The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing Read online

  Genevieve, Nicole, and I have lots of conversations like this, but we talk about deeper things like communism and poverty too. Nicole’s usually the one who burns out on those discussions first and makes us dance or go cruising. A couple of times Izzy and Marguerite or some of Genevieve’s and Nicole’s other friends join us, but the various groups don’t naturally gel. It’s so much easier when it’s just the three of us, so we root our New Year’s Eve plans in that. Nicole’s dad won’t care if we drink ourselves into a stupor at their place, but the plan is just watching movies, playing video games, and making fondue (which Genevieve has been wanting to do since she read about it in some 70s book about a couple that keeps screwing and then breaking up).

  I’m going to bring finger food like samosas and sausage rolls, and every time I think about it I smile. Making fondue will be exponentially more fun than wondering why no one worthwhile wants to kiss me at midnight.

  Unfortunately, I have the Christmas holidays to get through first. With no word from Devin, my parents avoid the season until the last minute. One night when Dad picks me up from Total Drug Mart I notice that they’ve put up the tree while I was work. Devin’s allergic to real trees so we have one of those fold-out fakes you buy at Walmart. It looks pretty good for an artificial tree, but I can’t imagine doing the holidays without Devin.

  “Are the lights going up outside too, then?” I ask my father.

  After a three-second delay he replies, “I suppose so. I’ll have to bring them up from the basement.”

  “You don’t have to,” I tell him as I stare at the Christmas tree. “You’ll only have to take them down again in ten days.”

  My father steps towards the tree, plucks a silver snowflake decoration from one of the middle branches, and repositions it on a barer lower branch. “Morgan’s coming for Christmas dinner.”

  So that’s why everything has to look passably festive. Morgan. “I thought he wanted everyone to go to that hotel in Toronto,” I say. Morgan told me his idea over the phone a few days ago. He did Sunday brunch at the King Edward Hotel a couple of months ago and thought it would be the perfect place to take our parents (plus me and his boyfriend, Jimmy) for Christmas dinner — high ceilings, a sevencourse meal, and old-style opulence.

  “Your mother wants to stay in,” Dad tells me. “You know she likes to do her turkey and stuffing. It’s tradition.”

  I suspect the point of Morgan’s idea was to distract us from LeBlanc traditions — and Devin — but he should’ve known Mom wouldn’t want to get dressed up and go out somewhere for Christmas. The only places she goes these days are work or the supermarket. If we were rich she’d probably never feel the need to leave the house.

  At Total Drug Mart I’m constantly surrounded by customers lining up for glossy wrapping paper, expensive skin cream gift sets, and boxes of Belgian chocolates. All the Christmas merchandise feels like theatre props and now it looks like I’ll have to put up with them at home too. There’s no escape.

  In fact, the next day my dad asks me to help him hang the outside lights, and on Christmas Eve my mother emerges from the den and insists I chop celery and onions for her stuffing recipe. It shouldn’t look like Christmas at our house and it definitely shouldn’t smell like it, but it does. After the stuffing’s done and sitting in a sealed container in the fridge I wash the homey smell out of my hair and go to bed before my parents can force any other fake seasonal activities on me.

  Why couldn’t we have skipped Christmas altogether just this once? It’d be more honest than the four of us (plus Jimmy) pretending that we feel happy together and aren’t wondering where Devin is and whether he’s still not well. I should’ve volunteered to take the Christmas evening shift at Total Drug Mart and then lied to Morgan and my mother that I never really had a choice in the matter, being a new employee.

  Because it’s too late for that I stay in bed for as long as I can on Christmas morning. When I get downstairs Mom and Dad have already opened the presents I left for them. I can’t afford the good stuff my mom goes crazy for, but the keepsake box I got her has tiny aurora borealis crystals on it, and when you hold it on a slant it shines like a rainbow. The engraving on it reads: For Mom at Christmas. Love Always, Serena.

  Mom smiles stiffly at me as I shuffle into the living room. My eyes land on the keepsake box, unwrapped under the tree next to the business card case I bought for my father. “Good morning, hon,” my mother says. “Thank you, that’s a beautiful gift.”

