Love is a Four-Letter Word (14 page)

“Well? Have you decided what you’d like?”

“Charity!” I blurt out.

Confusion, or maybe it’s panic, ripples across Charity’s face.

“It’s Clarissa, Benji’s best friend?”

Charity blinks once and then smiles. “Oh, right, of course. I remember you. It’s hard to recognize people under these stupid lights.”

Is it just my imagination, or does Charity look nervous?

“So, how was your audition?” I try to keep my voice as sweet and genuine as possible without sounding too smug. Charity had backed out of coaching Benji because she said she had an audition, now here she was at Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl. Let’s see her act her way out of this one.

To my surprise she leans forward and asks, “Can you keep a secret?” I am immediately suspicious, but more than anything I’m curious. What kind of juicy secret could a minor celebrity like Charity be hiding? “I didn’t have an audition today,” Charity confesses.

“Obviously.”

“I had to work. Here.”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Aren’t you an actress?”

“Of course I am!”

“Haven’t you been in, like, a million commercials?”

Charity waves it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s only been a few. Everyone just thinks it’s more because those Tim Hortons commercials play all the time.”

Tell me about it. “So why do you have to work?”

“It’s not really my choice.”

“So you’re being forced to work at a bowling alley against your will?”

Charity cringes. “Something like that.” When I don’t respond, she continues, “My stepdad owns this place.” She must have seen the disbelief on my face, because she rolls her eyes and adds, “I know, totally embarrassing, right?”

“No,” I protest, but I admit there isn’t much conviction behind it.

“Well it is, and I hate it here, but it’s a big deal to my mom and Mike does so much for me — driving me to Toronto for auditions and stuff — so I can’t really say no.”

“Right,” is all I can say.

Just then, a customer steps up to the bar and orders fries. Charity slips into her smiling waitress act while I sit there trying to wrap my head around the news that Charity is the stepdaughter of the Shake, Rock ’n’ Bowl guy. From what I can remember from the picture of him in
The Bugle
, he was short and kind of funny-looking, with big ears and scraggly hair. It’s hard to imagine he has anything to do with glamorous Charity.

“Sorry about that,” Charity apologizes, pushing a basket of fries toward me. “Fries? They’re on the house. Anyway, not very many people know that I work here. That’s why I told The Benj I had an audition today. I know that’s kind of low, but I didn’t know what else to say. I just couldn’t get out of this shift.”

“He was really worried about his song,” I point out, rubbing it in just a little.

It works, because Charity looks genuinely guilty. “I know, I feel bad about it. But I told him I’d help him next week. He’s doing fine, he just needs more confidence.”

“That’s what I told him,” I say.

Charity smiles. “Maybe between the two of us we can convince him that he’s going to be amazing.”

Charity’s smile is so infectious that I almost forget that she lied about having an audition. Almost. “Do you always tell people you have an audition when you have to work?” I ask pointedly.

“I’ve only had to make something up one other time,” Charity admits. “Look, you and Benji are best friends, right?”

“Right.”

“I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’d really appreciate it if we kept this between us.” I think about it, enjoying a moment of power, if only for a few seconds. “Please, Clarissa?”

“I guess,” I agree.

Charity melts into a puddle of relief. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you! I really owe you one, Clarissa. You must think I’m a terrible person. You probably never lie to your friends.”

Not on purpose, I think. “You’re not terrible,” I say.

“That’s sweet.” Charity grimaces. “You know what
is
terrible? This place. When I go home I have to shower immediately to get the smell of the hotdogs out of my hair. It’s like sweaty armpits crossed with old cheese.” Now that the crisis has been averted, Charity is bright and sunny again. “So who are you here with?”

“My mom and Doug.”

“Who’s Doug?”

“Her date.”

Charity smiles sympathetically. “And he brought you along to win you over, right?”

I nod. “Pretty much.”

“That sucks. My mom dated all sorts of losers before she married Mike. One guy used to take me to his baseball games.” Charity rolls her eyes. “I
hate
baseball.”

“Doug has this stupid dog,” I say. “I guess he thinks all kids like dogs.”

Charity groans. “That’s a classic, using pets to get to the kids. Do you like him?” I shrug. “Because if you don’t, I can give you a few pointers on how to scare away potential stepdads. My brother and I had lots of practice.”

