Breakaway Page 13

  Her brows tie themselves in a knot as she tries to put a face to the name. It’s fun watching them unravel when she figures it out. “Brittni?”

  “Uh huh.” I sit down at the table and pick up one of the photos. It’s a shot of Courtney and me at the Forestry Farm in Saskatoon. I’m about eight, and Courtney is probably two. Man, she was a cute kid. Those were the days when she followed me everywhere, imitated my every word and gesture. Sometimes I’d wake up at night, and she’d be curled up beside me like a kitten. Nowadays if I say one wrong thing, her claws come out.

  “Remember Courtney before she hit puberty?” I ask Mom. “She was just your average spoiled-rotten kid.”

  “We never spoiled her,” Mom says. “And don’t change the subject. I want to hear more about Brittni. Was she inviting you to her wedding?”

  “She wants me to be a bridesmaid.”

  “But you were never friends. As I recall, you didn’t even like her.”

  I pick up another photograph. “She had some good moments, like the night of Jodi’s accident. Then again, she had some really bad ones.”

  “Exactly.” Mom takes the photograph from my hand and places it in the frame she uses for cropping.

  “I’m curious. I think I’ll tell her yes.” I pick up a photograph of me with a side ponytail and promptly tear it in half.

  “Jessie!”

  “Mom, there’s no way that picture’s going in.”

  Mom scowls at me and crops another photo. “Curious about what?”

  “What Brittni will want to do to my hair, for one thing.” I pull back my bangs. “And we probably won’t have a team, so we won’t be getting an invite to the Mac’s after Christmas. No point in pencilling that on my schedule.”

  Mom’s eyes get droopy. “I hope you’re wrong about that.”

  Courtney wanders into the kitchen, holding her phone. I never see her without it. She goes straight to the fridge and pours herself a glass of milk. She stands and drinks, texting with her free hand.

  “Girls like Brittni have very expensive tastes,” Mom points out. “That bridesmaid’s dress isn’t going to come cheap.”

  I explain to her about the dresses.

  “That sounds very practical,” Mom says. “But maybe you should find out who else is in the wedding party. It won’t be much fun if you don’t know anybody.” She pauses and thinks. “Would you take Evan?”

  December suddenly seems a long ways away.

  “Who are you talking about?” Courtney asks, leaning against the counter.

  “Why don’t you come sit down?” Mom pushes a chair away from the table. “Jessie will tell you all about it.”

  “No thanks.” Courtney doesn’t look up from her phone.

  “Courtney, Mrs. Gedak wondered if you’d babysit Breanne tomorrow since there’s no school,” Mom says.

  “Gia and me are gonna hang out,” Courtney says.

  “Maybe you could hang out later,” Mom says.

  “I guess.” Courtney continues texting.

  “Would you be able to go over there around eight thirty?”

  “Yeah.” Courtney wanders out of the kitchen.

  “I thought that phone was for emergencies,” I say.

  Mom starts digging through photographs in a recipe card box. “Unlimited texting is cheap, Jessie. It’s not a big deal.”

  “She’s wearing you down.”

  “She is not,” Mom says.

  “Whatever.” I lean my chair back. “Do you think Sue and Bud will quit?”

  “Can I give you some advice?” Mom asks.

  “As if I could stop you.”

  Mom selects a photo from the box and picks up her utility knife. “You better do something now. Before that meeting with Minor Hocky.”

  “I agree. The question is...what?”

  “You’re the captain. You figure it out,” Mom says. “Meanwhile, I’ll get ready for Thanksgiving. Good thing your grandma’s bringing the cabbage rolls and your favourite cookies.”

  “Awesome.”

  My phone plinks. It’s Evan.

  Why haven’t you called me?

  “Got to go.” I grab the cordless phone again. “Evan’s headed to Victoria tomorrow with the Dinos. Time for a pep talk.”

  “Say hi to him for me,” Mom says. “And Jessie?”

  Something in her tone makes me stop in my tracks.

