Love is a Four-Letter Word (3 page)

I’m not all that surprised that I haven’t heard anything about a callback, but I feel sad about it just the same. And I am certainly not eager to talk about it when Mattie phones.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Mattie says. “Just because you don’t get one part doesn’t mean you aren’t a good actress. They probably cast all high school kids anyway.”

“True,” I sigh.

“Plus not every role will be a singing role. You don’t like to sing, right?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“Well then it wasn’t meant to be.”

Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, but it still stinks.

“We should do something to take your mind off things,” Mattie suggests. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe go for a walk? We can get slushies …”

“Sure. Let me just call Benji.”

“Oh.” Mattie hesitates. “I was kind of hoping it would be just the girls.… Please? Just this once?”

I feel bad about not calling Benji, but we can’t do everything together. Plus Mattie was a good friend for coming to the audition. “Okay, fine.”

Half an hour later, I find myself sitting on a bench at the skate park watching a group of boys try to kill themselves on the ramp. At least that’s what it looks like.

“Why are we here again?” I ask.

Mattie shrugs. “It’s a nice place to sit,” she says, but the blush in her cheeks says something else.

“Wait, are we here to watch boys?” I ask.

“No!” Mattie cries. “I just thought we could enjoy the weather.”

“Enjoy the view is more like it,” I say.

Mattie pretends to be offended for all of two seconds before her stern face collapses into a sheepish grin. “Okay, okay. I heard Josh talking about meeting up here and I thought maybe we could stroll by, you know, casually.”

“Josh? You like Josh Simmons?”

“Why not? He’s cute!”

I snort. “Maybe if you like dumb skateboarders!”

“He is not! Fine! Who do you like?”

“No one,” I say, maybe a bit too quickly.

Mattie grins wickedly. “Not even Michael?”

“No way,” I say. This is not exactly a lie. Michael Greenblat is the nicest boy (not including Benji) I know. He’s probably the cutest too, or he would be, if he stopped wearing only sports-related clothing. Benji thinks Michael is in desperate need of a makeover, but Michael isn’t the kind of boy who would let us tell him what to wear. Just the thought of Benji and Michael shopping makes me smile.

“What are you smiling about?” Mattie demands. “You do! You DO like him! I knew it. It’s okay, Clarissa. You can tell me. There’s nothing wrong with having a crush, especially on Michael. He’s one of us.”

Mattie whispers the word “us,” like it’s something holy. Last year Mattie, Michael, and I avenged the honour (not to mention the ribs) of Benji, who was the great Terror DiCarlo’s latest (and last — he was expelled from school) victim. For a while, Michael and I were heroes, although Mattie made us promise not to tell anyone she was involved. Being involved in a prank that massive, even if it was for the good of the world, would tarnish her spotless reputation. I couldn’t have pulled it off without them, and in some cosmic way we’ll probably be bonded for life. Like maybe when I’m forty-five and living in an expensive villa somewhere with a full house staff, Mattie will call me up for a kidney or something and I will be obligated to give her one of mine.

Mattie was sure that Michael was in love with me, but other than a few weird gifts, nothing happened. To be honest, I was kind of relieved. After the summer, things went back to the way they were and I could think about Michael or not think about him and no one had to know anything about it. But here we are, almost a year later, and Michael did look kind of cute balancing on a skateboard.

“I guess if I had to pick someone,” I finally say, “I would pick Michael —”

Mattie squeals. “I
knew
it!”

“BUT,” I interrupt, pointing my finger in her face, “I’m not interested in him. Or anyone. End of story.”

Mattie sighs. “
Fine
. But you would tell me if you liked someone, right?”

I think about this. Last year, there would have been no way I would tell her anything private. But, surprisingly, Mattie Cohen was quickly becoming one of my best friends. Second to Benji, of course. It turns out she’s pretty funny,
and you never run out of things to talk about when you’re with Mattie.

“Right.”

Mattie smiles and links her arm through mine. It’s kind of weird and kind of nice at the same time. I’m glad the boys are too interested in their skateboards to notice. “Good!” Mattie gushes. “Trust is everything in friendship.”

I return home to find half of my mom’s running group loitering in our kitchen. They’re training for the Run for the Cure marathon in October. No one was more surprised than me when Mom decided she was going to create a team, but when Denise agreed to join I think I walked around with my jaw hanging open for an entire day. Denise wheezes after sprinting from the car to the house, how was she going to handle a marathon?