  It doesn’t really matter what I got her or what she got me. We both know that. “You’re welcome,” I tell her.

  Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Most of them left here are for you. I’m going to make some coffee. Can I get you a hot chocolate?”

  If this year were like the ones before it, Devin would already have brewed coffee. He always got up early on Christmas Day, and the first thing Devin used to do on a daily basis was either make coffee or head out to pick some up. The smell of strong java would be permeating the room now.

  I nod at my father and set to work opening my presents. If I were with Genevieve and Nicole everything wouldn’t feel like it was about Devin, but when I’m with my parents none of us can forget. Sitting under the tree with masses of stuff I don’t care about makes me feel raw like I did last summer. If someone turns on the radio to Christmas tunes my eyes will begin to sting.

  I rip through the gifts as fast as I can so that the three of us can put some distance between us and the tree. Then Mom disappears into the den while Dad and I dispose of all the torn wrapping paper. We’d normally head over to St. Stephen’s on Christmas morning, but I’m relieved that no one says anything about church.

  Later in the day Mom ropes me into assisting in the kitchen. She asks how it’s going at work and I tell her about one of my lazy co-workers who keeps coming in fifteen minutes late and how a couple of days ago I saw a teenage guy drop out of my line and join one with an older cashier because he was buying a package of mint tingle condoms.

  My mom smiles when I mention that. Not with the forced smile she had on her lips when I came downstairs but a real one. We talk more than we’ve talked in a long time. It feels nice, but I know better than to think it will last or to let myself miss it when it stops again. Not that I used to pour my heart out to my mother every day, but mostly now it feels like she’s rationing her words, saving energy for eBay bids and potential future Devin emergencies.

  While we’re cooking together it doesn’t feel like Christmas, exactly, it’s just boiling, baking, and basting. Busywork. When it’s time to set the table with poinsettia napkins, though, we both clam up. Next to opening presents, Christmas dinner feels like the hardest part of the day. Last Christmas I gave Devin a goofy-looking Einstein tie and E=mc2 tie pin that I ordered off the Internet, and when everyone else was either cleaning up or entertaining my grandparents he asked me about Clara, the ghost I used to see upstairs in our old house. I was really little at the time and my parents thought she was an imaginary friend, but I insisted she was real. It’s so long ago now that I honestly don’t know whether I made her up from bits of a dream I’d had or if there was something more to her. The image in my mind’s blurry, but Clara has a fancy black and white striped dress on, like something women would’ve worn a hundred years ago.

  Being older, Devin could remember more of the things that I’d told him about her than I could remember myself. “You said she had a nice person face,” he told me. “And that she smelled like flowers.”

  I hate that just setting the table on Christmas can make me remember good things about Devin. My parents tried to help him and he repaid them by throwing it back in their faces. Then he disappeared and made us wonder if he was still breathing. It’s not fair. I shouldn’t miss him. He doesn’t deserve it.

  “Serena, can you pour some filtered water into the pitcher and slice in some lemon?” Mom calls from the kitchen. Her voice is tired and I
know that she’s dealing with her own Christmas memories.

  I do what she asks, my mind reaching for another memory to snap into place and stop the Devin ones. Like the first time Jacob took off my top, and then my bra. I loved watching him undo the little green buttons. He was so careful about it, and the size of his fingers made the buttons look even tinier. After we were finished rolling around together I wanted to ask him to button them up again for me, but it seemed silly. I should’ve asked him, though. It’s a nice thought, someone doing up your buttons, taking care of you. It wouldn’t have made him the person I wanted him to be but it might have made me regret him less.

  God, what’s wrong with me today? Just because it’s Christmas doesn’t mean I have to go soft inside like a rotten banana. There are people who would love to have my cushy life.

  Sometimes I can pep talk myself out of sadness and sometimes I can’t. This feels like one of the can’t times and I’m starting to surrender to gloom when Morgan and Jimmy arrive. The doorbell even sounds like Morgan somehow. Jaunty. Like it should make me feel better.

