I Know It's Over (2 page)

Sure, Sasha. But it so happens that I can’t control my feelings. I still can’t figure out how she did it, how she could pull the plug on us so fast that it made my head spin. We could’ve worked this out last month. I would’ve helped her if she’d given me a chance. But none of that matters now. What’s done is done.

I force myself out of bed and fix my hair in the mirror. I don’t want any questions, any weird looks. I have to be extra normal—the uneventful son. “Everything’s fine,” I’ll say, and save the bad news for a phone conversation. Of course Mom won’t be any easier. Will she pretend it’s okay or stare through me like I’ve disappeared?

My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I sit on the end of my bed, my backpack slung over one shoulder, and wait. The music helps a little but not enough, and finally it’s time to go downstairs. If I stall too long, Mom will show up here anyway, wrap her arms around me like she’s drowning, and wish me a merry Christmas. I know she doesn’t want me to go. She wishes I could be like Holland—solidly on her side—but I can’t.

“He broke Mom’s heart,” Holland said to me when they first split up two years ago. “How can you even look at him?”

But what he did has nothing to do with me. I don’t want to be anyone else’s conscience. “Don’t drag me into it!” I shouted at her. “You’re not the moral authority of this family.” We said a lot of worse stuff after that and spent a long time not talking to each other. Holland doesn’t talk about my father at all anymore, just Bridgette.

My phone rings at the bottom of the stairs. I wrestle it out of my backpack as Mom sidles up to me and hands me three packages wrapped in candy cane paper, each one topped with a different-colored bow. I let the phone ring, plant a quick kiss on Mom’s cheek, and balance the presents under my left arm.

“Thanks,” I say. “Do you want me to open them now?” My presents for her and Holland are already under the tree, waiting for Christmas morning, but Mom’s always had a thing about watching people open their gifts.

“You can open them with your father,” she says. “Stick them at the top of the pile.” That’s a jab at Dad’s money, which, yes, he does have plenty of.

“Really? We can leave them till I get home if you want—open them together.”

“No, no.” She purses her lips as she glances through the open French doors at the Christmas tree. “It’s not the same if it’s not on the day.”

This is news to me, but I don’t have the energy for head games. “Okay, then,” I tell her. Outside, a car honks. Last chance, I think. Last chance to come clean and tell her what’s happened. “That’s Dad,” I say. “I better go.”

Mom shouts for Holland to come in and say goodbye to me. Holland shuffles into the entranceway, leans against the wall, and waves. “Good luck,” she calls as I step into the freezing air. She has no idea how much I need it.

Now, you’d think my dad would be a modern guy, what with the mid-life divorce and new girlfriend, but he’s not. He has all the old expectations, and as soon as I get into the car, he says, “What has Holland done to her hair? I could barely recognize her.”

“That’s the style now,” Bridgette coos in an aloe vera voice. “Body piercings and tattoos.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say with a scowl. I hate when Bridgette tries to sound helpful, like she has a clue about what’s going on. If I want to know what fork to use, I ask Bridgette; that’s about all she’s good for. Sometimes I wonder what the old man could’ve been thinking, running off with Bridgette. Was
this
what he was missing his whole life—a decent plate setting?

“So how are you, Nicholas?” Dad asks, wisely dropping the subject.

Here’s where things get tricky. My concentration isn’t too good right now. Then again, my dad isn’t the most perceptive guy in the world. What does he know about normal teenage behavior?

“I’m all right,” I tell him. “Pretty tired. Busy day at work. I might have a nap on the way.” The busy part is true enough: crowds of last-minute parents crammed into Sports 2 Go looking for in-line skates, snowboards, and team jerseys. I can never sleep in the car, though, not since I was about seven years old.

I slouch down in the backseat, letting my head flop to the side. It was Sasha who called me before. I know without looking. Why doesn’t she understand that I can’t talk to her now? I will call her back…later. She’s bound to call Holland and get Dad’s number if I don’t.

Sasha’s dad was never a big fan of mine. He wasn’t loud about it, but he didn’t hide it either. He’d come in and stand by the TV at nine-thirty, announcing that it was time “for Nick to return to his place of residence.” It could’ve been funny if he’d said it in the right way, but he never did; he said it like I’d been holed up in his living room for the past seven years, living off his groceries and puking behind his couch.

