The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing Read online

  Jacob looks at me for a split second. His eyes say: you bitch.

  I have to move away from the counter so they can order. Wyatt keeps his face pointed at the menu like he’s determined not to see me. Then he turns to Jacob and says, “I can’t believe you were almost hitting that. You got out just in time, dude. She’s packing on the pounds again.”

  Jacob smirks and glances my way to make sure I’ve heard. I’m still waiting for my stupid chicken sub to come out of the other end of the grill. My palms begin to sweat as I turn my head slowly away from Jacob, like him and his asshole friend don’t matter.

  If we’d been at school or if Wyatt had said some other nasty thing, I would’ve told him to go fuck himself, but the comment about my weight caught me off guard. The words hurt. I angle myself towards the window and watch a dirty red minivan pull into a parking spot. It’s snowing lightly but not enough to stay on the ground. I don’t want my stupid low-cal sub anymore. I won’t be able to swallow a bite while I feel like this.

  “Would you like a drink with that?” the Quiznos woman asks as she runs around the other side of the grill to pluck my honey bourbon chicken from the conveyor belt and wrap it in paper I’d normally tear off only seconds later.

  I shake my head, my cheeks probably turning pink as I wrestle a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket. She plops my dinner into a bag and hands me my change.

  I trudge to the door, hoping Jacob and Wyatt won’t say anything else to my back. They don’t, not anything I can hear anyway. The two people already seated and eating are talking about transmission problems and I walk past them, out into the snow. If my cheeks are red the way I think they are everyone at Total will think it’s because of the cold.

  Across the parking lot, the Total Drug Mart door automatically opens for me. I head for the staff room at the back of the store, which is empty except for me, and snap my hand out over the garbage to drop my Quiznos bag inside. It’s a dumb thing to do and I regret it forty-five minutes later when my stomach starts to growl.

  I hate that I don’t make sense. Jacob and Wyatt are trash. Why should I care whether I look hot to trash? My Total Drug Mart uniform isn’t exactly clingy like lingerie and I wore my winter coat over to Quiznos so how could they even know if I’d gained weight?

  My stomach sinks as I scan in a box of tissues for the chunky woman in front of me. Why is it that the first thing I’ve noticed about her is that she’s overweight? Maybe she’s an amazing humanitarian or the best brain surgeon in the country.

  For the record I’ve gained eight pounds back in the last six weeks. If I don’t stop I could be that woman and the first thing that cashiers will notice about me is my weight.

  I act extra nice with the woman to make up for all mean things I’m thinking about us both. I need to get back to that headspace I was in on New Year’s; I can’t let a single comment from a loser like Wyatt bring me down.

  The next guy in line takes all the items out of his basket for me and then hands over the basket itself. “Thanks,” I tell him. I scan his shower gel, shaving cream, copy of Sports Illustrated, and a package of ladybug hairclips, all the while thinking he probably jerks off to the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated, fantasizing about orgies. If he already knew me he’d smile at me to my face but secretly think that my chub was returning.

  “Shit,” he says under his breath. His hands disappear swiftly into his pockets. “I don’t think I have my ATM card.”

  “We take cash,” I tell him, sounding vaguely bored. He’s too goodlooking for me to want to smile at, but of course I can’t be rude.

  “Yeah, I know.” He smiles at me. His almost shoulder-length hair is half a shade too dark to qualify as dirty blond, and he has grey eyes and a couple of freckles on his nose but not anywhere else. The grin makes him look like a nice guy, but do you think I believe that?

  “Do you want me to cancel the transaction while you go look in your car?” I suggest.

  “No, that’s okay.” He pulls out a wad of bills from his back pocket. “I have cash too.”

  Congratulations, I say silently. You’re quite the superhero.

  The guy presses a couple of bills into my hands and waits for me to punch in the numbers on the register. Hang on, what’s this? I separate the bills he’s given me and stare at the glittering pink heart sticker in my hand. I flip it over automatically, like when you’re checking both sides of a twenty-dollar bill to make sure it’s genuine. There’s a wobbly “A” printed on the back of the sticker in orange crayon.

  Does he think he’s being cute or was it an honest mistake? “Here,” I tell him as I hand the sticker over, “have your heart back.” I say it with a hint of accusation (because guys suck and good-looking guys suck the worst) but like I’m really kidding around underneath it all.

  He makes a kind of ah-ha noise, like the thing must’ve gotten mixed in with his bills by accident, and slips it into his wallet. “Have a good night,” I say and present him with his Total Drug Mart bag.

  “You too.” He pats his wallet in his front pocket. “Thanks for noticing that.”

  How could I not notice? It was glittering and pink.

  I nod and turn to the next person in line, my stomach gurgling at the sight of a box of Oreos in front of me on the counter. I don’t need them, I tell myself, and I don’t need to be hot either. I don’t need to be any one thing in particular to be happy. It sounds so true that I wish I could one hundred per cent believe it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ~

  MY SECOND SEMESTER CLASSES are science, intro to business, civics, and history. Mr. Cushman, my science teacher, is recently separated (or so the rumour goes) and is mostly in a dire mood, but aside from that I don’t have much to complain about. It’s okay being back at school where everyone asks each other how their holidays were and what they did on New Year’s, like they’re really glad to see each other.

