Out of Order (4 page)

She stretches out her long legs and smoothes the black mini-skirt across her lap. “Sorry to hide on you,” she says.
“I was just dying for a smoke.” She leans over and lights my cigarette.

I try to inhale and start coughing. My eyes water. “Why?” I say. “Why do you smoke?” To my horror, my voice comes out almost in a wail.

Zelia's eyes narrow and her voice is cold. “It's no big deal, Sophie. You don't have to smoke if you don't want to.”

I shrug, blink hard and pull myself together. “I know. I just wondered.” I take another drag from the cigarette. This time I am prepared, and I don't cough.

Zelia watches me. She lets smoke drift out of her mouth. As it slowly wafts upward, she inhales it through her nose. French inhaling, she calls it. She tells me that Lee taught her.

When we finish our cigarettes, we go into my mother's office and I flick on the lights. I don't usually come in here. It makes me feel too weird, thinking about all those strangers talking to my mother, telling her their problems. We used to be pretty close, but I never told her about what happened with Patrice, Chloe and the others. I don't know why exactly; I just didn't want to talk about it.

Her office is nice though, small and cozy. The floor is covered with thick gray carpeting, and a large window looks into the garden. The black leather chairs, which are set up facing each other for a therapy session, are big and comfy.

Zelia gets right into it.

“So, Sophie,” she says, “tell me about your childhood.”

I laugh, still dizzy from smoking. “Well, Dr Keenan, I had an unhappy childhood...” I begin.

“Uh-huh. I see. And what about puberty?”

Zelia loves to embarrass me by saying words like puberty.

“What about it?” I say.

“What were your early adolescent years like?” She strokes an imaginary beard. “When did you begin your menses?”

I know she is just kidding around, but I feel a rising panic. All I can think about is the other girls calling me a fat loser. The words scrawled on my locker. And that day last year in the girl's washroom when Chloe Rankin and her followers all stood around laughing and talking about me while I hid silently in a cubicle. I can still hear Patrice's voice:
God, I can't believe I used to be friends with her. It's so embarrassing.
I feel like these secrets are written on my face, and Zelia will notice my fiery cheeks, my silence.

Zelia laughs. “It is so easy to make you blush, Sophie. Go on, say it. Puberty. Menses. They're just words.”

I make a face and toss a magazine at her, feeling sick and weak with relief. She can't read my mind after all.

“Okay,” she says abruptly. “Change chairs with me. Your turn to be the shrink.”

We switch chairs. I lean back and cross my legs.

“So,” I say, “tell me a little about what brings you here today.”

Zelia scowls. “My asshole mother has a new boyfriend.”

I forget to stay in character. “She does?”

“Michael.” Zelia grimaces and adds, in a sarcastic tone, “He's a therapist.”

“Really. How did she meet him?”

“She went to see him a couple of times. As a client, I mean.”

“No way. Oh my god. That's wrong, you know. Therapists aren't allowed to date their clients.” I've heard my mom rant about this subject many times. Then something else hits me. “Wait a minute. Your mom was seeing a therapist? How come?”

“She's always seeing some wacky therapist or psychic healer or whatever. Last year she was into this weird rebirthing thing—always lying in the bathtub and practicing breathing and pretend­ing she was still in the womb or something.” Zelia rolls her eyes.

“Wow,” I say.

She shrugs. “Yeah, it was pretty weird.”

“So...why does she...I mean...”

Zelia makes a face. “I don't know. She just gets depressed sometimes. And she's always been really angry with her parents. They only live a couple of hours away, but we haven't even seen them since I was a little kid.” She shrugs again. “I guess we're not good enough for them.”

It sounds like she's repeating something she's heard her mother say. “Don't your grandparents even call you or anything?” I ask.

She snorts. “No, apparently they think it's my fault Lee got pregnant and dropped out of university.”

“So that's why she sees therapists and all that?” I ask.

She looks at me. “I don't think there's really anything wrong with her,” she says. “She just likes to talk about herself.”

