I Know It's Over Part 17

"And you can't behave however you want and expect to get away with it, Nicholas."

"I'm not DOING ANYTHING," I shout.

"And you're not SAYING ANYTHING either," she yells back.

Those are our last words for the night. Mom gets out as soon as we pull into the driveway and I open the garage and park the car inside. My anger defuses the moment I step into my bedroom. I curl up on my bed and listen to Holland's music through the wall. I'm so lonely, but nothing will fix that tonight, not even Sasha. Tomorrow night everything will be different and most people won't even notice. We made such a big deal about being us all along and I'd rather think about us tonight too, but what's this thing inside her if it isn't us?

We haven't been fair to it. If there's a way to be fair to all of us, I don't know what it is. This thing inside her has a heartbeat and everything. A doctor wouldn't be able to hear it yet, but it's there and soon it won't be. Soon it won't be anything anymore and I'll walk away from this, but I won't be the same.

I'm sorry. I know that doesn't change anything. It's useless, but I can't help feeling it.

I'm sorry.

I turn the light off and slip under the covers. Sleep comes and goes in bursts. I don't dream; I just think the same things over and over and I'm wide awake way before my alarm goes off. Yesterday's clothes are plastered onto my body and I peel them off, stand in the shower, and then trudge down to the kitchen. Mom's finis.h.i.+ng her coffee. She's wearing a light gray blazer and skirt and she looks up at me and says, "You're up early."

"Yeah. Are you on your way out?"

"Yes, that interview I told you about," she says curtly.

"I remember. Good luck."

"Thank you," she says, suddenly gracious. She sets her coffee mug in the sink and smiles slightly. "I better dash-don't want to be late."

"Good luck," I say again. You can never have too much good luck. Besides, I have nothing else to say to her.

I sit down at the kitchen table with a gla.s.s of orange juice and a bowl of cornflakes. Then I walk to school. It's the earliest I've ever been there and hardly anyone is around. I b.u.m a cigarette from a ninth-grade kid with s.h.a.ggy red hair and smoke it by the park bench just off school property. This kid, with the name I can't remember, looks at me like I'm royalty and says my name every chance he gets. A couple of his friends come over and b.u.m cigarettes. One of them asks me if I was at Marc Guerreau's party and if the rumor about Meaghan is true. I tell him he shouldn't listen to rumors and that everybody makes up bulls.h.i.+t about parties, although I saw part of it for myself.

"Relax, man," the puny ninth-grade kid says. "I'm just asking."

"It's a stupid question," I say, and I must look mad because the kid's eyes get scared.

I drop my cigarette and walk back towards the school. Holland and Diego are talking in the hallway. She's stuffing her coat into her locker and he's leaning against the locker next to hers and smiling like she just said something hilarious. They don't see me and I don't stop.

I have double physics first and I prop my monster textbook up on the counter in front of me, take out my pencil, and doodle on a sheet of loose-leaf paper. Sitting still is impossible. I s.h.i.+ft my weight in my chair and tap the countertop with my fingers. The girl on my left shoots me a highly annoyed look and grits her teeth.

The morning doesn't improve. My English teacher, Mr. Diebel, has to say my name multiple times before I hear him. I have no idea what he's been talking about; I'm just twitching away in my seat, thinking about this afternoon. I don't know exactly what time it's happening at, but I feel more panicked with every second. My voice stalls when I try to speak and Mr. Diebel flexes his right eyebrow like I'm just another brain-dead student, not worthy of his time and effort.

"Thank you for your insight, Nick," he says wryly, playing to the crowd.

Next it's on to lunch, but I'm not hungry. Socializing is out too. I don't want to sit around with Keelor and Gavin, pretending I'm all right. My body makes the decision for me. It swings away from the cafeteria and out into the winter suns.h.i.+ne. The air is cold but still and my feet keep walking. They take me all the way down to the lake, where I stop and stare at the water. It's hard to believe that it was ever warm enough to swim in and I think about that first day with Sasha, how nervous and excited she made me. It seems like something I made up in my head now. How could anything ever feel so perfect?

I crouch down and stick my hand in the water. It's ice cold and my instincts want to yank it straight back up again, but I hold it there for a minute, letting it ache.

My feet start up again and I follow them to the park on the hill. An old couple is pus.h.i.+ng two little boys with fat mittens on the swings. Another woman is standing at the base of the wooden jungle gym and protectively eyeing a little girl, frizzy red hair sticking out of her hat, standing on top.

"Penny," the woman shouts, "are you getting hungry?"

"No, Mummy," the little girl calls back. She has a strong English accent and it makes her sound so proper that I smile. "Do you want me to come down?"

"Not if you don't want to," her mother says.

The little girl sits down at the top of the slide, poised to push off. "I'll come down soon," she promises, "but not yet."

