Love is a Four-Letter Word (17 page)

I’m too anxious to talk on the way back to Doug’s house. It feels like everything from the neck down, not just my stomach, is tied up in knots. Thankfully Doug is still high on life and cruises with his arm hanging out the open window, singing along to the radio, even though he doesn’t know the words. Michael, sitting in the passenger seat, laughs, and then Doug laughs along with him. Men. It’s like they’re completely oblivious to the agony I’m going through back here.

As we pull in and the headlights sweep over the driveway, I catch a glimpse of something white at the side door. Once it starts to bark and run in circles, there is no doubt that it’s Suzy. I am so relieved I practically melt into the seat.

Doug grins at me. “Looks like someone owes me a piece of cheesecake.”

I manage to let myself out of the car and follow him and Michael to the house.

“C’mere, you crazy girl!” Doug calls. Suzy is frantic with love and launches herself at Doug who lifts her up and lets her attack his face in sloppy dog kisses. Ugh. “You’re a bad girl, Suzy Q, running away on Clarissa like that! Bad, bad girl!” But he is laughing as he says it and Suzy is concentrating too hard on barking and licking Doug’s face at the same time that I doubt she realizes she’s being scolded.

“I’m going to let this rascal in and I’ll be right out to drive you home, Michael.” Doug disappears into the house, Suzy weaving in and out of his legs, still barking like a possessed creature. Michael and I are alone in the driveway. I am dizzy with relief.

“Pretty crazy night,” he says.

“You can say that again.”

“Pretty cool, too.”

“Really cool.” A shiver travels down my spine all the way to the tips of my toes. When I go to wrap my arms around myself, I realize that I am still wearing Mrs. Larson’s hideous sweater.

“I should give this back to you so you can return it to Mrs. Larson.” I pull the sweater over my head and hand it to Michael. The sweater was warm and the air is cool, and my skin breaks out into ripples of goosebumps in protest. “Thanks for lending it to me.”

“No problem.” Michael is standing directly in front of me, Mrs. Larson’s pink sweater balled up inside-out in his hands. His bangs are in need of a trim and keep falling into his eyes. He looks a little overwhelmed, which isn’t surprising. If you’re not used to the drama of being a Delaney it can be pretty exhausting. Still, he helped me search for Suzy and sat through Denise’s lectures on cuticle care and was there for one of the most important nights of my life. Maybe it’s this, or finding Suzy, or my mom being cancer-free, or some powerful combination of all three, but right now, at this moment, I am overcome with something that feels like love for wonderful, dependable, floppy-haired Michael Greenblat.

And so I close the distance between us and kiss him. Right there in Doug’s driveway. Our noses bump and I don’t
know where to put my hands, but it doesn’t matter because we’re kissing and it’s soft and warm and tastes like root beer. Mrs. Larson’s sweater is squished between us, otherwise I would wrap my arms around him because I want to know what his back feels like and bury my hands in his hair and find out if it’s as soft as it looks. A second or maybe a year passes and I pull away because if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll forget to breathe. Michael still has his eyes closed and he looks as flushed as I feel.

The screen door squeaks, bangs, and suddenly Doug is back. “All right, Mikey, let’s get you home.”

The spell is broken. Silently, Michael and I float back to the car and file in, me in the front, and him in the back. I don’t say a word all the way to Michael’s house. I’m afraid that if I speak I’ll lose the feeling of the kiss on my lips, which are still tingling.

Michael gives Doug directions and thanks him for the ride when he gets out of the car.

“No problem-o, Michael! Thanks for helping Clarissa search for Suzy.”

Michael blushes at the mention of my name. “No problem,” he says, looking straight at me.

I watch him as he walks up to his front door, looking back once over his shoulder and raising his hand in a dorky little wave. I look away, some of the magic rubbing off and embarrassment taking its place. Did anybody see us? Can Doug tell? Was I too forward? Does Michael think I’m a good kisser? I do my best to wash away all bad thoughts and hold onto the memory of the kiss, which is already fleeting. Why is it so hard to remember good things?

Doug sighs. “Well, Clarissa, I’m beat. This has been a day for the history books.” He can say that again.

It isn’t until later, in bed, that I realize Benji doesn’t know yet. I was so worried and then surprised and then happy and then, well,
kissing
that I didn’t even think about calling him until right now.

I slip out of bed and tiptoe as quietly as I can to the kitchen, where I take the phone off its cradle and bring it back to bed with me. This isn’t the kind of news you can hold off on sharing until the next day. I burrow into the sheets and dial the numbers I’ve known by heart as long as I care to remember, praying the Dentonator doesn’t pick up.

“Hello?” He may sound sleepy, but I’d recognize Benji’s voice anywhere.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Clarissa?”