I ran into him at the beach once, back in August, when Sasha was giving sailing lessons. I’d planned to hang out with her that day, in between lessons. The beach was swarming with kids baking in the sun. A bunch of them in dripping swimsuits were crowded around Sasha on the pier, waiting for her to dismiss class. They scurried off towards shore when she said goodbye, and I weaved through them, calling her name.

“Nick, my dad’s here,” Sasha warned, looking swiftly over my shoulder.

And there he was, striding towards us in a golf shirt and cotton pants. “Sasha, did you put on sunscreen?” he asked, handing her a tall paper cup filled with water.

“
Yes,
I put on sunscreen, Dad.” She said that with a wad of impatience, but smiled as she raised the water to her mouth.

“And you’re here too.” Her father bunched his eyebrows as he scrutinized me. He always spoke to me in that same pinched nasal voice. “Does that mean we won’t have the pleasure of your presence at dinner this evening?”

Let’s get things straight, I avoided Sasha’s family and house as much as possible, but this was a girl with a nine-thirty curfew who was under strict instructions not to enter my house without an appointment personally confirmed by my mother.

“Dad, stop being such a pain,” Sasha lectured. Apparently she could get away with saying that kind of thing every so often as long as she played by the rules.

“So sensitive.” Her father sighed, his thin lips drooping into a frown. “Don’t be late for dinner.” He turned and strode towards the parking lot, not looking back.

“So sensitive,”
I repeated sarcastically, once he was out of earshot. “What’s his problem?”

“You know what his problem is.” Sasha beamed at me like she used to, like I’d done something amazing. “Us. There’s only one thing we can do to make him happy.”
Break up.
Wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. I can tell you, his attitude was really starting to piss me off, though. The rules were bad enough.

My towel was hanging around my shoulders, waiting to hit the sand, and I knew I should let it all go, but I couldn’t. “I get that he doesn’t trust me, but he doesn’t have to be a total dick about it,” I said.

Sasha sipped her water. “Not everybody is like your parents, Nick. Some people can’t even have boyfriends at sixteen. You probably just don’t know them.”

No, I don’t know them. I just know Sasha and how much she’d hate to disappoint her father. Will he want to protect her from this too, or will it change the way he feels about her? I don’t want to be the one that changes her life like that.

I burrow into the seat, listening to Dad and Bridgette discuss Christmas dinner. Her parents are going to be there, apparently, and some old uncle of Dad’s. Too many people. I don’t think I have a performance like that left in me.

“Shit.” I clench my fists. Bridgette and Dad glimpse back at me, my first clue I’ve said it out loud. My backpack is ringing again. It won’t quit. It rings and rings and rings. She’s redialing and redialing and she won’t stop. I dig into my backpack, grab my cell, and press it to my ear.

“So you finally decided to pick up,” Sasha says in a low voice.

“I’m in my dad’s car. I told you I’d call you when I got there.”

“You weren’t very convincing. Do you know what it’s like sitting here waiting for you to call me back, Nick? Every second is…” Her voice breaks on the last word. She swallows, pauses, and begins again, stronger: “Don’t make me call you back again.”

“I can turn off my phone,” I threaten, and for a moment that makes me feel good. I’m not completely powerless; I can still hurt her.

“You’d do that?” Sasha asks, her voice sinking. I imagine her lying on my bed like she did that first day, only this time she’s shriveling in front of me. What happened to her rules?

“No, I wouldn’t,” I tell her, but it’s too late—Sasha’s hung up. Whatever power I have can only be used in bad ways. Nothing good will happen anymore.

Bridgette and Dad are polite enough to pretend that nothing’s happened. They resume their conversation, their voices more animated this time, but I can’t do it. I can’t pretend. “Dad, we have to stop,” I say.

“We have
quite a distance
to go,” Bridgette declares, flashing me her own special brand of irritation. “We’re already behind schedule.”

I’m still holding the silent phone in my hand. It won’t ring again, not tonight, but I can’t fake it a minute longer.

“Dad, we have to stop somewhere,” I plead. “Now.”

