Out of Order (9 page)

She closes her eyes. “I'm ready.”

I lift up her shirt slowly. Then I take an ice cube and hold it against her navel.

She flinches, the skin on her tummy jumping slightly. Then she giggles. “Shit, that's cold.”

I giggle nervously too. “That's the general idea.”

The ice is melting, and water trickles across her belly and drips onto the pink and white comforter. I reach for a second ice cube but Zelia grabs my arm.

“Enough already. Just do it.”

“Me? You want me to do it?”

She grins at me. “Yeah, Sophie. I want you to do it.”

I don't want to. Actually, I'm pretty sure this is a really bad idea. “Are you sure?”

She giggles. “Quick, before I chicken out.”

I pick up the needle. “Shouldn't we sterilize this or something?”

“It's sterile, okay? Just get on with it.”

My hand is shaking slightly. I can hear Lee and Michael's voices from down the hall and wish that Zelia's mom would knock on the door to say hi or to call us for dinner. I wait for a moment, but nothing happens.

“Jesus, Sophie. Get it over with, would you?”

I stare at the needle; then I look at the smooth skin of her belly. “I don't think I can.”

“Come on, Sophie. Don't be such a chickenshit.”

Chickenshit.
I clench my teeth, pinch the fold of skin above her navel and touch the needle to it. It's just a thin fold of skin,
I tell myself. No big deal. The only way to do this, I figure, is fast. My mouth is suddenly dry. I hold my breath for a second and then, feeling slightly sick, punch the needle through as fast and as hard as I can.

“Fuck!” Zelia yells. “Fuck, that hurts.” She starts giggling.

I'm laughing too. I can't stop, even though I'm expecting Lee to come flying in any second to ask what is going on.

“Is that it?” Zelia asks. “Is it through?”

I nod. The needle is still sticking out on both sides. I start to slide it out.

“Ow. Ow.” Zelia grabs my hand.

“You can't just leave it in there,” I point out.

“Let me do it.” She grips the needle and, sucking in her breath sharply, pulls it out herself. A thin trickle of blood pools in her navel.

“Now what?” I ask. “You don't have anything to put in the hole.”

She props herself up on her elbows. “Do too.” Rolling onto her side, she slips one hand into her jeans pocket and pulls out the silver bar with the blue stone—the one she was looking at in the piercing studio. “I figured they owed me,” she says.

I feel light-headed and start giggling again. “Well, you can just put that in yourself.”

“I intend to.” She makes a face at me and laughs. “I sure hope you're not considering a medical career,” she says. “Your face has gone totally white.”

“Yours isn't looking so good either.”

She sucks in her breath sharply as she forces the bar through
the new hole. It looks like it hurts—a lot—and I have to turn away.

Finally she is done. “Look at that!” she demands.

The jewelry catches the light from the window, sparkling against the reddened skin. I think of the cut on her wrist and find myself reaching out to touch her belly, just below the blue stone.

“It's beautiful,” I say. “It's the same color as your eyes.”

Her eyes meet mine for a second. “God, I need a drink.”

“Me too. That was the weirdest thing I've ever done.”

Zelia rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I think you must have had a very boring life.” She pulls her shirt down. “It's a good thing you have me around to keep it interesting.”

She slips gingerly off the bed and slides open her mirrored closet door. She has tons of clothes. Lee buys her all kinds of expensive designer stuff that she never wears. Mostly she just wears jeans and funky shirts she buys secondhand.

She strips off her clothes and pulls on a short black skirt, a lacy top and black leggings. Then she slides the closet door closed and checks herself out in the mirror. I look at her reflection and then, despairingly, at my own. Beside Zelia, everything about me is boring. Dull, ordinary, mundane. Prosaic. I ball up my fists and try not to care.

“Is that what you're wearing to Maisie's?” Zelia asks.

I look down at my new black sweater and favorite soft blue jeans. “I guess so.”

She sits down, cross-legged, on the floor and starts care­fully brushing mascara onto her already dark lashes. I run my
hands over my reddish mess of hair, trying to smooth it down. I blow-dried it straight this morning, but it just takes the slight­est dampness in the air to start it frizzing and curling again. Zelia doesn't have to do anything to her hair—she quickly runs a brush over it and it's perfect. I scowl at my reflection.