“Obviously.”

“It’s really late.”

“I know, but I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

I pause for effect. “My mom is officially cancer-free.”

“She is? For real?”

“For real.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“It’s too good to be true. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and think I dreamed the whole thing.”

“Since when have you carried on whole conversations in your sleep?”

“Never,” he admits.

“Maybe you should write it down,” I suggest. “Annie Delaney has been declared free of cancer.” I love saying it out loud.

“I could have written that in my sleep.”

“Maybe you should add ‘this is not a dream.’ That doesn’t seem like something a sleepwalker would write.”

“I can’t find a pen.”

“You won’t think it’s a dream, Benji. And if you do, you can call me first thing and I’ll tell you again.”

“Even if it’s early?”

“Even if it’s early.”

“I’m so relieved.”

“Me, too.”

“Relieved doesn’t even begin to explain how relieved I feel.”

“I know. Me, too.”

We lapse into silence. I don’t know what Benji’s thinking, maybe he’s fallen asleep, but I’m thinking about all the words I know and how I can’t think of a single one that expresses how I feel right now. For a second I consider telling him about the kiss, but I’m not ready to share that yet. I want to keep it to myself, if only for one night. “Are you still awake?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll let you get back to sleep. I just had to tell you.”

“No, I’m glad you called. I’m so happy for you and your mom.”

“Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Clarissa.”

“Goodnight, Benji.”

The weight of the day has finally worn me down and I can’t imagine walking all the way back to the kitchen to return the phone to its cradle. I intend to set it on my nightstand but I am too overcome with sleepiness. Instead, I fall asleep holding it tucked under my arm.

That night I sleep better than I have in more than a year.

The next morning, Doug is sitting at my kitchen table eating cereal. It’s nine o’clock. Does that mean Doug was here all night, or did he just arrive this morning? I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that question. One thing’s for sure; I’m glad I changed out of my penguin pyjamas and into real clothes. I clear my throat.

Doug looks up from the paper and smiles his tractor beam smile; it’s very hard not to get drawn in by a smile like that. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” He shakes the cereal box. “Froot Loops?”

I grab a bowl from the cupboard and pull up the chair opposite Doug. He’s busy frowning at the crossword, which gives me a chance to scrutinize him unnoticed. The air smells faintly of shaving cream, and not the raspberry- scented stuff my mom uses. This is a sharper, cleaner scent; it’s coming from Doug, who looks freshly shaved. Plus his hair is still damp at the edges. Did he shower here, or at home?

“I didn’t think a health nut like you would eat Froot Loops,” I say lightly.

“Some things are hard to resist,” Doug says. “Besides, I live by an eighty-five percent philosophy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I eat well eighty-five percent of the time. That way I’m allowed to break the rules now and then.”

“Is that what you teach your clients? To only give eighty-five percent to everything they do?” I ask.

“Yes and no. Yes, I tell my clients to eat healthy eighty-five percent of the time, and no, I don’t expect them to give anything but their best when it comes to effort.”

“That seems contradictory,” I point out.

Doug winks at me. “Good thing you’re not my client. I think you’d give me a run for my money.”

We lapse into silence, concentrating on our breakfasts. The only sound is the crunching of Froot Loops, the scrape of spoon against bowl, and Doug tapping the edge of his pen against the table. Every once in a while he hums aloud and the pen becomes a drumstick, tapping out a rhythm that only Doug can hear. I can’t stand not knowing anymore.

“Where’s my mother?” I blurt.

“She’s still in bed. I thought I’d let her sleep in for a bit.” When I don’t answer, Doug looks up from his paper. “I just dropped by from an early-bird session at the gym,” he explains. “I brought her a smoothie.”

The elastic bands that have been stretched tight around my chest expand and relax and I feel like I can breathe deeply again. “Oh, that’s nice,” I say weakly.

Doug smiles. “I’m a nice guy. I would have brought you something but I don’t know what you like.”

“That’s okay,” I say.

“Say, can you help me out here?” Doug asks. “I’m stuck.”

“What are you stuck on?” I ask.

“Twenty-three down, a four-letter word for friend.”

“Chum?”

“Nope, tried that.”

“Mate?”

“Ooh, very Australian, but no.”

“Ally?”

Doug grins. “Jackpot! I knew I could count on you.” He does a little drum roll against the paper and hits an imaginary cymbal above my head.

“For the record,” I say, “my favourite smoothie is strawberry; just strawberry, no banana.”

Doug winks. “Gotcha.”

“If you’re going with Michael, should I call Andrew?”

“I’m not going
with
Michael, we’re all going together.”

