The Lighter Side of Life and Death Read online

  “Neither,” Brianna says, doing her best to ignore Merilee’s comment.

  “Technically it’s garlic bread,” Merilee confirms, grinning at me. “It just looks like pizza.”

  Brianna turns to face the microwave. “So you want some?”

  “Yeah, sit with us,” Merilee pleads, closing her magazine. “Give us the heads-up on GS. We’re all going there next year, you know. Is it as bad as they say? Like that story about a girl running a blow job lottery and blowing guys in the janitor’s closet. Is that true?”

  Brianna looks mortified and this Merilee person’s staring at me like I could walk on water. “I never heard that,” I tell her. “It’s a good school as long as you don’t get messed up with the wrong people.”

  Merilee wants to know who the wrong people are and what kind of people I hang out with, but it’s pretty clear that what she really wants is to keep me in the kitchen. “Where’s Burke, anyway?” I ask as Brianna offers me a square of melty garlic bread.

  “He has a playdate,” she replies, setting the rest of the garlic bread on the table in front of Merilee and Jane. “You can watch TV in the basement if you want. We’re not watching it.”

  “Why do you keep trying to get rid of him?” Merilee asks.

  “Why don’t you just go upstairs with him if you like him so much?” Brianna snaps.

  “We’re just talking.” Merilee fixes a vicious death grip stare on Brianna while Jane glances helplessly up at me. “Why don’t you take a pill or something?”

  “I’m so sure that’s all you want to do—talk to him.” Brianna swings around to face me at the counter. “Just go already, Mason. Gawd.”

  The kitchen’s tension level has already spiked to epic proportions and now I’m smack in the middle of it. “I’ll go when I’m ready,” I say. I don’t particularly want to hang around but I’m not taking any more shit from Brianna. That attitude has to go.

  “You see,” Merilee says triumphantly. “He wants to stay.”

  “Gawd, Merilee.” Brianna scowls and reaches for Merilee’s magazine. “Talk about throwing yourself at someone.”

  “Talk about being a bitch,” Merilee retorts.

  “Sounds like your friend knows you pretty well,” I say, staring intently at Brianna. “Can’t you ever be nice? Even just for two minutes? Seriously, Brianna, what’s the problem?”

  Brianna pales as she stares back at me. “You don’t know me,” she says grimly. “And you don’t know my friends.”

  “Whatever.” My voice oozes sarcasm. “Thanks for the garlic bread.” I flash her the biggest, cheesiest grin my lips can manage and walk off with a mouthful of garlic. The girl’s personality impairment isn’t worth my time.

  Burke’s home in time for dinner and we have another one of those traditional family meals where the five of us sit around discussing our day. We’re coming up on the three-week mark but I can’t say this communal-dinner thing feels any more natural than it did on day one. Maybe I’m just too old to get into the idea of siblings and place settings. All I know is that every time I sit down at the table with them I feel like I’m showing up for Stepfamily Integration 101.

  Burke’s chin is covered in spaghetti sauce, even though Nina cut his noodles into inch-long mini-strips. Half the time I cut mine up like that too. It’s a lazy way to eat but who cares?

  Dad and Nina are talking about this glow-in-the-dark minigolf place where one of his hygienists held a birthday party for her son. The hygienist was full of good things to say and Dad and Nina want to head over there with Burke and Brianna tomorrow. “You too if you’re free, Mason,” Dad says.

  Brianna glances at me from across the table, the tension from earlier hanging in the air, thick as L.A. smog. “Don’t worry,” I say to her. “I’m not planning on going.”

  “I don’t care where you go.” Brianna focuses on her spaghetti.

  “Brianna!” Nina’s head swivels sharply. She gapes at Brianna, her nostrils flaring. “That’s rude.”

  “He started it.” Brianna twirls a long strand of spaghetti expertly around her fork. Her face is expressionless, like she’s trying not to care.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “This is her specialty.”

  “What?” Brianna drops her fork. Bolognese sauce splashes onto her wrist. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Being a queen bitch.”

  Brianna’s shoulders sag. She picks up her fork and mashes into the spaghetti like it’s a pile of potatoes. She’s speechless and the satisfaction spreads from my fingers all the way up to my cheeks. I sit there grinning wildly to myself over a plate of steaming spaghetti. I’m a hero.

