One Lonely Degree (10 page)

“Why would I want you to be having a secret …” Mom stops, presses her fingers to her lips, and sighs loudly. “I never felt like I could talk to my mother when I was your age. She was so rigid. I don’t want you to feel that about me—that there’s no one at home you can speak to about things.” She jumps in again before I can protest. “I know you’re close to your father, but I thought it might be different when it comes to talking about boys and sex.”

I want to cover my ears and run out of the room. “Mom,” I say
forcefully. “There are no boys and there’s no sex, all right? I can’t invent things for you. Maybe if you hold on a few years, Daniel will talk about sex with you.”

Why does she always have to push so hard? How come Mom’s practically begging me to hook up with someone, while Audrey’s parents flip at the thought of her and Jersy being alone in the house together? A couple weeks back Steven walked in on them, innocently pigging out on popcorn in the kitchen, and blew a gasket just for that. Mom would’ve probably congratulated me.

“Can you stop being antagonistic for two minutes?” Mom sets her hands on top of the table and stares at me with determined eyes. “I’m here, whether you want me to be or not. That’s all I’m going to say. Now you can stalk off to your room and e-mail Audrey about how your mother doesn’t understand you at all, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply indifferently, slowly standing. “What’s for dinner?”

Mom snatches her hands off the table as though she’d like to strangle me. “I don’t know,” she barks. “What’re you making?”

Hilarious. Both my parents are comedians. Somebody get a talent agent on the phone.

We eat pork chops, cauliflower, and baked potatoes while Daniel slurps on a gourmet creation from Chef Boyardee. Because Dad isn’t home, there’s tons left over, and Mom packs it all into the fridge in plastic wrap. Supposedly my father is having dinner with a friend tonight. This friend is generic and doesn’t have his or her own name.

Dad must still be with said generic friend later in the evening, because he sure isn’t here to walk Samsam one last time before we go to bed. Mom and I walk Samsam together instead. We walk
quietly, like we have nothing to say to each other, but I don’t think either of us is mad anymore. If anything, I’m angrier with Dad for his recurring disappearing act.

In the middle of the night I wake up, stumble out of bed, and stare out the window to where his car should be. Fresh snow has covered up yesterday’s tracks, and the empty driveway glows white in the moonlight.

If he’s out with someone else, my mom should divorce him. Audrey’s right; it’s disrespectful. It’s not a hiccup; it’s wrong.

I climb back into bed, bringing my MP3 player with me. I click on Moby and listen to him sing “We Are All Made of Stars.” It’s exactly what I need to hear, and I play it over twice before switching to Our Lady Peace. I fall asleep with
Gravity
rocking in my earphones, and when I wake up at eleven-thirty the next morning, I hit Moby again for a final refrain of positivity.

If I could live my life by that soundtrack, nothing would be impossible, but it’s hard to keep that energy burning. I feel it slip away as I spy Dad’s car in the driveway. Maybe I should feel relieved to see it there, but I just feel edgy. I pull on my clothes and bound downstairs, waiting for something to happen.

Mom’s left a note stuck to the fridge, explaining that she’s taken Daniel to the mall to pick out a birthday present for his friend. Apparently he has a party this afternoon. He has so many friends that he has a social engagement nearly every weekend. The constant gift buying must cost my parents a small fortune; Daniel would rather stay home than show up at a party with a less-than-stellar present.

Aside from Samsam breathing next to me, the house is silent. Dad must still be in bed, exhausted from his night out. His keys are on the hook in the front hall, like always, and I stealthily free them. Samsam wags his tail, sure we’re going somewhere wonderful.

I hate to disappoint him, so I clip on his leash and lead him into the backyard. Afterwards I’ll bring him for a marathon walk and let him stop and sniff anything he wants, but I have something to do first.

I unlock Dad’s car, climb into the front seat, and ransack the glove compartment. A map of Ontario, car insurance papers, a cable bill, and an open box of Junior Mints are inside. One of my brother’s gloves is lying under the passenger seat. The side compartments prove similarly innocent: more maps, a pocket pack of tissues, loose change, Dad’s collection of jazz CDs for his ride to work.