  My dad answers the door and soon Morgan and Jimmy are carrying plates into the dining room for Mom. Jimmy’s the only male redhead I’ve ever seen that I would describe as good-looking. He has freckles, like most redheads, but the minute Jimmy starts talking to you they disappear. He and Morgan look impossibly glamorous standing in our kitchen in form-fitting shirts and black pants and a familiar jealousy slides under my skin. My brother shouldn’t be prettier than me.

  “This looks fabulous,” Morgan says, stopping to give Mom a peck on the cheek. “My mouth’s been watering since we walked through the door.”

  Mom looks pleased. “I have containers for leftovers. You can take some too if you like, Jimmy.”

  “I most definitely will,” Jimmy tells her. “Thank you, Tessa!” Jimmy speaks in exclamation marks a lot but it’s always positive things. He turns to me and says, “Cute highlights, Serena. You look like summer!”

  “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  My father has never quite figured out how to talk to Morgan’s boyfriends and usually ends up doing lots of polite smiling. Christmas dinner isn’t any different. Dad smiles and nods as the three of us listen to Morgan and Jimmy chat their way through dinner. Listening to them is easier than forming our own conversation, but eventually Morgan gets impatient. “You should’ve let me take you all to the King Edward,” he says, facing my mother. “It would’ve been so much less work for you.”

  “I like to do it,” Mom says, although her face seems to project the opposite.

  Morgan’s chin dips towards his collar. He looks like he wants to say something but Jimmy aims a cautionary glance his way. Morgan’s chin pops up again. His eyes settle on me across the table. “Do the Sandhars have their Christmas lights extravaganza up again this year? I thought I’d walk over there with Jimmy later and have a look.”

  “They have an ocean theme this year,” I tell him as I cut into a piece of white meat. “All the lights are green and blue. Santa has a boat instead of a sleigh and three dolphins are pulling it.”

  Jimmy laughs. “You’re kidding! I have to see this.”

  “They do something different every year,” Morgan explains. “One time they did Noah’s ark with tons of animal statues covering the yard and roof —”

  “They even had monkeys in the trees,” I cut in.

  “They did.” Morgan smiles as he nods. “And they were holding fluorescent bananas.”

  “Poseidon’s there this year,” I add. “He’s holding a … what do you call it … a pitchfork thing. He looks fierce.”

  “A trident!” Jimmy suggests in an exuberant tone. “Poseidon in a Christmas display, I love it!” An impish grin tugs at his lips. “I just hope he doesn’t smite Santa. Disaster! Who would deliver the toys?”

  “Maybe Neptune himself.” Morgan’s left hand brushes Jimmy’s right. For a second it makes me miss having someone to hold hands with. “We’ll check it out after. You can take some snaps.”

  According to Morgan, Jimmy shoots photos of everything, for reference. When you’re an artist like Jimmy is you have to take notice of things.

  “They hire the same team of people to put the display together every year,” Dad says with one of his polite smiles. “They must spend a fortune on it.”

  The Sandhars’ spectacular Christmas lights give us all something to say, except Mom. I see that she’s barely touched her turkey and that there’s a mound of stuffing and garlic mashed potatoes left on her plate too. The vegetable medley is the only item she’s made any headway on, and when I notice that I lower my own fork and wonder if Devin even knows about the Sandhars putting up a Christmas Poseidon. It was in the Glenashton newspaper a couple of weeks ago but Devin probably wouldn’t see the Glenashton paper where he is.

  Vancouver. New York. Mexico. Newmarket. It’s Christmas everywhere on the planet today, and wherever he is, I hope Devin hasn’t given up on getting well because I can’t give up on him, no matter how much I wish otherwise. I can help my mom make stuffing, ring up thousands of dollars’ worth of seasonal sales, and smile with Morgan and Jimmy about a Christmas Poseidon, but inside my heart’s pounding with a single half-broken wish: Devin, come home.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ~

  AFTER CHRISTMAS I BEGIN to perk up. Why should I worry about Devin when he’s probably not giving any of the other LeBlancs a second thought? Most likely he’s busy being a paranoid asshole, smoking up, staying awake for days, and stealing from his friends (if he still has any).

