The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing Read online

  We slump down on the maroon leather couch together, and Gage says, “Did I tell you how great you look tonight?”

  I smile and clasp his knee. He looks like his regular self, which is more gorgeous than I’ll ever be. “So, I’m glad you got to meet Genevieve and Nicole.”

  “They weren’t what I was expecting,” he admits.

  “How?”

  “I guess I thought they’d be more like you. The three of you seem so different.” He grins. “I wouldn’t have expected Nicole to be into hip hop and pop either, judging by how she was dressed, which I guess shows you why that’s a bad idea — thinking you know something about someone because of what they look like.”

  “She doesn’t always dress like that either.”

  “Chameleon, huh?”

  “Sort of.” I bend to slip my shoes off. Then I swing my feet across Gage’s thighs and stretch out along the couch. “Don’t let me fall asleep,” I tell him.

  “I won’t.” Gage grabs one of my ankles. His other hand fits over my toes and begins to rub. He works his way down my foot, massaging the length of it, the instep, and then my individual toes. Now he has both hands at it, one of them working my heel and the other sliding slowly up into my pant leg, sensually stroking my calf.

  This is something that’s okay to do to someone who’s almost sixteen, I guess, and I dig my toes into his thigh and complain that he’s evil.

  “How is this evil?” he asks with a devilish grin. “You don’t like massages?”

  “It’s not really fair though, is it?” I say with a flirty look. “I can’t do anything back.” Panic streaks across Gage’s face. Just for a second, but I see it anyway. “I don’t mean that. I mean, you know, like a back massage or something.” Ever since the revelation about my age I’ve been doubly aware of the boundaries Gage wants to keep in place, which means keeping my hands to myself even more so than I would’ve a few weeks ago.

  “No, I know,” Gage says, his jaw relaxing.

  He really has to chill a little. We both know we’re not working our way up to full-blown sex. Not now and not in two months. I want to ask him to trust me, but that’s not how trust works. You can’t ask for trust and expect to receive it, like a cheque in the mail or something. It needs to evolve over time.

  “Can I tell you something?” I ask, shivering a little as I sit up.

  “Sure.” Gage has begun to look vaguely nervous again.

  “It’s just that I guess I’m kind of relieved that you’re not in a hurry to have sex.” I feel a blush work its way out from my nose all the way to the tips of my ears. “Because I don’t think I’m totally ready for it anyway, even though I really like you.” I’m not sure any of that came out right. I’m riding the charge of emotion I got from watching him tense up, speaking before I can think.

  It’s not that I haven’t imagined us doing it — I think about that multiple times a day — but there’s a gap between thinking about something and actually doing it. When it comes right down to it, I think I want to hang out in that gap with him awhile, just having some fun with each other in ways that won’t make either of us too nervous.

  Gage’s stare is infinitely quiet. “I really like you too,” he says. “I’m glad you didn’t leave with your friends. It wouldn’t feel right if we never had a chance to be alone tonight.”

  “Yeah.” That wild pulse of emotion’s still there, dancing under my skin. I’m like a volcano waiting to blow, and I probably shouldn’t say this next part at all but Gage does something to me that’s hard to ignore. “Maybe I shouldn’t think this way, but sometimes I wonder if you’d think that if you met me before.”

  “Before what?” Gage wants to know.

  I curl the hem of my top around my fingers and tell him about the twenty-nine pounds that seemed to change everything. Guys who had never really bothered with me before smiled at me in the halls or stopped me on the way into class to say hi, even though they knew I was with Jacob. Guys I didn’t know at all turned and stared, like they didn’t even know they were doing it. Twenty-nine pounds ago I was only attention-worthy because of Morgan, but now something else entirely deemed me worthwhile.

  I stop talking and wait for Gage — who has been watching me with an intent expression — to say something. He slides his hand around the back of my neck and gives me a long, unbroken look. “It doesn’t sound like a lot,” he says. “Twenty-nine pounds. I don’t think it would make that much difference to me.”

