That Secret You Keep Page 3

  “Well…I went to a Hallowe’en party.”

  Sliding back in his chair, a satisfied smile creeps across his lips.

  “That’s good. You were out socially. Did you meet anyone new?”

  I shrug one shoulder. It dawns on me that I get a lot of shoulder exercise in here.

  “Kind of.”

  He chuckles.

  “There’s that stubborn response again. Tell me, what was the name of your new friend?”

  I remember Max, and how he’d made me smile with the absurd idea that the greatest lover in the world – that had just about knocked me off my feet – might proposition a nun. The whole scenario was pretty funny.

  “Don.” I don’t know why I say it, but it just slips out.

  The man obviously wants to know more. His head is nodding while he continues to probe. “Tell me about Don. Does he go to your school?”

  “Yeah, he does. I don’t know him that well, though.”

  It’s hard not to notice him. His towering height makes you feel as though you’ve been shrunken by a magic spell. And he has the appendages of an octopus – maybe a cute, socially awkward octopus. All I know is that he mostly hangs out with Hayden.

  “This is good, Serena.”

  “Yeah, well. Not everything was so good. He mentioned driving me in his car.”

  And then, I remember what he’d said about my costume. Did he mean to make such a cruel comment? He wasn’t exactly a smooth talker. But then again, he was right. I am motherless – just like the children in the movie. And, even worse: it was my fault.

  I do not want to talk about this.

  “Did you practice your self-talk and script of safety? Were you able to use your mindfulness techniques to breathe deeply and count?”

  The man is nodding reassuringly, as though certain I’d have followed the plan. I imagine breathing heavily and muttering to myself as I prepare to get into some boy’s car. It’s hard to envision this not drawing attention to me. I’d look crazy.

  “Kind of.”

  His eyebrows are in his hairline.

  “Okay, no, not really. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I’d be too nervous in an unfamiliar car – especially one that looks like it might go too fast.”

  Thank God I don’t have the same response to city buses, or I’d be stuck riding my bike everywhere.

  “That’s good. You’re identifying triggers. These are things you can deal with in our sessions.” He glances down at his watch and grimaces. “Unfortunately, we’ve run out of time today,” then continues with a smile, “but, Serena, I feel that you can make some changes here with a little more work. I want you to keep trying to use the techniques we’ve practiced, okay?”

  “Sure,” I readily agree.

  It’s over. And I don’t have to do it again for another week.

  The man is nice enough – but trying not to talk about the only thing he wants me to talk about is exhausting.

  My dad is waiting outside the office in his car. I reach for the door handle and pull it open. When I sit behind the front passenger seat, he looks over his shoulder at me, with a smile that holds so much concern in his eyes, it almost breaks me.

  “How did it go this time?”

  I click the seatbelt into place and try to calm my heart rate.

  “Okay,” I reply. I hold the inner door handle and sit rigid in my seat. My neck and back are aching from keeping myself clenched shut the entire session, and my upper arms have red marks from where my hands circled tightly around them.

  My dad reaches between the seats and squeezes my knee.

  “Good.” He tries on another one of his ill-fitting smiles. “It’s going to be okay, you know.” I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or to me.

  “I know.”

  This is something we agreed on – that my dad would pick me up after my sessions – for me to practice being in the car with him. The first time I tried to sit in the front seat, I vomited. Even now, I’m on the edge of a full body sweat and feel like my neck is breaking out in hives.

  At any moment, someone could make a wrong turn or barrel through an intersection unexpectedly, and our lives would be changed forever – again. Maybe it’s absurd to think this way, but I can’t help it. What if the next driver doesn’t see my dad’s blinker when he’s turning? What if a street racer suddenly decides that he’s going to make a break for it up this avenue?

  What if, because of me, it happens all over again?

  I’ll never tell. I’ve already lost one parent – I can’t lose another.

  There’s a talk radio show playing as we drive through the rainy streets back to our house. It’s something about hospital cutbacks and unions. More talk: I’m barely listening. Sometimes I wear my iPod to drown out the sound of cars – trying to distract myself from where I am – and what I remember. I don’t know if it really helps, and I’m sure I look like I’ve been ostracized, alone in the backseat.

  I sense my dad looking back towards me every minute or so while we drive. Each time, I dig my nails into the seat and will him to keep his eyes on the road. If I start talking, he might lose focus.

  When he pulls down the laneway to the garage behind the house, and the car is finally parked, it’s like extra air fills my chest. I can feel the pools of sweat under my armpits: I’m disgusting. I fling open the car door.

  “I’ll get dinner started,” I tell him.

  “Do you have any studying to do tonight?”

  It sounds like an innocent question, but it’s not. He’s referencing the marks that came back after the first round of quizzes and tests this term. After that, we had a “plan”. Going to a specialized arts school doesn’t leave much room for slipping grades – especially when other students are waitlisted for your spot in the program.

  “I’m working on an English essay. I’ll get to it tonight after we eat.”

  I run upstairs, first, to quickly change my shirt before returning to the kitchen.

  Our kitchen used to be a place of mouth-watering spices, fried plantain and crawfish – and singing, always singing. I grew up listening to her voice carry over the onions frying on the stovetop.