She's so precise that it kills me and I look up at this Penny girl, who is bundled up for arctic temperatures, and smile straight at her. She waves to me from the jungle gym and says, "Mummy, that boy is watching us." It's funny, Penny can't be any older than four or five, but she knows I'm not a man.

"It's all right, Penny," her mother says, her voice registering a hint of embarra.s.sment. "He won't bother you."

"I know that, Mummy," she says, exasperated. With that she hurtles herself down the slide.

I turn my back and start walking again, but I can still hear the girl's voice. "Mummy," she's saying, "I'll have you for a long, long time, won't I?" I'd never guess little kids would think about that, but obviously some of them do.

"Of course," her mother says. "Years and years."

"Years and years," Penny repeats, and I can tell what's she thinking: Exactly how long is that?

You can never be sure of anything, even when you're five years old. I'm tired of walking and I don't know where to go anymore. My head is pounding behind my eyes and my stomach wants to puke its guts out, only there's nothing in there but orange juice and cornflakes.

I cross the street and pa.s.s the row of stores on Main Street. A few people are taking advantage of the sun and walking their dogs. A black Labrador retriever tied to a sign outside Starbucks is devouring the remains of a bag of potato chips.

Beyond downtown it's houses again and I head north for a while before hanging a left. This is Keelor's neighborhood. I've spent so much time here over the years that it feels like a second home. Most of his neighbors still have their Christmas lights up and the family across the street has six reindeer lined up on their lawn. Santa Claus has lost his balance and is lying on his back. I go over, stand him up, and hover around the bottom of Keelor's driveway.

I should go home and lock myself in my room; I shouldn't step up to Keelor's front door and ring the bell. His cousin might not be home and what if she is?

But I can't control myself. I walk up the driveway and hit the bell. Jillian opens the door, frowns at me, and says, "G.o.d, you're pathetic."

No, she doesn't. She stands in front of me in a purple-striped sweater and jeans, looking surprised and waiting for me to say something.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi," she says. "What're you doing here?"

"I was-walking around." My mouth stumbles over the words. "And then I was in the neighborhood." I point at Santa Claus across the street.

"Don't you have school?" Her eyes rake over me, evaluating my state.

"Yeah," I admit, and she reaches for my arm and pulls me inside.

Jillian stands with her back against the wall and watches me take off my shoes. "Are you okay?" she asks. Would I be here if I was? I shake my head and stand stiffly in the hallway. "You want to talk about it?" she asks.

"No." I turn and reach down for my shoes. "I should go."

"No," Jillian says forcefully. "Come in-I'll make you something warm." She reaches out and touches my hand. "You feel cold. How long have you been out there?"

My mind skips back to Penny's mom at the bottom of the slide. Are you getting hungry? What makes me think I can do this to some girl I've known for six days?

"I'm okay," I tell her. "It's not that cold today."

We go into the kitchen and Jillian makes two hot chocolates, hands one to me, and leads me into the living room. Jazz is playing on the stereo and a Clive Barker novel is splayed out on the coffee table.

"I should've said goodbye to you on New Year's," I say, sitting down next to her on the couch. "I just felt kind of weird about the whole thing-not even with you, really, but about my girlfriend."

"Your ex-girlfriend," she reminds me, her curly blond head tilting.

"Yeah, well, that's the thing, she doesn't feel like an ex." I take a sip of hot chocolate, then hold the mug in front of me. "Have you heard anything about your mom?"

"Actually, yeah. My dad says she's doing better." She throws me a sideways glance. "He wants me to come home this weekend."

"I thought you were going to stay here awhile."

"I was. He deals with things better without me. When I'm there, he just gets worked up about me not being supportive." Jillian's cheeks tighten. "But I'm missing school and this is my last year before university."

"Your mom must've been pretty unhappy before." I shouldn't push it, I know, but I can't stop.

"Yeah." Jillian's face goes blank. "It's chemical. There doesn't have to be a reason for her to be unhappy. Anything can make her unhappy at any time if she's off her medication." Jillian sets her mug down next to the Clive Barker paperback and turns towards me. "Why'd you come here?"

I take another sip of hot chocolate. "I couldn't handle school." My hands are as cold as ever, even holding the warm mug, and I feel like I did that day in my dad's car, but I don't want to let go. "My ex-girlfriend is having an abortion today." I angle away from Jillian and talk to the wall. "n.o.body at school...I mean, I can't talk to them...and she won't let me be close to her anymore and-" I rush to my feet, knocking the coffee table along the way. "This is stupid. I'm sorry. You have your own stuff to worry about-you don't want to hear this. I don't even know you."

Jillian stands up next to me. "Sit down," she says. "It's okay. I just don't want to dredge up all this stuff about my mom. I talked to my dad for an hour yesterday night and..." She takes a heavy breath. "It's hard, you know." She touches my hand again and threads her fingers in between mine. "Sit down, okay?"