  “Be honest with him. Okay? If you’re not as serious as he is, he needs to know.”

  “I’ll tell him – when the time’s right,” I promise. “But this isn’t the time. He has a big weekend ahead of him, and midterms coming up. I’ll tell him. After.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Mom says.

  – Chapter Twenty-five –

  You want us to write letters to our coaches and Estevan Minor Hockey?” Kathy asks. “How’s that going to help?”It’s Friday morning. I’ve rallied the Oilers to an emergency meeting-before-the-Monday-meeting in my basement. Larissa and a Rookie are the only ones missing.

  “It won’t hurt,” I say.

  Jennifer asks, “What should I write in my letter, seeing as how I wasn’t there? What should I apologize for?”

  “Can we deal with your letter later?” I tell her.

  “I’ll need some help writing mine,” one of the Rookies says. “I have horrible spelling.”

  “Have you heard of spell check?” Carla asks.

  “I’m beyond spell check,” the Rookie says. “I can’t even spell Christmas.”

  “I can spell Hanukkah,” another one says.

  “Shut up!” Kathy says. “You’re driving me crazy!”

  The Rookies look at their feet, cowed.

  “I’m a good speller, and a good writer,” one of the Rookies says, the one who was Carla’s D partner against Swift Current. “I’ll explain what happened, eat crow, and we Rookies will sign it. How’s that?”

  “Good idea,” I tell her. “What’s your name again?”

  “Dayna,” she says, smiling.

  “Dayna, you’ve got potential,” I tell her.

  “And also bedhead,” Carla points out. “Didn’t you even try to make yourself presentable this morning?”

  “Jessie said it was an emergency,” Dayna explains. “I came straight over.”

  “Yeah, the pajama pants were a dead giveaway,” Kathy says.

  I tuck my feet under my own pajama pants.

  “I think you should tell the truth,” Kathy says to me. “It would make a huge difference with Sue.”

  “Oh no, it wouldn’t,” I reply.

  “Sue loves you,” Crystal says.

  Everyone stares at Crystal.

  “I didn’t mean like that,” she says.

  “I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m getting sick of your martyr routine, Jessie,” Whitney says.

  “Martyr routine?” I reply. “I thought I was anal?” It’s on the tip of my tongue to let it all out, tell everyone what Whitney’s been up to.

  That’ll only make things worse, my little voice says.

  “Cool your jets, both of you,” Carla says. “Kathy’s right. The truth from you wouldn’t hurt, Jessie.”

  “What I’d like to know,” Kathy says, “is how this rumour about Jessie ever got started in the first place. It had to come from somebody who was at the party.” She looks at Miranda. “Teneil’s been blabbing about it at school all week.”

  “Teneil and me don’t even hang out. She’s not much fun these days.” Miranda says. “And I didn’t tell her anything.”

  “Then who did?” Kathy asks.

  “This isn’t the time for a witch hunt,” I say. “We need to concentrate on getting Sue and Bud back.”

  “And Jodi,” Crystal says.

  “Has anybody seen Jodi lately?” Randi asks. “Any chance she’ll change her mind?”

  I tell them about my conversation with her outside the church, leaving out the part about Whitney. We’ve already lost our best forward. The last thing we need
is for the girls to boot Whitney off the team.

  “I can see why Jodi’s quitting,” Kathy says. “But it still sucks.”

  “It’s better than her getting another concussion,” Carla says. “And the way she was playing, it was only a matter of time before that happened.”

  After the girls leave, I spend the rest of the morning catching up on homework and housecleaning the main floor. At noon I call Courtney to see how things are going and make sure she gets Breanne fed. The kid’s the pickiest and slowest eater I know.

  Then I park myself in front of the computer in the kitchen and start thinking about my letter. Why am I being so stubborn, I ask myself. Why don’t I just tell the truth?

  Because you’re afraid Sue won’t believe you, my little voice says.

  It’s funny Crystal says Sue loves me because I sure never get that impression. Most of the time she treats me like I’m a position, not a person.

