Out of Order (8 page)

Through the open window, I hear tires crunching in the deep gravel of the driveway.

“That must be Patrick,” Mom says, rushing off to get the door.

I can hear their voices and laughter in the front hall: Patrick apologizing for being late, and Mom telling him it doesn't matter. Then the kitchen door swings open, and they walk in.

“Sophie, this is Patrick. He teaches at the university. Patrick, this is my daughter, Sophie.” Mom looks flustered and anxious.

I put down the lasagna and shake his hand, a little warily. He doesn't look anything like my idea of a university professor. I had expected someone old, maybe balding and wearing glasses, but Patrick looks like he might even be younger than Mom. He has short blond hair and is dressed casually in khaki pants and a cream sweater.

Mom gives me a gentle push. “Let's get dinner on the table. Gran and Zelia are sitting out there waiting. We can all catch up while we eat.”

I carry the lasagna into the dining room and sit down beside Zelia. Mom ushers Patrick in and urges everyone to help themselves to food.

Zelia seems to be fascinated by Patrick. She showers him with questions about his work, and he tells us boring stories about meetings at some university in Germany, presentations he has given, dinners with important people in strange cities. Mom rushes around, breathless and somehow out of focus; Gran is half asleep, her head nodding over the bowl of melting ice cream that she didn't want but was given anyway.

Zelia is leaning forward, her fingertips brushing Patrick's sleeve.

“Your job sounds so interesting,” she says. “I'd love to travel.”

He flashes her a conspiratorial grin. “Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere,” Zelia says fervently. “I've never been farther than Vancouver. I want to go to—oh—Paris. Rome. Mexico. London. And India. Russia. Anywhere.” Her eyes are an intense blue, fixed on his face.

“Coffee?” Mom is standing in the doorway.

“Black for me, Jeanie. I'm watching my weight.” Patrick winks at Zelia and me as he pats his flat belly.

“I'll clear,” I mutter. I pick up my plate of barely touched lasagna, balancing my glass and Gran's bowl in the other hand. As I turn to leave, Mom comes back with Patrick's coffee.

“Could I have some coffee too, Dr. Keller?” Zelia asks.

“I'll get it,” I say, leaving the room.

“Black,” Zelia calls after me.

In the kitchen, I stare at my reflection in the dark glass of the double-paned window. A double image stares back, one version of my face superimposed on another, not quite aligned. My self and my shadow, split apart. I stand at the sink and drip melted ice cream into my mouth, spoonful after creamy spoonful, until Gran's bowl is empty.

IT IS NOT
until later, after Zelia has gone home and I am in bed, that I realize she was flirting with Patrick. She's crazy, I think. She is crazy. He must be at least thirty-Wve. It's too weird. I mean, he's a friend of my mother's.

I wonder for a minute if I should ask her about it. I picture Zelia pausing in feigned disbelief. She shakes her head.
As if
, she says.
Get serious, Sophie. He's, like, old.
Then she laughs.
You're sick,
she says.
Get your mind out of the gutter.

But I don't think I imagined it. I doubt she was really interested in him. I think she was just testing her power. I can't imagine anyone being able to say no to Zelia. And I can't imag­ine how she'll react if someone ever does.

THE DAYS SLIP
by, getting colder and shorter as we descend into winter. I miss the fall colors I grew up with, the orange and scarlet that brightened the darkening days. Here in Victoria, the rain washes away the color, and the leaves pile up in sodden brown heaps.

I walk a tightrope, riding occasionally with Max and not talking about her when I am with Zelia. Max is a year ahead of us at school, and since she quit smoking and hanging out in the smoking area at school, I rarely see her outside the stables. It makes it easier. She hasn't called me like she said she would, and I am both disappointed and relieved.

Zelia comes over most days after school. Michael has moved in with her and Lee. She talks fast these days, filled with a bright brittle energy. She jumps from one game, one scheme, to the next, taking me along for the ride. She is like a hummingbird, hovering here and there but never landing. I follow her, feeling slow, clumsy and heavy by comparison. Zelia's quick fingers lift money from Lee's purse; they sweep scarves, hats and socks from the shelves at the mall; they wrap
themselves tightly through mine as we walk home together after school.