I sit down and she sits down next to me. I know she heard Gavin ask me about giving up hockey on New Year's, but this time I explain it for real, along with the truth about hiding out at Nathan's during the tournament. She tells me I should start playing again as soon as I can. She says she's in this teen theater group at home and that it helps a lot, pretending she's someone else. Maybe that's my problem with hockey; I'm always me. I ask her more about the theater group and she says they did a production of Grease in the fall and that she got the lead.

"So you can sing?" I ask.

"Yeah, I love to sing," she tells me. "When I was younger, I used to sing for everyone that came over to our house. I'd organize pretend contests and stuff with kids in my cla.s.s and get their parents to be the judges. I was a real show-off, totally obnoxious."

I smile and ask what her favorite song is.

"You mean to sing?" she asks.

"Yeah, sing a little." I fold my arms and sink further into the couch, expecting her to protest. Instead she takes a sip of water, warns me that it's corny, and launches into "Landslide." She holds her head straight and sings sweet and sad, looking straight at me. I'd let her sing the entire song without stopping her, but she stops anyway, just after the chorus.

"You're really good," I say sincerely. "You probably already know that."

Our bodies are so close they blend effortlessly together. We spent two hours spooned up together on New Year's Eve so the nearness feels completely natural between us and somehow we drift down on the couch until we're lying with our bodies wrapped tightly around each other. I can feel her heart beating against mine, racing, and I feel like crying, but I won't let myself. I nuzzle my face in her neck and kiss it softly. We lie still. I don't want to move and end the moment. I'm addicted to this and I shouldn't even be here. My fingers brush across her cheek as I pull back to look at her.

But Jillian must be able to read my mind because she turns her face away and says, "You know it's not going there with us. The timing's all wrong."

"I know," I say. "Sorry." I'm sorry for everything and I free all my limbs and feel the color drain out of my face.

"I wonder if we'd even like each other if we met under normal circ.u.mstances," Jillian muses, sitting up and grabbing for her mug. "What would've happened at that party?"

"I'd still like you," I tell her. "But I don't know what would've happened."

"I guess I probably wouldn't have been at the party in the first place."

"That's true." I guess I might have been-if Sasha and I weren't together. There's a whole alternate chain of events that could've happened to the three of us.

Jillian and I spend the next twenty minutes or so trying to talk about normal things, but I can feel both our problems trying to claw their way back to the surface, and then she says, "What're you going to do after you leave?"

"Go home."

"And then?"

"Wait for her call." My watch reads twenty-one minutes after two. It may have already happened. I hope so. My head drops into my hands and I remind myself that it's for the best. Was I going to take this kid to the park, hang around at the bottom of the slide, and promise to be around forever?

"I should go," I announce.

"No hurry," Jillian says. "No one will be home for at least an hour."

She means Keelor and his brother. They'll be the first ones back and I shouldn't be around then. Make that another reason I shouldn't be here.

"I should go anyway." I stand up and move slowly towards the door, waiting for her to follow me. "I'm sorry about before." I turn and look into her eyes.

"It's better this way," Jillian says. "I think you know that."

I do. My arms hang by my sides, feeling empty. "Can I hug you goodbye? This is probably the last time I'll see you."

"Sure." Jillian's eyes are sparkling, like I didn't need to ask in the first place. She takes a couple steps towards me and wraps her arms around my back. I hold her too.

"You never know, we might run into each other again sometime," she says.

I let go and nod. It's one of those things that'll never happen, but she's right, it's better this way. Whatever's between us is untouched. This is what pure feels like before you ruin it.

twenty.

Nathan calls at four o'clock. He didn't know I was cutting art and wants to make sure I'm okay. I could tell him about Penny, the girl in the park, and how I found myself wandering over to Keelor's house to see Jillian, but it'll wait. Explaining myself is exhausting these days and besides, that's all background. He knows Sasha is having the abortion today; he knows how I'm feeling. He always knows.

"I don't know if I'm coming in tomorrow," I tell him. "I want to see her."

"I thought her folks wouldn't let you."

"Yeah," I admit. "That's the deal."

"She said she'd be back at school on Monday," he reminds me, and I try to wait for her call, I do. I sit up late Wednesday night, repeatedly checking my IM and e-mail. Someone would let me know if anything went wrong, but I have to hear her voice-to be sure-and early the next morning I cave in and text her, asking her to call me.

I lay low until Mom leaves and then tell Holland I'm cutting cla.s.ses. She's not in the least surprised and she doesn't ask why-she already knows I won't tell her.

I take the cordless and my cell into the bathroom with me and jump in the shower for five minutes. My body already feels different from not playing hockey for the past week and a half-lazy from lack of use. Outside of summers this is the longest I've been off the ice since I sprained my ankle two years ago. The sprains can be worse than the breaks sometimes and my right ankle is still weaker than my left.

The smallest thing can change you.

I towel off and park myself in front of the TV. Maybe Sasha won't check her cell today; then she'll think I'm at school and the whole day will pa.s.s before she calls. But I give it a while longer. I don't want to wake her if she's sleeping.