Capricious Read online

  GABRIELLE PRENDERGAST

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2014 Gabrielle Prendergast

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known

  or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Prendergast, Gabrielle, author

  Capricious / Gabrielle Prendergast.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0267-4 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0268-1 (pdf).-

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0269-8 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8631.R448C36 2014 jC813’.6 C2013-907624-7

  C2013-907625-5

  First published in the United States, 2014

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013954149

  Summary: Ella’s plan to have two secret boyfriends backfires when both boys face separate

  family crises and Ella is tormented by some girls at her school.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs

  provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book

  Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Chantal Gabriell and Teresa Bubela

  Cover artwork by Janice Kun

  Author photo by Leonard Layton

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

  For Margaret

  Contents

  Chapter One: Unplanned

  Chapter Two: Unmasked

  Chapter Three: Unexpected

  Chapter Four: Insufficient

  Chapter Five: Unruly

  Chapter Six: Unseen

  Chapter Seven: Imprudent

  Chapter Eight: Unfinished

  Chapter Nine: Unfeeling

  Chapter Ten: Indiscreet

  chapter eleven: Infinite

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Unplanned

  AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION

  I’ve never been a girl to make plans

  Beyond about a week in advance

  Some girls have their whole lives

  Laid out like a spreadsheet

  Instead I lay myself out

  Samir’s fingers tracing

  The curve of my naked hip

  On a blood-spotted white sheet

  Are you okay? he says, wide-eyed

  Neither of us expected our reunion

  To find us tearing at each other’s clothes

  In the narrow staircase.

  He rested his hand on my thigh

  As he drove us home from school

  And I slid his fingers up and up until

  His face flushed hot.

  We kissed at the mudroom door and fell inside

  Latching the lock behind us

  Tumbling upward with arms and legs

  And lips and tongues entwined.

  It was unplanned and unprepared for.

  And Samir is surprised by the blood

  I thought you and David might have…

  I told you we’re just friends, I say.

  Though in my mind David flickers

  Brightly and briefly.

  The half-naked boy next to me

  Is enough distraction.

  We should have used a condom, Samir says

  Grave and shamed

  Are you on the pill?

  I reassure him: the wrong time of month etc.

  Though worry niggles at me

  I’ll deal with it tomorrow

  I know where the clinic is

  Every smart girl does.

  Samir curls his arm around me

  And pulls me close

  I’ve missed you so much, habibti

  He says, I love you.

  Can we be back together?

  Can it be like it was?

  We won’t do this again if you don’t want.

  We can pretend it never happened.

  I stroke his nascent beard

  Breathing in his sweaty sweetness

  And touch him, everywhere

  Claiming all of him back to me.

  HIS PRESENCE

  Makes my heart

  Grow

  Fonder

  Stronger

  Less inclined to

  Wander.

  Makes me wonder

  At my plan

  To pretend

  That David is

  “Just a friend.”

  To play it out

  This selfish drama

  All the way

  To the end.

  MOTHER OF THE YEAR

  Mom comes home with groceries

  Samir and I are on the couch

  The TV on, feet touching

  Like nothing special happened.

  Samir helps her bring the bags in

  It’s nice to see you again, Mom says

  Will we be seeing more of you?

  I hope so, Samir says

  And blushes so hard

  It makes my heart ache.

  When he leaves

  I chop carrots and onions

  And Mom fixes me in her stare

  Until I feel I might crack

  And crumble

  My skin peeling off in strips

  Like old paint.

  Do we need to have “the talk”? she says.

  Boys look a certain way

  When certain things happen

  I haven’t forgotten.

  Your father still gets that look.

  Ew, I say.

  I suppose you’re done with David then?

  I want to ask her

  What she thinks

  If I can have them both

  But I know she’ll disapprove.

  I’m just trying to be mature about it, I say instead

  I’m friends with both of them

  Nothing happened with Samir.

  He’s just happy we’re talking again

  And so am I.