“Borrow something of mine if you want,” she says.

“I'm okay with what I have on,” I say. At least I'm thinner than she is. I look down at my thighs and note with satisfaction that even these new jeans are fitting loosely now. Zelia is thin enough, but her clothes would be way too big for me.

“Suit yourself,” Zelia says, shrugging. “I'm afraid we'll have to sit through dinner with the lovebirds before we can escape.” She mimes sticking a finger down her throat and vomiting.

DINNER IS TENSE
. It's not because of Lee and Michael though. It's because of Zelia. She has an angry sharp edge tonight, and she and Lee remind me of a pair of cats. They circle around each other's words, wary and suspicious, alternately approaching each other only to leap apart, hissing and showing their claws.

No one cares whether I eat my salmon salad.

The explosion comes just as Lee gets up to fetch another bottle of wine from the fridge.

“Sophie and I are going to a party tonight,” Zelia says. Her chin is high, her voice a little too loud. She is not asking for permission.

Lee turns to look at us, tall green bottle in her hand. “What party?”

“A friend's. A girl from school.”

“What girl?” Lee's voice is already sharp.

“Just a girl. No one you know.” Zelia stares at her mother as though she is daring her to object.

Lee puts the bottle down, frowning. “Are her parents going to be home?”

Zelia stands up. “How the hell should I know?”

Lee turns and looks at Michael. “See what I mean?” she says.

Michael stares at his plate, shifts in his seat and says nothing.

Zelia's face is white with rage. “Quit pretending you give a damn,” she says. “You're just trying to do the concerned mother thing to impress Michael. It's such bullshit.” She grabs my arm. “Let's get out of here.”

I stumble to my feet and glance apologetically at Lee. She isn't looking at us though. Her hand is gripping Michael's arm and her eyes are seeking his.

“Michael, say something,” she says.

He is shaking his head. “This is between you and Zelia. I think I should stay out of it.”

Zelia stops and turns on him. “A little late for that, Michael,” she says.

I follow her from the room. We grab our bags and jackets and head out the door.

Outside it is dark and cold. A light rain is starting to fall.

“Now what?” I ask. “It's too early to go to Maisie's. We could go to my place, I guess. Mom won't let us go to the party though.”

Zelia's eyes are shining with unshed tears. “Downtown,” she says. Her voice is high and a little wobbly.

We catch the bus and ride silently through the night. Outside, streetlamps and headlights reflect off the wet roads. I have that strange dreamlike feeling again, as if this bus is carrying me out of one world and into another.

THE MALL DOWNTOWN
is open so we head inside. It's not even December yet, but the hallways glitter with Christmas decorations, and I can hear a barely recognizable version of “Silent Night.” Zelia looks pale under the bright lights, and her mascara has left black smudges under her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask, a little tentatively. I half expect her to react with anger.

She sniffs, fumbles in her pocket and pulls out a Kleenex. “Yeah. I guess.”

“So...what is going on with you and Lee?”

Zelia shrugs. “I don't know. I'm just so sick of it all. Sick of her pretending shit all the time. Like this important consultant job she has now?” Her fingers scratch the air, making scornful quotation marks around
consultant.
She looks at me and spits out her words. “She's a goddamn secretary.”

“So? There's nothing wrong with being a secretary.”

“I know. It's just the way she puts out this—this image. And tonight was the concerned mother act. I mean, she hasn't given a damn about anything I've done for years.” She stops
and stares at our reflection in a mirrored pillar. “I just hate it. I hate her.”

I don't know what to say. “Well...maybe she really is concerned, you know? Maybe it's not an act.”

Zelia snorts. “Hah. She's been trying to persuade my druggie aunt to let me live with her in Sooke. That's how concerned she is.”

“She has?”

“All she cares about is herself,” Zelia says. Her voice is icy. “Think about it, Sophie. Did she ask you a single question about yourself? About school? About your family?”

I think about it. She must have. But all I can remember is stories she told about her work, her friends, things she has done and places she has been.

