Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (32 page)

“Where are you?” he asks.

“At Carla’s party,” I say.

“I’m coming right over,” Geoff says.

Ten minutes later, here he is. I hug him. I’m about to crack open another beer, but Geoff says this is a bad idea. He says that a fourth beer will be followed by the throwing-up stage of drinking, which, in his experience, is horribly unpleasant and bound to ruin any of the upside I’m feeling
now. Okeydokey. Geoff is my friend. He’s looking out for me. Geoff is someone I can count on.

“Let’s go,” Geoff says.

“What’s the rush?” I ask. “I’m going to reinvent myself tonight. I’m going to become a new person.”

“An alcoholic person?” Geoff asks.

“Maybe,” I say.

“I was quite fond of the old person,” Geoff says. He looks at me with a sad smile, and if he’s sad, then I’m sad. And I don’t want to be sad anymore. “I’m sorry about your father,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” I say, waving that ugly thought away with my hand.

“Come on,” he says. “Clarissa and Michael are away for the weekend. You can sleep in her bed tonight. You look like you could use some sleep.”

“Soon.” I link my arm through his. “Come on, let’s check out the party.”

In the dining room, Jeremy, Jason and a bunch of kids from
Hamlet
are playing Monopoly. They cheer when they see Geoff and call out greetings from the play:
“Stand ho! Who is there?”
and
“Hail to your lordship
.
”

Geoff replies, as Hamlet,
“I am glad to see you well.”
They all start talking in quotes to each other, the way actors do when they’re in a play together. I leave Geoff and follow the music downstairs.
Muse
-ic, like
Follow your muse
.
That’s a-
muse
-ing. I smile to myself. Sometimes I’m just a barrel of laughs.

In the basement, Led Zeppelin II is blasting from the stereo. Jimmy Page’s electric guitar dive-bombs through the air, and Robert Plant’s high-pitched voice wails “Whole Lotta Love.” A girl sprawled across Carla’s beanbag chair tries to stand up and spills her beer all over the carpet. She screeches and giggles as her friends help her onto her feet. The beer soaks into the orange shag rug and no one cleans it up.

People are dancing and I dance too. I don’t need a partner to have fun. I can have fun all by myself. It’s hot, and I’m queasy, but I love dancing. I shimmy and shake. When I twirl around, Ian is there. “What happened in Montreal?” he yells over the music.

“Didn’t work out,” I say, spinning off in the other direction. I really don’t want to talk to him. But a few minutes later, he sneaks up behind me again. He leans his chin on my collarbone. “Nice moves, Rapunzel,” he whispers in my ear. His whiskery face scratches against my cheek. He presses a bottle into my hand, but I’m not making that mistake again. I’m not the same person I used to be. “Always poaching someone’s booze,” I mutter.

“Only the good stuff.” His eyes shimmer. His fingers press against my neck. What makes him think he can touch me like that? He shouldn’t mess with people the way he does. I squirm away. I’ve had enough of this party. I want to go to Geoff’s
place and climb into bed. I weave through the dancers and up the stairs, but I can feel Ian’s wolf eyes watching me.

Geoff is still in the dining room playing Monopoly. “Let’s go,” I say.

“But, darling, I just bought Park Place,” he drawls. The other players laugh. Geoff tap-dances his silver shoe token across the Monopoly board.

I whisper, “Hamlet, this is your conscience calling. It’s time for your beauty sleep.”

“I know, I know. Five minutes, lovey,” he says in an uptown voice. “I’m just heading over to Fifth Avenue. Maybe I’ll nip into Tiffany’s.”

Geoff is on a roll. I shake my head. Someone picks up a Chance card and everyone yells, “Go directly to jail.”

“I need some fresh air,” I say to Geoff. I wander into Carla’s kitchen. Someone’s cigarettes are on the table, and I help myself to the open pack. I am definitely taking up smoking tonight. I light up. Woah. Yuck. Maybe smoking is an acquired taste. As I leave through the French doors, I hear Geoff singing, à la Frank Sinatra, “Luck Be a Lady.”

