Wake (40 page)

“What color poster did you get?”

“White.”

“Did you get anything to decorate it?”

“Black Sharpies.”

“This is going to be the most boring poster ever.”

“I know.”

“I like it. It denotes a suitable lack of effort.”

“Fantastic.” I hang up on him and head to the checkout counter. On my way I pass the office equipment aisle and an open bin catches my eye. It’s full of rubber finger caps, the kind that make page flipping easier and prevent paper cuts. I pick one up and try it on. It gives me an idea.

*

Jem hears my shoddy muffler and appears in the front door as soon as I exit my car. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I can’t stay.” I mount the front steps and hand him the poster board and Sharpies. “The Crappiest Poster Ever is your job, okay?” This is the kind of contribution Jem can stand; one that doesn’t make him confront any of his demons.

“I’ll put the bare minimum amount of effort into it,” he promises.

“I got these for you, too.” I take the plastic bag of finger caps from my pocket and hand it over. “For music.” I head back to my car before he can open the bag and make things uncomfortable. “G’night, Harper.”

*

I get a phone call at eleven o’clock at night, long past the time when Jem usually call s. I’m tempted to just let it ring and fall back to sleep, but he’d give me a hard time about it in the morning.

“Hello?” My eyes refuse to stay open.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why’d you call ?”

“Just listen, okay?”

There’s a rustle as Jem moves the phone, and after a few seconds I hear the opening strains of a classical nocturne. He’s playing. The melody is slow and mournful, but I feel warm listening to it, because it means he has his cell o back. He can play his music without pain.

After a few minutes the song is interrupted by Ivy’s gentle voice. “It’s late, honey. Why don’t you finish practicing tomorrow and get some sleep?”

“I will ,” he promises, and there’s silence until his bedroom door closes. Jem picks up the phone. “You still there?”

“still here.”

“Sorry. Mom wants me to shut up and go to bed.”

“Tomorrow’s another day,” I agree. It was nice to hear Jem play, but I’m eager to get back to sleep.

“I’m rusty, but…” I can hear him smiling. This is good for him. A musician needs music.

“It was beautiful, Jem.”

“Thanks for the rubber caps.”

“You’re welcome. Now go to bed, it’s late.”

“Good night, Willa.”

Saturday I make supper for Frank at five o’clock, but I don’t eat anything. I don’t want to spoil my appetite, and the reservation Jem made is at seven. I tell Frank about my plans to go out with a friend so he won’t assume I’m up to no good.

“Aren’t you gonna eat first?”

“We’ll grab a bite while we’re out.”

I leave Frank to devour his tacos and go upstairs to get ready for an evening out. Unfortunately that means shedding my weekend getup of torn jeans and old plaid shirts. I strip out of my comfy clothes and open my closet. I’m lost.

What the hell does one wear on a non-date? I have a feeling that jeans and a tee won’t cut it, but the thought of having to get dressed up creeps me out. Skirts are quickly ruled out. The chenil e sweater I wear on special occasions like Christmas is too good. Plain tees and band shirts aren’t good enough.

My button-front blouse is linty. Eventually I compromise: dark jeans on the bottom, and a black sweater on top; the perfect balance of ‘I’m going out’ and ‘I don’t care.’ I don’t usually wear makeup, and since this really isn’t a date, I decide not to bother now. I leave my hair down and pass on any form of jewelry. I grab my plainest pair of grey gloves. I do one better than runners, though: black flats, both understated and good enough to go with the sweater.

Then I realize I’ve spent twenty whole minutes fretting over what to wear to see Jem, and I want to hit something.

Frank doesn’t quite know how to read my appearance when I go downstairs. I don’t look like I’m going out on a date, precisely, but I don’t look like I’m just going to school, either.

“Who are you going to be with, again?” he asks. It’s useless to lie to him in such a small town.

“Jem Harper.”

My answer irritates Frank. “You’re going out with that kid?”

“It’s not a date. We’re just hanging out together.”

“Alone?”

“Just us two, yeah.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Frank narrows his eyes at me. He’s a hard man to read, but I see the worry under his ambiguously slanted brows.