I don’t know precisely what I’m looking for, but whatever it is isn’t inside the car; maybe it’s in the trunk. I swing the car door open, set one foot on the snowy drive, and jump at the sound of Dad’s voice. “What’re you looking for, Finn?” he calls from the front stoop.

I hop guiltily out of the car and slam the door behind me, locking his keys inside. “Shit, I just locked your keys inside,” I mutter, pointing to the car.

“Your mother has an extra pair,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry.” I trudge towards him, pulling my gloves out of my pockets and slipping my hands into them. “I was just going to take Samsam for a walk, and I thought I might’ve left one of my CDs in your car.” My dad doesn’t like listening to rock music when he drives; he says it makes him speed. “A new one that I picked up at the mall,” I add. “But it’s not there.”

“You have so many I’m surprised you’d miss one.” Dad smiles like the same dependable father I’ve known all my life. It’s unthinkable that he’d cheat on Mom, even if they’re not getting along. “So where’s Samsam?”

“In the backyard. I’ll get him.”

Dad nods distractedly. “When you come back, I’d like to speak to you, okay?” If he gives me the same talk Mom gave me last night, I’ll explode. She was right; there’s no possible way I can discuss guys with Dad.

“Okay,” I say nervously. “Do you want to do it now?” Either that or I’ll spend the duration of Samsam’s walk wondering what Dad’s planning on saying to me.

“Sure,” he says, looking like he’d rather swallow nails. We go inside and sit down on the living room sofa, me picking at a hangnail and him scratching day-old stubble. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the way things have been around here lately,” he begins slowly. “And your mother and I would like to work on changing that.” Dad clears his throat and goes for his stubble again. “You’re usually home evenings anyway, and we’d really appreciate it if you could keep Tuesday evenings free to babysit your brother.”

“For sure,” I chirp. “So it’s like a standing date-night thing?” Neither of my parents has acknowledged their relationship problems to me before, and a breakup suddenly feels more possible, despite the date idea.

“You could say that,” Dad says delicately, his eyes fixed on mine. “Actually, it’s counseling, Finn. But we don’t want you to worry about it—or us. That’s our problem, okay?”

I shove my hands under my legs and lean forward on the couch. How can he mention counseling and expect me not to worry? “Do you think you guys are going to split up?” I gasp.

“Nobody wants that.” Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. “We just want to get along better, and we need some help doing that.”

“I’m not five years old, Dad,” I tell him. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me. Things have to be bad if you’re going to counseling.” I cough to break up the lump forming in my throat. “You’re never even here anymore.”

“That’s not true, Finn.” Dad looks tired and rumpled. “Sometimes I just need a break.” He grips the back of his neck. “It has nothing to do with you or your brother, and even if your mother and I were going to separate—which we’re not—both of our relationships with you would continue on the same as always.”

That’s a lie whether he knows it or not. Nothing ever continues on the same way forever. Something always changes.

“I’m fine with the babysitting,” I mumble. “I should go walk Samsam now.”

Dad nods quickly, relieved to have the conversation behind him. “I’ll let you know if I come across your CD. What does it look like?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, and then I’m gone.

SO T
ues
D
a
Y
n
IGHTS
become my weekly babysitting gig. Mom and Dad trudge soberly out to the car and return hours later with take-out coffee and doughnuts. They sit at the kitchen table slowly sipping their coffees and speaking in level tones. It’s a ritual and I don’t like to disturb them.

Daniel’s in bed by coffee time, and I hole up in my room transforming my Web page into a professional-looking portfolio site. Most of my redesigned CD and book covers look better than the originals. My environmental campaign assignment is up on the site too, in all the variations that occurred to me: the girl with the glass of water, a tranquil forest scene, and my personal favorite—the one I actually handed in to Mr. Ferguson—a close-up of a child’s legs, frothy ocean waves breaking against them.

