Thanksgiving weekend is long and grey. Rita says she doesn’t want to make Halloween costumes this year because she’s in grade ten and too old for that stuff. Now she’s mad because her brother Steve won’t give her and Imogene a ride to the Youth Centre. She tells Imogene to stand guard while she searches for change in Steve’s room for a trip to the store. “Cough if you see him coming,” she says. She comes out with a handful of quarters and nickels from the jar by his bed. “If we don’t get out of here, Mom will make us peel potatoes,” she says.
Imogene knows Rita only wants to go to the Youth Centre to see who’s there. They walk towards the store and meet Natalie Sampson along the way.
“Store’s closed for Thanksgiving,” Natalie says. She smells like Bazooka gum. Imogene imagines it’s what happens when your folks own a store; you can grab a handful of something on your way out the door. Natalie’s cheeks puff out with each chomp. She doesn’t offer them any.
“Everyone is going down to play softball,” Natalie says.
“Who’s going?” Rita says.
“Everybody.”
“Who’s everybody?”
“Everybody. There’s nothing else to do.”
“Well, I’m not playing,” Rita says. “But we can go watch.”
Imogene knows Rita wants to know if Nick Cleary is included in everybody. Nick Cleary has shiny black hair and his bum looks good in a pair of gym pants. His name is often seen written on binders and bathroom walls. A lot of Rita and Imogene’s time is spent watching groups of boys that include Nick Cleary play sports. There are other cute boys, like Wish Benoit, who has a sweet smile and built shoulders, but overall, watching the guys gets pretty boring.
And lately, it feels like Rita doesn’t have much to discuss with Imogene. There are always many things to tell Imogene, but these are told without expectation of a response: “Let’s walk past Nick’s house. If we see him, we’re on our way to the store. Cough if you see him. Don’t stare at him, just cough.”
Otherwise, they can walk together for an hour and only exchange a few words. They share a seat on the bus, but rarely chat on the journey. Imogene sometimes feels even though they are cousins and have always been friends, for Rita, it is more like a habit. There are things Rita wants to do, but won’t do them alone—having Imogene present makes them safe. Also, Rita is in grade ten, a grade ahead of Imogene, and if more of Rita’s classmates lived close by, she might prefer different company. Definitely not junior-high company.
But overall, it doesn’t really bother Imogene because Rita has baker’s chocolate-coloured hair, which flows past her shoulders, and she possesses the right level of funny, saucy, and sweet. Everyone likes her, but they aren’t hungrily jealous of her. No one wants to get on Rita’s bad side, so there’s less chance of getting a hard time.
And hard times get given. Quincy MacIssac is a usual receiver, with his nervous ticks and mouthful of foamy braces, his ironed jeans from Zellers and clean cotton polo shirts. Quincy, who speaks like he’s been practising his sentences all day. Quincy, who has trouble keeping eye contact and will focus on a spot just above or beside your head.
On listless days, roving packs of St. Felix’s youngsters descend on the MacIssac household to politely knock on the door and ask Joyce MacIssac if Quincy will join them: “Can Quincy come out to play? What’s Quincy doing, Mrs. MacIssac, we’re all heading to the beach.”
Quincy might be safe inside watching The Edison Twins or reading a comic book, but he will be bustled out by his mother. “Your friends are here, get outside, it’s a beautiful day.” And he will want to resist, but his mother is so happy other children want to see him. And he will look out and see their earnest faces and maybe they do want to see him. They are seeking out his company. He will haul on his coat and boots and they will scamper up his driveway and down MacCullen’s Hill together, like adventurers, like pioneers. And as soon as they are over the hill and out of sight of the road, it’s Free Smacks on Quincy and he will be pinned down on the damp grass while grubby hands smack and twist and pinch and rub glowing welts into his soft white belly. “Wince, Quince, wince! Free winces from Quince!” No one would ever play a trick like that on Rita.
Natalie and Rita walk in front of Imogene on the way to the softball game. Natalie has flaxen blond hair, and with Rita’s brown hair and Imogene’s red, they remind her of Neapolitan ice cream: three flavours together. She feels like saying this, but doesn’t.
Bikes line the fence by Aubrey Murphy’s field. A line of kids stand on the grass. Corey Mercer and Wish Benoit are picking teams. Rita leans against the fence. Nick Cleary stands in the line, back on to them; his grey sweatpants flutter against his legs.
“Good, you three are here,” Corey says. “We’re short.”
