kites. Normal people enjoyed the summer outdoors. They didn’t coop themselves up in a studio. I didn’t have to go back to that nasty place.

But how could they label me a “slut”?

I eased my feet back into my sandals and climbed the stairs. I wanted to stroll—like a “normal person”—but my blisters hurt too much. I sank into the first available bench and stared at the waves.

“Hey.”

Someone sat down beside me. I turned my head. Kevin! He lit a cigarette.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Didn’t. This is called bumping into each other.”

“Right. Sorry, I’m just not myself today.”

“Then who are ya?” He turned his head towards me as he took a drag.

“Well, according to your sister, I’m a slut.”

“Get out of here.”

“What did you tell her anyway?”

He looked straight ahead, folded his left arm across his chest, and exhaled. “I told her the truth, that you stood me up.”

I swiveled and grabbed the backrest with one hand. “I never promised to meet you, I just said I’d try, and now she thinks we were planning to have sex in your car!”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, and she said you got some girl pregnant last year.”

He slouched and stretched his legs further onto the sidewalk. A dog walker had to alter her course to get around him. Kevin waited for her to pass before he said in a low voice, “Don’t believe everything you hear, Natalie.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe; she’s turned the whole studio against me!” My voice caught in my throat. I jumped up and ran down the path. I didn’t want to cry in front of him. But he caught up to me and held my arm.

“I’m sorry, Natalie. I shouldn’t have said anything to Sash. That was really stupid of me.”

I wiped my eyes and stepped away from him. “What are you doing here, anyway? You were supposed to be leaving town.”

“Shipment of trees got held up, so the contract got postponed. I’d rather spend the extra days kicking around here than up in Prince George.” He flipped his wrist to look at his watch. “You playing hooky this afternoon, or what?”

“I’m not going back there.”

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Behind him, the cliff dropped into the sea. A parasurfer caught a gust and flew ten feet into the air. “All right.”

We crossed a field, ducking Frisbees, to reach his car. “What do you say we pick up some cold ones and head out to a lake I know?”

I shrugged. If my reputation was ruined, I could at least have my adventure. “Why not?”

He stopped at a Cold Beer and Wine store and disappeared inside. When he returned with a six-pack, my shoulders tightened. What if he drank them all? How would I get home?

We left the city and drove down country roads lined with evergreens that cast cool shadows. Horses grazed in fields. I breathed in the scent of pine and began to relax. I’d forgotten how much I loved the country. Mom and Dad used to take us hiking, but that had pretty much stopped by the time they split up. And Mom’s idea of an expedition usually involves a bookstore, not a park.

“It’s nice to get out of the city, don’t you think?” Kevin said.

We’d been driving in silence. A comfortable one. “Yeah.”

Kevin turned down a narrow, tree-lined road and, after a minute or two, pulled over and cut the engine. “Where are we?” I couldn’t see a lake or any other cars.

“We’re here. Hop out.” Kevin grabbed the beer and led the way down a dirt path to the shore of a lake about the size of two skating rinks. We climbed onto a ramshackle wooden pier. Fir trees surrounded the lake, its surface a calm, green mirror.

He twisted open a beer and passed it to me. I hesitated to pick it up. Then he cracked one for himself and said, “Cheers. To playing hooky.”

That got to me: Why shouldn’t I play hooky once in a while? I’m not getting any rewards for being a “good girl” anyway, not the way my so-called friends treated me today. I took a swig.

I’d tried beer before, with Sasha. It isn’t my favorite thing. But it went down smoothly on such a hot day. Soon we were drinking a second. I felt even more floaty than I had when I’d left the studio. The blisters on my toes throbbed every time my heart beat.

“Time for a dip!” Kevin said.

He stripped to his shorts and jumped in. With my leotard for a swimsuit, I followed him. The cool water buoyed me as I floated on my back. Treetops pointed into the dome of blue sky. I sculled with my hands and feet. When I tried to stand up and couldn’t find bottom, I panicked and thrashed. That sobered me up. I swam back to the pier and climbed out.

“Getting out so soon?”

“What are you trying to do, drown me? Bringing me out here, giving me beer, telling me to swim?” Black spots swarmed my vision.

As Kevin pulled himself out of the water, his muscles flexed and water ran off his arms and chest. He shook his bangs from his eyes and squatted beside me. “Are you okay? I forgot you’re not used to drinking. Two beer is probably quite a lot for you.” He rubbed my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

The spots had cleared. “Yeah.” I lay down, the wooden slats under my back, and he lay beside me on his stomach. He closed his eyes and, to my surprise, started to snore. I turned my head as he slept. His wet curls glistened. Around his neck, his silver chain caught the light. He had folded his arms under his head and his biceps rippled a bit. I reached out and stroked his arm.

He opened his eyes, startled. Then he grinned at me. He slid his palm on to my stomach. Heat spread like tiger balm below his hand, making my thighs and crotch tingle. I twisted onto my side. He faced me, too, then we were kissing, blood rushing in my ears, our bare skin touching, still cool from the lake. His tongue tasted like beer this time, not cigarettes. A much better flavor. He nuzzled my neck and moved his head down my chest. He pulled down my top so I was naked to the waist, then smothered me with his body—it was too much, too much, I liked it but not so fast, the nerve endings died in my breasts, they were lumps of fat jiggling on my ribs with no sensation as he gnawed them and tossed his head like a dog with a rubber toy.

We heard voices, thank God, and that made him stop. He threw his towel across me and rolled away. Otherwise … I hate to think what might have happened. I lay on the dock taking deep breaths and fumbling with my leotard. When I made it home, I told Mom I was sick and escaped to my room. Dizzy with sunstroke and beer and kisses. An underage drinker and worse. And none of this would have happened if Sasha hadn’t called me a slut.

Saturday, July 10th

How to erase yourself: lie on a chaise longue and cover your face with a baseball cap. Keep a pitcher of iced tea beside you and balance a glass on your sternum. Drink from a bendable straw. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t obsess. (Forget about that guy’s mouth on your neck, his hand on your leg, his weight on your chest …)

“Let’s sleep under the stars tonight!” Paige said.

I groaned.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you think it would be fun?”

I didn’t bother to move the cap. It had built-in ventilation holes but still smelled like sweated-in canvas. “I just can’t get excited about anything today.”

“Fine.” Paige hates teenage apathy. “I’ll call Jessica.” She stamped inside.

But Jessica can’t make it, so it’s back to me. I wish I didn’t feel so low. I’ve taken two baths and brushed my teeth five times, but it’s like washing a window that won’t get clean. Fingerprints stay smudged on the wrong side of the glass.

Night

“Cassiopeia is supposed to be a woman tied to a chair,” Paige said. She learned constellations on a rainy day at her softball camp last week.

“Really?” I studied the pinpricks of light overhead. “It just looks like a W to me.”

We lay side by side in our sleeping bags on the balcony over the garage. The smell of resin wafted from a pair of fir trees that brushed the house. I breathed it in deep.

“It was her punishment for bragging about her and her daughter and how beautiful they were.”

“I can’t imagine Mom bragging about us, can you?”

