Playing With Matches (11 page)

“I’m on the bench just south of the gazebo,” she said. I searched the darkness until I made out a woman’s shape, illuminated by a blade of pale yellow light.

“I’m really sorry about this,” she breathed into the phone. “I’m kind of frantic. My skirt ripped when we were swinging on the swings. I’m also freezing. I’m holding it together with my hand, and I’m so embarrassed. Could you please, please, please do me a huge favour and bring a skirt?”

I snorted. “I’m supposed to show up on your date and hand you a skirt?”

“No. You walk by. Leave a bag with the clothes in the Porta-Potty and then I go in right after and change. It’s a bit gross but it’ll just take two minutes.” She had it all figured out.

“I’m not even sure we’re the same size,” I said.

“Size eight.”

“Well, there you go, I’m size four.”

There was silence on the line. “I don’t know what to do,” she said in a quivering voice.

I had never heard of anything like this. The matchmaker showing up during a date? Besides, I had this huge test, and hours of emails to sort through.

I glanced down at MathMethods and exhaled a loud and showy sigh. “Fine,” I said.

What else could I say to a dating wardrobe disaster? “I’ll take a look for a skirt in my house,” I said. The donation bag behind Mira’s door probably had something for Ilana.

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like. And you have my word that I absolutely won’t tell a soul who you are. Speaking of which, who are you?”

“I’ll be there in five,” I said, trying to coat my voice in lightness, as I ignored her question. Ilana’s situation had just blown my anonymity.

She sighed on the other end of the line.

I could hear Uncle Eli and Leah chatting quietly in the den. I threw on a black hoodie and sweater, then stole into their bedroom where Aunt Mira’s pile of clothes were folded inside a shopping bag behind her door, waiting to be donated. I snatched a stretchy skirt figuring that it was a one-size-fits-all garment. It was probably Bubby’s at one time, but it didn’t matter. It was so dark in the park, Jonathan wouldn’t really notice.

With my Converse sneakers laced up, I cautiously descended the stairs, crept out the front door, edged around the side of the house, and sprinted past the greying pressure-treated gate at the back of the Bernstein’s yard that opened onto York Hill Park. As the pulse of crickets echoed across the grassy fields, I crunched across dried leaves layered on moist grass toward the park bench.

When Ilana saw me, she rose from the bench, clapped the palm of her hand on her chest, and released a slow breath. She was shorter than I’d imagined, so she’d probably have to roll up the waistband of the old skirt. Her black hair fell in waves past her shoulders and the black narrow glasses that rested on her angular face gave her an unconventional artsy-geeky kind of beauty. I nodded and walked toward the Porta-Potty but the door was locked.

Who uses these things? This was one of the new UFO models constructed entirely from titanium metal and produced by a company in Scandinavia. And in case you think that I’m some kind of an ardent Porta-Potty enthusiast, I picked up this information morsel from the Bernstein dinner table. I guess when your house backs onto a park these are the kinds of things you notice.

“Where’s Jonathan?” I said in a low voice, as I walked back over to her.

Ilana pointed at the Porta-Potty. I handed her the plastic bag, lowered myself onto the cold wooden bench, and wrapped my hoodie tighter around myself.

She held the bag to her chest and gazed at me. “You’re really an extraordinary person. I am
so
grateful.”

Tell it to Leah. “So what’s this Jonathan guy like?”

She swallowed. “He asked me if there’s anything I can do about my hair,” she said with quivering lips.

I shot up from the bench. “He what?”

She gulped back tears. “I don’t think he even knows my name.”

“I could smack him,” I muttered, sinking back onto the bench. Had I really blown this match so badly? “I’m so sorry about this.”

“Well, I did learn that he earns bonuses in the six figures, women are dying to date him, and his bosses at the bank love him.”

“Ugh. Does he at least look like George Clooney?”

“Nooo.” She pulled one skirt on over the other, and lowered her torn skirt from inside. When she was done she dropped back onto the bench, gathered her ample hair into a ponytail, and turned to me with an apologetic face. “I am
so
sorry about all of this. I asked him to take me home so I could change my clothes.”

“And?”