“Really?”

“We scared this one guy away by pretending to be bed-wetters. Every morning we’d get up early and pour a glass of water in each of our beds and then burst into our mom’s room crying about wetting the bed again.”

“You actually cried?”

Charity looks offended. “What kind of actress can’t cry on cue?” she says. Then, “Is that them in lane seven?” I look in the direction that Charity is pointing and sure enough, there they are, wrapped in each other’s arms. “Are they slow-dancing?” she asks.

I shudder. “Looks like it.”

Charity shakes her head. “Well then you’d better act fast. They look like they’re headed for happily ever after.”

“Do you like your stepdad?” I ask.

Charity pours herself a Coke and stirs the ice with her straw. “Not at first, but then again I didn’t like any of the
guys my mom dated at first. But Mike was nice. He did the dishes and brought home movies we all could watch. He buys me a chocolate chip muffin after every audition because he knows they’re my favourite.… So, yeah, I do like him.” Charity stops, frowning. “My real dad doesn’t approve of me doing commercials. He thinks all child actors turn into drug addicts.”

“Do you see him very often?”

“Every other weekend, a month in the summer. What about you?”

“Oh, my parents aren’t divorced. I never knew my dad.”

Charity stops stuffing her face with the french fries and looks at me like she’s never really seen me before. It takes a second before she asks, “Is he dead?”

“More like dead-beat. He took off before I was born.”

Relieved, Charity drains the rest of her Coke in one loud slurp. “Ouch,” she says. “Do you like Doug?”

I think about it for a second. “I don’t
hate
Doug.”

Charity smiles. “That’s a start.” She tips her head in the direction of lane seven again. “You’d better get back to your game before they start making out.”

I hop off the stool, grab the waters for Doug and Mom, and thank Charity for the fries.

“No worries,” Charity says. “Thanks for keeping everything on the down low. You’re a cool kid, Clarissa. I can see why Benji likes you so much.”

Imagine that. Charity Smith-Jones thinks that I, Clarissa Louise Delaney, am worthy of coolness. This puts me in such a good mood that I don’t even care when Doug beats me and I have to buy everyone ice cream on the way home.

Usually Denise takes my mom to her doctor’s appointments. Mom doesn’t like to go alone and it makes Denise feel useful, even if she does speed all the way there or offend the receptionist. So when Doug arrives in his zippy red car, I almost can’t believe my own eyes.

“What is Doug doing here?”

“Doug’s taking me to my appointment. Do you want to cut school and come?” Mom asks.

“No,” I say. I always say no. Some people think that not knowing is the worst, but I like to not know bad things for as long as possible. That way, if the news is the worst of the worst, at least you had as much blissfully ignorant time as possible. And if the news is good, who cares? You’ve got good news! “Aren’t
you
going with her?” I ask Denise, who is being eerily quiet.

“I gave her the day off,” Mom says lightly.

Denise laughs, but it sounds a little strained. I steal a glance, and sure enough, the veins in her neck look about ready to pop out. “I have a ton of stuff to do,” she says, waving her hand.

Outside, Doug leans on his car’s sorry excuse for a horn. I’ve heard bicycle bells that sound angrier.

Mom drapes herself over Denise’s shoulders and gives her three quick kisses on the cheek. “Love you, DeeDee.”

Denise reaches up and pats my mother’s cheek. “Go on. And you make sure that man takes you someplace nice for lunch.” And then Mom’s gone, leaving behind the scent of her coconut body butter and pink lipstick smudges on Denise’s cheek.

“Well, kiddo, it’s just you and me,” Denise says with a sigh. “Feels familiar, doesn’t it?”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I watch Doug pull away with my mother in his shiny red car. “Is that car expensive?” I ask, nodding toward the now empty driveway.

“Mid-range, I’d say,” Denise replies. “Although knowing that man, he probably talked himself into a sweet deal.”

“Maybe he got it in the divorce,” I suggest.

Denise snorts. “Clarissa, you are the devil’s own child,” she says, then adds, “You don’t like him much, do you?”