One late November morning, Zelia calls. Her voice is low and rough, like she just woke up.

“Soph, can I sleep over at your place tonight?” she asks.

“Gran's going to be here,” I say. What I don't say is that Patrick is coming round to go over some work stuff with my mother. They'll probably meet in her office, but still, I'd rather Zelia wasn't here. Plus, Mom's being a little weird about this meeting. She keeps mentioning it for no apparent reason. I'm starting to wonder if Patrick might be something more than just another colleague. Anyway, I don't much want to be here either.

“You know,” I say carefully, “if I came to your place, we could stay out later.”

I can hear a smile in Zelia's voice. “True.” She draws the word out as if it has two syllables: Tah-rue. “And that chick is having a party. You know. What's her name. One of your Goth triplet friends. Maisie.”

“Oh yeah.” I wasn't planning to go. Maisie, Max and Jas are a year older than us, and although everyone at school has been talking about this party, I hadn't exactly been invited.

WHEN I SEE
Zelia at school she dismisses my concerns.

“It's not that kind of party,” she says. “We're not in kinder­garten, Sophie. You don't get a little card with a picture of a birthday cake and a note for your mother.”

I squirm. “I know, but...”

“So,” Zelia says decisively, “we'll go.”

ZELIA AND I
both have a fifth-period math class but we decide to skip. I rarely skip classes. Not that I think it's wrong or anything, but I'm always scared of getting in trouble. Besides, I actually like math. It's always been easy for me. But I don't want Zelia to think I'm chicken:
chickenshit, chickenshit, fatso's chickenshit
, hisses the voice in my mind. With a surge of anger and defiance I shove the voice away and say, “Sure. Let's skip.”

Zelia tells me she has a surprise for me. I follow her across the wet grass of the school fields. We slip through a gap in the fence and drop down a few feet onto the slippery cobblestones of the square.

“We're going to get pizza?” I guess.

Zelia grins. “Nope.” She points at the tiny tattoo parlor sandwiched between the coffee shop and art gallery.

“Tattoos? I can't. I mean, I really can't. Mom would kill me.”

Zelia laughs scornfully. “You should see your face. You look like a goldfish.” She makes a fish mouth at me, opening and shutting her lips. “Don't panic. No tattoos. I think they're tacky anyway.”

My ears are burning. I say nothing.

Zelia pulls a fifty-dollar bill out of her pocket and waves it in the air. “We're getting our belly buttons pierced. It's on me.”

Inside the door, a few steep steps lead down to a tiny studio. A woman in jeans and a sleeveless shirt is tattooing a
man's shoulder. The buzzing of the tattoo gun vibrates inside my chest.

“I'm almost done,” she says. She doesn't lift her eyes from the tattoo. “I'll be with you in a minute.”

The wall beside us is covered in tattoo designs and photo­graphs of freshly inked arms, legs and backs.

“I'd get this one,” Zelia says, pointing at a photo of a woman's arm, the bicep encircled with thin black lines twisted to look like barbed wire. The skin beneath the tattoo is red and swollen.

“You'd have it forever,” I say.

Zelia looks at me like I'm completely hopeless. “Duh. That's the whole point.”

The woman wipes blood from the man's shoulder and looks up. “Are you girls eighteen?”

“Yeah, we are.” Zelia turns to the rack of body jewelry and we pick out our favorites: mine is a thin silver ring, Zelia's a softly curved stainless steel bar that ends in a sparkling blue stone.

“Mom really is going to kill me,” I whisper.

Zelia doesn't answer. She picks up a small silver ring. “Maybe I should do something different,” she says. “Get my nipple pierced instead.”

I wince. “Don't. It'd really hurt. Anyway, no one would see it.”

Zelia's eyes are hard, disdainful. “Please. We're not little kids anymore. Besides, who's going to see your navel?”

“That's different,” I say, feeling my face get hot. “Anyway,
I want us to both get our belly buttons done. You know. Together.”

Zelia grins. “Don't worry,” she says. “I was just teasing.”