A couple of kids are hanging out in Carla’s backyard, but I want to be alone, so I cut through the hedge and sit in the darkness on my back deck. The deck is cold, and my throat is dry. I could use another beer. Or maybe not. When I think about drinking, I feel nauseous. I take small, elegant puffs on my cigarette.

Music drifts over from Carla’s basement. Laughter splashes into the night and seeps away. Inside the house, kids are falling in love, or wishing they were in love, or thinking they are in love. But what is love anyway? I think about
Brief Encounter
. Wasn’t I the one insisting—yes,
insisting
—that Celia Johnson dump her husband and children, and run away with Trevor Howard because they were so much in love? Because love is always so beautiful in the movies. And affairs are so romantic. Unless you’re the family being left behind.

Elephants mate for life. What do elephants know that my dad doesn’t? I flick my cigarette into the air and look up at the stars.

I wish I were a kid again. When you’re a kid, life is simple. You eat, you play and you read funny stories like
The Cat in the Hat
. I always liked that book. I always wanted to be like the cat, but really, I knew I was more like the fish in the pot. That pink fish flopping around in the blue teapot, with the stern look on his fishy face. Yup, that’s me: the anxious, uptight fish. But why can’t I be a cat who knows how to have a good time? A cat who always lands on his feet.
A cool cat. A snob cat. A cat who doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. Ian, Carla, Dad … they’re all cats. I didn’t choose to be a fish. I don’t like being a fish. But some people are born fish, and you can’t change yourself into a cat if you’re a fish, can you?

I take a deep breath and begin to recite
The Cat in the Hat
out loud. I know it by heart, and I can see all the drawings in my head. I picture Sally and her brother, whatever his name is, sitting side by side on their cute little red chairs, staring out the window at the rain, wishing they had something fun to do.

Ah, be careful what you wish for … because something always goes
bump
!

My stomach churns and my head feels sweaty. Someone stumbles out Carla’s back door. I continue with my story about the cat on the ball with the rake and the cake.

Ian’s face peeks through the hedge. “Hey,” he says, pushing through the bushes. He drops down beside me on the deck, in the shadows. “Are you talking to yourself?”

“No, I’m reciting poetry,” I say in my fishy voice.

Ian laughs. “Out here in the cold?”

“I’m not in a party mood,” I say. My stomach gurgles.

“What’s with everyone tonight?” he says. He looks over at me, and even in the dark, I can see the silvery flash of his eyes. He says, “I’m finished with Carla.”

I laugh. “For tonight,” I say.

“I am,” he says. “She’s so demanding. We drive each other crazy.”

“That’s because you’re both cats, like
The Cat in the Hat
,” I explain. “You yowl and howl, and you go a little wild, and you always have to have things your own way.”

“And what are you? A puppy?” he asks, smirking.

“No! I’m a good little fish,” I say.

Ian grins. “Cats eat fish.” He takes my wrist and licks my palm, like a hungry cat. I pull at my hand, but he holds it tight, and his tongue trails a slippery path all the way to the tip of my forefinger, which he bites between sharp, white teeth.

I yank my finger away. “Don’t.” I don’t like the way he moves from Carla to me without missing a beat. Cats are dangerous animals. “I’m going to find Geoff,” I say.

“Geoffy,” Ian calls in a high, drunk voice. “Geoffy.”

“Quit it,” I say. “You’re so mean.”

“Hey, I’m the one who has to fence with that loser. He makes the duel scene look like shit.” Ian scowls. He leans toward me, swaying drunkenly. “Too bad it’s not you, Jules,” he whispers. “You and me, we could make that scene hot.” He grins. “Do you want to fence with me, Jules?”

“No.” I stand up.

“Come on, we could spar right now.”

“We don’t have swords.”

“I have mine,” he sniggers. “And you don’t need one. I’ll teach you a new technique.” He leers at me. “I’ll show you
this, and I’ll show you that. We’ll have some fun, said the Cat in the Hat … Hey, that’s pretty good.” He laughs at his own rhyme and leans over to kiss me. I wriggle away.

Ian throws back his head and laughs louder. He calls out, “ ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, / so that I may climb the golden stair.’ ”

Someone next door yells, “Shut up.”