Denise has stopped flipping through her magazine and is staring at me, waiting for my response. I am instantly wary. Denise has no loyalty to me; one careless word and she’ll run squealing to my mother. On the other hand, she’s been left here with me while Mom gallivants around town with a man. Men are kind of Denise’s sore spot. Especially since the whole Dennis thing didn’t work out.

“It’s not Doug so much as the idea of Doug,” I say, hoping that is cryptic enough to stump her.

But to my surprise, Denise nods. “I know what you mean,” she muses. “But you know, when it comes to men, Doug Armstrong is as good as they come.”

“Better than my dad?”

Denise freezes up. “Where did that come from?” she asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him. I just wondered how he stacked up.”

Denise looks uneasy. “Don’t you think this is kind of a mother–daughter conversation?” she says.

“Please. You know Mom. She won’t tell me anything. I want to know the truth.”

Denise snorts. “The truth! You make it sound like there’s some big, dark secret we’re keeping from you.”

“How do I know there isn’t one?” I counter. “It’s not like anyone ever talks about him.”

“There isn’t,” Denise insists.

“So tell me about him. Just a little bit. Please?”

Denise looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know, kiddo, it really isn’t my place —”

“PRETTY please?”

“I do believe this is the first time you’ve ever begged me for anything,” Denise teases.

I do my very best not to get indignant or mouthy by reminding myself of the larger things at stake. Namely, information. “Exactly,” I say. “Which proves how serious I am.”

Denise gets up and rummages in our top cupboard, otherwise known as the liquor cabinet. There’s not much up there, but she must have found what she was looking for, because she adds a splash of something to her coffee before settling down at the table.

“Fine. But we’re going to do this my way, got it?” Denise knocks back a swig of coffee before continuing. “You ask the questions and I will do my best to answer them. If you don’t like the answer, well, tough. Don’t take it out on me.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

Denise leans forward, narrows her eyes, and points a
finger at me. As always, her nails are impeccably filed and polished. “Don’t make me regret this. I don’t want to hear about you looking him up on YouTube or wherever and running away like some TV movie of the week.”

I trace an X over my heart with my finger. “I won’t,” I promise.

Denise swirls the contents of her coffee cup before taking another healthy gulp. “I’m ready. Shoot.”

“What did he look like?”

Denise is incredulous. “What did he look like?” she repeats. “All these years and you want to know what he looked like? Can’t you just Google him? You can find a picture of anyone these days.”

When it becomes clear that I am not about to change my mind, Denise relents. “Fine. He was kind of wiry, but not in a scrawny way. Good skin, decent teeth. He had a big mop of hair that was always falling in his eyes.” Denise snorts. “We thought it made him look poetic.”

“Poetic,” I repeat.

“Yup,” Denise says, rolling her eyes. “Poetic. You know, the tortured romantic type. But I’d bet my life he never read a poem in his life.”

“Why?”

“Don’t get me wrong, he was a smart guy, but he wasn’t all that interested in school, especially the gushy parts. And poetry was definitely something Bill Davies would have considered gushy.”

I don’t know if this is a good or a bad thing. “Was he a dog person?”

“Now what kind of question is that?”

“You said I could ask anything.”

“I don’t know. Next question.”

“Did he want kids?”

“I can’t honestly say, but I doubt it. No offense, kiddo, but a man that involved in himself doesn’t have a lot of room in his life for other people.”

“Why? What was he like?”

“He could be a real pain in the butt. Annie’s parents weren’t very impressed with him, that’s for sure. They thought he was a real blowhard; all talk, no substance. Turns out they were right. But he was … charming, funny. Had a bit of a smart mouth, just like someone else I know …”

“Do I remind you of him?”

Denise cocks her head and really looks at me a moment before answering. “I guess there a few things,” she says eventually.

“Like what?”

“Well that hair, for one. And you’re smart like him.” Denise laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

“I was just thinking I’d pay good money to see the two of you square off,” she chuckles. “Good Lord, what a showdown that would be! But just so you know, I’d put my money on you any day. You may have inherited your father’s mouth, but you’ve got your mother’s charms. And that, kiddo, is a deadly combination.”

“How did he and Mom meet?”