The woman finishes up with her customer, laughing a little at something he says as he hands her a credit card. Finally she turns to us.

“So, you want piercings?”

“Yeah. Navels.” Zelia gestures toward me. “Both of us.”

The woman looks apologetic. “I'll need to see
ID
for you both.”

Zelia frowns. “I told you, we're eighteen.”

“Nothing personal,” the woman says. “Just policy. If you're under eighteen, I need your parents here to give consent.”

I tug at Zelia's arm. “Forget it. Let's just go.”

“It's my goddamn body,” Zelia says. “Not my mother's.”

The woman shrugs apologetically. “Like I said, it's nothing personal.”

“Fuck it.” Zelia looks at me. “I'll do it myself.”

ZELIA LIVES IN
a condo down near the Gorge. You can see the waterway from her living room window. I slip my shoes off in the front hall and look around. Thick white carpets, glass coffee tables without a single smudged fingerprint, carefully arranged flowers and knickknacks. It looks like a show home, not a place where people actually live.

I don't know what Lee does exactly, other than that she works for a lawyer. Zelia says she makes plenty of money when she works, but she keeps having problems with her bosses and she changes jobs a lot. They live off credit cards half the time. It makes me uncomfortable when she talks about Lee like this, with a mixture of contempt and admiration.

Tonight the white leather couch is occupied. A dark-haired man in beige cords and a heavy sweater is relaxing into the deep cushions, a mug resting on the coffee table beside him and a magazine open on his lap. He looks up when we walk in.

“Zelia,” he says, “how are you? How was school?”

“Hey, Michael. This is my friend Sophie.”

Michael smiles. “Sophie, huh? One of my favorite names.
It means wisdom, did you know that?”

I shake my head. “I don't know. I might have heard that before, maybe.” He's pretty good-looking for someone that old, and he seems like a nice-enough guy, but I can't help remem­bering that he was supposed to be Lee's therapist. Not her boyfriend.

“Where's Lee?” Zelia interrupts.

Michael nods toward the door. “Just ran out to get some wine to have with dinner. Should be back any minute.” He picks up his magazine in a gesture that is clearly meant to dismiss us.

Zelia ignores this. She drops down on the couch beside him and tucks her feet under her. Michael keeps his eyes on his magazine.

I remain standing, feeling awkward. I have an odd feeling, like I'm not really here or this isn't quite real. The whiteness of the couch, the lazy pose of the man and the beautiful sullen girl beside him—it all looks like a magazine ad or a scene from a movie.

The door opens, and Lee's clear voice breaks the spell.

“Michael?”

Zelia springs to her feet. “Come on. Let's go to my room.”

Zelia's room has the same unreal show-home quality as the rest of the house. It looks like a designer's idea of a teenage girl's bedroom. It is entirely too pink and too frilly to belong to Zelia.

Zelia throws herself onto the bed, rolls onto her back and lifts up her shirt. She pinches the skin above her belly button. “I could totally just do it myself.”

“Ouch,” I say, wincing as I imagine it. “So. I thought you said you hated Michael.”

Zelia's eyes are shards of blue glass. “I do hate Michael,” she says.

I shrug. “Okay then.”

“I'm serious.”

“I said okay. So you hate Michael.”

She sits up. “Not that, stupid. The belly button. I'm going to do it. Aren't you?”

I hesitate. I like the idea of both of us having pierced navels but...“No,” I say.

She jumps up and heads for the door. “Well, you can help me then. Be right back,” she says.

A couple of minutes later she returns, holding a glass of ice cubes in one hand and a sewing needle in the other. She places the ice on her bedside table, stretches out on the bed and folds her arms behind her head. Her sleeves ride up her arms slightly, and I glimpse a jagged red cut, partly healed but inflamed and sore-looking, marking the pale underside of her left forearm.

I touch her wrist lightly. “What did you do to yourself?”

She glares at me and yanks the sleeve back down. “Nothing.”

I don't say anything. My thoughts are slow and confused, and I find myself remembering a line from one of those books of poems hidden under my bed:
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge.
The room suddenly seems too quiet.

“Come on,” she says. “Let's do it.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, it's really going to hurt.”