  LET’S REVIEW

  There are rules

  To being a white

  Middle-class

  Christian (sort of)

  Teenage girl:

  1.Be obsessed with clothes

  (I’m not, apart from that one dress)

  2.Have a circle of BFFs

  (HA! My collection of friends is more like a black hole)

  3.Have at most ONE boyfriend

  (Who’s counting?)

  And some other things

  NOT to do

  DON’T take naked pictures of yourself

  EVER

  Just don’t do it

  DON’T have sex without protection

  EVER

  Because that’s just stupid

  DON’T lie to your parents

  EVER

  That always ends badly

  DON’T take drugs

  This last at least

  I have under control

  So far.

  BUT THESE ARE MY RULES:

  On Clothes:

  Maybe I AM obsessed

  But it’s with the wrong clothes

  Or the right ones

  Depending on how you look at it.

  Because girls’ clothes

  Spea
k loudly

  She’s a slut

  She’s square

  She’s a stoner

  A nerd

  An emo goth

  A Muslim

  A Mormon

  A Jew

  So loudly

  We sometimes can’t hear

  Our own voices.

  But I don’t mind if my clothes speak for me

  Though I prefer them to say

  She’s crazy

  After all, it’s better

  If everyone knows in advance.

  On BFFs and Black Holes:

  One girlfriend might be manageable

  But they travel in pairs

  Or packs

  And their density

  Stretches me thin

  Gravity sucking me

  Down

  Into the dark places

  That are next to

  Impossible

  To escape.

  On Boys:

  I’m sixteen years old

  Not sixty

  Not old and bored

  And married.

  Are you guys together?

  Are you, like, a couple?

  What does that even mean?

  Do the things I’ve done with Samir

  Mean he owns me?

  And the things I haven’t done with David

  Mean he doesn’t?

  What if I

  Want to own

  Them

  Both?

  LOGISTICS

  There are details

  That need working out

  Some chess pieces that need

  To be carefully placed.

  But for now

  I swish the spotted sheets from the bed

  And bleach them

  With my gym socks

  And white cotton nightgown.

  I watch a movie

  With Kayli wheezing behind the nebulizer mask

  She’s sticking with homeschooling until June

  Mom enjoys teaching her, I think

  And she’s learning stuff she never thought she would.

  I watch Mom

  Make dinner and eat dinner

  And help her tidy up

  And follow her around for an hour

  Until I’m sure she won’t barf.

  I wait for Dad

  He comes home with a pile of essays

  And groans as he reads them

  Undergrads, he says, despairing

  Confusing Constantine and Commodus.

  Those morons, I say

  Knowing I could never keep my emperors straight

  They’re all penguins to me

  But the past has always confused me

  I can barely manage the present.

  FRESH SHEETS

  I run my hand over the place

  Where Samir lay

  Wide-eyed

  Breathless

  I lied when he asked

  Did I hurt you?

  I want to hold that moment

  They say you never forget

  Your first

  And I’m not likely to

  But just to be sure

  I pull out my sketchpad and pencils

  And try to find the right

  Lines and curves

  The way the afternoon light

  Dappled the sheets.

  But I get stuck on his hand

  Holding my face

  As he kissed me

  Like he thought

  I might turn away.

  Disembodied

  I pin the hand above the bed

  And watch it hover over me

  Protectively

  Possessively

  Most of the night.

  ANXIETY

  I dream of condoms

  And lies

  And David

  And wake up thinking

  I am under arrest again.

  GOOD FRIDAY

  Mom makes fish and chips

  Which we eat in front of the TV

  Watching Jesus Christ Superstar

  While I count the hours

  Twenty-four, twenty-five

  Twenty-six, twenty-seven

  Since Samir and I

  Did not use a condom.

  The clinic is closed today

  In honor of the Crucifixion

  Of our Savior.

  There is irony in there

  Somewhere

  But I can’t be bothered

  To winkle it out.

  Instead

  I smother my anxiety

  In vinegary chips

  And sneak a beer

  It’s half-drunk before Dad notices

  And scowls at me.