  Not long after I’m back Morgan calls while Genevieve’s driving me and Nicole home from school. I could let the call go to message, but if I don’t answer a corner of my mind will wonder if it’s some kind of emergency I shouldn’t ignore. “Hey, Morgan,” I say from the back seat.

  Morgan says hello in his giddy voice and quickly explains that Muzzy Ryan, this New Zealand band I used to like (but that he obviously doesn’t realize I’ve stopped listening to), are coming into the Much studio in two days. “They had a shake-up in their schedule,” he continues, “and it’s a last-minute thing but I know how much you like them. If you can skip your last class and make it down here I’ll be able to introduce you and give you a couple of minutes with them.”

  Because I don’t want to rain on his parade I don’t mention that Muzzy Ryan’s last album sounded like paint drying but without the drama. “That would be cool but I have to work, Morgan.”

  “Maybe you can get someone to switch with you,” he goes on. “Jimmy might be able to pick you up at school. I can check with him.”

  Truthfully, I do have to work and don’t want to waste a sick call on something I don’t have enthusiasm for. I thank Morgan and say that I really don’t want the whole ditching class thing to blow up in my face. Morgan says he understands but sounds disappointed and after that’s over with we run out of conversation pretty fast. “So did they take Poseidon down?” he asks. “I’m surprised nobody stole that trident of his.”

  “They took him down,” I confirm. “Back to business as usual until next year.” If I were talking to Devin there’d be more to say. I’d tell him how fantastic New Year’s was and explain what a genius appliance a fondue maker is. I could say that to Morgan too, but he goes to so many glamorous parties and happenings that if he told me it sounded cool I’d think he was humouring me. Poor Morgan, he can’t win.

  Devin used to refer to our big brother as the golden boy. One time he said, “There can only be one golden boy in the family but at least you have
a chance of being wonder girl.”

  I laughed because I had no chance of outshining Morgan. He’d probably even look better than me on a baby blue scooter.

  “Well, keep in touch,” Morgan tells me. “You know you can sleep over here whenever you want, if you need a change of scenery. There’s a lot to do in the city.”

  My little finger slides along the edge of my cell. “There’s stuff to do here.”

  “Oh, I know,” Morgan says genially. “But we have the subway here and the city never sleeps. It has a different energy to it. Clubs, theatre, festivals, there’s more than one person could ever keep up with. There’s nothing wrong with Glenashton. It’s just got those family burb vibes.”

  He’s right — if anyone wants to do anything really cool they have to head for Toronto — but I don’t want to admit it. His life is cool enough without me telling him how cool it is so instead I say to have fun with the band and get an autograph for me.

  “Sure thing, Serena. Talk to you later.”

  When I get off the phone we’re pulling into Nicole’s driveway. She snaps off her seat belt and says, “I can’t believe you won’t cut class and work to meet Terry Preece. He’s so sexy. Those cheekbones make me want to cry.”

  Terry Preece is the lead singer of Muzzy Ryan. When I used to listen to them I kind of preferred their guitarist, who looks like the kind of guy who could keep a secret, if you can ever really sense something like that just by looking at someone.

  Genevieve reaches over and pokes Nicole’s thigh. “Whatever happened to swearing off guys? God, you’re such a lightweight, Nic.”

  “What’s the difference between drooling over George Clooney in a movie or drooling over Terry Preece at MuchMusic?” Nicole asks sharply. “Neither of them are real people to us.”

  “Yeah, guys like that don’t count,” I say, siding with Nicole. “Only guys you’re actually in danger of making out with.” Which means Nicole’s dad doesn’t count either, not that I’ve been thinking about him, I swear.

  “Rock and roll, babyyy!” Genevieve sings. “I bet Terry Preece would make out with anyone over fourteen and under forty.”

  I bet he would too. Terry Preece is a total slut.

  But it really is impossible to stop thinking about guys entirely. I’m not tempted to think about Laurier guys because even the ones who seem okay usually have a couple of friends who aren’t, and anyway, probably every last one of them has seen Nicole’s striptease, which should’ve just been between her and Liam Powers until the end of time. But sometimes I think about guys on TV or strangers I pass in the mall.

  Every now and then an especially cute one, like that guy with the glitter heart sticker, wanders into Total Drug Mart too. I don’t flirt with them because I don’t want them to know I think they’re cute but I still think it to myself.

  Actually, the first time I saw the sticker guy it didn’t occur to me that I might see him again, but he must live nearby because he comes in to Total just a few days later and buys a bag of milk and a box of Cheerios. I wonder if his mom asked him to buy cereal and milk for her or if he lives alone and will be the only one eating the Cheerios. I can’t really look at him hard enough to figure out how old he is and which scenario is more likely, because if I do that he’ll think I’m checking him out.

  My voice rasps as I’m telling him the total for the Cheerios and milk. I really don’t feel that sick but I’ve been losing my voice on and off all day and there’s a tickle in my throat that makes me want to clear it every twenty minutes or so. I grab my half-full water bottle from beside the register and swallow some down before repeating myself.