“He actually …
refused
,” she said, shaking her head. “He told me that it doesn’t matter. Like it wouldn’t make a difference to how I look.”

“What a jerk,” I muttered under my breath. I rubbed my arms; the temperature was dropping by the minute. “How long has he been in there?”

She glanced at her cell phone. “I called you ten minutes ago,” she said. “And he’d already been in there for a while.”

“Wait a minute. You’re telling me he’s been in the can for like what, half an hour?”

She put her glasses on and glanced at the Porta-Potty. “That sounds like a problem, doesn’t it?”

“You probably should check up on him.”

“It’s a
date
.” She looked at me with disbelief. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Well, what if he’s trapped? Or passed out, or something?”

She twisted her fingers and gazed at the Porta-Potty. “Can’t you do it?”

I put my hands on my waist. “How old did you say you were?”

“Okay,
fine
,” she said, rising to her feet.

She sidled over to the Porta-Potty and tentatively knocked on the door.

There was no answer. Ilana rapped on the door with more force and there was still no response. I stood up and joined her outside the Porta-Potty.

“Are you okay?” she said to the metal wall of the bathroom.

A muffled sound rumbled inside.

“Jonathan, are you in there?” she shouted.

A strained voice emerged from inside the titanium cage. “I’m stuck. The door’s jammed.”

“Of course, I’d never do it,” she whispered to me. “But I’m almost tempted to leave. Like now.”

“I do have a ton of work to get done,” I said.

“It’s win-win.”

“Help me,” Jonathan said. “I can barely breathe in here, I can’t take it.” He sounded like a strangled sheep.

“Is he
crying
?” Ilana asked, her eyes two huge circles of surprise.

“I’m not crying,” Jonathan blubbered.

“Let’s try to force it open,” I said. I raised my arms and hammered my fists against the door, but it didn’t budge. It was titanium after all.

“No, no, no. We need something large that we can use like a battering ram,” Ilana said.

“Excellent idea.” I peered around me, looking for an appropriate stick. I glanced at the perimeter of the park and could see the light in the Bernsteins’ den still on. It would probably make sense if I could go back to the house and grab one of Uncle Eli’s tools, but I couldn’t take the risk of getting caught.

We fanned out through the pine trees, crunching on pine needles, searching for an object that was light enough to lift but strong enough to force the door open.

“I got it,” Ilana yelled from the blackness. She emerged from behind a mound dragging a large branch across the grass.

We picked it up at each end and hoisted it waist high. We swung it three times and on the third count bashed it against the door.

The door didn’t budge.

“What do we do now?” Ilana said, biting her lower lip. “It must be
really
hot in there.”

“How about we count to three,” I said. “Then we run toward this thing, jump up
higher
, and try to bash it with the weight of our bodies.”

She gave the Porta-Potty a doubtful look. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I guess we could try.”

We stepped back twenty-five yards or so away from the door. On the count of three we raced to the Porta-Potty and hammered the trunk against the door. The door didn’t open but the entire booth slowly tipped precariously backwards. Ilana’s mouth opened wide in horror as it teetered back. Jonathan yelped from inside. For a couple of seconds it looked like the structure would fall over, releasing gallons of raw sewage all over the cage — and Jonathan. I held my breath as the tiny box shuddered, trying to make up its mind. The Porta-Potty finally settled back in its upright position with a thud. It was a few seconds before my heart slowed down to a regular beat.

“I told you, I’m not crying,” Jonathan sobbed.

“That’s it,” Ilana said. “I’m looking up the city’s number. It’s got to be awful in there.” She grabbed the phone from her jacket pocket and wandered over to the bench. I stood guard next to the Porta-Potty, unsure of what to do next. A septic, chemical smell seeped out of a vent on top.

“Jonathan, don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here,” I lied.

I glanced at my watch. It was 10:45, and I had around eighty hours of homework. I returned to the park bench to say goodbye just as Ilana got off her phone.

“Public Works is coming in fifteen minutes and they said to wait,” she said as she dropped onto the bench.

Excellent. I was going home now.

“I’m so grateful you’re not going home now,” she said.

“I wouldn’t even think of going home now,” I answered.