  “Like when you came into Total and even thought I looked cute in the uniform?” I say cynically. “You seriously think that would’ve happened if I was chunky?”

  Gage’s eyes zoom back towards the shelves full of old books and board games. Then he raises his chin and shines all his focus decisively back on me. “Honestly, maybe not, but it wouldn’t matter to me now that I know you and that’s the truth.”

  I think I believe him.

  “Are the tough questions over?” Gage asks, swivelling away from me as he pulls his crewneck clean over his head and tosses it to the ground. “Because I’m thinking I might take that back rub after all if you don’t mind.”

  The fact is I’ve never seen Gage shirtless — with his shirt or sweater pushed up, yeah, but not off. The only chest completely exposed before this moment was mine. Now I stare at Gage’s bare back, from his belted jeans all the way up his spine to the light brown locks of hair resting against his neck. I lean in to plant a quick kiss between his shoulder blades. My fingers rest on his shoulders while my thumbs move in deep, slow circles, communicating without words, dissolving any remaining doubts between us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ~

  MY TOTAL DRUG MART shift the next morning starts at eight, which feels ridiculously early not so much because of Elliott’s party (I made my curfew with six minutes to spare) but because of the time I spent in front of the TV afterwards, thinking over a lot of things as it hummed in the background. I thought about Akayla and how in the future, when the timing seems right, I’d like to go over to Gage’s and hang out with them both one day. If I were him I wouldn’t want my girlfriend hanging out with my daughter a lot in case she gets attached and things don’t work out, but maybe every so often would be all right.

  More than that, though, I thought about how relieved I was that Genevieve and Nicole were willing to meet and make an effort with Gage. And I thought about how I haven’t been fair to Izzy and Marguerite, who were my friends — and good ones — before I ever got to know Genevieve and Nicole. It’s weird when you get really excited about people — whether that’s Genevieve, Nicole, or Gage — you just want to be around them all the time, especially when you feel like you’re on the same wavelength, which is how I feel about all three of them.

  Still, that’s no excuse to neglect my old friends, and I plan to spend a bit more time with Izzy and Marguerite from now on, if they still want me to. I also realized, as I lay in front of the television with some semi-dirty old movie on low, that I could hardly feel that emptiness inside me anymore. Not that I thought I was cured. The hole shrinks and grows at different times, I guess. Maybe it’s the same way with other people only they don’t say. I think it must have been the same, only much worse, with Devin, and I wish he could’ve talked to me about it before his drug problem spiralled out of control.

  Some of these thoughts spill over into the next day, when I’m standing at the Total Drug Mart checkout, offering early morning customers a sleepy smile. We’re not usually busy early so there’s time for me to think and to wander over to the cosmetics department to talk to Angela about the new plaza they’re building just behind ours and what will be in it. Somehow Angela knows Gage and I are seeing each other, although I never said anything. Anyway, Angela tells me Gage is a good guy, which by now I know for a fact.

  While Angela and I are chatting by the Elizabeth Arden products, a girl about my age wobbles
into the store with the remains of her mascara draining down her face. Her eyes are bloodshot, she’s teetering on spiky-heeled brown ankle boots, and she smells like cigarettes. If I had to guess I’d say she hasn’t been home since last night. The girl notices me looking her over and glances blearily back like she’s so tired that she doesn’t care who sees her crying.

  I have no idea what happened to her, sometimes just drinking too much is enough to make people cry, but she makes me think of myself that night in November when I left Wyatt’s party and walked home alone in the dark because that seemed like a better thing to do than listening to Jacob and his friends scream at me to kiss Aya. The girl doesn’t just remind me of me, though. She reminds me of Nicole’s skinned leg filled with pebbles because of the lanky junior who wouldn’t quit watching Liam Powers’s video on his phone and of how last night, even after months, she’s still worried about people recognizing her and making trouble. There’s Aya too. No one would dare say a word against her while Joyeux’s around, and I get the feeling he’ll be around a lot, but she had it pretty bad for a while.