  “Mason!” Dad rarely shouts but he’s shouting now. “That’s unacceptable. Apologize to Brianna.”

  Burke’s eyes pop wide open. He turns in his chair so most of his body’s facing me. Brianna hasn’t finished pulverizing her pasta. Her face is blotchy and I shouldn’t say it but you know I will. Why step out of the line of fire now? “Sorry you’re such a bitch, Brianna. It must be a tough haul. I mean, it’s pretty well twenty-four seven, isn’t it? You never take a break.”

  Dad’s fist pounds the table. “Mason, I want an apology out of you this second and let me tell you, it better be good.”

  Brianna drops her fork for the second time. She tears out of the room as Dad glares at me. “Good job, Mason,” he says. “Are you happy with yourself?”

  “You don’t understand,” I tell him. “She’s impossible.”

  “I don’t care,” Dad yells. “You’re three years older and you know better than to treat someone like that!”

  You know what? I’m not hungry anymore. “I’m done,” I say coldly. “Thanks, Nina. It was really good.”

  Nina nods and I notice her elbows aren’t on the table anymore. She doesn’t look angry with me, just discouraged. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “We’ve been having some problems.”

  “I know,” she confirms.

  “Leave the table, Mason,” Dad commands.

  Gladly. I leave my unfinished spaghetti sitting in a heap on my plate and go upstairs. Billy scurries towards me in the hallway, his eyes glowing with malevolence. If he lays into me now I’ll fight back, swear to God.

  I pass Billy first, then the bathroom. I stand outside of Brianna’s bedroom, listening at her door. If I heard her crying would I apologize? I don’t know the answer to that but I don’t hear anything anyway, just the distant sound of plates clanking as they’re loaded into the dishwasher.

  sixteen

  I never do apologize to Brianna but glow-in-the-dark minigolf isn’t optional anymore. Dad reserves a one o’clock tee time and I pile reluctantly into his Ford Taurus along with everyone else. The black-lit mini-golf place spews out thunderous pop-punk tunes as we play, making it easy for Brianna and me to blend into the background. Burke, on the other hand, careens around the fake coral reef and kaleidoscope-colored UFOs like he’s on crack.

  It’s cool, though; he’s having fun. He doesn’t even mind about coming in second-last. (Nina’s officially the worst golfer I’ve ever seen.) Being the youngest, I guess he’s used to it.

  Afterwards Nina supervises him in the video game room while Dad, Brianna and I head for the snack bar. Dad veers off to look for the bathroom and Brianna and I grab munchies and a table for six. “The lighting in this place is really throwing me,” I tell her, holding out my open bag of M&M’s. I was still pissed with her when I fell asleep last night but this morning the anger seemed pointless; we still have to share a house together. “It could be midnight out there,” I continue, “or the middle of February.” Brianna shakes her head at the M&M’s and slurps her soda. “Next thing you know they’ll be packing us off to Disney World and taking family snapshots with Mickey Mouse.”

  Brianna nods dully and gnaws on her straw, hamster-like. If she’s impressed by my sociability you’d never know it. “How’s your hand?” she asks, staring at the single remaining bandage.

  “It’s okay.
No sign of cat scratch disease or rabies yet.” Before she can contradict me and say that rabies takes a lot longer to show up or that her cat doesn’t have any diseases or whatever the hell she intends to say, I add, “Listen, Brianna, what’s your problem with me, anyway?” Believe me, I say that as patiently as I can. I’m tired of the animosity.

  “I never said I had a problem with you.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” I say. “It’s like you and your cat are in a frigging contest to prove who hates me the most.”

  “That’s not true.” Brianna presses her fingertips down on the table until they turn white. “Does everybody automatically have to like you?”

  Pretty much, yeah. But I scoff at that and scoop up a handful of M&M’s. “I just thought if there was a problem we could talk about it.”

  “You know, you don’t have to do this,” she insists. “Nobody’s even around to hear it.”

