Out of Order (7 page)

“Hey, Max,” he says, grinning at her. He turns to me. “Hi, Sophie. Good ride?”

“A bit wet,” Max says, “but good. Are you riding?”

Tavish shakes his head and brushes his streaky brown hair out of his eyes. “No, I've got to pick up a horse from another barn. A new boarder. And I've got a list of chores that should take me until next year.”

Max shakes her head in sympathy. “Well, call me if you think you can squeeze a ride in. It'd be good to catch up.”

Tavish winks. “Will do.” He grabs a long, dark brown rain­coat that is hanging carelessly over a stall door, gives a quick wave and is gone.

“You know him?” I ask Max curiously.

She shrugs. “Sure. We're friends.” She picks up a hoof pick and leans against Sebastian's shoulder. “Come on, Seb, pick up your foot.” She scrapes the mud from his hoof; then she glances
up at me. “So,” she asks, “how about you and Zelia? Have you been friends for long?”

I have the feeling she has been waiting to ask me about Zelia, and I feel a little wary. “We met at the beginning of the year,” I say. “First week of school. Her locker's beside mine. Keller and Keenan, you know?”

I have no words to explain what Zelia means to me. I'm not sure I even understand it myself.

Max just nods and I wonder what she is thinking. I brush Keltie's mane and tail and paint oil on her hooves and heels to protect them from the Wne cracks they sometimes develop in wet weather.

“You want to come over sometime?” Max asks suddenly.

I am startled and pleased. “Sure. Yeah.”

“It's a bit crazy, our place,” Max says. “My older brothers have moved out, but my mom's remarried and I have twin half-brothers. They're two. It's pretty intense.”

“I like kids,” I say, stroking Keltie's velvet nose. “I'd love to come over sometime.”

Max dumps her brushes into Sebastian's tack box. “I'll call you,” she says.

ZELIA IS NOT
at school all week, and no one answers the phone when I call. I eat lunch with Max and her friends, Maisie and Jas. Jas is a tiny South Asian girl with long hair and a loud laugh that contradicts her size. Maisie is her opposite: tall and solid, quiet and fair haired. Despite her constant smok­ing, she's on the school swim team. They all wear black, and they all pretend not to notice the fact that I throw my lunches, untouched, into the garbage. I drink Diet Coke and listen to them talk, their voices rising and falling in an animated conversation about teachers, boys, music, parents, the weekend's parties.

Max has gone on the patch. She is determined to quit smoking. When we finish eating, Maisie and Jas head to the smoking area, and Max and I walk around, not smoking. Max sucks on mints or chews the end of her pen, and we talk—at first about horses, but gradually about other things too.

Today is Friday and she is celebrating four days nicotine free. We go for a celebratory Diet Coke at the pizza place. It is cool and the air feels damp; we are the only people sitting outside in the tiny, roped-off patio area.

“So where is Zelia? Did you get hold of her?” she asks.

“I don't know. It's weird. She hasn't called me all week. I haven't seen her since Monday. I tried calling about twenty times, but no one ever answers the phone.”

Max raises her straight dark eyebrows. “Huh. Maybe they've gone away?”

“She would have told me,” I say. “I'd know.”

“I hope she's okay,” she says.

Her voice is neutral, and I feel like she is just being polite. I think back to when I first met Zelia, and I try to remember my first impression. Confident. Strong. I think that was partly what drew me to her. You couldn't imagine anyone bullying Zelia.

“You don't like her, do you?” I ask.

Max looks uncomfortable. “I don't really know her,” she says after a long pause. “You two just seem very...different, that's all.”

“What do you mean? Different how?”

Max frowns and fiddles with the ashtray on the table. “Zelia has a hard edge, you know? You seem...softer.”

I don't like this. Softer. As in easy to push around? As in fat?

Max is watching my face carefully. “Maybe that's not the right word,” she says. “I don't know. Zelia just always seems like she's pissed oV about something. Or else she's really insecure. You don't seem like that.”

“Zelia's not insecure,” I say, surprised. “She's stronger than I am.”

Max looks unconvinced. “If you say so,” she says. “But you seem pretty strong to me.”

