The leaves turn red and yellow, then fade to orange and begin falling off the trees. I endure a long day at temple for Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, a holiday where you fast for your sins and ask God to forgive you for anything bad you’ve done in the past. Throughout October, Brooke continues to hang out with Chantal and Kelly, but one Saturday night she invites Chloe, Em and me over for dinner, just like old times.
When I arrive at Brooke’s, Em and Brooke are making pizza and pretending to be on a cooking show. Chloe is videoing them with her phone.
“Ah, Signora Yanofsky, our guest taster, here to try the provolone.” Brooke holds out a plate of cheese and Chloe pans the phone over to me.
I do my usual deer-in-the-headlights stare and say, “Very tasty,” while shoving a large piece of cheese into my mouth.
“Ew,” Chloe says. “Cut!” She pretends to be annoyed with me and then bounds into the living room and puts her phone in the speaker dock. She cranks up the volume, and we bounce around the living room. I follow Chloe’s moves, even joining her in some surprisingly porny rolling around on the floor. This is the way it used to be: Brooke and Em doing their cooking show—“Now for another episode of the singing chef!”—and Chloe and me rocking out in the living room.
When the pizza is ready, Brooke carries it to the dining-room table. Then she brings a half-empty bottle of red wine. “Lookee, lookee, shall we start the evening with a little”—she reads from the label—“Chianti Classico? Ooh, so classy.”
“None for me,” Em says.
“But Em,” Brooke says, swinging the bottle, “this isn’t mere debauchery and drunkenness, this is an Italian cultural experience, compliments of my mother’s latest boyfriend.”
Em waves her napkin in the air and says, “Still, I think I shall not partake” in her poshest British accent.
Brooke shrugs and pours me a full glass. “Here, you’re a lush. Drink up, babe.”
“Thanks.”
Brooke reaches for Chloe’s glass. “Oh, that’s okay,” Chloe says, putting her hand over the top.
“What, you going all straightedge too?”
Chloe shrugs uncomfortably. “Sort of.”
“That’s retarded,” Brooke says. She starts filling her wineglass and doesn’t stop until it almost spills over the top. When she puts the bottle back on the kitchen counter, I hear her mumble, “Stupid Jesus freaks.” She sits down at the table. “I bet you’ve even got a grace you’re dying to share with us.”
I look over at Brooke and scowl. I know Jesus isn’t her thing, but does she have to piss off Chloe and Em? Chloe is frowning and looking down at her hands. Em looks concerned but composed, as always. She says, “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I have the perfect grace. Yub-a dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God!” She punches her fist into the air. Brooke and I stare at her. Chloe starts to giggle.
“Yay God?” I ask.
“Yep, yay God,” Em replies. “Pizza, anyone?”
We all start eating. Brooke tells Chloe and Em about some Smoker party, but I’m not paying attention. Throughout dinner, as I drink all my wine and let Brooke fill my glass up again, I wonder, Do they really believe in God? They’re intelligent people—surely they don’t believe a divine force created the universe. I mean, there’s science, people. There’s no Sky Daddy up there saying, Em and Chloe, you better be good girls. And think of the gazillions of wars, like the Crusades, that have been waged for religious reasons. Christians rode across Europe killing Jews to save Jerusalem from Muslims because they didn’t believe in the one true God. That’s insane. I consider asking, “What’s the point in believing in God?” but we’re finally all together, and I don’t want to ruin the evening by alienating Chloe and Em. Besides, if you want to believe in God, I’m okay with that, as long as you’re not using your religion as an excuse to kill other people.
Still, I feel a list brewing in my head. I think I’ll call it “Reasons Believing in God is Stupid.”
1. No one has any proof.
I’m about to list numbers two, three and four (evolution, the existence of evil in the world, how prayer doesn’t work) when Brooke starts describing a sex act Kelly performed on her boyfriend using cough drops during a blow job. Totally gross, yet totally intriguing.
After dinner we walk to Quilchena Park to meet the guys. I’m excited because I know Jesse will be here tonight. I dressed carefully, wearing my lucky purple jacket and my favorite skinny jeans. It’s a crisp night, without a hint of the usual fall dampness, so I’m not even worried about my hair.