  “Should you be here?” the guy asks with a sympathetic look. “You sound terrible.”

  “It sounds worse than it is.”

  “It sounds bad,” he tells me, his grey eyes hanging on mine. “It sounds like a good excuse to go home early.”

  “Ah, but if I leave early I won’t get a full night’s pay.” My voice wobbles on the word early and the sound makes the guy wince a little. “It doesn’t hurt,” I insist. “It’s just annoying.”

  “Okay.” He points at me the way Genevieve does when she’s being bossy. “Drink some more water at least.”

  I uncap my bottle again and go for it because it happens to be what I want to do anyway. The guy swipes his ATM card and punches in his PIN as I’m gulping. It gives me an opportunity to look at him some more while he’s too busy to notice. Then I hand him his bags and he groans and says, “I suck. I keep forgetting to bring my cloth bags with me.”

  “Next time.” I offer him my customer service smile, thinking that he probably won’t be in again for months and that even then we won’t notice each other because I’m hardly Total Drug Mart’s only cashier.

  Wrong. He gets in my line again three days later with batteries, a four-pack of fruit cups, and a Dora and Diego book that he must be buying for a young sibling or cousin. This time he has cloth bags with him and a beat-up-looking DVD in his left hand. I squint at the cover, which seems to say Haunted Hunting. He notices me checking out the DVD and says, “I borrowed it from a friend,” as though I’m about to accuse him of shoplifting.

  I’m reading upside down but I think I see the words Canadian Edition underneath the title. I swipe his batteries and then the rest of his things. “You like that paranormal investigation type stuff?”

  He answers my question with a question: “You’re not into the supernatural?” His hand rushes through his hair. Now that I think about it his shaggy hair reminds me of Muzzy Ryan’s guitarist. Maybe the guy standing in front of me plays in a local band that practises around the corner and lives on Cheerios.

  He’s not a real person to me, like Nicole pointed out about Terry Preece, so I can make up a backstory for him and think whatever I like. It won’t mean anything in the real world.

  “I believe in it,” I say honestly, “which makes it too creepy to watch stuff like that. If there are any spirits around my house I just want them to keep quiet so I don’t have to know about it.”

  His head dips as he smiles. “I know what you mean. It’s a freaky thing, people hanging around after they’re gone, but then there’s the flip side.”

  “Flip side?” I motion for him to swipe his card.

  He follows through with the transaction and then stands in front of the counter with his hands on it like we’re not done yet. “If there really are ghosts that must mean there’s some kind of afterlife,” he says.

  I nod, thinking of Clara. I always took it on faith that there was an afterlife, but even if I needed proof, I don’t think I’d want it to come in the form of shadowy figures and flying objects. According to Devin, I didn’t feel like that about Clara, though. She seemed almost like a friend.

  I hand the guy his cloth bags and don’t say any of the things that are charging through my head.

  “Thanks,” he says. I think I catch him checking out my name tag for a split second but I can’t be sure. “You sound better today.”

  I am. I stayed home from school for a day so I could avoid talking, and the day after my mom gave me a note to show all my teachers, explaining why I’d be staying silent in class. Today I didn’t need the note but if I have to shout I bet my voice will let me down.

  “And you remembered your bags,” I say cheerfully.

  He smiles and holds them up triumphantly before turning to disappear out the sliding doors and towards band practice or whatever it is he does in real life. A tall woman in a fur coat thunks a value pack of tampons down in front of me so I don’t have time to add any details to his fictional backstory. It turns into a busy night, as though every family in Glenashton ran out of at least one essential item at the same time and Total Drug Mart was the only store open for miles. For a while I don’t have time to think of anything beyond Total, not even with the portion of my brain which is usually reserved for remem
bering that Devin is missing. I’m just a cashier girl, scanning makeup remover, cough syrup, and cottage cheese like a robot with a human face.

  ***

  The big news at school the next day wouldn’t come as a shock to anyone who was at Wyatt’s birthday party. Everyone’s forwarding a video of Aya Yamamoto making out with a drunken blond girl I don’t recognize. Their lipstick is smeared across each other’s faces and there’s plenty of tongue involved. Now Aya’s officially the slut of the day and Nicole says she feels sorry for her.

  Maybe I should feel bad for Aya the same way I felt bad for Nicole, but I can’t. It was different with Nicole, she thought she was just doing a striptease for Liam, but Aya’s acting like a trained seal for the crowd. If she hadn’t gone and tried to pull me into things that time in November, I might be more understanding now. As it stands, I look past her when I see her in the hall.

  In the cafeteria later Nicole nudges me and points to the spot where Aya and her friends normally hang out. Most of Aya’s friends are sitting there, talking with their heads close together, but not Aya. “I wonder where she is,” Nicole says. “I bet she’s afraid to come in here in case people start acting up.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “She should’ve thought of that before.”

  Nicole frowns at me. Her fingers tighten around her plastic fork.

  “I told you what happened at Wyatt’s,” I go on. “Obviously she’s just like this all the time. Maybe she wants all the guys talking about her.”