  After getting the potatoes into the water, I squirt some type of brown sauce on the chicken and put it into the oven before tossing a quick salad together. My dad is in the other room, sorting through the mail and intermittently tapping on the computer. He spends most of his time in there. After our urgent return home in the spring, and a summer I can barely remember – one dreary sunny day drifting into the next – my dad threw himself into his teaching and research this fall.

  I sit on one of the rustic wooden stools at the counter and stare out the window at the rain. Suddenly a buzzer goes off, and I realize the chicken must be cooked. I’d obviously lost track of time.

  “Dinner’s ready!” I call out.

  This is another change since the meetings. There had been a lot of take-out containers that littered our recycling box back then – all of them brought home by my dad from wherever he’d stop on the way back from the university. When everything blew up with school, he decided we needed to have a family dinner each night.

  So here we are, sitting down at the table – with empty chairs surrounding us.

  “It’s delicious, Serena. Thank you for cooking tonight.”

  The potatoes are overdone to a mushy paste and the chicken is charred on one side.

  “No problem.”

  In between bites, my dad asks about the pieces we’re working on in senior choir, and I tell him.

  “Ah, one of your mother’s favourites.” He smiles sadly, and the weight of her empty chair presses upon me with such force, I can’t seem to swallow the bite of chicken in my mouth. “Perhaps you should invite Vanessa over to practice? It would be so lovely to hear your sweet voices fill this kitchen again.”

  How many nights did my mom help the two of us with our parts? I take a big gulp of water and try to clear my throat.

  “How did
your lecture go today?” I ask. Thankfully, he begins to rattle on about the Spanish Inquisition, and I attempt to look interested.

  Eventually, Dad offers to clean up and do the dishes.

  “Are you all finished there?” he asks me, looking down at my plate, which is still mostly covered with food.

  “Yeah. I had a snack late this afternoon between periods. I probably just took too much – I wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought.”

  “You sure you don’t want to have a little more. You know how much we worry about you.”

  He does this sometimes – talks like she’s still here.

  “No, I’m good, Dad. I’m going to head upstairs to work on that English essay.”

  He looks so pleased. I wish I could somehow keep that expression on his face.

  “Don’t stay up too late, Chispa. You have to get your rest, too.”

  My dad has called me this Spanish nickname ever since I can remember. My parents liked to say that, in our family, black and white hadn’t made grey: they’d made silver – and I was the bright “spark” in their lives.

  “I know.”

  I climb our creaky, narrow stairs up to my room and close the door behind me. Pushing the clothes that litter my bed onto the floor, I find my iPod. I press play. Billie Holiday’s “Good Morning Heartache” drawls between my ears. Just like the lyrics, the song haunts me and won’t leave me alone. I’m used to these blue feelings hanging around. I sit down.

  It isn’t just playing in my ears – it’s echoing deep in this hollow chasm inside of me. With my notebook out, I find a pen from my shoulder bag and sprawl across my bed. I stare at the blank page, waiting for inspiration, knowing it disappeared with her months ago.

  Chapter 3

  Max

  The Bricklayer’s Coffeehouse is full to the brim with people on a Saturday afternoon. I like to come here for the kick-ass coffee, but they also bring in some great performers. Today, it’s just Finnegan and me, though.

  Last Tuesday night, Finnegan told me he’d lost his backup player and asked me to help out. We both work at a downtown music store – not the kind that sells super hip vintage vinyl, but the kind that sells actual instruments to make music: guitars, saxophones, flutes, and that sort of thing. The store’s been around for years, and I spent a lot of time there as a young kid as soon as my parents let me ride public transportation alone. It was also where I first began plucking away at stringed instruments, and eventually tested my height on the double bass.

  We’re playing two sets today for the late afternoon coffee crowd. Finnegan’s song list is mostly covers of Neil Young, Simon and Garfunkel, and U2 – old folk/rock stuff. The first set went fairly well considering we’ve only rehearsed one night at the store this week. Finnegan does all the singing today, of course. I only add a few harmony “oohs” and “aahs” when absolutely necessary. The worst part about being in a school full of Vocal students – other than having to suffer through their relentless “sotto voce” rehearsals in classes like Calculus and English – is that they’re a constant reminder that the rest of us are substandard singers.

  The song ends, and there is sporadic clapping from a few attentive customers before the conversation noise level swells again. But even above the chatter, amplified by the cave-like acoustics from the plaster walls, the Dragon Lady’s voice reverberates.

  “Can you believe that Malik posted that picture of the two of us from my party? I mean – come on, people! – I looked terrible in that one!”

  To everyone else in the place, Vanessa, with her mane of flaming red hair, probably draws the most notice. Even I can hear her self-important, announcement-style delivery – as inane as a verbalized Twitter feed – above Finnegan’s singing. But, when Serena walks through the door with her, I feel as if I’m in the desert, and she’s only a mirage.

  “Oh my God! Emily, is one of my eyelashes coming off?” Vanessa squeals.

  I know the blonde is Emily something-or-other, and she’s in Vocal. The other girl with brown hair is quiet and shy, and I don’t remember her name. All the girls that surround Vanessa are like the chorus in the show: hand-picked to support the star, not to overtake her. Serena used to be an exception to this rule.