“We’re friends.”

“Will , I know you’ve had a rough time these last couple years, and I don’t have anything against you being nice to the Harper kid, but you have to be careful.”

“I am.” I consider telling Frank how often Jem and I meet at each others’ houses when he’s on a long shift and that we don’t just do Soc homework, but I don’t want to give my brother a stroke. He worries enough about me.

The doorbell rings. I head to the front hall and quickly grab my jacket and purse. Frank follows me warily, like he’s preparing to send me off to my death.

I open the door and Jem smiles at me nervously.

“Hi. Let’s go.” I put a hand on his arm and practically shove him down the front steps. I want to get out of here before Frank gets the idea to lecture us, or to threaten Jem with the treat-my-sister-right-or-else speech.

Frank comes out onto the porch and Jem says, “Nice seeing you,” over his shoulder as we walk away.

Frank doesn’t say anything. He just folds his arms and glowers at us across the driveway.

Jem seems to find my behavior funny. He smirks at me and follows me around to the passenger side of the car. “You look really nice,” he says softly. If he said it at normal volume I’d think he was just paying me a generic compliment—an obligatory social nicety—but his voice was so quiet that only I could hear, and the implications of that make me antsy.

“So do you.” He looks good in a dress shirt, or maybe it’s just the way this shirt actually fits him. He swims in the sweaters and long-sleeved tees he wears on a daily basis.

Jem smiles at the compliment and turns to open the car door for me. Oh God.

“You know this isn’t a real date, right?”

“I know.” His smile wavers a little. “I’ll drive you home whenever you like.”

I get into the car and he closes the door after me. I wonder if he opened it for me to prove to Frank that I’m not going out with some jerk, or because he’s trying to get something out of me. He holds open a few doors, does the gentlemanly thing in public, and in return my hand goes down his pants by the end of the night. Thus altruism dies with a groan and a sticky mess.

It takes thirty long seconds for Jem to get in the car and pull away from the house and my glaring brother on the porch. As eager as I was to get away, once alone in the car with Jem, I start to get nervous. What did I get myself into?

“What are you expecting tonight?”

My question puzzles him. “A fun night out, where I—hopefully—don’t get sick during.” We come to the stop sign at the end of my street and he looks over at me with furrowed brows. “What are you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” I really don’t. Confusion is starting to become my natural state around Jem.

The drive to Ottawa doesn’t feel as long as it usually does. Jem keeps the conversation going, chattering in a nervous way until we’re on the highway, and then he begins to relax a little.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No. I like surprises.”

“But you already know.”

“I enjoy
giving
surprises.” He looks over at me and smiles. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Suddenly the sheer lunacy of the prospect of going to dinner with Jem hits me, and I laugh. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t do normal, pedestrian things like dinner dates. As little face-time as I can get with a guy while still satisfying us both is my preferred MO—it’s clean, it’s uncomplicated, and I don’t miss him when he’s gone.

“What’s the joke?”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

*

It’s nearly dark by the time we get to Ottawa. Jem takes us through an old, hilly neighborhood not far from the busy Rideau Street area, and parks along the street near a convenience store. He says this is the closest parking to where we’re headed.

“Ready?”

We have to walk about a block through tidy streets—Jem says the borough is called Sandy Hill, and he used to live around here—before rounding the corner toward a sidewalk-side plaza with a food co-op and a new age bookstore. Jem points out the third and farthest storefront as our destination.

I can’t help but chuckle when I see the sign.
The Circle: Lounge and Gastropub.
Underneath the main shingle is a poster with their hours of business and a guarantee of ‘the finest vegan cuisine in Ottawa.’ I wonder if they have much competition for that title.

“It was your idea,” Jem says with a smirk. He has a point, and a damn good idea it was. He’ll have more of a selection here than he would on the average restaurant menu.

Inside, The Circle feels a lot like a living room. Tables of varying sizes and shapes share the U-shaped dining space with couches and easy chairs. Bookshelves line the walls and there is a tea and dessert bar on the left wall. In the centre of the restaurant a wide-beamed staircase leads up to an open loft and further dining space. No two pieces of furniture are the same, so the seating is just as eclectic as the books on the shelves. Slow music plays at low volume, emphasizing the easygoing atmosphere of the restaurant.