“You don’t have to run the whole thing, lots of people walk it,” Denise explained. “It’s the thought that counts. Well, that and the sponsors. Besides, I could use a little tuning up.” Denise attempted to flex her arm and ended up flapping the skin where the triceps should be. Disgusting.

Mom and Denise are perfectly positioned to get lots of donations. Mom set up a stand with flyers and information on how to donate right at the front desk when you walk into the Hair Emporium. All of my mom’s clients already knew about her having cancer and they just love her to pieces, so of course everyone can find a little something to donate. Denise spends most of her time sweet-talking people into buying lipstick, so it’s not hard for her to talk up her best friend’s battle with cancer and how they’re doing something to give back.

“Hey there, Minipop!”

I didn’t think it was possible to meet someone more annoying than Denise. I was wrong. I just hadn’t met Janine yet. After training, Janine and Denise come over for tea and protein bars, taking over the kitchen with their gossiping and casual stretching. The whole room smells like Lycra. In order to get to the cereal, I have to duck under Janine’s leg, propped up on the counter for a hamstring stretch.

I mumble a reply and rummage in the fridge for whatever milk substitute my mother is subjecting us to this week. Looks like soy. Oh well, soy milk is better than goat’s milk.

“Your mom tells us you’re going to be a big star,” Janine chirps.

“Well I don’t know,” I demur. “I haven’t got in yet.”

“What, are you crazy?” Denise cries. “You’re the biggest drama queen I know! Of course you’ll get in!”

The ladies titter at Denise’s bad joke.

“We’ll be able to say we knew you when,” Mom says with a smile. “You and Benji both.”

“Who’s Benji?” Janine asks. “Your boyfriend?”

I roll my eyes. “No, he’s just a friend.” After seven years of people assuming Benji is my boyfriend it doesn’t bother me anymore.

“Oh sure, for now,” Janine says, leaning in and giving me a wink. “But you’d like him to be more, right?”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, Clarissa,” Denise says. “Falling in love with Benji is a recipe for disaster. Remember George Blakely?” She looks at Janine and Mom and all three nod and make sad noises.

“I am not in love with Benji. I am not in love with anyone, thank you very much.”

“Good for you, Minipop. Love is more trouble than it’s worth. Look at my husband, Gary. A more clueless man
you’ve never met. Spends half his time at work, half his time with the boys doing god-knows what. I’d probably be better off with a mop. But I love the guy, so here we are.”

Poor Gary. I’d make myself scarce if Janine was my wife, too.

“Don’t scare the poor girl, Janine!” Denise scolds. “Some men are worth the trouble. Like Doug … wouldn’t you agree, Annie?” Both women look slyly at my mother, who has been suspiciously quiet this whole time.

Mom smiles her blithe, Mona Lisa smile. “He is what they call a good egg.”

Denise snorts. “A good egg? He’s an omelette!”

Janine shakes her head. “Honey, that man is a whole chicken!” She high-fives Denise and the two of them howl with laughter.

If you ask me, there are two too many people in the kitchen. Mom looks at me and winks.

“Annie, can you give me a little trim?” Janine asks.

“Sure, let me get settled.” Mom heads down to the Hair Emporium and Denise helps herself to a third protein bar.

“Well if you’re going to get your hair done, I might as well stick around and chat for a bit,” she says.

Janine smiles at me. “What do you say, Minipop? Wanna join the girls for some girl talk?”

I’ve spent a lot of time with girls today. Besides, I can think of a million things I’d rather do than talk about menopause or dating after forty with Denise and Janine. Luckily, the perfect excuse lives right next door.

“No, thanks. I told Benji I’d stop by.” And before anyone can make another egg joke, I’m gone.

“What in God’s name is the matter?”

I step back, surprised to see Benji’s father on the other side of the door. He is rumpled and grumpy looking with pillow creases on his rather stubbly cheek. Normally he’d be at work at this time. He must be on nights this week, which means I’ve interrupted his sleep. Waking Mr. Denton is kind of like waking a bear; a big, hockey-playing bear. Not a good idea if you can help it. There’s a reason his old hockey buddies still call him the Dentonator; years after his days as a goon on the local Junior A team, he still looks like he could knock you right into the Arctic Circle with one shoulder.

“Oh, sorry Mr. D. I was looking for Benji.”

“He’s not here. He had to go to the theatre for something or other.”

“The theatre?”

