The Big Dream (8 page)

“That's all you're eating? Wait a minute, I'll finish making Abey's potatoes and then you can have some, too. And don't feed it to Chien, the vet don't want him having scraps. He's been getting fat, old boy.”

“I am not eating potatoes. And Chien is not fat. I gotta get my hair fixed.”

Abey stretched out his legs so that Yaël had to walk around to put her plate on the counter. “Did they like the new logo?” he asked.

“Of course. They loved the whole presentation,” she snapped, and went upstairs to finish herself.

There was a short in the hair dryer, so that it still worked but took twice as long to dry her hair, and left little waves behind her ears. Sasha had never once said anything about Yaël's hair, but then, men failed to mention, too – hair just went into the whole overall picture that they either did or did not like.

Then her last pair of good stockings snagged on the drawer so she had to wear the store-brand emergency pair, which puckered at the waist. By the time she got back downstairs, Yaël was in a mood, but her father was there so she had to be nice.

“Hey, Pop. How was your day?” She got her party boots from the closet and looked them over. She didn't have time for polish, but the burgundy leather looked glossy enough.

“Awight.” Her father was eating, hunched over the table with his suit jacket on the back of his chair inside out. She waited for what her father would ask; her mother would have prepped him, like an executive for a meeting. He muttered through a spoonful of potatoes, “Them bosses like your logo idea?”

“Well, of course.”

“Whose party you going to tonight?”

Yaël zipped a boot. “I don't know. It's my friend Sasha's friend.”

“This is a girlfriend, your mother tells me. How do you know her?”

The boots looked good with a short skirt. She usually wore them with long skirts. “She was a temp at work.”

Her father swallowed his mouthful and looked at her.

“A
temp
orary secretary. When someone was away last month.”

“So she is a new friend. What about Lahley and Jane?”

“Tomorrow. We're going shopping.” Yaël put her fingers to her lips to blow her father a kiss. When she held out her hand, she thought she saw a chip on her thumbnail polish, but it was just the light. Her mother came into the room dragging Chien by his leash. He did look a little plump. “Good night,” said Yaël. “I'm going.”

Yaël stopped at the LCBO. It was crowded, happy and loud, a miniature party made up of people from different parties, in ball caps and suits and dresses. Yaël stared the men in ties and jackets, the punker boys with gluey hair, the mousy girls in boring jeans. She stared at the rack of red wines and tried to imagine what Sasha's smart university friends would want. She decided the one that cost $15.

She parallel-parked the first try, but stayed in the car an extra moment to settle herself. If she were meeting a man at this party, her usual guy-from-work type from marketing or PR (she never dated corporate-branding guys; in-department dating was a mess), arriving would be the best part of the night. She tried to transpose all those past evenings into a new fantasy – Yaël coming in, getting hugged close to Sasha's small chest, getting introduced to impressed smiles, that first glass of wine of the weekend. She pulled back the handbrake and looked into the rearview. Her eyes were still perfect, all dark outline and silvery shadow. She got out of the car, clutching the wine bottle's throat through its paper sack.

She had never been to this neighbourhood before. The houses were big, but the lawns were patchy and no one had a flowerbed. Her boots rustled through leaves in the gutter. There were two guys sitting on the steps at the address Sasha had eyelinered on a sushi menu for her. Yaël was happy when they stopped talking to look at her boots, her breasts, her hair. Not the best part, but close. There were some pleasures in men, always.

“Is this the place where the party is?” She smiled at the boy on the left. His hair was feathery and too long around his face, but he had a nice big smile.

“Abso
lute
ly.” He stood up and looked down at her open jacket, the clingy white angora sweater underneath, then at her face. “Welcome.”

His friend stood up, too. “I'm Pete,” he said, but he didn't extend a hand for her to shake. Neither of them did.

“I'm Yaël, Sasha's . . . Thanks for having me. I brought some wine.” She held out the bottle, but Pete didn't take it.

“Oh, it's not my party. I'm just a friend of Hassid's. But I know there's a corkscrew in the kitchen for the wine. Oh, and this is Jarrit.”

She turned. “Your party?”

“Oh, no. Those guys are inside.”

Pete sat back down and picked up his beer. Jarrit smiled at her some more.

“Have you seen Sasha?”

His smile collapsed like a tent. “Oh, you're
with
Sasha? Oh. She was around before . . . I saw her.”

Yaël was bored bored bored. She said, “Thanks,” smiled nicely at Jarrit and carried the wine up the stairs and through the open front door. The party didn't seem to be in full swing yet. There were only a few people on the couches and they didn't look up when she came in. They all wore jeans, sweaters, sock feet. Some loopy music playing in the background, the same sample over and over. It was a little too warm. Yaël tucked the bottle between her knees and slid off her jacket.

A tall girl with a lot of toffee-coloured hair came running up. “Oh, wow, I just love those boots, those are gorgeous boots.” The girl talked like a ring tone, but a compliment is a compliment, plus she took the bottle and pointed out the coatrack. When Yaël had hung up her coat she introduced herself and shook the girl's silky hand.

“I'm Bess,” the girl said, handing the wine back. She wore no mascara, had bruisy bags under her eyes, a thin silver wire around the tip of one eyebrow.

“I'm Yaël.” Yaël took the bottle reluctantly. “Nice place.”