Paige thought about it. “I guess not.” She paused. “I’m sure she’s proud of us, though.” Her statement hung in the air. “Aren’t you?”

I had to struggle not to poison Paige’s view of our parents with my own doubts. “I’m sure she’s proud of you, Paige.”

Stargazing made my problems shrink, anyway: I was just one miniscule life form in an infinite cosmos. Every time I exhaled, the night air absorbed a little of my worry and left behind sweet fatigue. We spotted the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and the North Star. Paige claimed to see a constellation called Lyra. That would make a pretty name for a girl, I thought, as I drifted further along the Milky Way.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, the stars had swept into different positions. It made me dizzy to think of the earth moving that fast underneath them. Next month, the meteor shower happens, and I wish Paige was staying so we could watch it. Or better yet, that I was going to Ontario with her. Maybe I can still get Dad to change his mind.

Sunday, July 11th

Mom, Paige, and I picnicked at Thetis Lake today. Mom regaled us with the plot of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, which she just finished re-reading. It was a bit much for Paige, and she went off to get a Popsicle at the concession stand. Mom was worked up about the way Tess’s fiancé treats her once he discovers that she had a child without being married: as a used, impure woman. And even worse, Mom says that Tess only gets pregnant after being raped! Mom was really angry about the whole situation. She wasn’t blaming the author; she says he was exposing the “hypocrisy and sexism in Victorian society.” (I think I’m quoting her right.)

My gross feeling lifted as she talked about it. For a few moments, nothing that happened this week mattered. Everything shifted perspective. That’s the thing about Mom. She’s so clueless that I could never tell her about fooling around with Kevin, or being called a slut, but sometimes she creates these mental viewpoints that give me a new way of seeing things. I dove into the clear green lake and swam to Goose Island—which was, as always, carpeted with turds.

Monday July 12th

As I approached the change room this morning, raised voices inside made me pause with my hand on the doorknob. Tension pushed Sasha’s voice up half an octave. I heard Kevin’s name and yanked open the door. Sasha had her back to me and was pulling on bike shorts, which Ms. Kelly allows instead of tights in hot weather. She spun around when she heard me and snapped her mouth shut. Jamie, never the most sensitive person, bulldozed ahead. “So what happens now? Will he go to jail?”

I couldn’t hold back. “What happened?”

Jamie said, “Kevin was driving under the influence and he got into an accident.”

“Oh my God!” How much of that beer did he drink at the lake?

“I’m not discussing this with her.” Sasha turned her back to me and rummaged in her knapsack.

Jamie glanced from Sasha to me and back. She looked almost smug, which confirmed my suspicion that she’d always resented our friendship. I waited to see whose side she would take, but I should have known. Jamie stepped up to Sasha, slipped one arm around her shoulders, and murmured words I couldn’t make out—she was either building Sasha up or tearing me down, maybe both at once. Either way, my presence obviously grated on them. I bolted and, as I flung open the outside door, crashed into Lisa.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Sasha’s brother got into an accident and she won’t talk to me. I’ve got to get out of here.”

She touched my arm. “Wait—I’ll come with you. I heard Kevin’s okay.”

Lisa guided me to Con Brio, a café on a corner a few blocks from the studio. It has two walls of windows, counters filled with newspapers and magazines, and long wooden tables where you can play chess or backgammon. I’d never been in. Sitting in cafés was for grown-ups.

Grown-ups. Luckily, I didn’t say that out loud. Older people, I meant. We crossed the threshold and entered the shop. Lisa—who is older, after all—ordered two iced lattes and chose a table for two in the window. The sun at her back made her dark hair glow with auburn highlights. She pushed one of the tall glasses across the table to me. We faced each other, stirring in sugar.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Lisa said. She didn’t use the excited tone that Sasha reserves for juicy gossip. She was matter-of-fact. Her boyfriend and Kevin have friends in common, soccer players. They’d held an after-game party on Friday night. “The accident happened on his way home. He ran a red light and got sideswiped.” Lisa twisted her glass in her hands. The barista was hammering at the espresso machine.

Kevin didn’t sustain serious injuries, but his license was suspended. He has to go to court and will miss the second half of tree-planting season. “His parents are so angry that they want him out of their place, like, yesterday.”

I stared at the tabletop.

Lisa touched my hand. “It could have been a lot worse. And I’ve seen other guys smarten up after an accident like that. In the meantime, I wouldn’t take anything Sasha says too personally.”

I frowned at my glass and poked at the ice cubes with my stir stick. “Did you hear her call me a slut when I walked up to you guys at lunch on Friday?”

The roaring of the espresso machine drowned out Lisa’s response. A young woman struggled to push a stroller into the café until a man entering behind her held the door. I chewed my lip and waited for the grinding, hissing, and banging to cease.

“No, I didn’t,” Lisa said.

“I’m sure I heard her say it, and then I figured you’d all been talking about me.”

“I wouldn’t have joined in that kind of gossip, Natalie.” The warmth in Lisa’s face convinced me. Sasha may have her issues with me—maybe she even hates me right now—but that doesn’t mean everyone at the studio sides with her. “How’s your latte?”

I’d forgotten to try it. I took a sip: It tasted way more like a milkshake than I was expecting. “Delicious.” Being a grown-up might not be so bad.

Before I knew it, I was telling Lisa about seeing the fireworks with Kevin, the phone call asking me to sneak out, the trip to the lake—and the pain of having to keep it all from Sasha because of the Gina Incident.

No one had ever listened to me like Lisa. She radiated compassion like a heat lamp. It made me dissolve. My torso jerked and tears streamed down my face, warm and wet. I can’t remember the last time I cried in front of someone. I let my hair fall forward to hide my face.

I wanted to ask Lisa so much more—was she having sex with her boyfriend, Luke? Had he pressured her into it, or did she really want to? When they were making out, did her skin ever feel numb, like it belonged to somebody else?

On second thought, there was no way Lisa was a “Doing it to stay together” sort of girl. I grinned at her and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.”

“Why don’t you rinse off your face, and we’ll head back for ballet?”

As we approached the studio, Lisa grabbed my hand. “Merde.”

“Hm?”

“That means ‘good luck.’ Dancers say it to each other before going on stage.” She chuckled. “But really, it’s French for shit.”

Recorded piano music was drifting out the window. We were late for class.

“Then merde to you, too.” I returned Lisa’s hand squeeze. “We’ll need luck, ’cause we’re in shit.”

We slipped into the studio when Ms. Kelly’s back was turned. Without even turning around, she snapped, “Have you girls decided to grace us with your presence? How lucky we are!” Some of Lisa’s strength must have rubbed off on me because Ms. Kelly didn’t really get to me. I just took a deep breath and sucked in my belly.

At lunch, Sasha and Jamie left and didn’t return for the afternoon. The way everyone keeps skipping classes, Ms. Kelly must think it’s mutiny. She’ll probably sit us all down for a lecture tomorrow.

Tuesday, July 13th

She walked into the studio like she was riding on wind. Her pants, cropped at the shin, billowed around her legs as she moved. Her torso bloomed out of her waist and branched into long, expressive arms. “Hello girls, my name is Petra. Welcome to Advanced Ballet. We’ll start in the center.” Her voice rang with silvery tones: church bells, waterfalls.