A picture of my grade nine self flashes into my mind: hiding in a washroom stall listening to Chloe and the others mock me, terrified that they would guess I was there, crying silently with my hands pressed against my mouth. Voices in my head are whispering
fat cow, fat bitch, fat fat fat.
I wonder how strong Max would think I was if she could see the movies play­ing in my head.

ON SATURDAY MORNING
, the phone rings early, waking me up.

Mom calls to me, “Sophie! It's Zelia. Are you awake?”

“Yeah.” I rub my hands across my eyes and sit up, swing­ing my legs over the side of my bed. I pick up the phone from my nightstand.

“Hello?”

“Hey. So, are we going downtown today or what?”

“Okay,” I say, snuggling back under the covers. “After I ride.”

There is a silence.

“So, are you riding with Max?” Zelia asks.

“Maybe. If she's there.”

“Whatever. So, you want to meet downtown this afternoon then?”

I am about to agree. I open my mouth to say
yeah, sure
. Then something heavy shifts and settles inside me. Gran still hasn't told Mom. I haven't talked to her since last Saturday, down on the sidewalk by the bookstore. I don't want to hang around downtown today. I don't want to sit on that sidewalk and mock the people passing by.

I bite my lip, hesitating. “Why don't you come here a bit later?” I say.

It is only after I hang up, still half-asleep, that I realize I forgot to ask where she has been all week.

MAX ISN'T AT
the barn, so I ride alone. The sky is a sharp clear blue, and the cold air tastes like burning leaves. When my mom comes to pick me up, Zelia is in the passenger seat.

“I was bored,” she says, “so I went round to your place, and your mom said I could come along for the ride.”

Zelia makes excuses to hang out with my mom a lot. This is probably paranoid, but sometimes I even wonder if she just wants to be friends with me because she likes my mother so much. I'm always holding my breath when they are together, scared that my mom might say something about what I was like before we came here. In a way, I'm glad I never told Mom about the things that happened at my old school. It makes it easier to keep it a secret.

I rub at a patch of dirt on my hand and watch the Welds roll past. I don't know how to talk to Zelia with my mom sitting there beside her. It's like I've split into two people this fall: one for Zelia and one for my mom. The two parts don't Wt together, so I just stare silently out the window.

Zelia fills the void, chatting away about nothing in partic­ular. As the Welds give way to city streets, she twists around to grin at me and then turns to my mother. “Can I stay for dinner?” she asks.

Mom pauses for a moment before answering. I can tell she wants to say no, but I know she won't. She never does. “Gran is coming over...and a fellow from the university. A colleague. I might do some teaching up there in January.” She sighs and shrugs. “Oh sure, stay. The more the merrier, right?”

Gran. I had forgotten that she was coming today. I hadn't realized that I would have to face her tonight. I slouch down in the backseat, glad that Mom can't see my face.

Zelia and I go up to my bedroom. She sits on my bed, lean­ing back against the pillows. I perch on the end, cross-legged.

“So?” I ask. “Where were you all week? I kept calling.”

“Lee kicked me out,” Zelia says.

“What? Kicked you out? What do you mean?”

“She wanted to be alone with Michael, so she sent me to stay with my aunt.” Zelia grabs one of my pillows and hugs it to her chest. “My freaking old hippy aunt who's stoned half the time.”

“Seriously? What did you do?”

Zelia shrugged. “Not much. She lives way out of town, out in Sooke. She doesn't even have a phone or a
TV
. Mostly I read her weird meditation magazines and tried not to die of boredom.”

I can't imagine. “You should have stayed with us,” I say.

Zelia brightens. “Really? You think your mom would let me?”

“Of course.”

She sighs. “I wish I could live here with you all the time.” She stretches her legs out and pulls Gran's quilt over her feet. “So, did you miss me?”

“Of course,” I say again.

She looks at me sideways, sliding her eyes toward me with­out turning her head. “Did you hang out with Max?”

“Yeah. Some.” My stomach is starting to hurt.

Zelia's eyes are narrowed and her pupils are pinpoints.

“I don't think you should hang out with her,” she says.

Her words hit me, sink in and drop into my belly like cold stones.

I arrange my face to look unconcerned. “Yeah? How come?”