“Rita’s on my team,” Wish says.
“We’re just watching,” Rita says.
“C’mon, Reet.”
“I can’t play,” Natalie says. “I gotta hole in my heart.”
“I don’t want to play,” Imogene says. “I’m not very good.”
“It’s just a game. Help us out.”
“Yeah, no one gives a shit.”
Imogene knows this is lies. People always say it’s just a game and then they scream when you drop the ball. School claims it’s all about teamwork and fun and new skills. But serve the volleyball too low and see how pissed off they get. When Great Aunt Bride goes on about how half the country is fat, Imogene knows it’s because sports are such a miserable experience. Who wouldn’t want to go home and sit on their hands after being bitched at for eight innings?
There aren’t enough gloves to go around so they have to trade between innings. Donny is the only one with a left-handed glove, so Imogene has to use his. It’s damp inside and she tries not to think about him wiping his nose. She goes into the outfield when Wish’s team is up to bat and hopes no one hits it far. The grass has faded into dead yellow with dried cowpats here and there. No balls come her way until Nick Cleary is up to bat and he hits it right towards her. Everyone screams and she jumps in the air to catch it, but it sails over her, at least three feet above her head. Groans. “Git the ball!” She scrambles after it and throws it as hard as she can towards Randy on first base, but Nick is already on his way to second. The ball lands in a pile of dry cowshit about ten feet from Randy. He yells “Fuck” really loud.
The whole game is like this, like someone has collected all her physical weaknesses and created a performance. “Run faster, Immy! Eye on the ball! Throw it here, harder! Here, b’y, here.” After seven innings of displaying her shortcomings, she feels they are the only things known about her.
In the last inning with two out, Imogene is up to bat. Her team grumbles. She picks up the bat as casually as she can, like she doesn’t care, like an illiterate ripping pages out of a book. The outfielders move in with wide, resolved steps. What bullshit all this is. She swings and misses. Moans. She swings and misses. Cursing. She swings and misses. Natalie boos from her perch on the fence—the hole in her heart doesn’t prevent her from eating Smarties and offering commentary.
Imogene’s team yells and swears and the other team razzes them and she would like to go home. Rita is chatting with Nick Cleary. His head is low and leans into her hair. She catches Imogene’s eye and gives a quick shake of her head. So, home then. Imogene strolls off, trying to be nonchalant.
She kicks loose gravel off the pavement. Why is softball something she is expected to be good at? Besides a couple of weeks in gym class, she’s hardly played it. Who was supposed to play catch with her all these years? Maggie Tubbs? Nan? What an idea, Agnes Tubbs throwing loping underhand pitches in her paisley housedress. When she goes home, she’ll go into her room and close the door. She has about thirty pages to go in Many Waters and then she will be finished the Wrinkle in Time books. She will tell Maggie this the next time they talk and Maggie can think of another series to pick up for her in Toronto.
When she first hears the voices, she thinks they are calling for her to stop.
“Seize.”
Liam, Randy, and Donny are a couple of yards back, grinning like jack o’ lanterns. They don’t say anything when she looks back at them. She keeps walking. Seize. Liam’s voice and an immediate hiss of laughter from Randy and Donny. Seize what? Her guts sink in bubbling trepidation. Maybe an in-joke she doesn’t know. Maybe something stuck on the back of her pants. She concentrates on walking like a cool person.
“Seize, b’y.”
She looks back again. Liam’s face is a bright lively scowl. Randy and Donny walk crooked lines, doubled over in laughter. Liam makes sure to make eye contact. “Seas. Sheeeees-shoool.”
Cecil. Cec and Cecil.
She wants to run, but can’t run because if she runs they will know and they will know that she knows. She doesn’t run, but succumbs to walking fast in a compulsive, jittery gait.
“Fire up Cec’s hole today, b’ys.”
Howls from Randy and Donny. The pavement’s edge is riddled with cracks; the ditches choked with dark alder bushes. There is nowhere to go. She wishes she could step off the road and be gone, like Meg in the tesseract.
Eventually, they give it up—Cecil Jesso’s house is on the way to hers and they’re not that brazen. As soon as they turn back and are out of sight, Imogene runs. She runs to her driveway and through the door and into her room and lies in a ball on her bed. The light of the overcast sky glows around the curtains, clarifying their edges and imperfections. She tugs the covers up and lies there until supper. She shakes like a minnow out of the water, translucent and weakening.