  “That’s not why I’m—”

  “Anyway, I don’t hate you,” she says, interrupting. “Merilee can be a real pain. I thought I was doing you a favor.” Her voice is calm but her vibes are as defensive as ever. Frustration ripples through me as I scrutinize her. I don’t want to spend the next fifteen months in constant conflict with this girl I barely know. There has to be a solution.

  Just then Dad pulls up a chair and sits down between us. “It’s hot in here,” he says, wiping his brow. “Is anyone else warm?”

  “I’ll get you a drink,” Brianna volunteers. “What do you want?”

  Dad reaches for his wallet and tells her he’d love a lemonade or iced tea. As she walks away he gives me this funny smile as if to say You see, she’s not as bad as you think. Maybe. The fact is, she does act a notch or two less hostile with me for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe that’s as good as it gets with her.

  The remainder of the weekend is taken up with a Saturday-night movie with Charlie Kady (the Whole Foods girl has a family wedding), various homework assignments that I don’t get around to finishing and an endless Sunday-night session with Colette. We heat up chicken korma and fool around on her couch and then her bed. It’s every bit as hot as Thursday only less surprising so she takes a little less time and I take a little more and somehow by the end of it we still haven’t fucked and I don’t even mind.

  That’s how it goes with us all week—warm mouths, naked skin and these bits of time that seem like forever while they’re happening. It’s utterly fantastic except for three minor things. One, Colette’s habit of barging into the bathroom to brush her teeth while I’m taking a piss. Two, my eternal and embarrassing transportation problem. Three, the prescription made out to Ari Lightman on the bathroom counter next to her soap dish.

  Spending so much time alone with Colette has strange side effects. Virtually everything that happens while we’re apart seems disjointed, like raw documentary footage that needs editing. I’m restless during my Presentation and Speaking Skills debate on cloning and rush through my rebuttal (because I know it doesn’t matter) but get angry when Ms. Courier criticizes my performance (because I know she’s right). Kat watches me during history when she thinks I’m not looking but doesn’t try to speak to me or send me any more happy faces, and Jamie spends lots of time talking to me now but only while we’re at school.

  Then there’s Brianna, who passes me in the hall one evening and catches me off guard by saying she’s about to watch a Reese Witherspoon movie with Jane in the basement and that I probably don’t like Reese Witherspoon anyway but if I do I can come watch because they’re about to start. So I watch half this Reese Witherspoon movie in the basement with them, assuming that this is our pseudo-sibling version of a truce, and then Colette calls and I spend the other half on the phone in my bedroom with the TV volume up high so no one can hear what I’m saying.

  With Colette even silly ten-minute conversations about nothing feel larger than life. Sometimes I wonder if that’s because we’re this dirty little secret and maybe if everyone knew, our relationship wouldn’t feel so important. Sure. Who am I kidding? Every time she calls I feel like Burke tearing around the mini-golf course with electric eyes and infinite energy.

  Seeing her is an even bigger rush. We can’t pretend to run into each other at The Java Bean forever so we do this thing where we meet in the parking lot a few blocks from her work. I stand a couple rows over from her Toyota in case a coworker walks into the lot with her. It hasn’t happened yet but if it does she’ll meet me outside Hennessy’s pub with the car. On this particular Thursday the coast is clear again and she smiles at me as she unlocks the doors. The weather’s too amazing to spend the entire night indoors (like we have for the past week) so we drive to Toronto where we can blend into the crowd.

  I like the idea of walking around outside with her (and knowing that we’ll still have plenty of time alone in her apartment later). We buy fully loaded hot dogs from a street vendor and stroll across Queen Street West looking at vintage-clothing stores, juice bars and eclectic cafés. Antiques shops and independent bookstores huddle between hip bars and tattoo places. In fact, with every step we’re surrounded by tattoos and food—The Bishop and the Belcher, Tiger Lily’s Noodle House, the Queen Mother Cafe—an endless jumble of sizzling aromas and tribal art. I tell Colette we should get matching tattoos and we search through pages of designs (from Sanskrit symbols to skulls to Celtic knots) before she says, “You’re not serious about this, are you?”

  “Were you?” I ask in surprise. Here I thought we were both kidding but all of a sudden I know I’ll go through with it if she wants to.