  Serena is one of the best vocalists at our school. It’s no wonder. Before her mom died last year, she was a well-known opera soprano – Cecile Besson – who had toured with companies all over. Genetics must be some sweet gift, because Serena has one of the most distinctive voices I’ve ever heard – smooth and sultry, yet precise in all the right places. Man, just seeing her makes me lose my place, and I almost forget the key change at the chorus. I’ve only caught glimpses of Serena in the halls this week but haven’t had the courage to approach her. It all ended so weirdly that night.

  None of the girls pay any attention to Serena. She stands behind them, holding her arms by the elbows, shrinking into her already small frame, and stares off towards the colourful chalk designs on the menu blackboards above the baristas. Her expression is distant, like there’s something other than contemplating coffee choices running through her mind. Once they’re served, they sit at a table near the wall of sliding glass patio doors.

  By the time we hit the last couple songs on our playlist, it’s obvious that my mind control techniques, summoning her to turn my way, have failed. The three girls are watching Vanessa flip through photos on her jewel-encrusted phone. Vanessa has a part-time job managing her own social media empire, apparently – I mean, about her, of course. If she isn’t posting or tweeting, she’s chirping and preening. I’ve heard that her dad works for some tech company, and she always seems to have the newest and best of everything. She turns it towards her friends for comments after every few finger swipes. Serena’s expression, each time, resembles a smile you might wear after getting your wisdom teeth pulled: thin, forced and painful to watch.

  I desperately want to get her attention, so before I can think it through, I lean over to Finnegan and whisper in his ear. He returns to the microphone hurriedly, and I only hope she can understand his heavy Irish accent as well as she did my lame Spanish attempt at the Hallowe’en party.

  “Oh! And, um, we’d like to dedicate our last song here today to a certain singing nun that has inspired millions around the world – Maria von Trapp.”

  It works. It’s like her eyes roll out of their trance, and she finally glances over towards us. I grin like an idiot when she catches my eye. I swear she’s fighting it all the way, but her mouth turns up the slightest bit. She looks away at first, but during the song, I catch her watching us a few times. For once in my life, I can’t wait to stop playing.

  Finnegan repeatedly strums the last chord in his dramatic finale. “Thanks everyone for coming. Hope you enjoyed the set!”

  “Be right back,” I sputter and rush off the stage, my footfalls creaking loudly on the old wooden floorboards.

  “Hey, if it’s about that girl – take all the time you need, boyo!” he calls after me.

  Moments later, I am standing at her table, the back of Vanessa’s chair at my waist.

  “Hey!” This is my brilliant opening.

  “Hi.” Her voice rises at the end, like she’s wondering what I’m doing here.

  Has she already forgotten meeting me at the party? I shove my hands into my jeans pockets before they start to do something embarrassing.

  “Max,” I say, prompting her.

  And there it is – the hint of the sweet-candied smile. “I remember.”

  Vanessa has obviously been interrupted from her monologue, and is now leaning away from me, as though I were diseased.

  Serena’s mouth has blossomed into a perfect smirk. “What exactly does The Sound of Music have to do with inspiring ‘Brown Eyed Girl’?” she asks.

  “Well, you know – the hills are alive – the grass is green – there’s lots of green grass and sheep in Ireland – and, suddenly, it’s six degrees to Van Morrison.”

  I get the other side of her mouth w
ith that one.

  Vanessa is looking from Serena to me, and back again, like she doesn’t recognize either one of us. I wonder if this is the most Serena has said since she’s sat down with her friends.

  Before I can lose whatever nerve it was that got me over here in the first place, I blurt out, “So, um, I was wondering if you wanted to go for coffee tomorrow?” Like a country singer rapping, I am sandpaper smooth in my delivery.

  Her smile falters, but doesn’t disappear completely. “Why?” she asks, shifting in her seat like she can’t get comfortable.

  Why? I’m not prepared for that question. I fumble for an answer, thinking that maybe it sounds too much like a date for her to say yes – which is technically the point of asking her out in the first place! “Oh, well, I figured I owed you that, at least – knocking you over and acting like such a bumbling idiot the other night – I thought I’d make it up to you by buying you a coffee, or something?”

  Vanessa is leaning towards Emily, using her own unique decibel level to whisper, “Isn’t he the one – you know – with Hayden?” Emily does a better job of whispering, so I can’t hear her answer.

  I ignore this. I try to ignore this.

  Serena steals her eyes away from me to check out the faces of her friends seated at the table with her. I can tell that Vanessa is truly surprised that Serena and I are even having this conversation when her eyes widen wickedly, and she coos, “I’m sure Serena would love to go.” Serena shoots her a stunned look. “What?” Vanessa asks, seemingly annoyed. “You hardly ever go out anymore, and this is a perfectly good opportunity to go out with…” She motions with her hand in my general direction.

  “Max,” I remind everyone again before turning to the only person I really want to hear from at the table.

  Serena is playing with the zipper on her shoulder bag, pulling it back and forth, opening and closing it. “Where did you want to go?”