Zelia waves her hands dismissively. “She's a Clone. Just a diVerent kind of Clone. Not like Tammy and those girls, but come on, please. Her and Jas and what's her name, the fat one.”

“Maisie,” I say, quietly.
The fat one, the fat one.

“Whatever. They all think they're such individuals because... what? They wear black? They wear weird makeup? It's so lame. They all dress exactly the same and then act like they're so unique.”

“They're okay,” I say.

Zelia shrugs. “Well, do what you want. Just don't expect me to hang around with the Goth triplets.”

I feel like I should say something—argue with her or something—but I don't. I just bite the inside of my lip and feel trapped.

There is a long silence. Zelia opens her purse, pulls out a bottle of black nail polish and starts painting her nails. The smell makes me feel sick.

“Let's go outside,” I say.

Gran is standing at the bottom of the stairs; I think she
must have been waiting to catch me alone.

I smile at her tentatively. She ignores my smile and grabs my arm. Hard.

She turns to Zelia. “Go on, you. I want to talk to Sophie.”

Zelia looks at me and smirks. I half close my eyes, willing her to leave.

“O-kay,” Zelia says. Her voice is low and mocking, but she goes ahead.

Gran holds me away from her and looks at me with eyes like steel. I squirm inwardly.

“I'm really sorry,” I whisper. “About last weekend. It was dumb.”

She shakes her head. “You know, you're such a lucky girl. You have a mother who loves you, you go to a good school, you have nice clothes, plenty to eat...And there you are, begging on the sidewalk. I don't understand.”

“I'm sorry,” I say again. “It was just a joke. A stupid game.”

Gran snorts. “It's that Zelia,” she says. “She's a bad influence on you. I know that type—she thinks nothing can touch her. She thinks she's better than everyone else, but she's nothing special.”

“She is better.” I feel myself hardening again. “She is special.”

Gran shakes her head. “She's trouble, that one.”

“I have to go,” I say, pulling my arm free. I follow Zelia's path out the back door and to the hidden spot behind my mom's office. Zelia is sitting there, smoking and stripping leaves off the rhododendrons.

She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Gertrude still pissed about last weekend?”

“Don't call her that.” I feel tired. Tired of Gran. Tired of Zelia. Tired of myself.

Zelia shrugs and butts out her cigarette in the grass. “I got some stuff for you. I almost forgot.”

She opens her leather backpack and turns it upside down. A cascade of eyeliners, lipsticks, hair gel and jewelry tumbles onto the grass.

I pick up a pair of silver hoop earrings and turn them over in my hand. “For me? How come? Where'd you get all this stuff?” As soon as the words pass my lips, I want to snatch them back.

Zelia's mouth curves in a contented smile. “I missed you, that's how come.”

“Well.” I chew on the swollen inside of my bottom lip. “Thanks. Can I put it in your bag for now?” I scoop up the pile of stolen treasure. I don't want Mom to see it and ask questions. I don't want to have to lie to her.

I avoid Zelia's eyes. “Dinner's probably just about ready,” I tell her. “We'd better go inside.”

Zelia uncrosses her legs and stands in one fluid motion, graceful as a dancer. She pops a stick of gum in her mouth and winks at me. “Don't want your mom to know I smoke,” she says.

I'm surprised. I didn't think she cared what anyone thought.

In the kitchen, Gran pats my shoulder awkwardly.

“Can I help with anything?” Zelia asks my mom.

Mom shakes her head. “Thanks, Zelia. It's all pretty much ready. Gran's just going to finish setting the table.” She casts her eyes around the kitchen. “Here, you can take the salad to the dining room.”

Zelia takes the bowl and turns to leave, sniffing the air. “Mmm. It all smells so good, Dr. Keller.”

Mom is pulling the lasagna out of the oven. Five hundred calories per serving, I tell myself automatically. Eleven grams of fat. I stare at the lasagna and start to salivate. Okay, you can have some salad, I bargain. My stomach growls.

“Here, Sophie,” says Mom. “Would you take the lasagna to the dining room?”

I take the tray and hold it gingerly in both hands. I can almost taste the cheese, the spicy tomato sauce.
Loser. Fatso.
I conjure the memories deliberately, throwing them like darts at the hunger ballooning inside me. What is wrong with me?