We raised our eyebrows at each other, and not only because of her voice and her posture. No. We were shocked because every ballet class in our collective memory had started at the barre. Not Petra’s. She led us in a series of arm swings and shifts of weight from leg to leg—to establish range of motion and center of gravity, she explained. She circled the room, oozing enthusiasm, and asked each of us our name and our favorite ballet step. As the class progressed, she worked each person’s choice into the exercises.

At the end of class, Petra said, “It was my pleasure to teach you this morning, girls. Thank you for sharing your energy so generously. I look forward to working with such a gifted group of movers over the coming weeks.”

We gaped at each other as we filed into the change room. It was my pleasure. Thank you for sharing. No one had spoken to us like this before. We were all in so much shock that the tensions from yesterday were forgotten for the moment. We gathered on the lawn to eat lunch and pool our knowledge: Petra studied with Ms. Kelly up until five years ago. She belongs to the Vancouver company Ballet Now. She also creates and performs her own work as an independent choreographer. Ms. Kelly persuaded her to come and teach us on her summer break.

Sasha was half lying down, propped on an elbow. “She seems kind of fake to me.” She pulled up a piece of grass and chewed it.

“Yeah,” Jamie said. She was holding herself in plank position, balanced on forearms and toes, her elbows and ankles at right angles. Her biceps bulged.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Sasha said. “Kind of airy-fairy.”

“I think she’s great,” Lisa said. “She’s really encouraging. We could use more of that around here.”

“What do you think?” Sasha looked straight at me. It felt like she didn’t want to soil her tongue with my name.

“It’s too early to say for sure—”

Jamie sneered. “Cop out!”

“But so far, so good.”

Sasha spat out the chewed piece of grass.

Lisa looked at her watch. “It’s almost time.” Our break lasted only forty-five minutes. “What’s happening after lunch?”

I pulled out a crumpled paper schedule from my bag. “It just says, ‘Rehearsal.’”

In the studio, Petra was trying out some movement and consulting a sheet of handwritten notes. Ms. Kelly carried her observation chair to the front of the room and said, “Petra has agreed to set a piece on you senior girls for the showing.” She sat down and folded her hands. Her eyebrows arched in anticipation.

Petra seemed to emerge from a trance. She did a double-take when she saw Ms. Kelly in the observation chair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t work like this.”

Ms. Kelly’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

“You’re welcome to watch the piece when it’s finished, but during the creative process, I hope you’ll understand—I need to be alone with the dancers.”

Ms. Kelly flushed. She glanced back and forth from us to Petra as if debating what to say. Finally, she stood and lifted her chair. The cushion, tied only to the back rungs, hung straight down. Ms. Kelly looked so hurt and offended that I almost felt sorry for her. Still, when she marched out, her high heels clicking, it felt like the prison warden had gone off duty.

First, we lay on our backs and closed our eyes. Petra told us to release our weight into the floor, to feel the heaviness in our limbs. We took deep breaths and imagined sending the air into any tight spots, then we blew out the tension. She told us to isolate one part of our bodies and focus our attention on it. How did it feel—was it sore, relaxed, twitchy? Did it want to move? In what way?

“Let the impulse arise from within,” Petra said. “Shut off your mind. Let the body part lead.” I had picked my right foot, so I circled my ankle, pointed and flexed my toes, and shook it. I was glad we kept our eyes closed. No one could see how dorky my moves were.

Petra told us to imagine that we weren’t in a dance studio, but lying in bed on Sunday morning. Would we roll over, would we extend a toe outside the covers to test the temperature in the room? What would our sleepy, relaxed bodies want to express? It felt gooey and luxurious. I stretched my arms above my head. I reached the soles of my feet to the ceiling and let my legs flop down one by one. I rolled and squirmed.

She instructed us to stand, keeping our eyes closed, and to remain still until a movement impulse surfaced within us. “You may find that your body feels programmed to move a certain way. That’s normal. You’re advanced dancers with years of training. Allow yourself to move in that habitual way—whether it’s pointing and flexing, pliés, jazz isolations, whatever. Keep repeating the movement until you recognize that it’s a pattern, it’s something you learned. Then ask yourself, what’s underneath it? What happens if you release your limbs from the grooves of habit? What do they have to say for themselves?”

Pretending to lie in bed freed me, but when I stood up, my limbs got stuck, just like she said. I couldn’t seem to break out of my rut until Petra said, “Imagine you’re swimming in a pool filled with Jell-O.”

The air thickened and my limbs pressed against it. It felt like make-believe, not dancing. Petra kept giving us cues—“Now the Jell-O dissolves into mist; the wind is blowing so hard you can barely stand up”—and I responded from my gut. Minutes later, I opened my eyes as if waking up after a night of vivid dreams.

We sat cross-legged in a circle. Petra hugged her knees to her chest and clasped her wrist. “Improvisation will help you to develop a new dimension in your dancing. We’ll also use these exercises to generate movement. You, as dancers, will help to build the piece. You’re co-creators.” Petra smiled and made eye contact with each of us in turn, her green eyes luminous.

When we were leaving the studio, Ms. Kelly stepped out of the office. She had probably spent the whole afternoon looking for a knothole in the wall to spy on us. She crossed her arms and inspected us as we traipsed past her to the change room. I caught her eye by accident. “Did you enjoy yourself, Natalie?”

I flattened my voice to sound casual. “It was all right.”

But it was much more than all right. Inside, I was soaring.

Wednesday, July 14th

This morning, Ms. Kelly taught ballet again. The adagio was set to somber music and involved a lot of slow ports de bras. My arms seemed to push through water. As I stretched over my front leg in the lunge, I let my torso soften instead of holding it stiff like I usually do. This meant my fingertips actually swept the floor. I rose in one fluid motion, arms outstretched and framing my head, then arched backwards, my shoulders wide and my chest open. For once, Ms. Kelly didn’t criticize me, but she gave me a weird look. Lisa leaned into me and whispered, “That was beautiful.”

The compliment startled me, and I jerked my head towards Lisa. She nodded, as if trying to convince me. “Really.”

“Thanks.”

Later, in jazz class, Ms. Kelly hounded me. She had just started to lead the warm-up to a pounding rock beat when she spun around and pointed the remote at the stereo. Silence filled the room.

“Natalie. Go change.”

I was wearing wide-legged sweat pants and a T-shirt. “All I have is my ballet gear—it’s soaked.”

She strode to her desk in the back corner of the studio and snatched up a flyer. “May I remind you of the studio rules?” She folded back the first page of the pamphlet and smoothed the crease between her thumb and index finger. “Rule number four: Close-fitting clothes must be worn for all classes except Stretch and Conditioning. When you registered at this studio, you agreed to abide by the rules. I’ll overlook it this time, but I suggest you do laundry tonight.”

In the past, when Ms. Kelly pissed me off, anger sharpened my lines, made me spin faster and jump higher. It ricocheted through my body and left me feeling roughed up and edgy, like I’d been in a fight.

It doesn’t work anymore. Today, her attack made me sloppy. I couldn’t control my limbs. You can imagine how well that went over with Sergeant Kelly. I think it reinforced her theory that loose-fitting clothes are the root of all evil.