When we get to the park, the guys aren’t there yet, so we sit on the stairs by the washrooms. I tap my toes and sip from a water bottle full of orange juice and vodka, which I took from my parents’ liquor cabinet after school, when they were still at work. Brooke keeps pulling out her phone and checking her messages.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Chantal and Kelly said they’d be here tonight.”
“Oh.” Great.
In front of us, Chloe and Em practice a number from Grease. I pretend to watch while scanning the road for the guys’ cars.
“Summer days drifting away, to uh-oh”—Chloe adds an emphatic pelvic thrust—“those summer nights.”
“Tell me more, tell me more, was it love at first sight?” Em sings in her clear, high soprano.
“Summer dreams, ripped at the seams, but oh, those summer nights,” they harmonize.
I clap when they finish.
“So,” Chloe says, hands on her hips, “do you think Jesse will be here tonight?”
“Not sure.” I feel Brooke tense beside me. I glance at her, but she’s focused on her phone.
Em sighs. “If only he was playing Danny.”
Chloe gives her a shove. “Back off, baby. He’s Lauren’s lover boy.”
“Oooh.” Em leans toward us and wiggles her fingers. “Lover boy.”
Brooke stands up and pushes past them. “You guys are so lame.”
Chloe and Em jump in the air and high-five each other. “Y-a-y lame!”
Brooke rolls her eyes, and Chloe and Em run across the park to the swings. I sip my drink, not wanting to get too drunk, just buzzed enough to keep the edge off.
I’m about to ask Brooke if she wants to go for a walk when a rusted old Toyota Corolla pulls up across the park. Five guys, including Jesse, pile out of the car. Then Mike Choi, the driver, pops the trunk and Tyler and Justin crawl out.
“They put people in the trunk?” I say. Mike only has his learner’s permit, which means he isn’t supposed drive without an adult in the car, let alone with people in the trunk.
Brooke just shrugs and calls out, “Hey!”
Justin waves at us.
We start walking down the hill to where the guys are dumping their backpacks and setting up lawn chairs. Suddenly, I feel a little drunker than I thought I was, as if my feet are farther away from my head than usual. I grab Brooke’s arm to avoid stumbling as we head down the hill. More kids arrive, including some of the cast of Grease, and then Chantal and Kelly stroll up the hill, their cigarettes glowing in the dark.
“Hey, what’s up?” Kelly says.
“Not much.” Brooke shrugs. “You?”
“Nothing. Looking for a party. Heard people were meeting up here.”
“Yep,” Brooke says, “we’re here.” She points to Chantal’s cigarette. “Can I have one?” Chantal silently hands her a cigarette and Brooke leans in and lights it off Chantal’s cigarette as if she’s been smoking all her life. Kelly holds out her pack to me. “You want?”
“Oh, no thank you.” Jeez, I sound like a dork.
Kelly shrugs and puts her pack away, and I take a purposeful sip of my vodka. It tastes worse than it did earlier.
The four of us stand and watch the boys. Usually, we try not to attract the attention of passing cars when we’re at the park. Tonight the guys seem louder, drunker, less concerned with keeping a low profile. Instead of lounging with their drinks and cigarettes, they are huddled together listening to Mike Choi.
“What are the drunken fucks doing now?” Kelly says. None of us reply. We watch Mike lift his hand to his forehead, yell something unintelligible and then sharply salute. The other guys salute back and then begin marching—no, goose-stepping—onto the field. I stare at them, my hands covering my mouth.
“What the hell are they doing?” Chantal says. We walk closer. Mike is explaining something, and as we approach, I can see they all have water guns. Not the big turbo kind, but little pistols that squirt at close range. Mike yells out some drunken command and half of the guys disperse, yelling and running into the trees around the edge of the park. I see Jesse loping across the grass.
“Oh,” Kelly says, “they’re playing war games again.”
“Again?” I say.
“Yeah, they did it lots this summer. It’s totally stupid,” Chantal says.
“Guys are so useless.” Kelly flips her hair. She and Chantal turn back toward the road. Brooke goes with them.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I say, not bothering to check if they’ve heard me. I make my way closer to where Mike is standing with Mac and Tyler and some other guys, talking into his phone as if it were a walkie-talkie. I don’t care that I’m alone and have no idea what I’ll say to them. I keep walking until I can see their drunken grins, their slouchy jeans and black toques. Then I realize they’re all wearing white armbands with Nazi swastikas on them. I stop and suck in my breath. Mike has his hand raised in another salute. “Heil Hitler,” I hear him yell into his phone. Tyler gives a war whoop. Then Mike whistles with his fingers—one short, shrill cry—and the rest of the guys take off after the others, yelling and shooting their water pistols into the trees. I stand there, gawking. Mike says into his phone, “Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Report to command central. Over and out.”