“I can't wait till I can move out,” Zelia says. She flips her rain-damp hair off her face and looks at me. “Anyway. Let's get something to drink. For the party.”

I laugh. “As if we can pass for nineteen,” I say.

Zelia sighs. “You can be so dumb sometimes,” she says. “I guess I'd better do it.”

She walks away from me, away from the liquor store and toward a guy sitting on one of the metal benches that are scattered throughout the mall. He is maybe twenty—skinny, with a black cap and bad skin. Zelia sits down beside him and says something I can't hear. The guy just laughs and shakes his head. She shrugs, gets up and moves on.

Two women are sitting on the next bench, but Zelia passes them without a second glance. I follow at a distance, watching.
There is a fountain near the elevators, and Zelia perches on its edge. She looks around at the crowds doing their Christmas shopping. After a minute, she stands and saunters over to a middle-aged man with a big belly that hangs over his pants. His arms and legs are weirdly skinny. Zelia places a hand lightly on his sleeve and leans close. They talk for a couple of minutes; then he shrugs and laughs. He takes the money that Zelia holds out to him, and he walks away.

Zelia sits back down by the fountain and looks around. She beckons me to join her.

“Your drinks will be served in a moment,” she says.

I gaze into the water. There are hundreds of pennies and a few nickels and dimes resting on the blue-painted bottom. “How do you know he won't just take the money?”

“He won't.”

The man goes into the liquor store and comes out a minute later with a brown paper bag.

Zelia takes it from him and he hands her some change.

“Thanks,” she says. She grabs my arm and we walk away. When I glance back over my shoulder, the man is still standing there, watching us leave.

Zelia looks back too. “He could be my dad, for all I know,” she says.

I turn and stare at her. “What do you mean?”

She doesn't answer right away. When she finally speaks, her words are almost careless but her voice is hard. “I mean, I don't have a clue who my father is. He could be some old pervert.”

“But doesn't...I mean...”

She doesn't look at me—just keeps watching the man. “Sometimes I look at men, you know, on buses or downtown or wherever, and I think any one of those men could be my dad and I'd never know it.”

I feel a bit lost. “Doesn't Lee know?”

Zelia's face is unreadable. “She won't tell me.” She lifts her chin and looks way up at the ceiling, two floors above, as if the answer might be written there. “You know what I thought at school today? I thought Mr. Farley could be my dad. Could be worse, right?”

“I don't think he's old enough,” I say. Like that's the point. Then I shake my head. “But why won't she tell you? I don't understand.”

She drops her gaze back to my level but doesn't meet my eyes. “She
says
she doesn't know.”

“Maybe she really doesn't.”

Zelia glares at me. “She must have some idea.”

I don't know what to say. I never met my own dad. He and my mom were at university together. I guess their relationship wasn't all that serious, and I was kind of an accident. Anyway, he was out of my mom's life by the time I was born, and he died in a car crash when I was really little. Mom says he was a nice guy and that I have his gray eyes. Sometimes I feel a little sad that I won't ever meet him. And sometimes I wonder if I have a bunch of relatives that I don't know about. I could even have another grandmother somewhere. I asked Mom once, but she said she never met any of his family.

Still, at least I know who my father was.

“Does your mom know that it...that you think about it a lot?” I ask Zelia.

Zelia gives me a look that warns me to back off. “I've told her,” she says. She turns away for a moment so I can't see her face. When she turns back to me, her eyes are shiny but a mask has dropped over her face.

THE MALL WILL
be closing any minute, so we decide to head to Maisie's party. It is still raining, and the temperature has dropped. Zelia lights two cigarettes and offers me one. For a second, I remember what Max said about smoking. Then I accept it anyway. We smoke with our hands cupped over the cigarettes to keep them from getting soaked.

As we stand at the bus stop, my teeth are chattering. I wore my thin leather jacket instead of a warm coat, and I'm regret­ting it now. We have poured our vodka into Coke cans, and I take a swig from mine. The alcohol burns a fiery trail to my belly. Cars zip by, spraying us with water from the puddles. So many people with somewhere to go.