Thursday, July 15th

I phoned Dad tonight. He sounded surprised because I usually call on the weekend. Well, tough. I’m not always going to stay in the little box he wants to keep me in.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, honey,” he said.

But when I suggested that he come out and visit, he said, “You know it works better when you girls come out here.” He just means it’s more convenient for him.

“So why can’t I go out there next month?’

“We already discussed this.” He sounded tired. “You came out by yourself last year, and now it’s Paige’s turn.”

“But what am I going to do? I’ll be lonely out here.”

“You’ll have your mom all to yourself.”

“Ha! You know what that’s like. She has her nose in a book 24/7.”

“What about your friends? How’s that friend of yours … Hannah?”

“Sasha, Dad, her name’s Sasha. Is it that hard to remember? I don’t go around calling your girlfriend Vicky or Veronica.”

He chuckled at that. “You know I’m bad with names.”

“It doesn’t matter. Sasha isn’t speaking to me.”

The conversation dragged on, and I wasn’t feeling any happier by the time I hung up. Mom keeps asking if I’m going to the cabin with her and Marine next month. She says maybe I could stay with Grandma in Courtenay for part of the week if the cabin idea turns me off. But Paige and I visited Grandma on spring break. I haven’t seen Dad in a year!

Friday, July 16th

As Ms. Kelly watched us stream out of the studio after Petra’s rehearsal today, she said, “Where are your pointe shoes?”

Jamie, who happens to be incredibly good at pointe (her feet are just as strong as the rest of her), told her we weren’t using them. “We’re learning a modern piece.”

Ms. Kelly pursed her lips and marched into the studio. We overheard her confront Petra. Turns out she assumed that Petra would set a pointe piece on us. She hadn’t intended for Petra to introduce us to modern at all. Before long, Ms. Kelly barged into the change room and ordered all of us to leave, except Jamie.

While we waited in the parking lot, Lisa reviewed the choreography. Sasha crammed her fists into the pockets of her hoodie and kicked at the gravel. We’ve barely talked since Kevin’s accident. I was figuring out what to say to her when Jamie burst out the door and ran up to us. “I’m doing a pointe solo in the showing!”

“Right on!” Lisa high-fived Jamie.

“Congratulations,” I said.

Sasha shoved Jamie. “You’re such a bunhead!”

Rehearsals for our group piece continue in bare feet.

Saturday, July 17th

This evening I biked to The Ice Cream Place. Claire was working, and I hadn’t visited her since she started the job. The place was swarming with customers. When Claire saw me, she glanced at the long line ahead of me and shrugged an apology. I watched her scoop for awhile—she has already built up her muscles and she gauges cone sizes expertly—then claimed a table on the sidewalk.

Cars rumbled in and out of the parking lot and exhaust fumes had nearly driven me back inside when a Camaro rolled up. It was full of guys I’d crossed paths with at Sasha’s—friends of Kevin’s. They cruised the parking lot and pulled into a spot. Two of them jumped out and headed for the store. I ducked my head. There wasn’t much chance that they would recognize me, but still. “Look at that line-up!” one of them said. “Screw this. Let’s just head.”

“What time was Kev supposed to meet us?”

“At eight—it’s twenty after now.”

They paused beside my table. “Have you seen a guy hanging around here, about yea high, curly hair, looks kind of like Rafael Nadal?”

“Curly hair? Looks like Nadal? What, are you in love with him, faggot?”

The guy who had described Kevin shoved the other one. “Who’re you calling faggot? Takes one to know one, faggot!”

They wrestled until I thought they’d forgotten about me. But when the first one finally broke free, he turned to me. “Guess you haven’t seen anyone who fits that description?”

“Sorry. Maybe you should try the tennis courts.”

“She’s a riot, eh, Brad? Hey, what are you doing out here by yourself? Want to come party with us?”

The guy named Brad took his friend by the elbow. “You’ve got to excuse Tyler. He can’t decide whether he’s a fag or a pedophile tonight.”

“What do you mean pedophile? She’s old enough!”

At that moment, the driver yelled out the window of the Camaro and the guys took off just as Claire appeared with a hot fudge sundae. “Were they bothering you?” She watched the car peel away. Despite the apron and puffy, short-sleeved blouse, she looked ready to defend me.

“I think I held my own.”

Claire led me around back to a staff picnic area bordered by a couple of pine bushes. She offered me a spoon to share the sundae, but I thought about those spandex unitards and shook my head.

“Are you sure?” She shrugged and helped herself. It didn’t look as though working in an ice cream store had hurt her figure any.

“We miss you at the studio.”

“I hate to say it, but I don’t miss the studio that much. I miss the girls, but—I’m having fun this summer. I feel so much older now that I have a job. And I met this guy …”

“Really?”

“He kept coming into the store. I was like, no one eats that much ice cream! When I bugged him about it, he got really red—it’s so cute when he blushes—and asked me out. We ride our bikes everywhere and play tennis and stuff. His older sister has a car and sometimes we go places with her and her boyfriend. We’re all going camping next weekend.”

Claire’s coworker called for help and she left the sundae behind. A breeze stirred the bushes and the smell of pine sap took me back to the lake. The rough planks of the picnic table turned into the wooden dock. The memory of lying there with Kevin stirred me up inside. I felt a tingling in my crotch and wanted … him. What did it mean? Was I a slut like Sasha said? What Claire had described with her boyfriend sounded so innocent and safe. Not like what I had done with Kevin. Slut, tramp, whore, slut, tramp, whoreslutrampwhoreslutrampwhore …

I found myself staring at the bottom of an empty ice cream dish. I had grabbed the half-eaten sundae and wolfed it down until chocolate burned the back of my throat. Nausea pulled me out of my trance. What a relief it would be to throw up. There was a name for that: bulimia. We saw a film about it in Health class. Well, I’m not interested in turning bulimic. I just need to start exercising some self-restraint.

I threw away the dish and strolled back to my bike. As I was unlocking it, someone said my name.

I turned and stared: Kevin in the flesh. For a split second, I thought I was imagining him. I shivered to shake off the dream. He leaned back on his bike, one hand resting on the seat, the other on the handlebars. The position pushed his shoulders into a shrug.

“Hey. How you doing?” he said.

“I’m okay. How are you?”

“I’ve been better.” He wrinkled his forehead. “Maybe you heard?”

“Yeah.” Talking to Kevin made me feel exposed and prickly. It was hard to hold up my end of the conversation, and all I really wanted to do was ride away. “Do you have a court date yet?”

“Still waiting.”

I searched for something to say and remembered the Camaro. “Some of your friends came by here looking for you.”

He glanced at his watch. “I missed them, huh?”

“You don’t sound too disappointed.”

“Ever since the accident, those guys’ idea of fun seems more and more like a death wish. You know?”

“I can imagine.”

He shuddered as if to put it all behind him. “What are you doing out by yourself on a Saturday night?”

“That’s a popular question.”

He smirked. His eyes reminded me so much of Sasha’s that I blurted, “My best friend suddenly stopped talking to me.”

“You mean my sister?”