  Technically, I know,

  I have seventy-two hours

  But each hour that clicks by

  I worry and wonder

  If I’ve stupidly succumbed to

  The mother of all screwups.

  HOLIDAY HOURS

  Women’s clinics should be like peep shows

  With discreet private booths.

  Instead I transgress a line of protestors

  Who should be getting ready for Easter

  If they’re as Christian as they claim.

  I give the finger to each and every one

  And wait with weeping girls

  Churlish, chastened boys

  And a few disappointed mothers

  To speak to a nurse counselor

  About morning-afters.

  You might have some cramping, she says

  And gives me a box of condoms

  For next time

  Before running through some thought-provoking

  questions

  Are you safe at home?

  Are you safe with your boyfriend?

  Yes, I say

  I would love to explain to her

  That I felt so safe with Samir in my bed

  That I never wanted to leave.

  I wanted to pull the sheet over our heads

  And cocoon us in that soft cotton world.

  At the thought

  My eyes fill with tears

  Happy ones

  But who can tell the difference?

  So she says,

  Is there anything else you want to talk about?

  MY LIFE

  Yes, my life

  I say

  As if that provides adequate parameters

  For the rest of my fifteen minutes.

  The nurse only nods

  Her pencil poised to record

  Anything pertinent.

  I only moved here last year, I say

  And I went to a new school

  And I thought things might be different

  Better, but in fact

  They were much, much worse.

  I met this boy, Samir

  And he was so special

  And so right for me

  And wrong

  That my brain kind of frazzled

  And thought it would be a good idea

  To take a picture of my pussy

  And turn it into art

  To display at school.

  I pause there

  Giving the poor woman time

  To write something down.

  I heard of this case, she says

  That was you?

  You were arrested, right?

  I nod

  And take a deep breath

  Because I feel a little faint

  Like my history is blood

  And I’m pouring it onto the floor.

  Another boy

  David is his name

  He put the picture on Facebook

  And sent it to a younger friend

  Who is a MORMON for God’s sake

  And would you believe

  He wants to date my sister?

  Anyway, his parents weren’t impressed

  Or people you want to trifle with.

  I breathe again

  I breathe

  The threads of David and Samir
/>
  Tangling and untangling in my mind.

  So that was bad enough, I go on

  Then this girl, Genie

  Took against me

  I think she was jealous

  Of the attention I was getting

  Kids started writing on this wall

  Messages of support and unity

  I think I became kind of a folk hero

  For about five minutes.

  But Genie also had a thing for Samir

  So she framed him

  For a hate crime

  And he was going to get arrested too

  And everything I tried to do

  To fix it

  Only made it worse

  So we thought we’d run away

  But his father caught us together

  And even though he was

  Surprisingly understanding

  I screwed it up again

  And ran off

  Because something came back

  From my old life

  And blew me to pieces.

  I wait

  Breathing

  Blinking the stars from my eyes

  I see, the nurse says

  And what was that?

  DARKNESS

  I feel sorry for her

  Because I know she’s imagining the worst

  Some boy mashing me down

  Behind a car

  Outside a party

  That kind of thing.

  But before I open my mouth

  And tell her what really happened

  I remember only four people know

  Mom, Dad, Kayli

  And Samir, kind of.

  I haven’t even told David.

  So instead I say

  My baby brother died

  When I was nine

  The half-lie slips out

  Slippery as a newborn seal

  It upsets me sometimes.

  Upsets you?

  She consults her notes

  “Blew me to pieces,” you said

  That sounds like a bit more than upset

  Can you tell me more?

  How did he die?

  It’s easy enough to cry

  Over the brother I never had

  I only ever saw a photo

  Of his tiny unfinished feet

  My tears seem to satisfy her

  So I don’t explain.

  There are only two women

  I trust in the whole world

  And she’s not one of them.

  TWO WOMEN

  Mom

  Because she bore me

  She has to love me.

  And Kayli

  Because in the end

  She needs me

  As much as

  I need her.

  BUT BOYS ON THE OTHER HAND

  Sometimes I think of David

  With his cell phone

  Snickering as he took a picture