I'm not sure what to say so I slip back into the safety of the role Zelia has given me. “So, Zelia. You said your mother has a new boyfriend. Tell me more about that.”

“She is totally obsessed with this guy. I mean, seriously obsessed. They are all over each other. It's disgusting.”

“In front of you?” I ask, fascinated.

“Oh yeah. If I'm there. Believe me, I try not to be. Why do you think I'm at your house so much?”

This stings, but I ignore it. I make an imaginary note on an imaginary notepad. “Have you discussed your feelings about this with your mother?”

Zelia's mouth tightens into a hard line. “No way. I think Lee would rather I just disappeared. I'm in the way in their little love nest.”

I have never seen Zelia cry, but her eyes are shiny now.

She flips her hair back and shrugs. “Whatever. I don't care.”

WHEN WE GO
back into the house, I ask my mom if Zelia can stay for dinner.

“Sure. Of course,” she says. “It's just leftovers.”

It's always leftovers, it seems to me. I don't know how my mom manages to serve leftovers practically every night. Left over from what?

I'm kind of glad Zelia is staying for dinner. Mom keeps giving me these looks, and I can tell that, if we were alone, she'd be asking all kinds of questions. Plus, she'd make me eat. Zelia provides some distraction, and when Mom gets up to pour her a drink, I manage to scoop half my macaroni and cheese back into the serving bowl.

“So, can I ask you something?” Zelia says as my mom hands her a glass of iced water. “I'm just wondering. Is there a rule against therapists having, you know, relationships? With clients?”

Mom looks surprised. She has changed into her yoga clothes and tied her hair back, and as she answers she twirls her red ponytail between her fingers.

“You mean, intimate relationships? It's generally consid­ered unethical,” she says cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

“Lee,” Zelia says. “My mother. She's seeing this guy who was her therapist.”

“Oh dear. Well.”

I can tell that Mom isn't sure how much to say.

Finally she says, “Well, most therapists feel that it's not a good idea. And most professional organizations for therapists state that it's not ethical or appropriate. But it is a complicated issue.”

Her voice and expression are calm. You would never guess that she feels extremely strongly about this. I bet she is dying to ask who the guy is.

Zelia looks at her and narrows her eyes. “If I told you who he is, would you report him?”

“Oh, Zelia...You know, I don't think I should get involved in this. It's your mother's business. It doesn't matter what I think.” She looks at Zelia with the same expression she gets when she is worried about me. “Is he...is he treating you badly in any way, Zelia?”

“No,” Zelia says, “I just don't like him.” There is something
in her expression that I can't read.“I don't like him and Lee being together.”

My mom sighs. “I can't get between you and your mother, but if there is anything you want to talk about, you know I'm here.”

Zelia shrugs. “Whatever.”

For a moment, Mom looks like she's about to say some­thing; then she just reaches out and reWlls our water glasses. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Mom is watching me closely and I eat a few bites, hoping to avoid her attention.

“Can I be excused?” I say.

Mom looks at me, looks at my plate and sighs again. “You hardly ate anything.”

“I had a big snack after school,” I lie. “Zelia and I went to the drugstore, and I ate a bag of chips.” I turn to Zelia. “Right?”

Zelia doesn't even blink. “Yeah, that's right,” she says. “We split a big bag of Doritos.”

WHEN ZELIA HAS
gone home, I take the sunglasses out and put them on. I stare at myself in my bedroom mirror. The lenses are small and black enough to make my eyes completely invis­ible. I don't know this girl, the one staring at me from behind those dark shiny ovals. I don't know her at all.

ZELIA AND I
have started hanging out with the other smokers at school, mostly girls from grade eleven. One of them, a girl called Max, looks familiar. It takes me a minute to figure it out—she looks different now, with thick black eyeliner and her hair all spiked—but then I realize I saw her in the summer. She rides a horse out at Keltie's barn.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I remember you. You own that mare—what's her name? Kasey?”

“Keltie. I don't own her though. I just lease.”

“Yeah, Keltie. That's right.” Max nods and takes a long drag on her cigarette. “Are you still riding?” she asks.