I nodded. Kevin bent his head as if to scan the ground. “Things are pretty crazy at home right now. You shouldn’t take it personally.” He hesitated, then raised his head. “Look, Natalie, you’ve known our family for a long time, but—”

Claire bounced back outside. “Sorry! Usually I get at least fifteen minutes.” She noticed Kevin and added, “Oh! Hi.”

“Nat and I are just heading off on a sunset bike tour. Want to join us?”

I glared at him: the nerve. Claire would think Kevin and I had planned to meet here—that we were on a date. But if she felt surprised, it didn’t show. “I’d love to, but I have to work for another hour.” She winked at me as she gathered abandoned ice cream dishes. “Have fun!”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Kevin said as soon as Claire was out of earshot. “As long as we’re both on bikes, we might as well ride together. Besides, I know a great route.” He put his helmet on. “You coming?”

I shrugged and donned my helmet. He led the way down alleys I didn’t know existed, along dirt paths so narrow that salal branches scratched my arms and legs, and up steep hills that led to glorious stretches of downhill coasting. Wind whipped past. Gardens scented the evening air: cedar, jasmine, honeysuckle. At times I didn’t even know where we were. When he called over his shoulder, “Having fun, Natalie?” I squealed in reply.

We must have been riding for close to an hour. We were scaling a big hill and I was just getting ready to demand a break—the guy is in great shape!—when the path spat us out onto rocks, bald except for moss and broom bushes. He screeched to a halt and I veered just in time to avoid a crash. He grabbed the frame of my bike. The rocks fell away to streets, houses, and ocean far below. The air had thickened, somehow. Dusk hung in it like fog.

“Turn around.”

The sky blazed fuchsia. The disc of sun slipped, second by second, behind purple hills on the horizon. Clouds sponged the light and the sky shimmered peach, pink, yellow, and even green. A plume of airplane exhaust twisted vertically, like a tornado. With every breath, the colors changed. The brilliance faded, slowly, and left us standing in the dark.

The last time I’d been alone with Kevin at night, we were parked in his car. He’d pulled me towards him and kissed me. Would he make a move now? My bike stood between us, like a wall. I casually rolled my wheels back to open up a passage way.

He snapped his head at the motion. “Ready to go?”

So much for romance.

Then it hit me. “I’ve got no light!” We were miles from home.

“Don’t worry. I know this neighborhood even better in the dark.”

The ground was rapidly disappearing underfoot. “What do you mean?”

“I was a bike-riding outlaw for years before I ever had a driver’s license. This takes me back to my roots.”

I stayed close to his rear wheel as we wound down narrow, unlit streets. When we hit the major roads with their streetlights, he sped up. I played it safe and hung back. I didn’t want to hit a pothole, or a cat—or get hit by a car, for that matter. But then the distance widened between us.

What the hell? I pedaled harder. I caught up to Kevin’s rear reflector so that we were almost riding tandem. Keeping pace with his skinny-tired road bike on my mountain bike nearly killed me. I was so absorbed that I paid no attention to where we were going. My street loomed up and surprised me. Before I could call out, Kevin swerved. He did know his way around. He escorted me to my driveway, where we stopped, and he balanced, his feet wedged in toe clips. Finally, he wobbled too far off center. He freed one foot just in time to catch his fall and ended up close enough to hear my huffing and puffing.

He laughed. “Need to add a little cardio to the routine, hey?” He leaned forward—moving in for a kiss? I gasped. He pressed two fingers against my throat and held them still as I gulped air. “Your pulse is dangerously fast! I’m serious.”

At least it was too dark for him to see me blush.

He let his hand fall. “Maybe we should do that again some time. Get you in shape. I could be your personal trainer.”

I was gaining control of my breath. “Get real! Have you seen what I’m riding? Look at how fat these tires are. Let’s just switch bikes next time. I’ll kick your ass.”

He dropped his chin to his neck and grinned at the ground. “That sounds like fun.” He mounted his bike. “So long, Natalie.”

He rounded the corner and vanished. I didn’t know where he was staying or when I might see him again. I stood in the driveway long enough for my heart to slow down, then stowed my bike and headed for the shower.

Sunday, July 18th

This morning I woke up to the sound of a softball landing in a glove, mixed with Paige’s chatter. The soft noises drifted through my bedroom window, much more pleasant than the squawk of an alarm clock. Sunday: nowhere to go. I stretched and resettled, then remembered: this kind of movement was Petra’s raw material. As I rolled and flopped, I paid attention in a new way.

A deeper voice rumbled in response to Paige’s. I flung off the covers and pried the blinds apart. Paige was playing catch on the front lawn with a man I’d never seen before. I pulled on shorts and ran outside. “Paige!”

“Hi, Nat. You’re finally up. Mom says teenagers need more sleep than anybody else, but I don’t see why.”

The man chuckled and looked at Paige like she was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

“Who are you?”

He shifted the ball to his left hand and stuck out his arm. I ignored it until he let it fall to his side. “Phil Ainslie. My parents live across the street; you must have met them?”

I looked at this Phil person more closely: salt and pepper hair, receding hairline, a paunch forming over the waistband of his Bermuda shorts. “There’s an old couple across the street,” I said.

“That’s right, they’re my parents. They moved out here to retire. I’m just visiting. from Ontario. Got here last night. They’re having a rest right now, and I was just heading out for a walk when your sister here,” he winked at Paige, “asked me to play catch with her.”

I put my hand on Paige’s shoulder. “Ontario. Isn’t that a little far? What happens when there’s an emergency? You’re not much good to them way out there. We had snow this winter, you know. I saw your dad out there shoveling and I was a little worried about him. He could have keeled over from a heart attack.” I was getting off topic. “Do you always play with little girls?”

Phil’s expression hardened. He set the ball down on the grass and backed away. “I’m sorry I intruded. I wouldn’t have done this back home, but it seems so small town here, I thought a person could be neighborly without—”

Paige whined. “He was playing with me!”

“I’ll play with you.” I picked up the ball and let it smack against my palm several times, as if it might come in handy as a weapon to bean Phil’s head. He kept retreating until he reached the pavement, then he turned and strode back to his parents’ house. Apparently, he’d changed his mind about the walk.

Paige placed her fists on her hips. “Why were you so mean to him?”

“I’ll get Mom to explain it. Come around to the back.”

“Hey! You said you’d play with me.”

“I will, I will, just let me eat breakfast first. Mom!” I sprinted to the back porch with Paige in tow. Mom was stretched out on the chaise longue, a hardcover book propped open on her stomach, a glass of orange juice in one hand. “Mom! While you’re back here reading yourself senseless, your ten-year-old daughter is out front playing with a creepy old man!”

Paige protested. “He wasn’t creepy!”

I left Paige and Mom to sort things out and shut the sliding glass door behind me. I grabbed a box of bran flakes and shook it into a bowl. A strainer filled with rinsed raspberries sat next to the sink. I dropped a few berries onto my cereal and stirred in some milk. Boring. When Dad lived with us, he made pancakes on Sunday. I stared past my bowl at the phone.

Dear Dad,

All you are to me is a voice, tinny and two dimensional. We can’t do stuff together. I never see you. I don’t even think of you as flesh and blood anymore.