I’m still standing in the same spot, the guys streaming around me. What the hell? No, what the fuck? They’re playing at being Nazis? I feel sick to my stomach. I want to run away, but where can I go? Brooke is smoking with Chantal and Kelly by the road. Chloe and Em are down by the swings, practicing their dance moves. Em is attempting an awkward cartwheel, and Chloe is doubled up laughing. I decide to dodge my way into the trees, not far from Mike. I squat in the damp grass and try to straighten out the thoughts snarling up my head.
Breathe. It’s just a bunch of boys running around with water guns in a park at night, a stupid game. It’s not like they’re rounding up Jews or killing gay people. It’s not like they care that I’m Jewish or even know that I’m here. But still. Nazis? How can they be so stupid? I feel panic start to rise in me, and I swallow it down. I don’t have time for panic; I have to be clearheaded. I look out into the field. If I need to escape, I can sneak up through the trees to the old railway tracks and walk home from there.
It is very dark now and getting colder. I pull on my mittens and jam my hands in my pockets. Why aren’t they pretending to battle Al Qaeda? I sit with my mouth open and watch Justin chase Tyler down the hill to get back to Mike without being squirted. Then Tyler trips, and Justin jumps on him and sprays him with his water pistol. I see Mac weaving through the trees, hunched over, looking behind him every few feet. I’m so intent on watching, I don’t notice anyone behind me until a voice says, “Hey, Yanofsky, is the coast clear?”
“Oh!” I jump up and turn around.
Jesse flicks a flashlight in my eyes. “Hah, I scared you.”
“I didn’t hear you coming.” I’m still gasping.
Jesse playfully shoves me in the shoulder, and I push him back. He’s wearing jeans, a red ski jacket and a black toque. His hair hangs over his eyes like a sexy eye patch. I realize I’m looking at him and not saying anything, but before I can open my mouth, Jesse grabs my arm and propels me in front of him and out from the trees. “Whaddya see?”
I swallow and try to compose myself. Jesse crouches behind me, still clutching my arm. I turn around and look at his beautiful face, then at the Nazi armband. The swastika is hand-drawn in black ink on white paper and held together with staples. Did they sit around making them while they drank? I feel the vodka churning in my gut. “So, whaddya see?” Jesse repeats. I peek around the tree. Mike has his back to us and is talking with Tyler and Justin. They are looking the other way, passing a beer back and forth.
“Am I good?” Jesse sounds impatient.
“Yeah.”
He squeezes my arm and takes off across the field. He jumps on Mike’s back and tackles him to the ground, squirting him in the head. Justin and Tyler fall down laughing.
I lean back against the tree and think about the pressure of Jesse’s fingers on my biceps, the brush of his armband against my jacket. Then I hear Brooke calling my name. I come out from the trees and head toward the streetlight along the road. Brooke walks toward me. Kelly and Chantal stand by the road.
“Hey, where were you?” she asks.
“Oh, watching the guys. Did you see what they were—”
“Hey, Brooke,” Chantal calls. “Are you coming?”
“Just a second.” Brooke turns to me. “We’re going to this other party at Kelly’s cousin’s friend’s house. Do you wanna come?”
I look at Kelly and Chantal, posed with their cigarettes. “Nah, I think I’ll hang with Em and Chloe.”
Brooke shrugs. “See you later then.” I watch them head toward the corner. Behind me, the guys have emerged from the trees and emptied their water guns and are now drinking and laughing. They’re still wearing their armbands. I don’t want to be near them, so I walk to the swing set where Chloe and Em are still working on their dance routine, oblivious to the guys.
I watch them a moment as they cavort in the sand.
It used to be the four of us on the swings.
“Hey, Lauren, we were looking for you,” Chloe calls out. “We’re going to DQ. Wanna come?”
I hesitate for a moment. I’m not up for more talk about Christian youth group or the play. I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, talk to you later,” Chloe shouts at me. She and Em put their arms around each other and start waltzing toward the road.