“For two?” a passing waitress asks.

“Please.” Jem gives her his name to cross off the reservation list.

“Sit wherever you feel most comfortable.” She continues on to serve other patrons, and Jem gestures that I should select our seats.

I choose the back corner. It’s quieter than the front of the restaurant or the area near the serving bar, and close to the bathrooms. Jem takes the seat nearest the wall and I move my chair to sit beside him instead of across.

“Would you rather have this seat?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I just like to people-watch.” True enough, but I also don’t like the face-to-face setup; it feels too much like a date, which this isn’t.

The waitress comes by with two menus and a pitcher of water. She looks sort of badass, with a labret in her lip and dreads knotted into a bun. I like her immediately because she looks without staring.

I give a little sigh of relief when I open the menu and see that the generallingredients of each dish are listed. That’ll make it easier for Jem to order. I find myself scanning the list of options for something he can eat before I consider my own selection.

Jem frowns at the menu like it’s written in Swahili.

“The unbeef stew looks good.”

He looks up and I point to the item on his menu. It’s not so different from the soups I’ve made for him recently, except that it contains tofu and a little more spice than I would venture to use.

“It does look good.” He gives me a gratefull little smile and clears his throat. “What are you getting?”

I order the veggie potpie with a side of chickpea salad. Jem orders the unbeef stew and decides to stick with water for a beverage, so I order a glass of soymilk that I can trade with him if the stew is too spicy.

This is a neat little place Jem chose. I would come here for the books alone. They’re eclectic and rare and some of them are meant to be signed by diners, like a guestbook. I reach around Jem’s head and pluck a copy of
Jane Eyre
off the shelf. It’s a well -kept second edition, printed in London. I wonder how it ended up in a vegan lounge in Ottawa.

“Have you read it?” he asks.

“A time or two.” Gross understatement. “I own two copies—I loaned one to Tessa and she killed it.”

Jem smirks. “How do you kill a book?”

“You read it to death—until the pages are loose and the glue on the spine is crumbling and the covers are bent and the corners are dog-eared. I still have the beat up copy, but it’s so fragile it’s practically unreadable. I had to buy a new one.”

“She must have really liked that book.” He takes the restaurant’s copy out of my hand and skims through it. The pages smell old and the cloth cover is discolored with light damage.

“She wasn’t much of a reader, but she did like the Brontës.”

“Doesn’t it bug you to volunteer at the hospital?” Jem asks suddenly. “It must remind you of…” He leaves the sentence hanging. He can’t describe what he means, and there’s no need to.

“No. It’s…comforting.”

If Jem had eyebrows, one would be raised right now.

“After awhile it feels…like only the people there get it. Everyone is dealing with tough shit—the nurses who care but are tough as nails, the patients, the families…. It’s the only place where I really fit in anymore.”

“You fit in well at school.”

“I lie through my teeth at school.”

Jem smirks at me. “I figured.”

*

The unbeef stew has chunks of potato, tofu and vegetable floating in the broth. Jem doesn’t attempt these at first, playing it safe with spoonfuls of broth. I’ve eaten with him every day at school for over a month now, but when it’s just the two of us it’s different. I try not to eat too fast so he won’t feel rushed.

“How’s your potpie?” It’s surprisingly tasty for a vegan dish. The fill ing is creamy and the crust is flaky without being dry. The chickpea salad is equally delicious, served with garlic bread for dipping. I offer Jem a taste of the latter, but it’s too sweet for his liking.

“Must be the relish.”

“well damn,” he says.

“What?”

“I always liked relish on hotdogs.”

“You might again, eventually.” He shrugs like he doesn’t hold out much hope, and I make a mental note to hunt down a recipe for mild relish.

Jem spears a chunk of tofu with his fork. “Should I?”

What am I, the food whisperer?

“Chew it slowly.” He’s used to soft and pureed foods. He’ll have to chew long and carefully to avoid upsetting his stomach.