After school, Charmaine and I walked to my place because we were working on a biology assignment together. Charmaine could have done the whole thing alone and blindfolded, but our teacher liked to assign group work. We were both happy to work together and not with some bozo who wouldn’t do anything other than sign his name to the finished work.
Although it was December, it wasn’t raining and the fresh air felt great.
“So, how’s it going? You and Phil,” Charmaine wondered. Phil and I had been going out for a couple of weeks now.
“It’s good,” I said. “Well, mostly good.”
She looked at me curiously. “Tell me, Kelly. My whole social life is vicarious.” Poor Charmaine. Dating was out of the question right now. She was really looking forward to moving into residence next year. Her parents wanted her to stay in Vancouver, but at least she’d get some independence.
“Well, the good part is the two of us together. We have a great time and Phil knows me already, so I can be normal.” Since April had thrown my old clothes out, I still dressed up, but now I acted more like myself.
“Sound great, so what’s the bad part?”
“Other people are weirding me out. Some random girl at Shoppers congratulated me on ‘landing’ Phil. And girls I hardly know are warning me not to get too attached, because he’s going to dump me soon.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s not their business,” Charmaine agreed.
“Also, I don’t get why people treat me differently because I’m going out with him. Guys and girls.” It was really stupid, but people seemed to think I was cooler now, just because I was going out with Phil.
Charmaine shook her head. “You’re asking the wrong person. I know nothing about relationships. I do know I could never go out with a guy like Phil.”
“What does that mean, a guy like Phil?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.” Charmaine peered at me to make sure I wasn’t offended. “I only meant that I could never date him because he’s so out of my league.”
“Why not? You’re cute and really smart. What more could a guy want?”
She started to giggle nervously. “Phil is so good-looking and experienced with women. Dating Phil would be like learning to drive in a Ferrari—way too much car for a beginner.”
I thought about her remark. Phil did have a legendary rep. There were tons of rumours about him: that he had done it in the girls’ changeroom near the gym, that he got blown under the table during chem lab, and that something wild happened on the bus to the grad ski trip. Phil never said anything, but it was like he had a pervert publicist out there somewhere.
I knew a lot of this stuff was bull. I remembered one time when he was supposed to be having a three-way in the back of the school theatre; we were actually building a Lego city with my little brother—not that Phil would want that fact to get out. So I never believed a lot of the stuff I heard about Phil, but if even 10% of the stuff were true, then Phil was a frigging sex machine.
“I wonder if I can drive a Ferrari,” I gulped. A Toyota was more my speed. On one hand, I realized that if we were happy, I shouldn’t be worried about other people’s opinions or warnings. And Nicklas seemed to get off on my inexperience. But on the other hand, I didn’t want to disappoint Phil. I wanted things to work out for more than a month.
Phil’s idea of giving me space and mine were different. I thought we’d go back to the old buddy days, but Phil was a physical person. So he seemed to think that as long as we weren’t having sex, that was enough of a concession. He wanted to hold hands, he wanted to sit close, and he wanted to kiss and make out whenever. Who could blame him? I wanted to do all those things too, but I wasn’t quite there yet.
I wondered when I would be ready. My body was more than ready, but my head needed time to adjust. Also, I knew that Nicklas was still upset. I hated hurting anyone’s feelings, and I felt guilty. So many complications.
“Don’t worry, Kelly. You’re very coordinated, I’m sure you could drive any kind of car,” Charmaine joked. She patted my arm. “No seriously, you shouldn’t worry. I think that Phil feels very differently about you than anyone else. He’s always liked you.”
But as I was finding out, that made things tougher. The more you cared about someone, the more you worried about everything going right.
We passed by the garage and we poked our heads inside to say hi to my mom. She had a full pottery studio inside, with a potter’s wheel, a slab roller, and a kiln. My mom made these beautiful vessels that were a cross between a giant vase and a sculpture.
She looked up from the wheel. She was dressed in a faded denim shirt, a multi-coloured Indian cotton skirt, and old leather boots. Her hair was covered in a fine dust and her arms were muddy, but she still glowed. She loved being in the studio.
“Hello, girls. How are you, Charmaine dear?” My mom loved Charmaine, all the parents did.
“I’m fine, thank you, Molly. Are you getting ready for a show?”
“Yes, I’m having a small exhibition at the District Hall next month. But I have a big order for my gallery in Toronto, so things are hectic.” My mom was always busy though; even if she didn’t have a show or sale, she experimented with glazes, transfers, and new materials. She worked really hard at something that most of her friends saw as a hobby. She rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead and streaked clay across her face.
I pointed to her cheek, and she nodded. “I’ll get cleaned up before your dad gets home. There are carrot muffins if you want them.” Then she got back to work, and we went inside the house. I could hear that my brother had a friend in his room.
“Your house is always so nice—full of flowers,” Charmaine commented as she looked around. Our house was done up in a crafty-cottage style. My mom was always adding more pottery, paintings, and natural stuff like seashells or driftwood. This year she had done a Christmas tree all in flowers that looked pretty amazing.
“My dad brings flowers home for my mom every evening,” I replied.
“Really? That’s so unbelievably romantic. I know he’s a florist, but still. The two of them fit together perfectly. She makes vases and he brings flowers.”
I debated whether to tell her the whole story. The way he rushed in to see her as soon as he got home. The way she gushed over the flowers like he didn’t do this every flipping night. They still acted like newlyweds and although it was sweet, it was also embarrassing. I decided not to tell Charmaine, who was already too much of a romantic.
“Yeah, it’s sooooo adorable. Flowers are okay, but… whatever.”
The family joke was that my mom wished she had a daughter. Someone who also loved flowers, dresses, and shopping. We admired each other’s accomplishments, but she usually skipped my hockey games, and I never wanted to go to art galleries or watch weepy movies with her. When I was young, she tried to jumpstart my creativity by enrolling me in art, music, and drama classes, but I could not sit still that long. Finally, my grandmother had pointed out that my mom should choose the activities I wanted and not the ones she wished she had done as a kid. That was when I got to start hockey.
Despite my secrecy, Charmaine had already set sail on the Love Boat. “Flowers every night? I wonder if I’ll ever meet a man that considerate?”
My knowledge from hockey dressing rooms would have led me to guess: “Not a snowball’s chance in hell.” But I didn’t say a word. Why disillusion someone sweet who was about to help me get an A in Bio?