Mattie rolls her eyes. “I know, but everyone is paired up but me. You and Michael, your mom and Doug —”

“Denise isn’t with anyone,” I point out. “Besides, we’re not sitting with them, anyways. Can you imagine?” I trail off, letting Mattie picture Denise and Doug at a play, all that laughing and thigh-slapping and whistling like they’re at a ball game or the rodeo.

Mattie sighs. “Fine. But Andrew is cute, right?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, I never noticed.”

“Well, notice! I know you only have eyes for Michael, but just this once, for me, look at Andrew Kane and tell me if you think he’s cute.”

Andrew Kane is Mattie’s newest crush. He’s pretty quiet, really good at math, and has a lot of red hair.

“He looks like a long-lost Weasley brother,” I say.

“I happen to like red hair. It stands out.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Clarissa, be serious!” Mattie begs.

“I don’t know much about him,” I admit. “He doesn’t say much.”

“I know, he’s a man of mystery!” Mattie gushes. “Plus he would never hang out with Josh and those guys from the skate park. I can’t believe I ever liked Josh. Or Declan! Oh, please don’t tell anyone about that, I’m so embarrassed.” Mattie shakes her head, as if she can physically get rid of the three weeks she was in love with Declan. “Anyway. Do you think Andrew is the kind of boy who likes going to the theatre?”

“It’s just a community production, it’s not like you’re taking him to the opera,” I remind her.

“Maybe Michael can ask him! And then it would be like a group thing, which is way less intimidating. And at the show, you can sit with Michael and I can sit with Andrew …”

The wheels in Mattie’s head are turning too fast for me. As she talks through her plan of attack, I let my gaze wander. It inevitably lands on Michael, who is sitting with some guys from the basketball team, laughing away, like nothing ever happened.

I will him to look up at me. It’s been four days since that night in Doug’s driveway and we haven’t spoken since. I thought about calling him, but shouldn’t he be the one doing the calling?
I
kissed him, after all.

“Hello? Earth to Clarissa,” Mattie is waving her hand in front of my eyes.

“Yes, you should definitely invite Andrew,” I say.

Mattie rolls her eyes. “I know, I already told you that. I knew you weren’t listening. You’re thinking about Michael again, I can tell. You have that look on your face.”

“What look? I don’t have a look.”

“You do,” Mattie insists. Then her face softens. “So he still hasn’t called you?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Men!” I thought we had discussed the whole kiss thing to death a few days ago, when I first told her, but Mattie still has her theories. “Maybe he’s waiting for you to call. After all, you were the aggressor —”

“Aggressor? It’s not like I
forced
him to kiss me!”

“Of course not! I just meant you were the brave one. It’s not a bad thing, but maybe since you were the one who made the first move, he’s waiting for you to make the second one, too.”

“What happened to your whole ‘the ball is in his court’ theory?”

Mattie shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he thinks it’s too soon to make a move?”

“It’s been four days!”

“I know that, and you know that, but Michael is a boy. We can’t ever really know what he’s thinking.”

I snort. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

Mattie gets all dreamy-eyed. “At least you were kissed.”

“Correction,
he
was kissed. I was the one doing the kissing.”

We go back to eating our lunches in silence. I’m so agitated I can barely sit still. What is happening to me? I used to be a normal person who was able to carry on a normal conversation, and now all I can think about is Michael and why he isn’t calling me. If this is love, I want no part of it. It’s so much easier to not like anyone.

“Sorry I’m late.” Benji shows up at the table and slides his cafeteria tray next to mine.

“Lunchtime is practically over,” I say. “Where have you been?”

“I had a costume fitting,” he explains. “Wait till you see the headpiece I get to wear. It was rented from a theatre company in Toronto. The curls are made from real hair.”

Mattie claps her hands. “That is so exciting, I can’t wait to see it! Three more sleeps!”

“Real hair? Isn’t that kind of creepy?” I ask.

“A wig is made from real hair,” Benji points out. He looks back and forth at us. “So, what did I miss? What were you guys talking about?”

“Andrew Kane,” I blurt out, before Mattie can say anything. “Mattie thinks he’s cute.”

“But he never says anything,” Benji says.

“So? He’s probably thinking deep thoughts. He’s probably the smartest kid in our class,” Mattie says.

“She’s thinking of asking him to come see your show with us,” I add.

Mattie launches into her list of reasons why Andrew Kane is better than Josh. She doesn’t mention Declan. I am grateful that she can take a hint. I haven’t told Benji about the kiss yet, partly because I don’t want to do or say anything to distract him before his show opens, since he’s already a big bundle of nerves, and also because I’m not sure how to bring it up. It might make things weird between us.

“You should definitely ask him,” Benji concludes. “Do it now!”