“So long,” Em sings.
“Farewell,” Chloe calls out.
“Auf weidersehen, goodnight,” they both shriek in falsettos. More giggles, more stumbling.
I stand, shivering, in the middle of the park, alone in the dark. The shortest way home is directly through the area where the guys are standing. I keep to the outside of the park instead, dodging through the trees and then breaking into a run at the hill. None of them glance my way, but I don’t stop until I’m crouched in the tall grass on the tracks, with my hood over my head. I take a few deep breaths. I feel better, safer, hidden from the boys below.
I try taking more deep breaths to calm myself, but I’m too agitated. I need distraction. I turn and sprint up the road to my street and then down the sidewalk to my house, not stopping until I get to our garage, where I slam myself against the wall and try to convince my heart to stop thundering in my chest. I start counting breaths and then try to send each breath all the way down to my toes.
When I’ve calmed down a little, I pop some spearmint gum in my mouth to cover up any alcohol on my breath, walk around to the front of the house and let myself in. Mom is waiting in the front hall for me. “Where were you?” she says.
I jump. “God, Mom, you scared me.” My pulse picks up again. “I was out with Brooke and Em and Chloe.”
“And where are they?” Mom looks pissed off, like I’ve missed my curfew, even though it’s only nine thirty.
“They went to DQ.” I twist my fingers behind my back. “What’s the problem?” I try to sound calm, even though I feel like I’ve had six cups of coffee.
Mom’s lips tighten into a grim little line. “Justin Ferguson’s mom called. She saw Justin getting into the trunk of Mike Choi’s car, so she followed them to the park, where the kids were all drinking and smoking.” She says trunk like it’s a swear word.
I suck in my breath. “I don’t know anything about guys in the trunk of a car.” I try to concentrate on standing still.
“And the drinking?”
“Chloe, Brooke, Em and I were just there for a little while.” I start to sweat in my jacket.
“Why were you in the park at night?”
“Oh, just hanging out.” I take off my jacket and hang it in the closet, trying to act casual.
“At night? Since when do you girls hang out in parks at night?”
“Oh, we were only there for a bit, to meet up.” I kick off my shoes.
“I don’t want you hanging out in parks at night. It’s not safe.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble.
“Lauren?”
I turn to face her. “Okay. I heard you.”
Mom sighs, and I head down to the basement, where I sit in the workshop and hug my knees to my chest. Maybe the boys just saw the Nazis on the History Channel and thought it looked cool or funny to goose-step. Maybe they don’t actually know about the Holocaust, about what the Nazis did. I hold my breath for a moment and try to imagine this. Can there actually be people who haven’t heard about the Holocaust? I try to imagine what it would be like to be a guy like Justin: white, male, smart enough, a good athlete, oblivious to genocide. His parents are still together, and he lives in a nice house near Chloe. What would it be like to grow up and only be part of regular culture: Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving?
But what if the guys do know what the Nazis did? Maybe they think white supremacy is actually a good idea. Maybe next week’s game will be about rounding up the geeks at school, or tormenting the Chinese kids. My heart starts going so fast, it feels like it’s going to take off like a rocket. I try to focus on my breathing, but I feel like I can’t get enough air. “Okay, this is just a panic attack,” I whisper aloud. “I’m not dying.” Still, tears form in my eyes, and I feel like smacking my fist against the wall to stop the building anxiety. I’ve had barely any panic attacks since that first big one in grade eight. The doctor said there were meds I could take if they got really bad, but I’ve always managed to calm myself down on my own. I force myself to think about five things for five senses. Okay, I feel the cold floor, I see the workbench, I smell the carpeting, and, um, my mouth tastes awful. Okay, what’s the other sense? Right, hearing. Okay, I hear the hum of the furnace. I start over again. I feel the wall behind me, and I can hear leaves rustling outside. My mouth tastes vaguely of gum, and if I try hard, I can smell the paint cans. I keep going until I’m digging for smells and tastes and I’ve distracted myself from the boys and their armbands. My breathing slows. I’m not dying of a heart attack at sixteen. Then I start to feel sleepy and sore from sitting on the cement, and I get to my feet and go up to my room. I brush my teeth and pull on my favorite flannel pajamas with stars on them and get into bed. Only by imagining lanterns at the festival am I able to calm down and then finally sleep.