  All of it starts to make my brain work overtime, wondering what we could do to stop all this nastiness in its tracks. Would it be crazy to try to start some school club, some anti-bullying, anti-harassment thing? It’s something I should really talk to Genevieve about. She was student council treasurer last year; she knows all about how Laurier operates. We’d need a teacher as a club advisor. Maybe Genevieve would have ideas about that too. Or we could make a Facebook group. Or do both. As the stream of Total customers picks up the thought gets pushed to the back of my head, but it’s definitely something to look into.

  The afternoon rushes by, and before I know it my father’s picking me up, chauffeuring me home so I can change out of my uniform and reapply makeup. The LeBlanc family dinner outing has been pinned down to a seven o’clock reservation at a Toronto restaurant called Hi-Lo. We meet in Yorkville, which is a swank part of town full of highrise condos that no normal person could ever afford. I think I spot Rachel McAdams when we walk into Hi-Lo. She’s talking to an Asian woman with a buzz cut who could be famous too, but I don’t happen to recognize her.

  The model-gorgeous hostess leads me and my parents to Morgan’s table. He and Jimmy have already started a bottle of wine and they look relaxed but happy to see us. I drop myself into the chair next to Jimmy’s and wish we had a moment alone so I could update him about Gage and my friends.

  As usual, my dad doesn’t have much to say to Jimmy. He talks politics with Morgan while Jimmy engages Mom in a conversation about her work with the museum. I peruse the menu and keep an ear on both discussions. Soon the waiter drifts over to take our orders, and while Mom’s busy ordering Jimmy leans closer to me and asks how things are going. “Actually good,” I tell him. “After all the earlier drama everything’s pretty much worked out now.”

  “Terrific!” Jimmy says, his shoulder nudging mine.

  I glance covertly at my family and whisper, “If you text me your email address later I can fill you in.”

  “Definitely!” Jimmy says. “I love happy endings.” Morgan does too. He’s not into crime shows or tragedies; he’d rather watch something guaranteed to keep a smile on his face.

  In fact, my brother tries to work his famous Morgan LeBlanc magic as we sit awaiting our drinks and appetizers. I know precisely what Morgan’s plan is — a few days ago he explained about presenting my parents with a Toronto theatre company subscription for their upcoming twenty-fifth anniversary.

  Morgan reaches across the table and hands Mom a small beige envelope. “That’s a little something for the both of you, from the three of us.” Morgan wouldn’t let me pitch in with any cash but he signed my name to the anniversary card, which he now passes to Dad. Mom, especially, used to be a big theatre fan, and up until last summer my parents would hit a production every month. Dad rips open his envelope, reads the card, and jokingly says he hopes whatever’s in the other envelope doesn’t set the bar too high for him. The four of us face Mom, who is peering at a sheet of paper that was folded inside her envelope.

  “You can choose any ten of the twelve plays the company will be performing this year,” Morgan explains.

  “Yes … I see,” Mom says, sucking in her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “Here.” Morgan reaches down beside his chair, waves a colour brochure in the air, and passes it to my mother too. “It was too big to fit in the envelope.”

  Mom sets the brochure down next to the tiny envelope without opening it. She attaches her stare to the table in front of her, blinking quickly. None of us seem able to speak. All eyes are stuck on Mom, waiting for her to offer some sign we can move on from this jagged, uncomfortable moment.

  Morgan’s heart is in the right place, but I knew my mother would balk at the idea. Too many nights away from home hang in the balance. She’s not supposed to enjoy herself anymore. I know this without her having to say it, and suddenly I also know what I didn’t foresee before, that taking my parents out to dinner and springing the anniversary gift on them has increased the pain associated with the occasion. My mother had a chance to steel herself against Christmas and birthdays because she knew they were coming. She didn’t guess tonight would be special, and now it’s become a special night without Devin.

  The second I realize that I try to fix it. “It’s okay, Mom,” I say. “You don’t have to use them all.”