“Oh, I don't live here. I'm just a friend of Jarrit's. You meet Jarrit?”

“On the steps.”

They stared at each other, blinking. Yaël couldn't imagine telling Bess about her beautiful logo swirl in pantone 292, glowingly approved by all senior management. Bess's chest was approximately 36C, in a tight white T-shirt that said in red letters, Vote for Pedro. She wondered if that was someone's first or last name.

Bess shifted from foot to foot. “I'm gonna go talk to Jarrit. There's a corkscrew in the kitchen, if you want. Sasha was in there
before, making guacamole. You know Sasha? She makes awesome guacamole.”

“Awesome,” Yaël said faintly, and went on to the kitchen. The music was quieter there, but it was even warmer, and no Sasha. Someone saw Yaël's wine bottle and tried to give her a corkscrew; she flatly refused. Everybody stared at her, the everybody there was, which wasn't many. They weren't chatty, either, though few people had asked whether she was in the masters or doctoral stream, who her advisor was, who she TA'd for and what year she was in. Then Yaël didn't want to chat anymore – she didn't know what she was doing at this party anymore. She was the only one wearing shoes. She found a bathroom and locked herself in.

The sweat from her hand had soaked through the LCBO bag, so she took it off the bottle and threw it in the wastebasket. Then she hugged the wine to her chest and sat on the lid of the toilet until someone knocked on the door.

“Minute!” Yaël took out her cell and scrolled the numbers. While she was scrolling, it rang. “What?”

“Hey, so, you make it to the party ok?” Deep laughter in the background, the rustle of a crowd.

“Abey, I can drive a car.” Someone tried the door. “Just a
minute
!”

“Yeah, but like, new place, new people.” Beyond Abey was a sound like a foghorn.

“Are you at the game, Abey?”

“Yeah, but you need a ride, no problem, Yaël, I just had the one beer so far.”

“Abey, I'm
fine.
” Yaël stared at the crumpled orange bath towel by the radiator. If Abey came and got her, he'd take her home if she wanted, but otherwise to the sports bar near the Allen, where she could order wine by the glass and not be responsible for the bottle, and every guy in the place would watch her and want her, but no one would talk to her because she was with Abey. It would
be easy, and more fun then sitting on the toilet lid while her hair frizzed.

“This Sasha-friend, she's looking after you, I guess?”

“Abey, I'm fine, but there's so much static.” There was no static, it was a very good cellphone and she kept it fully charged. “I gotta get off.”

“Sure, but if ya – ” Yaël hit End, then dialed.

Sasha picked up on the third ring, laughing, then, “Um, yeah? Hello?”

“Sasha? Are you there?” She stood up, peered into the mirror at her mouth.

“
Yaël.
Are you there?” There were men's voices in the background, and the same music that was coming through the bathroom door.

“I'm here.” Yaël put the wine on the sink-edge, but it was curved and the bottle almost pitched before she caught it.

“Wait,
here
on the phone or
here
at the party? Where are you?”

“I'm here. I'm both. I'm in the bathroom.” Yaël put the wine on the floor next to the plunger. It stayed there.

“You're here! That's so great. I was worried you wouldn't come. Someone said they saw you, but they said your hair was wavy. Did you do something new?”

Yaël pressed her hips against the edge of the vanity and leaned forward to look at herself in the three-way. The hot rooms had undone some of the straight-ironing. A thick blonde wave bumped either side of her jaw. Yaël pushed out a breath. “Where are you?”

“Laundry room. Behind the kitchen. Come right now. We have guacamole and chips. Well, we have chips.”

“And beer!” someone yelled in the background.

Sasha laughed. “Come right now.” Then dial tone.

Yaël put her phone back in her purse and took out her Almond Plum lipstick. She put some on almost carelessly, glaring at her hair. There was a big round brush on the back of the toilet. It took her a moment of thinking about germs before she
picked it up. It took a much longer moment to pluck all the curly brown hair out of the bristles. The brushing didn't even do much good. Yaël set the brush back in its basket and started to look for a blow dryer, but then her purse rang. She gave up and opened the door.

There was a guy in the hall, leaning against the wall with his yellow Kodiaks crossed at the ankles, waiting patiently. He smiled when he saw her – at her face not her sweater, even – but she didn't feel up to another new person, so she kept going. At least there was someone else there wearing footwear.

Back in the kitchen, she found a door beside the refrigerator. Sasha was sitting on a shiny white drier, a brown beer bottle clutched to her thigh, her phone to her ear. She flipped it closed when Yaël came in. “You were taking too long. I've
missed
you.” She hopped off the dryer and stretched up to kiss Yaël on the mouth. Yaël felt herself blush before she could help it, but Sasha just hopped back on the drier and scooted over to make room.

Yaël licked Chapstick and beer that the kiss had left on her mouth, though she didn't like either taste. Then she examined the seating situation. Sasha was a good six inches shorter than her and she had been able to get easily from floor to drier, but Sasha was wearing purple skate shoes and jeans. Yaël was wearing a slim black skirt that stopped well above the knee, high boots and hose. She leaned against the drier instead, beside Sasha's legs but not touching. Sasha lowered her eyebrows, scooted closer and put an arm around Yaël's shoulder. Then she drank deeply from her beer, gestured across the room and said, “Yaël, this is Alan, and Sarah, and that's Cal.”