Dad looks over his shoulder at me, frowning. “What is it, Nick?”

“There.” I point to the Burger King up ahead.

“What is it?” he demands. He veers into the fast-food parking lot and that’s it—I throw my backpack over my shoulder and head for the door. I rush through Burger King, past the two waiting cashiers, and charge into the washroom, where I punch Sasha’s phone number into my cell and pace the littered floor.

You’d think she’d be waiting for my call. You’d think she’d snap the phone up right away. But no, not Sasha. She knows I’m bad news. “Hello,” a voice says at last. “Hello?” Her father’s voice. If he doesn’t hate me already, he will very soon. I’ll always be the one who ruined everything for Sasha. He won’t understand that she’s the one too—the one who ruined everything for me.

“Can I talk to Sasha?” My voice doesn’t even sound normal. I sound like a 911 call, but what difference does it make?

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a long time, then a click as though someone’s hung up. The line doesn’t go dead, though; Sasha’s been on the line, listening to me, for some time.

“Sasha,” I say. “Talk to me.”

“What for?” she asks, sounding light-years away. “You have nothing to say, Nick. All this time I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to call and the problem didn’t go away once. I’m still pregnant.” She laughs and falls silent. “You see. You still have nothing to say.”

“Sasha,” I begin. My stomach is churning and my mind is in knots. I’m not somebody’s father. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. I have a part-time job in a sports store and another year and a half of high school. I don’t know how to make anybody happy. I remember Sasha’s father that day on the beach, bringing her water. His rules were in my way. That’s how stupid I am.

The door bangs open behind me and I swing around, the phone still glued to my ear. I’m not hanging up on Sasha this time—not for anyone.

Dad stares over at me like I’m a complete stranger, the guy behind you in line at the ATM. “Nicholas, what are you doing here?” he asks, unnaturally calm. “Why don’t we get back in the car?” He must’ve decided that I’m on drugs. He’s read some article, or Bridgette has, and this is the way you’re supposed to approach the whacked-out addict. No sudden movements.

“Go on,”
Sasha says bitterly.
“Why don’t you call me back later?”

“No.” I clutch the phone harder and lower my backpack to the floor. “I’m not hanging up.”

“Nicholas, what’s going on here?” Dad repeats.

“We have to go back.” I’m shaking on the inside, speaking through a fog. “I have to see Sasha.”

On the other end of the phone, Sasha sighs. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Okay, come.” And I know she knows. Yes, I finally got it.

“She’s pregnant,” I say, looking him in the eye. “I have to see her now.”

Dad’s face falls. His eyes pop open and he rocks back and forth on his heels, speechless. This is a book he hasn’t read. I know how he feels—I haven’t read it either. “Dad, please,” I say.
“Please.”
This is the best I can do. I don’t know what comes next.

Dad’s lips bite the air, forming an unspoken word. The lines in his forehead deepen as he takes a stranger’s step towards me. His right hand reaches down for my backpack. He lifts it up, slings it over his shoulder, and nods into the space between us.

two

There are three
types of girls at my school: girls with high-pitched laughs that act like they’re trying to get with you, even when they aren’t; girls who act like they don’t give a shit whether you’re in the room or not; and finally, the rarest kind, girls without an act—girls who smile when they feel like it and stand next to your locker when they have something to say or when you want them to listen. That last kind is the rarest but most important. If they say something nice, you feel it; if they tell you that you’re an asshole, you wonder if it’s true.

I didn’t think Sasha Jasinski was that kind of girl. For one thing, we barely spoke. We’d nod vaguely in each other’s direction when we passed in the hall. That was about it. Sometimes I’d watch her scribble down notes in English class. She was okay to look at if you stared hard enough. No makeup or anything, but nice lips, dark eyes, and a killer body. Her concentration face, the corners of her mouth dipping and eyebrows drawn tightly together, made her look angry. I wondered if that’s how she looked when she was actually pissed off. Not like I thought about her all the time; I just noticed certain things about her. For example, Ms. Raines, our English teacher, was deeply impressed with her. She’d cross her arms, her head sloping in Sasha’s direction, and nod in agreement as Sasha made these intelligent observations on Shakespearean themes or whatever we happened to be discussing at that particular moment.