  A fat tear squirms its way down my mother’s cheek. “It’s not okay.”

  Dad pushes his chair swiftly away from the table and stumbles to his feet, obviously unwilling to deal with the melancholy turn our dinner plans have taken. He strides away from us without looking back. Morgan wrinkles his forehead. He frowns and squints at Dad’s back receding into the distance. “Shit.” Morgan’s eyes dart to mine. “Should I go after him?”

  “Go,” I advise.

  But left with my mother, I don’t have a clue what to say to make her feel better. I suppose the only one who could make her feel any better right now is Devin.

  I hate him for that.

  Jimmy cocks his head to indicate the approaching waiter. “Our drinks. We could certainly use them around about now, couldn’t we?”

  Jimmy pats the table in front of my mother. “Do you want something a little stronger, Tessa? I was thinking of moving on to cocktails myself.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I kid, trying to give the atmosphere a shove in the right direction.

  “You go ahead,” Mom tells me, and at first I think she doesn’t mean it. “I don’t want to spoil everyone’s night.” She pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers and tilts her head forward. “Whatever you want, Serena. It’s fine.”

  “There’s plenty of night left, Tessa!” Jimmy insists. “Nothing’s spoiled. Don’t you worry about it.” Jimmy takes the liberty of ordering two margaritas for them.

  My mother glances at me and adds, “Make that three, please.”

  I’ve never had a real cocktail before, just rum and Coke or screwdrivers. As soon as the margarita arrives I take a sip and decide I don’t like it but continue to drink it anyway. By then Jimmy’s begun to entertain us with stories about his own dysfunctional family, including his alcoholic, homophobic middle-aged uncle who has a habit of ranting drunkenly at Jimmy to at least consider trying to sleep with women (“Some of them look almost like boys, anyway, Jimmy, and lots of young women are up for experimental sex”).

  “My own explanation of what I’m looking for in a partner bounces off him each time,” Jimmy muses. “But when he gets good and tired of listening to it, he decides it’s time to berate my father for failing to turn me into a ‘real man.’ And my father, the poor man, I think silently half agrees with him so doesn’t know which one of us to argue with and gets very quiet until my uncle passes out cold.” Jimmy picks up his margarita glass and gives it a gentle shake. “At which point he complains
about him bitterly. So this is all very civilized in comparison.”

  “That’s terrible,” my mother says earnestly. “People have to let you be who you are.”

  “Live and let live.” Jimmy smiles sagely. “I completely agree with you, but at the same time I think we’re most comfortable with people who are our mirror images.”

  That feels like the truth, and I nod at Jimmy and swallow more of my margarita. Dad and Morgan have yet to reappear, but somehow the upset seems more easily handled without them. I’m really starting to hope that Morgan and Jimmy get married one day. Jimmy would be such a good thing for our family, and he’s not easily fazed by our shortcomings either. I feel an undiluted burst of affection for him and wonder whether Devin would like him too.

  At last our food shows up, followed by worn-looking versions of Morgan and my father. No one mentions their absence or what brought it about; Mom ogles Dad’s basket of exotic mushrooms appetizer and remarks, “That sauce looks tasty, Peter.”

  Dad spears a mushroom and pops it in his mouth. “Rich,” he comments. “But very, very good.”

  And this is the way our dinner continues, with no further discussion about the theatre tickets. We talk about the weather (the importance of snow tires again), a guy who jumped onto the TTC subway tracks to save an old woman who fell from the platform as a train approached, hockey (which really only Morgan and Dad know anything about), and pets (Morgan and Jimmy are trying to decide whether they want a kitten or a bird).

  When the bill arrives Morgan and Dad haggle over their portions, which I guess means everything’s back to normal, or as close as we get in my family these days. Morgan and Jimmy cabbed it to Hi-Lo, and Dad offers to drop them off at their apartment. The group of us troop out to the sidewalk and head for the nearby parking lot where we dumped the car earlier in the evening.