We chatted for thirty minutes until a black flatbed truck motored up the walkway and came to a stop next to the gazebo. Two burly city employees wearing night reflective vests jumped out of the cab. The one wearing a black toque with a Toronto Raptors insignia on it grabbed a red metal tool kit from the back of the truck.

“Okay,” he said. “Where’s your friend, ladies?”

Ilana pointed to the bathroom. Raptors strode to the toilet and pulled out a screwdriver from his tool box. As he began to jimmy the lock I turned to leave. Finally.

“Rain, thank you so much for staying,” Ilana said quietly. “I’d feel so awkward being alone with these two guys.”

“Please,” I said. “I wouldn’t even
think
of going home now.”

The other city employee had a thin grey ponytail under his black baseball cap. He watched Raptors struggling with the lock then returned to the truck to retrieve a crowbar.

Ilana narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “Can’t you just use a drill to cut open the door?” she said to Ponytail.

“Are you kidding?” he said. He smacked the side of the Porta-Potty with an admiring gaze. “Nothing gets through these babies. They’re built out of solid steel.”

Jonathan banged on the inside of the unit. “Get me out of here.
Now
. Get this thing open, already.”

Ponytail tried prying open the door with the crowbar without any luck. He turned to Raptors. “It’s like … a malfunction! Can you believe this?”

“Never seen anything like it.”

“We need to take it back to the shop,” Ponytail said.

“You’re right,” Raptors said. “We can leave it for the boys to fix in the morning.”

“No! Don’t leave me, I’m dying.”

“Okay,” Ponytail said. “We’ll bring it to the shop and try a chainsaw.”

“Ilana,” Jonathan cried from inside the Porta-Potty. “Please don’t leave me.”

“He’s right, he shouldn’t go alone,” I said. What would happen if these men just left him there all night?

“Thank you, Rain. I was worried that I’d have to go alone. You’re a sweetie.”

Before I had a chance to protest, the men began moving the structure. They tipped it enough to load the Porta-Potty onto a dolly, secured it with strapping, and lowered a ramp from the flatbed. Then they gingerly pulled the structure onto the truck where they secured it with rope.

“You have a car?” Raptors said.

Ilana and I both shook our heads no.

He looked at Ponytail for an instant.

“Well, maybe you guys should ride in the back of the truck with him. We don’t usually transport these things when they’re … occupied.”

I rolled my eyes and Ilana scrunched her face up and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.” Once Jonathan’s bathroom was secured with a series of ropes to the truck, Ilana and I climbed on to the back and eased ourselves down on the cold metal. The truck slowly wended its way through the walkway, while Jonathan shuddered under the straps and cords.

We heard a moan. “It’s sloshing in here.”

Ilana shook her head. As the truck slowly rumbled through the park onto the street, I leaned against the rear window of the cab and gazed upward. It was a clear night and the full moon was so bright and low it looked like a wayward planet that had accidentally fallen out of the sky.

And was about to crash on my head — a great big ball of disaster.

A
date
with disaster, to be exact. And it was my entire fault. My success with Tamara and Jeremy had come too easily for me to fully grasp how tricky it was to make a match.

“Are we there yet?” Jonathan’s voice came from inside the Porta-Potty. We were barely out of the park. I looked up again with a sigh. The moon was so completely in your face it was impossible to ignore.

Ilana must have been thinking the same thing. She leaned back on her elbows and gazed up at the sky like she was moon bathing. “Incredible, huh?” she said.

“My dad loves talking about Apollo 11,” I said.

“Nineteen seventy-five must have been an amazing time,” she said.

A hollow voice floated out of the bathroom. “It wasn’t 1975.”

“Um, I think I know what I’m talking about,” Ilana said with a snort to the Porta-Potty. She turned to me. “My parents used to talk about it all the time.”

“Don’t you think I know the year of my bar mitzvah?” Jonathan said with irritation.

“What?” I said. I could not have possibly heard him correctly.

“Never mind,” Jonathan said. “Just talking to myself. It’s the fumes.”

“Ilana,” I whispered, my eyes bulging. “My grandfather died the year they landed on the moon and that was the year
my father
had his bar mitzvah.”

“How old is your father?” she asked in a tight voice.

I gulped. “Fifty-eight.”