And it’s all your fault. You chose to move 3,000 miles away. Nobody made you.

Damn it. Don’t you miss me?

Don’t answer that. You don’t deserve to see me. You don’t deserve a daughter, let alone two.

I couldn’t finish my cereal. My stomach cramped up. I stormed back out to the porch, where Mom was just settling back into her book.

“I hope this makes you realize how dangerous it is when a little girl grows up without a father. She’s a sitting duck for any man who pays attention to her.”

Mom held her place in her book with an index finger and pushed her sunglasses into her hair. We looked each other in the eye. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? We know who the Ainslies are.”

“That’s not the point. He could have been anyone! And you, did you even know he was out there? Why don’t you wake up and do your job as a mom?”

At that, Mom carefully placed her bookmark between the pages, shut her novel, and stood up. I didn’t know what she was doing.

She bent over the wooden side of the balcony. She was wearing shorts, for a change, made of sage green cotton. When she rose on tiptoe, her calf muscles rippled. Apart from a few varicose veins, her legs are still in decent shape. It annoys me that they’re thinner than mine. “Paige?”

Paige responded from down below. “What?”

“Do you want to play catch?”

“With who?”

Mom winced, as if Paige’s response confirmed her guilt. “With me.”

Paige didn’t say anything for a second. “You mean you want me to teach you? Okay!” She ran to the foot of the stairs. “I can show you everything I’ve learned at softball camp!” Holding the banister, Mom glanced back at me and raised her eyebrows.

She was admitting I was right. I’d won.

So why did I feel so bad?

Monday, July 19th

Ms. Kelly kicked me out of the studio today. Every jazz class, she has harassed me, and today she finally said, “Natalie, we only have four rehearsals left before the showing. I’ve been waiting for you to get over your slump, but it’s just not happening. You’re putting the other dancers in jeopardy. I’ll have to take you out of the piece if you can’t turn your attitude around—and I mean all the way around.”

I couldn’t believe she was interrupting rehearsal to chew me out in front of the other girls. I had actually semi-enjoyed the warm-up, and we had only run the dance once. “What did I do?”

“It’s what you’re not doing, Natalie. You’re half the dancer you used to be. You’re one of the most advanced dancers in the school and people used to look up to you. But now you act bored and …” She paused, her hands on her hips. She was wearing gold spandex pants, a white blouse open over a leotard and knotted at the waist, and white jazz shoes. A pair of high-heeled sandals lay on the floor beside the stereo—she would slip into those after class, as if she had Barbie-doll feet. She always wears full makeup—foundation, blush, the works, like she’s about to go on stage. She must be close to Mom’s age. “And you seem disgusted! As though the movement is beneath you.”

I muttered, “Just because I don’t want to look like a slut …” I don’t think Ms. Kelly heard me, but some girls nearby tittered. She definitely heard them.

“Your attitude is damaging the morale of the class and setting a bad example for the younger girls. You’re excused for the rest of the day. I suggest you go home and think about your behavior.”

“Fine,” I snapped. As I passed Lisa, she mouthed, “I’ll call you.”

I changed into my shorts and hurried down the street. In the window of Con Brio, Petra was bent over a notebook, twisting a strand of blonde hair around her finger. Every so often she jotted something down with a pencil. I entered the café and approached her. She raised her head and smiled. Her sea green T-shirt set off her tan and her platinum hair so well, it took my breath away. She glanced at her watch. “It’s not like Ms. Kelly to end class early.”

“She kicked me out of the studio.”

Petra hooked the barstool beside her with her foot and pulled it out. “Have a seat. What happened?”

As I explained, Petra frowned and fidgeted with her gold necklace. “I think this might have something to do with me. I’ve been raving to Ms. Kelly about your facility with modern.”

“You have?” I felt too shy to look at her. I knew I felt a deep connection with Petra’s movement style, but I had no idea whether or not it showed. As far as I could tell, she praised everyone equally.

“Oh, yes, Natalie. You’re a natural. I try not to play favorites in class, but under the circumstances, it’s only fair to tell you. You’re very talented.”

Ms. Kelly’s insults and Petra’s compliments tumbled in my head. Criticism was familiar, but I didn’t know how to handle flattery. It seemed safest to let it slide off me without taking it to heart.

“You probably know she wasn’t too happy about my setting a modern piece in the first place. Maybe she feels that you’ve transferred your loyalty.”

I heard Ms. Kelly’s words in my head: You act as though the movement is beneath you. “I just don’t like her style of jazz anymore. It makes me feel sort of like a machine, or an object. A sex object, I guess.”

I wasn’t sure Petra would know what I meant, but she nodded. A couple of men in shorts and baseball caps entered the café and rubber-necked at Petra. She didn’t seem to notice them. “That style of jazz started in the showgirl industry in Las Vegas and L.A. It’s all about pleasing customers. Artistic expression hardly enters into it. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t phased it out by now.”

I slouched on the stool, chin propped in my hand. I was thinking what a relief it would be to quit dance: I could scoop ice cream and ride my bike. This was the last week of the intensive. Maybe I should just drop out.

Petra touched my arm. “I’m thrilled with your work in my piece, Natalie. I really hope that you’ll keep coming to my ballet class and to rehearsal for the rest of the week.”

An iced latte might perk me up. The men who had ogled Petra were waiting for their drinks. Mustached and leathery-skinned, they tried to catch my eye. I ordered, then pretended to be lost in thought.

“You from around here?” one of them said.

I couldn’t ignore a direct question. I nodded.

“We’re just visiting from the States.”

You don’t say.

“You a ballet dancer?” the other one said.

That made my head turn. “How did you know?” For a second I thought maybe they recognized Petra.

The ham-fisted tourist reached over and patted the bun of hair at the back of my head. I ducked and twisted away from him, protecting my head and neck with both hands.

“How about introducing us to your friend?” the other one said.

Adrenaline flooded my veins and my face felt hot. I was on the verge of telling them to fuck off when the barista rolled her eyes in sympathy and passed me my drink. She had made mine first. “Thank you so much.”

“Anytime.”

I plunked too much money on the counter and didn’t wait for change.

It took me a few cool sips to recover. That jerk had some nerve patting my head. Petra agreed. The men passed us on their way outside to the smoking area. We pretended they didn’t exist.

When I got home, Lisa called. She urged me to stay in the show. “It may be our last chance to perform together!” she said. “Besides, you love Petra’s piece.”

Mom overheard me talking to Lisa and got pretty worked up. “Who does that woman think she is? She has no right to expel you from a single class, let alone threaten to cut you out of a piece in the show. I should get your father to call her up and remind her of how much money he’s poured into her school over the years. Of all the nerve!”

Mom gets fired up about injustice. It makes her want to fight back. But my fighting spirit is broken, at least where Ms. Kelly is concerned. So tomorrow I’m sleeping in.

Tuesday, July 20th

This morning the phone rang as I was shuffling into the kitchen, barely awake. Mom was taking a shower. I thought about letting the machine pick up, but habit won. I answered.

“Natalie, is that you? It’s Ms. Kelly from Dance-Is.”

My system jolted into high alert. “This is Natalie.”