  Maybe I won’t tell the truth, I decide. Maybe I’ll just talk about our team and hockey and what it means to me. Maybe that’ll be enough.

  I start typing, and I don’t second-guess a single word. I just let it all hang out. My hopes. My dreams. My teammates. My learning curve as a D-man. Everything I ever thought and loved about the game. I’ll go back and revise later, I keep telling myself. It’ll be too sappy otherwise. I’m halfway through page six, and bawling like a baby when the doorbell rings.

  “Shit!” I tear a tissue out of the box and blow my nose.

  Now somebody’s knocking on the door. When I open it, the ground shifts under my bare feet.

  Evan.

  – Chaper Twenty-six –

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, dabbing my eyes.

  He stares at me. “What happened to your face?”

  “Rug burn. No big deal. I’ll tell you about it after you tell me why you’re not on your way to Victoria.”

  He walks through the door and puts his arms around me and pulls me close. “It’s okay,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m home for good.”

  Two thoughts strike me instantaneously:

  1) He’s quitting.

  2) He’s quitting because of me.

  The words keep rebounding in my head. They have a hollow sound, like a basketball bouncing in an empty gymnasium where a boy is perfecting his dribbling. Putting in hours and hours of practice, honing the skills to attract university scouts.

  See you soon, he told me, over and over again. Even though I knew I wouldn’t see him for weeks.

  Because that’s the way you wanted it, the little voice says.

  “What did you do?” I can barely get the words out.

  He removes his arms, then cups my face in his hands, and drags it upwards, so I can see the happiness in his tired eyes. “I quit,” he says.

  “You quit basketball?” I ask.

  “I quit everything,” he says.

  “School too?”

  “Yes.”

  This isn’t happening, I tell myself. It’s not. It’s a bad dream. Or I’m not really here. I’m somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  “Come sit down.” I grab his hand. “We need to talk about this.”

  He pulls me back and kisses me, long and hard, in a very un-Evan like way. It scares me. I don’t mean he scares me. I could never be scared of Evan. But the power of his emotion is frightening, and so is the knowledge that I control it.

  When he finally lets me go, I take him to the kitchen, pour him a glass of cold water, and sit across from him, holding his hand across the table.

  But what I’d like to do is pound my head on that table. Pound it until there’s nothing left of stupid, selfish, impulsive Jessica Maree McIntyre.

  I listen while he tells me about his gradual awakening. His dawning realization that what he really wants from life is to be a youth pastor. He’s going to enroll at Bible college in Saskatoon next fall.

  “So when you go to university we’ll at least be in the same city,” he explains. “You are planning to go to U of S, aren’t you? Your mom thinks you are.”

  “There’s a good chance I will.”

  “I’m not cut out for medical school,” Evan says. “It took me a long time to realize that.”

  Oh no, it didn’t, my little voice says. It only took two months of Jessie Mac’s Road Show to convince you.

  “Evan, this is pretty sudden.”

  “I know,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you don’t have any other options for next year. If you decide you want to go to university someplace else, I can find a different ministerial program. The only thing that matters is that you and I will be together.”

  He’s been under too much pressure, I tell myself. It isn’t just me. It’s all those science labs. The coach who doesn’t get him. His parents pinning all their hopes and dreams on him. His determination to get the best grades, so he can get scholarships to pay for medical school. I am part of it, but I’m not all of it.

  Nice try, my little voice says.

  He yawns, shakes his head, and beckons, urging me to sit in his lap. “Let’s talk about you for a while,” he says.

  That’s definitely something I don’t want to do. Not yet.

  “How about a cookie? They’re not homemade, but they’re pretty good.” I open a cupboard and remove a package with trembling hands. “What did your parents say when you told them?”

  “I haven’t told them yet.” Evan’s brow gets wrinkly. “I drove straight to your place from Calgary.”

  “When did you leave?” I put some cookies on a plate.