We all swivel in our chairs to look at Andrew, sitting at the corner table eating his lunch with a book open beside him. “What do you think he’s reading?” Benji asks.

“It looks thick,” Mattie observes. “I bet it’s something dark and brooding and serious.”

“It’s probably his math textbook,” I point out.

Benji giggles. “How are you going to ask him?”

Mattie frowns. “I don’t know yet.”

“You should send him a note,” I suggest. “You plus me plus
The Wizard of Oz
equals one hot date.” Benji laughs
out loud and Mattie squeals, smacking me on the arm. “Or you could just give him your number. We know he’s good with those,” I add.

“You’re horrible,” she says, but she’s smiling as she says it.

“Are you going with Michael?” Benji asks.

I stop laughing. “Well he’s sitting
with
us, if that’s what you mean,” I say. Try as I might, I can’t keep the stiffness out of my voice.

“With is such a vague term,” Mattie muses.

Benji looks from me to Mattie and back to me again. His forehead wrinkles but he doesn’t say anything more about it. I can tell he’s hurt, though. He knows there is more to the story than Mattie and I are letting on, but for some reason, we aren’t sharing it with him. Pangs of guilt, like a hundred tiny needles, stab me in the gut. I know how it feels to be left out. For a moment, I consider telling him the whole story. But then I’d have to admit that I didn’t tell him about the kiss when it happened and I don’t want to open that can of worms, especially with his show only a few days away.

I give Mattie a nudge. “Come on, go ask Andrew. Lunch is almost over.”

“So?” she squeals.

I give her an ultimatum: “You have until the end of the day to ask him, or I’m asking him myself.”

Mattie’s face darkens. I guess the Only if Josh Plays Too birthday party incident is still fresh in her mind. She lets out a long breath. “Fine,” she agrees. “But just as friends. With a boy as shy as Andrew you have to go slow. I don’t want to scare him off.”

“You know, you dating Andrew could work out well for all of us. Just think of how much better our math marks will be!”

Mattie groans and tries to smack me again but I’m too fast for her and I duck just in time. I admit it was kind of a lame joke, but those are the kind that Benji likes best. Sure enough, Benji smiles, but it’s not enough to put an end to the guilt eating away at my stomach.

Day Six. After two days of complete and utter telephonic silence, the phone rings. I run for it, expecting to hear Michael on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Clarissa! Just the gal I wanted to talk to! Doug here. I was just wondering, is this play the sort of thing you dress up for?”

“I don’t think it matters.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” I say honestly. It depends on whether or not Michael comes. Mattie thinks I should wear skirts more often, but if I’m going to put myself through the torture of wearing a skirt, it better be for a good reason. I guess Michael is a good enough reason.

“Better put your mother on, I’ll see what she’s wearing and go from there.”

“It’s not prom, Doug.”

“Put her on anyways. I haven’t heard her dulcet tones all day.”

Barf.

Mom and Doug talk for what feels like an eternity, but it turns out to be only seven minutes. I know because I keep looking at the clock on the DVD player. It would be just my luck that Michael would call while my mom was on the phone. When the gush-fest is over, I keep the phone by my
side while I watch television. This way I will be the first to pick it up if it rings again. And sure enough, half an hour later, it does.

“Hello?”

“Minipop? Is that you?”

“Hi, Janine.”

“I just heard the news! You must be so thrilled! You know, I’ve been praying for your mama every night. I got my sister, my husband Gary, my friend Sandy and her husband Eric, Jen from my office, my priest, and a bunch of other people to remember your mama in their prayers and look how things turned out! Even if you’re not the religious type, you can’t deny the power of positive thought.”

“I guess not. Well, thanks, Janine.”

“Listen, is your mother there? I wouldn’t mind speaking to her myself.”

“I think she’s with a client,” I lie. “Can she call you back?”

“Sure thing, Minipop! I’m just so pleased for the two of you!”

I hang up and hope that a little white lie doesn’t undo all that positive energy Janine and company have sent our way. Maybe it is just a bunch of hocus-pocus, but I’m in no position to sneer at any healing methods right now.

When the phone rings again, I think, this is it; third time’s the charm.

“Hello?”

“Hello, may I speak to Clarissa, please?”

“Mattie, I can’t talk,” I say shortly.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m waiting for a phone call!”

“From Michael?”

I bristle at the pity in Mattie’s voice. “No!”

“No?”

“Well … maybe.”

“It’s okay, Clarissa. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’d be doing the same thing if I were you.”

“Can we talk later?”

“Of course! Call me the second you get off the phone with Michael.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I said I will, Mattie.”

“I’ll send you good vibes! Bye!”

But I don’t end up calling Mattie later. Why would I, when there is nothing to report? After all that activity, the phone is silent for the rest of the night.