“I’m sorry for losing my patience yesterday. Of course I want you in the jazz piece. I just want to see a bit of the old Nat—the old fire. Deal?”

I held my breath and looked at the calendar above the phone. Four days to go.

“Okay?” I detected desperation in her voice.

“I talked to Petra,” I said.

“Yes? And?”

“And I’m going to keep working with her.”

“That’s great.” She paused. “But we need you in the jazz piece too. Forget what I said yesterday.”

My stomach swirled and my knees trembled. I planted my hand on the kitchen counter as a word sliced across my mind. “No. I’ll do Petra’s class and her rehearsal, but that’s it.”

When I hung up, my head swam. It reminded me of the caffeine rush after a latte.

“Who was that?” Mom walked into the kitchen in her bathrobe.

“You can’t fire me, I quit!”

Mom toweled her hair, looking puzzled.

Wednesday, July 21st

I’m lying on my bed in shorts and a tank top with the window open. The air smells the way a glass of water tastes when you’re really thirsty. A slight breeze tickles my bare arms and legs. My quilt is bunched up to one side. I’m waiting to see how much cooler it has to get before it’s more comfortable to pull the covers over me than to lie here without them. The cordless phone rests in my palm and I keep twirling it. I can’t decide whether or not to call Sasha.

Things between us aren’t as bad as they were that day in the change room when she refused to speak in my presence, let alone to me. We say hi to each other. She doesn’t seem very happy, though. The family obviously wasn’t getting along that well before Kevin’s accident, and now tensions must run that much higher. Aside from the drunk driving, Kevin wasn’t even supposed to be living there this summer. He had planned to be up north making money so he could move out in the fall. I remember Sasha telling me how much she was looking forward to that. It’s pretty tight quarters in their town house, and I think she and Kevin fight a lot.

He was so mellow when we rode our bikes together. He wasn’t even smoking or chewing anything. When we watched the sunset, I wanted him to hold me. Other memories—the lake memories—make my heart race, whether from excitement or fear, I can’t tell. Maybe both. Maybe I am “old enough.” I’ve had my period for a whole year. That means I’m biologically a woman, right?

God, what am I saying? See, this is why I can’t phone Sasha’s house. I don’t know what I might get myself into if Kevin answers. It’s much too scary. If we’re going to make up, it will have to be at the studio.

Thursday, July 22nd

Tonight we went to the closing softball game at Paige’s summer camp. Mom’s friend Marine came along. When Paige invited her to watch a game that day at the library, I didn’t expect her to take it seriously. She must be pretty hard up for entertainment. On the other hand, she obviously loves the sport. Every time anyone on Paige’s team hit the ball, caught it, or advanced to the next base, Marine led the cheers. Paige looked great in her blue and white costume—I mean, uniform. When her team won, we jumped to our feet, waved our arms, and yelled.

In a diner after the game, Paige and I claimed one side of the booth, Mom and Marine the other. Kids versus grown-ups, the way we used to sit when Dad and Mom were married. Now, though, I don’t seem to fit on either side of the table.

Paige ordered a veggie-burger platter. While I was picking at my green salad, I stared at her fries. Their edges were jagged as though cut with pinking shears, and I wanted to feel the hot, greasy ridges on my tongue, to taste the pulpy potato inside. Puberty hasn’t struck Paige yet. Her skin remains pimple-free, her body unbloated.

For dessert, she ordered a banana split. It came with four spoons so that we could all share it. Maybe I shouldn’t have cared, since I’m not performing in the jazz number this weekend, but I kept visualizing myself in that scarlet unitard. I imagined the ice cream particles traveling directly to my chunky calves and saddlebag thighs and taking up permanent residence. Mom didn’t help. She said, “Dig in!” like a crazed archaeologist and thrust a spoon at me.

To distract myself, I asked Marine about her name. She lit up as if that was her favorite question.

“My parents named me Maureen, but I changed it because I like the sea and the color blue.” Check: she was wearing a turquoise blouse with a white collar, a white breast pocket, and large white buttons. Her blunt haircut and wing-shaped glasses echoed the angular patterns on her clothes. I had to admit, the lady had style.

“Your blouse is funky,” I said.

Marine beamed. Mom looked over, a spoonful of ice cream hovering in front of her mouth, then glanced away, as if she didn’t want to jinx the moment. I realized that I could avoid eating my portion of the sundae by taking an interest in Marine.

“Did you make it yourself?”

It turns out that Marine makes and sells clothes, and she’s also a painter. She teaches art at an alternative school, where they don’t give grades. She encourages her students to express themselves and doesn’t evaluate or judge. Now that I’m working with Petra, Marine’s ideas don’t sound so dumb.

Marine swallowed a spoonful of ice cream. “This banana split is bliss.”

I thumped my water glass on the table and glared at Mom.

“Sorry, Nat.”

Marine darted her eyes back and forth from me to Mom. “Did I say something wrong?”

“It’s okay,” Mom said. “It’s just—we avoid that word.”

Marine set down her spoon and looked at the sundae. “Banana split?”

“No.”

“Oh, bl—the other b word?”

“That’s the one. I’ll explain later.”

I glared at Mom again. I didn’t want her talking about me behind my back. Dad’s selfish pursuit of “bliss” didn’t deserve any more air time, either.

“No need to explain,” Marine said. “From now on, I banish that word from my vocabulary. Poof! Gone. Didn’t need it anyway.” Her tone was so reassuring that I relaxed and lounged against the booth.

Friday, July 23rd

Almost time for dress rehearsal. Ms. Kelly’s going to find out that I’m not half, but twice the dancer I used to be. Of course, Petra’s piece will probably look messy and unfinished to her. There’s not much unison, we work in turned-in positions, the lines of our arms and legs are often soft, not sharp—we actually try to look like spaghetti at one point, an image Ms. Kelly only ever uses as an insult. Also, we’re performing in wide-legged pants. She’ll sniff and ask us if we’re supposed to be at a pajama party. But I don’t care. I bet Mom will like it.

Saturday, July 24th

The good, the bad, the ugly.

Backstage (that is, in the high school locker room) before the show, all the other senior girls were pulling on their red unitards for the jazz piece. The modern piece was in the second half, so I kept my sweats on. I was taking time with my makeup and trying hard not to feel left out. I had never missed out on a piece before. Lisa was keeping me company, though she had pulled a hamstring and was a little preoccupied. I offered her some tiger balm, and the smells of menthol and camphor spread as she rubbed it into her leg.

A few lockers away, Sasha was talking quietly to Jamie, with her back to me. Jamie kept darting glances at me.

“Pee-ew, smells like moth balls in here,” Sasha said over her shoulder.

I concentrated on applying eyeliner.In the mirror, I saw Sasha turn around.

“I think Ms. Kelly realizes that some people just shouldn’t wear unitards. They’re not flattering to everyone,” she said. “It’s so easy to put on five or ten pounds, but unitards don’t let you get away with anything. You’re so lucky you don’t have to wear one of these, Natalie.”

I gave her a fake smile. How come I never noticed how catty she is? I used to play along, of course. I hate to think of how many times we would phone each other up and say, “Did you see what so-and-so was wearing today? Doesn’t she know that people with olive skin can’t wear pink? And how about that lipstick? Talk about fire-engine red. It totally clashed with her sweater!”