“Yeah. Most days. You?”

“I wish. I don't have a horse either. I was riding a couple of the young ones over the summer, when their owners were away, but I haven't been out to the barn since school started.”

“We should ride together sometime,” I say. I am surprised by my boldness.

Max raises her straight dark eyebrows and nods. “Yeah. That'd be cool. I know that Lorraine is going away in a couple
of weeks, and she'll be away for most of the fall. I usually ride Sebastian when she's not around. Or Tavish says I can ride Bug anytime. Give me your number. I'll call you.”

I fumble in my pocket, find an eyeliner Zelia gave me and scribble my phone number on the inside of a paper match­book. I can feel Zelia's eyes on me.

“Come on,” she says. “We'll be late to class.” Her hand, cool and hard, grips my arm. I hand my number to Max and follow Zelia back into the school.

ENGLISH IS THE
one class that I actually enjoy. Today, though, I can't concentrate. I keep sneaking glances at Zelia; I can still feel her hand on my arm. I wonder if she is mad at me. I rest my chin on my folded hands and press my teeth against the inside of my lip. I don't know why she is so important to me, or why I feel myself disappearing when she is not around.

Mr. Farley has written an Emily Dickinson poem on the board. I start to read it silently:

Besides the Autumn poets sing

A few prosaic days

A little this side of the snow

And that side of the Haze –

I'm trying to remember exactly what prosaic means— boring? ordinary?—when Zelia nudges me.

“Just wait,” she says, “he's about to ask us to write a poem about the fall. Guaranteed.”

I stifle a giggle, relieved. She's not mad. And then, sure enough, Mr. Farley asks us to write a poem about the fall. Zelia nudges me again, but I have to avoid her eyes or I really will start laughing. Prosaic, I think, means the opposite of Zelia. Zelia is decidedly un-prosaic.

After school I suggest that we go to her place. I am curious about Lee and Michael.

Zelia shakes her head. “No, let's go to your place,” she says. “Or we could go downtown. Let's go downtown.”

“I have to call home and ask,” I say.

Zelia rolls her eyes but walks with me to the pay phones. There's no answer, so I leave a message to tell my mother we're going downtown. It won't be okay with her, but what else can I do?

WE SIT ON
the sidewalk down by the bookstore on Douglas Street. It's one of those giant chain stores that are exactly the same in every city. We try to go inside to use the washroom, but they have codes on the doors to stop people who aren't custom­ers from using them.

“It is totally about keeping teenagers out,” Zelia states, push­ing the buttons randomly. “You couldn't get away with treating any other group of people the way we get treated.” She spits the words out like they taste bad. “I mean, how do they know we're not customers? It's like we don't even have basic human rights.”

“We could look at books for a few minutes and then ask for the code,” I say.

Zelia shrugs. “Whatever. They probably still won't let us.”

But they do. A tall girl with lank blond hair unlocks the door and lets us in. Zelia leans close to the mirror and re-does her eyeliner while I pee. When I come out of the stall she takes my arm.

“Okay,” she says. “Let's go.”

Back on the sidewalk, we sit side by side and watch people walk past. They all look busy or stressed.

“They all look boring, too,” Zelia says.“Let's never be boring.”

I lean against her shoulder and feel the pull of her person­ality like a powerful magnet. “Okay,” I agree. “We will never, never, never be boring. You must tell me immediately if you think I'm in danger of becoming boring.”

Zelia grins. “Deal. And you must tell me.”

An old man limps past, leaning heavily on a cane. He looks down at us sitting on the sidewalk and smiles.

Zelia makes a face. “Nathan,” she says under her breath.

There is an edge of bitterness in her voice, and I look at her quizzically.

She shrugs off my concern. “Let's never get old,” she says. “Old is even worse than boring.”

“Mmm. Harder to avoid though,” I point out.

“Not really,” Zelia says. “I'm going to kill myself long before I get all decrepit and boring and ugly.”

I lift my head off her shoulder and look at her. “You are not,” I say. “You're not going to kill yourself.”