Our latest assignment is pointillism, and it’s making me crazy. When I close my eyes, I see dots. I’m seeing them now, in homeroom, as I nestle my head into my arms on top of my desk.

“Finn, I’m totally craving fries and a shake,” Audrey says, breaking my trance. “Wanna walk down to McDonald’s for lunch today?”

“Sounds good,” I tell her. It’s mid-April, and the local McDonald’s seems a lot closer now that the snow is gone.

Jasper and Maggie jump at the idea when we head them off outside the cafeteria later. Teresa and Edwardo are in studious mode, wanting to bone up on Canadian history before their test next period, so it’s just the four of us. Jasper starts up the celebrity sex game as soon as we’re out the door, and Maggie’s eyes light up, thrilled at the possibilities.

“Chris Martin or Jake Gyllenhaal?” Jasper asks. “Who would you rather sleep with?” You have to choose one. That’s the rule. Even if you find them equally untempting.

“Jake all the way,” Audrey says. “Those eyes. And you can tell by his movie choices that he’s the kind of person who’s thinking all the time, so you’d even be able to have a cool conversation afterwards. Who could resist Donnie Darko?”

“He’s hella cute,” Maggie adds. “No comparison.”

Jasper nods vigorously in agreement. “After
Brokeback Mountain
, I’d even forgive him for
The Day After Tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with
The Day After Tomorrow?”
Maggie squeals, but Jasper and Audrey have already spun towards me.

“It’d have to be Chris Martin,” I announce, breaking the consensus. “For the English accent and the song ‘Fix You’ alone.” Yeah, the lyrics are kinda sappy, but the sincerity in his voice makes you believe him. It’s as simple as that.

Jasper waves dismissively. “Girl, you’re as bad as Maggie.” He presses his lips together and arches his neck up to the sunny sky. “How about … Jack Nicholson or Angelina Jolie?”

Audrey, Maggie, and I all wince. It’s an interesting question.

The three of us are straight, but Jack Nicholson is old and disgusting.

“Angelina,” I admit. “Even if I kept my eyes closed, there’s no way I could do it with Jack.” I shudder for effect. “He’d be all heavy and sweaty on top of you, and he’d probably want you to talk dirty.” I don’t know that for a fact, but he definitely looks like a pervert. It’s funny, but I have no problem talking about sex during the celebrity sex game, maybe because it has such little resemblance to reality. In a way, it almost makes me feel better, like if I can kid around about Jack Nicholson squirming around on top of me, maybe I’m not so screwed up after all.

“Yeah.” Audrey grimaces. “It’s gotta be Angelina.”

Maggie picks Jack, refusing to cross into bisexuality territory, but Jasper takes a long time to answer, and when he does, he opts for Angelina too. “She has amazing skin,” he explains. “And she’s a very talented actor and great humanitarian.”

“You’d change your sexual orientation to sleep with a good actress with nice skin?” I tease.

“Not change it,” Jasper says, putting on his gay voice. “Bend it. For one night. Same as you, Finn honey.”

“True,” I say with a shrug. “Okay, between Superman on
Small-ville
and …” I rack my brains for suitable competition. Josh Hartnett? Paul Walker? Usher? None of them seem up to the task.

“Hey, there’s Jersy,” Maggie says, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. The rest of us turn to catch sight of Jersy, Billy Young, and a third stoner sauntering in our direction, obviously on their own McDonald’s run. Jersy and Audrey aren’t like Edwardo and Teresa; they stick with their own crews at lunch. This meeting is purely coincidental, but now that it’s happened it makes seven of us for McDonald’s and puts an abrupt end to the celebrity sex game.

Audrey and Jersy hold hands and I trail behind them, next to
Billy, complaining about the strange effect pointillism is having on my brain.

“And what do all these little dots do when you see them?” Billy grins, his top teeth gripping his bottom lip. “Form a conga line and dance? Sounds like you’ve been indulging in some serious hallucinogens. Want to share with your brother Billy?”