  Genevieve, Nicole, and I have the best New Year’s Eve ever. Actually there are seven of us altogether (including Izzy — Marguerite came down with bronchitis and has to stay in bed). First we kill things mercilessly onscreen. Then we dance, eat huge amounts of tiny edibles, and toast each other with champagne at midnight. Genevieve brought over an old movie with George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez and it makes us all so hot that we’re practically climbing the walls.

  “Thanks, Genevieve,” Nicole says with a pronounced pout. “How are we supposed to stay off guys when you force us to watch movies like that?”

  “C’mon, you ever see a guy that smooth around here?” I ask. “There’s no comparison with the Laurier guys. Zilch. George Clooney’s like the perfect man in that movie, except for being a bank robber.” There’s always something, isn’t there? Because if a guy’s too perfect he’s either boring, like in chick lit flicks where guys seem like they’ve had every bit of personality drained out of them along with any potential savageness, or unbelievable: the guy who acts like a bad boy with everyone but the female lead.

  We drink a little more champagne and make Swiss cheese and mushroom fondue from Genevieve’s recipe. Nicole’s dad comes down for a beer and samples some of the fondue. I can tell he likes being surrounded by all us girls. Not that he flirts or anything, but his eyes sparkle. I wonder what it would be like to go out with an older guy, like George Clooney in the movie or Mr. Lapatas, if he wasn’t Nicole’s dad. Would someone older be better about things like doing up your buttons?

  Okay. Obviously I’ve drunk too much champagne. And that sexy paperback Genevieve lent me hasn’t helped. I have to quit reading the sex scenes over and over.

  It’s time to stop snacking so much too. Otherwise all the clothes I bought at the end of August won’t fit anymore. Even if I’m not going to be with anyone I don’t want to go back to being a girl that a cute guy would only make out with if he’s drunk.

  “There’s lots left,” Genevieve says, stirring the pot. “Does anyone want more?” I’m the first person she looks at, and I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it, but it makes me silently repeat my vow.

  “We can save the leftovers,” Nicole says. “I looked it up online.” With all of us full to the brim with cheese and champagne, Nicole insists that it’s time to dance again. If aliens landed on earth
and made the human race their slaves Nicole would still find the energy to dance.

  Her dad tells us good night and, “Have fun, girls.” Once he’s gone the seven of us break into wild and hilarious movements, dancing however the hell we want because there’s no one there to watch us, no one to impress. I fold the bottom of my top into my bra and wriggle around like a belly dancer to “Girls Chase Boys.” Then Pharrell comes on and we all sing and do chorus line kicks. Izzy tries to belly dance too and then I know I’m not the only one who’s had too much champagne because normally Izzy doesn’t do anything silly.

  I wish every day could feel like this. I don’t want the night to end, but even when it’s time to go, hopefulness clings. With friends like this, the new year won’t be like the last. Nicole and Genevieve don’t care who my brother is or whether I go back to being chubby. When I’m around them I don’t even care how popular or unpopular I am. We’re all in this together.

  ***

  There are seven Total Drug Marts in Glenashton, and the one I work at is in a plaza with a flower store, toy shop, Quiznos, Starbucks, TD Bank, The UPS Store, The Nutty Chocolatier, a nail salon, and a dentist’s office. As you can see from the list, there aren’t many places to buy food. Total Drug Mart carries some frozen dinners and essentials like canned vegetables, cereals, and milk but there are times when I really don’t want to eat something out of a package for dinner and then I usually opt for a small honey bourbon chicken or turkey ranch sub from Quiznos. They’re the two subs that have the fewest calories.

  Today I go in to Quiznos at about ten after seven and get served right away because the only two other people inside are already sitting down at a table, munching on salad and sammies. I watch the woman behind the counter set my honey bourbon chicken sub on the grill conveyor belt. I’m so hungry right now that I could eat something crazy like a prime rib cheesesteak sub with oatmeal raisin cookies for dessert, but the chicken will be fine. Everything’s fine until Jacob and Wyatt barrel through the door bringing the cold air with them. We see each other at school all the time but at school I’m never trapped with them; I’m not near them long enough to feel the full weight of their hostility.