  “Four this morning. I was supposed to be get on a plane for Victoria, but I ended up driving here, instead of meeting the team at the university. Isn’t that strange?”

  I set the plate in front of him. “Evan, you need to talk to your parents.”

  “I’d rather talk to you.” He pats his lap again. “Please come here.”

  “No. You need to call your parents. And while you’re doing that, I’ll go put on some jeans.” I point to the phone on the computer desk. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hurry upstairs, stumbling on the second last step because my legs are so weak. What am I going to do?

  What you should have done a long time ago, my voice says. They all tried to tell you, didn’t they?

  In my room, I kick off my pajama pants and dig under the clutter for a pair of jeans. Mom folds my clean laundry and brings it to my room like a burnt offering, but she refuses to put it away.

  “I’m not going to try to figure out what’s clean and what’s dirty,” she always says. “That’s up to you.”

  Well, I know what’s dirty.

  My soul is, and I am going to hell.

  I kill time in the upstairs bathroom, washing my face, cleaning my teeth, freeing my hair from its pony, and brushing it out. Occasionally I lean into the hallway, listening for Evan’s voice on the phone, but I don’t hear a thing.

  Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe he’s listening to his parents’ advice. Maybe it isn’t too late for him to put his life back together.

  When I return to the kitchen, Evan’s still sitting at the table, dangling the phone by the antenna. The cookies are untouched.

  “Did you call them?” I ask.

  He nods. “I talked to my dad.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I’m going to meet him and Mom right away,” he says. “Dad doesn’t want to talk about this in front of Breanne, so we’re going to Houston’s. I’d like you to come along. Would you mind?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Maybe you could come later.”

  “No.” I suck in a deep breath. “Evan, I’m not serious about you. Not like you are about me. I’m not even sure I like you that way.”

  He doesn’t say anything for the longest time. I wonder if he heard me.

  “I never should have said I wanted to go out with you,” I say. “I was wrong. I wanted to like you more, but I...”

  “Stop it,” he says. “Just
stop it, okay?”

  He’s staring out the kitchen window. It’s a sunny fall day. The leaves are clinging to the trees, but only for a little longer.

  He bows his head and exhales. “I’ve been a fool.”

  I want to tell him he isn’t. I’m the fool.

  Shut up, my little voice says. Let him talk.

  “All this time I thought you felt the same way. But you don’t. When you didn’t return my calls, I made excuses for you.”

  “I’m sorry.” My eyes and my nose are running, and I’d reach for a tissue if I could.

  His next words are so quiet I scarcely hear them. “I told you not to do it.”

  “I know.” I sit down across from him and reach for his hand, but he pulls it under the table. “I’m so sorry, Evan.”

  The phone jangles, startling both of us. He gives it to me.

  It’s Mom.

  “Oh good. You’re home.” She sounds like she’s out of breath. “Have you heard from Evan? His mom got a call from his coach. Evan never showed up at the airport this morning, and nobody knows where he is. His roommate says his car is gone but...”

  “He’s here,” I tell her, as gently as I can. “He’s okay. He just talked to his dad.”

  “Oh.” Mom sounds confused, and I don’t blame her.

  “I have to hang up now, Mom.”

  “Call me later,” she says.

  I set the phone down. “I don’t know what to tell you. I wish I could make things better, but I can’t. I didn’t know you’d feel this strongly about me.”

  “You had to know, Jessie,” he says. “How could you not know?”

  “Okay, I knew, but I thought I could make myself feel the same way.”

  I try to remember why I wanted to go out with him in the first place. Was it really because of a song?

  He stands, pushing the chair back and cracking the vertebrae in his long neck.

  “Maybe if you hadn’t been so far away, it would have been different,” I tell him.

  “I’m here now,” he says wryly. “Is that making a difference?”

  “Is it too late for you to go back?” I ask.

  His face darkens.

  Wrong question.

  “Oh, that makes sense,” he says. “I have three midterms next week I’m not prepared for. Yesterday after practice I wrote an email to the athletic director telling him exactly what I think of my coach.”