I was still searching for a comeback when Lisa spoke up. “Having us all wear identical unitards is supposed to create a group identity. From a design perspective, it’s supposed to unite us, not divide us.”

That was much better than I could have done. Lisa rocks.

“How does your leg feel, Lisa?”

“Warm and tingly. Thanks for the balm.” She wiggled her hips and swung her leg back and forth in its socket.

Jamie grabbed Sasha and the two of them pranced by. Sasha hooked Lisa’s elbow. “Come on, Lisa, we’re on soon.”

Lisa squeezed my hand and looked me in the eyes.

“Merde,” I said.

“Merde.”

I found a spot in the wings so that I wouldn’t be around when the jazz piece ended and the girls came streaming back into the change room, giggling and complaining: “You stepped on my foot!” “Could you believe that guy hooting in the balcony?” “What the hell happened to the CD? Did it skip, or what?”

I stayed there throughout the junior girls’ jazz number, Jamie’s solo, and the junior girls’ ballet number, stretching and bouncing to keep warm. When the time came for the modern piece, I joined the other girls on stage. As the music started and the curtain rose, I disappeared into the piece. For eight and a half minutes, I melded with the movement, the other dancers, the wooden boards under my feet.

We lay intertwined as the lights came up. Slowly, we began to rustle and shift. Crouched in a ball, one girl raised her back into a cat arch and let it fall. Another lifted an arm and let it drift back down. On my stomach, I snaked in a wave, then pushed into a downward dog pose—hands and feet pressed into the floor, head down, hips high. Gradually, the others rose and began a repetitive motion—Jamie held both arms together as if wielding an ax and swung them down, her arms parting at the bottom of the stroke and smoothing the air to touch Sasha’s head. Half squatting, half kneeling, Sasha rolled back on herself to stand up. Her left arm reached overhead and drove down as if dunking a basket. Lisa made a circle of her arms, caught the impulse, and spun. I joined in. Backed by a soundtrack of major chords, we formed a kind of assembly line.

The lights brightened, and our movement expanded. One by one, we took solos along an arcing pathway in front of the group. While each girl claimed center stage, the rest of us bore each other’s weight, then let ourselves be supported. Everyone worked together. To finish, the soloist rejoined the line at the opposite end. Her arrival cued the next dancer to peel off. We adjusted our spacing to fill in the gap that each left.

During Sasha’s solo, the music changed. It pulsed and sped up, became more frenetic. In response, she jerked her arms and head and jumped erratically. Soon her solo time had elapsed, but she didn’t return to the line. The music turned into noise—shattering glass, thunderclaps, distorted voice-overs like military orders. The group splintered. In spokes, we tumbled, rolled, leapt, and dove. We narrowly missed colliding until one by one our pathways led us into the wings.

In twos, threes, or alone, we crisscrossed the stage. In pairs, girls pushed, shoved, and tripped each other. In a trio, two ganged up on the third, either trapping her or shutting her out. When I crossed the stage alone, I staggered, disoriented, searching the ceiling. Loneliness welled to the surface and sapped my strength. My legs weighed me down. I was rooted to the spot, barely able to move. This wasn’t choreographed. I was wrecking the dance. I lagged behind the music until, with a panicked surge of effort, I propelled myself to the other side.

A change in music renewed my energy. All of us entered and circled each other. We picked up speed and started to race. What would happen if someone couldn’t run with the pack?

Lisa tripped and fell. The survivors scattered and kept circling. A sparring match broke out between Sasha and Jamie. The rest of us clapped like an audience at a cock fight until Jamie knocked Sasha down.

I knelt over Sasha, held her head, and helped her pull herself into a crouch. With my arm to support her, she rose to her feet, and Jamie backed away. Sasha and I returned to Lisa, who revived at our approach and climbed into a chair we made by joining our hands at the wrists. She rode on our stretcher/throne. All of us returned to center stage to rebuild the opening tableau. We changed positions and reversed the gestures. Lisa slid to standing and assumed center stage. She planed the air, grazing my head in a caress, and then swept her arms overhead into a cone shape. Her palms touched each other in prayer.

My heart was pounding by the time the curtain fell. The crowd was hushed. They seemed in shock and had to rouse themselves to applaud. This wasn’t the packaged entertainment they were used to. It was art. We held hands to take a bow. For a few seconds, Sasha and I stood hand-in-hand. But even before the curtain fell, she shook herself free.

Petra rushed backstage afterwards. I couldn’t look at her. She was going to be so disappointed in me for screwing up the timing on my solo crossing. I hung back as she moved through the ranks, giving hugs and shaking hands. “Well done, Lisa! Way to go, Sasha!” I kept turning so that I faced away from her, but finally she ducked in front of me. “Nat, what’s wrong?”

I covered my face with my hands. “I’m sorry about the crossing. I don’t know what happened.”

She rested her hand on my shoulder. “You were phenomenal, that’s what happened!”

I peered at her through my fingers. “Seriously?”

“Nat, the entire audience was holding its breath at that moment. You made us feel the struggle. Do you know how hard that is? Most professional dancers never get there. It’s one thing to be pleasing to look at; it’s another thing to move the audience. You moved us.”

I threw my arms around her. It’s not that I believed her. But it was obvious that she wasn’t mad at me. I was so relieved that I wanted to cry.

Petra corralled everyone into the lobby for group photos. After a few formal shots, we struck poses. I was making a blowfish expression—cheeks puffed out, eyes bugged—when I met Sasha’s eyes and my face went slack. Her look was so bitter, it chilled me.

A friendly looking, gray-haired man stood next to Petra. She introduced him to me as Lance Irving. He wasn’t very tall, but when he turned his attention on me, he seemed much larger. His deep blue eyes made me feel understood. He gripped my hand. “Lovely work.”

I blushed. “Thank you.”

“Natalie, Lance is moving to Victoria. He plans to teach modern here this fall,” Petra said.

“If there’s enough interest, that is,” Lance said.

“You would love his class,” Petra said. “I can’t recommend it highly enough. I wouldn’t be who I am today without Lance.”

Lance hid his face. “Oh, stop.” But when he moved his hands, his eyes were shining. I could see that, deep down, he accepted her praise.

“You can count on me, I know that,” I said. “And I’ll spread the word.”

He tilted his head and nodded. “That’s very kind.”

Behind Lance, Ms. Kelly was greeting parents. Just then, she turned and saw me. She hesitated, then squared her shoulders and lunged in Lance’s direction, her hand outstretched. I gave her a wan smile and turned away.

Mom and Paige approached and gave me a homemade bouquet of bluebells and daisies. I hugged them both. “I’ll get changed and then we can get out of here,” I said.

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 slightest 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 glanced 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.

This morning I acted like nothing happened. I’m walking around under a veil. This must be what they call denial. It means things are too screwed up to deal with so you pretend they never happened, that you didn’t notice. You gloss over the facts with little half-truths like “Sasha’s mom was sick.” You avoid looking each other in the eye because you’re both hiding what you know. It deadens you. Layers of something like gel separate us. All we’re left with are secrets and shame.