The Dentonator grunts. “That’s what he said. I figured you were with him. Didn’t you know? Well?”

I’m so caught off guard it takes me a moment to realize that the Dentonator is staring at me, waiting for me to say something. “I’m not sure, Mr. D. He never mentioned anything about the theatre to me.”

The Dentonator frowns. “Huh? I thought you two were attached at the brain.”

It is weird. Benji never does anything without telling me about it. Why would he go to the theatre without me? Then again, I went to the park with Mattie without inviting him. A pang of guilt stabs me in the gut. What if he called and found out I was with Mattie? What if he saw us leave the house? Maybe this was karma.

“Did he say when he’d be back?” I ask.

“Nope, but I’ll tell him you were here.” And with that the Dentonator shuts the door, probably lumbering back to his room to hibernate.

I have to do something to keep my mind off Benji’s mysterious trip to the theatre. Television didn’t work. Homework certainly didn’t work. How am I supposed to focus on exponents when my best friend is hiding something from me? I couldn’t even paint my toenails. Where is Benji? What is taking him so long? I positioned myself in the dining room so I can see the Dentons’ side door — the only door they ever use. When Benji comes home, I’ll be the first to know.

Four o’clock slips by, then four-thirty, and somehow it’s five. I can hear Mom chatting away to a client, laughter travelling up the air vents from the basement to the dining room. It’s a nice sound. She’s almost back to a full-time schedule. At first she was worried that her customers would find a new stylist. She underestimates the power of a good head massage. That plus the vanilla-scented candles.

Unable to stand it a second longer, I shove my arms into my jacket, run down the basement stairs, and stick my head into the Hair Emporium.

“Mom? I’m going to the theatre.”

Mom looks over from blowdrying Mrs. Seto’s hair. “It’s almost dinner,” she says.

“I won’t be long,” I promise.

Mrs. Seto sits up, flipping her freshly cut hair back over her shoulders. “Clarissa, I heard you auditioned for the musical.”

I shoot Mom a look. I know she’s a hair stylist and everything, but does everyone have to know our business?

“Yes,” I say slowly. “But I don’t think it went very well.”

“That’s too bad,” says Mrs. Seto. “I’m stage-managing and if you want to get involved we always need people backstage, or making props and costumes.”

Costumes! Of course! Benji probably went to the theatre to submit his costume designs. It’s so obvious I feel stupid for not figuring it out before. I’m so relieved and grateful to Mrs. Seto I tell her that I would think about joining her crew. Unlikely. I am meant to be
on
stage, not behind it.

I go to the theatre anyway, to walk Benji home. I’m so proud of him. Benji is a really great artist. He draws all sorts of things, from comics to costume designs to goofy cards. If he wasn’t so darn shy maybe he’d get more recognition. I don’t understand him sometimes. You can bet if I could draw even half as well as he can, I’d be showing the whole world. It must be nice to be that good at something. I was kind of hoping that acting would be my thing, but that didn’t seem to be working out as well as I’d hoped. If only I could sing. I bet if my mother had put me in singing lessons when I was little I’d be just as good as Charity Smith-Jones. Maybe I would be the one with the Tim Hortons commercial.

At the theatre, the parking lot is surprisingly full. People are hanging around the front steps in groups of twos and threes, chatting. I weave through them to the big double doors and head inside. In the lobby, a desk is sitting in front of the auditorium doors, just like it was at the auditions. The sign that reads SHHH! AUDITIONS IN PROCESS is still taped to the front from yesterday. I can hear muffled voices from inside the auditorium, but there is no one in the lobby.

I wonder if they’ve started rehearsals already. That seems pretty soon after auditions to me, but what do I know about theatre? I can’t even get a part in a stupid community show. I can feel a bad mood coming on like a storm in August, but I try to shake it off. If I could just find Benji we could leave and I could go back to having a good day. Being at the theatre reminds me of how awful my audition was. This must be what criminals feel when they return to the scene of a crime.

The corkboard beside the drinking fountain is covered in posters for music lessons and art clubs. So what if I’m not a good actress? Maybe I could take up an instrument. It would be pretty cool to play the fiddle. I think about tearing off one of the strips with a phone number for a music teacher named Miss Bell. That can’t be a coincidence. Then I see the schedule. Across the top it reads WIZARD OF OZ CALLBACKS. Underneath is a list of time slots with names pencilled in beside them. Halfway down the page, next to the slot labelled 3 to 5 pm, is Benjamin Denton.