“Like everyone meets in this dumpy little town; they met at a bush party. Your mom was from Sir John A., he went to Bennington. She was dating Steve Frechette at the time, but Bill took one look at your mother chewing out some senior for picking on a niner and that was it.”

“What was it?”

“You know.
It
. Love. He had to have her. He asked her
out that night but she said no. He asked her out three more times before she agreed to meet him at the Dairy Bar for a milkshake.” Denise smiles, remembering. “That night your mom came home, called me up, and said, ‘DeeDee, that man could talk the black off a crow.’”

“Did you like him?”

“I liked him fine,” Denise says. “But I like Doug more. Doug is nicer; he really listens to you when you talk.”

“Okay, okay.” I could sense we were getting off track. I don’t need a list of Doug’s attributes. “What happened? Why did they break up?”

Denise shrugs. “It wasn’t one thing specifically. Near the end they used to fight like cats and dogs. Bill was jealous of all the attention your mom got, being a local celebrity and all. He also didn’t like that she spent so much time taking care of her pageant queen duties. Your mom thought he needed to lighten up. And then one day he went to visit his uncle out west and he never came back. Your mom was well shot of him, so she never really pursued it. They drifted apart, like people do sometimes.”

This was unsatisfying. How could something that was so great just fizzle out? “Why did she pick him?” I pressed. “If my mom had her pick of any boy, why would she pick him?”

Denise drains the rest of her coffee. “Oh, honey. You don’t get to pick. That’s one of the cruel ironies in life; love picks you. Or, I should say, love picks
some
of us. When’s the last time I went speeding off with a man in a red car?”

I ignore that last comment. “Did she love him?”

“Of course she did. She loved him something fierce. But this thing with Doug is different. With Bill, she was just a kid. They both were. She was barely older than you —
Good Lord, do you know how old that makes me? I can’t believe that; where does the time go?”

“You were saying?”

“Right. With Bill, it was like they were two crazy kids in love, stupid, really. But Doug — Doug is the first man your mother has loved as a woman. And that’s a whole different story.”

There’s that word again. Love. You hear it every day, but when you really stop and think about what it means, it’s too big to wrap your head around. You use the same word to describe your favourite song or a pair of shoes as you would to explain how you feel about the people who mean the whole world to you. How is that possible? Surely there are more words in the English language to describe the different kinds of love you feel. I’ve heard people say that the Inuit have fifty different words for snow, shouldn’t that mean we have at least a hundred words to describe love? To Mattie it means the perfect kiss and poems and forever after. To Mom it means letting someone other than her best and oldest friend in the whole world drive her to an important doctor’s appointment. But what does love mean to me? If Mom is in love with Doug, then what comes next? Will he move in? Will they get married? Love: little word, big consequences.

“Anything else?” Denise asks.

“No, I’m good,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Did you get what you were looking for?”

“I don’t know,” I say, and I mean it.

I spend the rest of the day in a fog. My head is full of new and surprising information. I’m having trouble digesting
it all and paying attention in class. I’ve never given much thought to my father before. But now, with Doug hanging around, I can’t help but wonder about him. Bill Davies, the man whose DNA I share.

“What’s wrong?” Benji asks between classes.

“Nothing,” I insist, but I can hear the distraction in my own voice.

“I saw your mom leave with Doug this morning,” he continues. “Where were they going?”

“The hospital,” I say.

Benji’s eyes widen. “You mean she took Doug instead of Denise?” he asks. I nod. “I guess it’s serious, then.”

“I guess,” I repeat.

“Weird,” Benji says. “But good, right?”

“I guess,” I say. I don’t know if I like the fact that everyone is so on-board with the whole Doug and Annie thing. Even though I’ve never met him, I feel sorry for my dad. It’s not like he has a chance; he’s not here to defend himself against Team Doug. Plus, he’s my dad — doesn’t that automatically put me on Team Bill? Do I even have a choice?

“I wish my dad would get married again,” Benji muses. “It would be nice to have a woman around the house.”

“Who said anything about marriage? They just started dating.”

“I know, but things move faster when you’re a certain age.”

I don’t know how much more my brain can handle. “Can we please change the subject?” I ask.

“Sure,” Benji agrees. “So what are you going to do about Michael?”

Cripes. I never thought I’d say this, but math class can’t come soon enough.