I walk toward Carla’s yard, but Ian grabs my arm and spins me around. He mashes his mouth against my lips and forces his tongue into my mouth. “Stop it,” I gasp.

“Come on,” he says, smirking. “Don’t be shy. I saw you watching through the window that night.” I shudder. His eyes spin in the darkness. “I saw you, Rapunzel, and you saw me.” He holds me tight. He licks the corner of his mouth like a wolf who’s tasted blood. I yank away and trip on the deck. I land on my back and he’s on top of me in seconds, pinning me with his bony knees, unzipping my jacket, his mouth on my neck.

“No!” I shout. I shove him away. “Stop.” His fingers claw at me. “Get off!” I shriek.

“Fuck! What’s your problem?” he snaps.

“Jules?” Geoff’s voice comes from Carla’s yard. “Jules? Hey!”

I’m going to be sick. I stagger to my feet. I lurch to the side of the house and throw up. I lean my forehead against the brick wall and puke again. My head spins. I wipe my mouth on a handful of gritty snow.

Oh God, I feel so sick. I want to leave now. I have to lie down. I need to find Geoff. I don’t want to pass out. I stagger back across my yard and stumble through the prickly hedge. Someone is lying on their back, on the ground. It takes me a second to realize it’s Geoff.

“Riders on the Storm”

There’s nothing like a fight to clear out a party. Within seconds of hearing that some guy is sprawled out in my backyard, bloody and unconscious, kids are jumping into their cars and taking off like firecrackers. I leap out of bed and race outside, where Debbie, Marlene and the cast and crew of
Hamlet
are circled around Geoff’s body like mourners at a funeral.

“Shit!” I say. “Is he dead?”

“Knocked out,” Jason says.

“Maybe he’s just passed out,” I say, but then I see the blood on his face. Nobody knows what to do. Ice? Water? A blanket? A pillow? Jeremy says we should call an ambulance, but the last thing I need is a siren screaming down my street. Fortunately, Geoff moans and opens his eyes. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Julia tries to help him up, but Geoff buckles and clutches his side.

“Ribs,” Jeremy says, putting his arm under Geoff’s for support.

“Damn,” Jason says, getting Geoff’s other side.

“There goes the play,” Jeremy says.

“You don’t know that yet,” Jason says. “They tape ribs in hockey.”

“Where’s Ian?” Debbie asks, naming names.

Everybody looks at me. “How the hell should I know?” I snap. “I broke up with him.”

“Again?” Jason says sarcastically. But no one laughs. We’re all thinking the same thing. You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure out what happened here.

I’m the one who drives Geoff and Julia to the hospital, not because I want to, but because Debbie doesn’t want blood on her mom’s car seat, and no one else is sober enough to drive. The
J
s help Geoff into the backseat beside Julia, who doesn’t say a word to anyone.

I know my way around the North York General Hospital Emergency because of my toe incident, which, of course, was also Ian’s fault. I drop off Geoff and Julia at the Emergency door, and by the time I park and walk into the hospital, Geoff has been moved to one of those cubicles. Julia’s answering questions at the front desk. She tells the nurse that Geoff’s mom is away for the evening, and she doesn’t have a number for Geoff’s dad. “They’re divorced. His name is Keith Jones. He’s a doctor. That’s all I know.”

“There’s a Dr. Keith Jones at St. Mike’s,” another nurse says.

They send us into the waiting room. I figure that if I had to wait two hours for a sprained toe, it’s going to take all night long to deal with Geoff’s injuries. “I’m not staying,” I tell Julia.

She nods. “Thanks for driving.”

“Yeah,” I say. I glance at her, and man, is she ever a mess. Blood and dirt smeared on her jacket, eyes like two holes in a white sheet and even her breath smells gross. “Julia,” I say, “you look like shit.”

“I know,” she says.

“Where’s your purse? You should buy some mints. Your breath stinks.” Julia looks around for her purse. No purse. Well, what the hell. No purse, no key, no money, no brains. “You know, for someone who’s so smart, you’re really disorganized,” I say.