  “Definitely not,” she confirms. “We’ve just been looking at so many that I was starting to wonder.” We close the book of Chinese symbols we’ve been scanning and cross slowly towards the door. “I’m a big coward when it comes to things like that,” she adds. “I get faint whenever I have a blood test. Just seeing the needle pierce the skin …” She shudders and I grab her hand. Then we’re outside, walking down the street holding hands like any regular couple. It’s not the smartest idea but it comes so naturally that neither of us stops to question it.

  “So how do you handle the dentist?” I ask. My dad has a reputation for putting his patients at ease but I’m sure Colette wouldn’t want to see him. We don’t need to add any more layers of complexity to our relationship.

  “I only go every couple years,” she says guiltily, as though I’m about to lecture her about gingivitis in the middle of Queen Street. “Whenever I can work up the courage.” She squeezes my hand. “What about you, what are you phobically afraid of?”

  Phobic is a strong word. The idea of bats flapping around my head freaks me out but I’ve never seen one outside of the zoo. I’m trying to come up with a better answer when Ian Chappell’s face jumps out at me from the crowd. He’s walking towards us in a white tunic and skinny black pants, looking just enough like his Spin Cycle character for me to notice him.

  Jesus, that’s Miracle on his right. Dread sweeps across her cheekbones and jaw but she’s quick to fix that. By the time we’re standing in front of each other she looks like a girl in a soap commercial: springwater clean and in perfect emotional balance.

  “Mason,” she says, smiling. “How’re you?”

  “Good,” I reply quickly. And still holding Colette’s hand. “You guys doing the Queen Street circuit?” My goal is to get through this conversation without commenting on either of our bizarre pairings. I guess you could call it improv.

  “Yeah, it’s a great evening, isn’t it? No humidity. I love it down here.” Miracle blows me away, as usual. She’s exuding calm in the middle of our chaos, her hair moving gently in the wind as she holds my gaze. Is it possible she has nothing to hide?

  “Beautiful. I should come down here more often.” I let go of Colette’s hand and motion towards Miracle. “Colette, this is Miracle.”

  “Miracle,” Colette repeats. Her posture’s wooden but her voice is casual. “That’s a beautiful name.”

  “Thank you.” M
iracle slopes her head a little, almost like a miniature bow. “I didn’t like it at all when I was younger but I’m doing my best to grow into it.” Miracle switches her gaze to Ian Chappell. “Mason, this is Ian. You remember we saw him in Spin Cycle?”

  I nod. “Of course.” I didn’t think she’d bring that up but it gives us something else to talk about. “You were outstanding,” I tell him. “You had me on edge until the very last second. You were like one of those guys with wild eyes you see in the street, you know? The kind where you wonder if they’re going to start swearing at you for no reason and then they say something smart that makes you wonder if maybe they’re not so crazy after all.” I might be babbling. Why am I so freaked? Miracle isn’t going to tell anyone. And what is she doing with Ian Chappell, anyway? We need to have a private conversation ASAP.

  Ian Chappell stares at me with fiercely observant eyes. “Exactly,” he says. “That’s really my feeling about Tom too. Always on edge. Never misses a beat. Very compelling guy but I can’t say I’ll miss him. That’s a heavy load of tension to carry around.”

  Miracle glances down at her watch. “You know, we should probably get some food before you have to head over to the theater, Ian.”

  “You’re right.” Ian touches a strand of her hair, only for a second but that’s long enough to answer my question about their status. “You two want to come along? There’s a terrific Thai place not two minutes from here.”

  So Ian isn’t in hiding after all. He has to be close to thirty and it doesn’t bother him that Miracle’s only seventeen. Or maybe he doesn’t know.

  “We can’t,” Colette says, feigning regret. “We have to get moving too.”

  Past my bedtime. Shit. I can’t believe Miracle’s hooking up with this thirty-year-old professional actor she couldn’t even speak to a couple weeks ago. I don’t know whether I should be happy for her or if I should plan a one-man intervention. Does she know what she’s doing? Do I? Does anyone?

  Apart from all that I wish I could talk to Ian Chappell about acting awhile longer. There’s so much he could tell me. “Yeah, we have to go,” I say.