Interference Read online

  Hannah pops her head out and waves her arms. “Seriously, hurry up.”

  “I don’t even like her,” Becky says. “Do you?”

  Rachel thinks about her own house. She thinks about Charlie playing Lego by himself in the basement. Her mom and dad are probably in front of the TV watching hockey. Maybe something good is cooking for dinner. But Rachel doesn’t want to go home. Becky is a drag and Rachel wants some excitement in her life. Everything seems to happen the same way every day. Winter. School. Weekends. Homework. Spelling tests. Nothing new. Nothing different.

  “I’m going in,” Rachel says. “You can walk home alone if you want. In fact,” she whispers, “get lost. I don’t want you here anyway.”

  But Becky doesn’t want to leave. There is no way she’s going anywhere alone these days. She pulls at her mouth, and then follows Rachel into the house.

  The smell hits them first. Cigarettes and foot odour. It’s oppressive, which is a word from three weeks ago — two p’s, two s’s. Hannah is standing by a dirty stove, stirring something in a pot. The stove top is like something out of that TV commercial that Becky thinks is so ridiculous. The one where the spaghetti sauce is baked on and splattering everywhere and the woman takes her bottle of stove cleaner and, with one swipe, cleans it all off. Becky always wonders to herself, when she sees this commercial, Who could ever let their stove top get that messy while they cook? How is that possible? She wants to shout, “Just wipe while you cook.” Here it is, though. Right in front of her. Proof that the commercial could actually be correct. Becky seriously doubts, however, that one swipe of a paper towel would clean this mess.

  Hannah hovers over the stove. She still has her boots on and her snow pants but she has taken off her jacket. Her long, blond hair is knotted and greasy. It hangs over her back, covering her shoulders. She scratches it. Her t-shirt says, “I’m With Stupid,” and has an arrow pointing to the left. Even though the arrow isn’t pointing towards her, Rachel feels insulted.

  “I like marshmallows in mine,” Hannah says. “Do you?”

  Becky and Rachel nod. They are burning up in their snowsuits but they are afraid to move. Rachel finally unzips herself and walks, tracking snow, towards a small, messy table. She moves a pair of jeans from the back of a chair and sits down. Becky remains standing in the doorway. Ready to run if she needs to. Someone coughs in the next room. Becky jumps. Rachel fidgets.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  Hannah says, “None of your beeswax.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Here, drink your hot chocolate.”

  Rachel picks the hardened skin of hot milk off the top of her hot chocolate. She eats it. Becky feels as if she might be sick. She looks at her mug of hot chocolate on the table.

  And then, suddenly, his shape fills up the doorway.

  “Hey,” Hannah says.

  “Hey,” he says back.

  Rachel would never have guessed Hannah’s mom could be so beautiful. Hannah herself isn’t that great looking. At least not according to Rachel’s standards which, because she reads Seventeen magazine and watches Entertainment Tonight, are high.

  And Hannah’s mom is really nice too. Not just beautiful.

  It’s hard to believe when you look at Hannah with her greasy hair. It’s hard to believe when you look at Hannah’s weird older brother. Standing there in bare feet with his hands in his jean pockets, his face all goofy and drooly. His nose running. He keeps wiping his nose with the back of his hand. When he laughs it is long and drawn out, more of a horn sound than a laugh. Hawww. Rachel squirms. And sometimes it’s a low, growling sound. He laughs often.

  Becky is long gone. She bolted the minute she saw Terry. She ran straight into Hannah’s mom, Leah, who was coming in from outside, grocery bags in her hands. Becky picked herself up, side-swiped the car now under the car park and took off down the road. Rachel shrugged. Who knows what gets into that idiot? Just because she lives across the street from Becky, it doesn’t mean Rachel has to take care of her. People think that if you can spell you’re smart. But Becky proves that’s wrong. In fact, there are a lot of things she can do better than Becky — basketball, for one, running, swearing.

  Hannah doesn’t seem bothered by her brother. She gives him Becky’s cup of hot chocolate and sits him down next to Rachel as you would a child. Takes his hand and leads him to the table. Rachel guesses that Hannah is used to her brother — she must be, she lives with him — and that, with time, he won’t bother Rachel either. Kind of like Rachel’s brother, Charlie, who is annoying when you first meet him, but can also be kind of interesting and a little nice. Although Rachel would never admit that out loud.

  “Now, Terry, it’s hot,” Hannah says. She blows on the cup of hot chocolate and Terry laughs and copies her, blowing so hard the hot chocolate spills over the edge. Splatters the table. No one moves to clean it up. Boy, Rachel thinks, wouldn’t that piss Becky off. Becky’s so afraid of mess and dirt that she would panic if she saw this.

  Rachel begins to feel uncomfortable but when Hannah’s mom comes back into the kitchen, she relaxes. Terry moves his chair closer to Rachel’s and now she knows exactly where the foot odour is coming from. Then he puts his hand on her thigh and squeezes. Rachel jumps up.

  “Oh, honey,” Leah says. “Don’t touch people. It’s not polite.”

  Terry laughs. “I touch.”

  “You’re such a retard,” Hannah says.

  Everyone looks at her. Rachel shudders. Her mouth falls open. Then Leah and Terry burst out laughing. Hawww.

  “He is,” Leah says, lighting a cigarette. “He’s such a retard.” Leah blows smoke up towards the ceiling. Even though Rachel wants desperately — another spelling word — to leave, even though she knows you never call anyone a retard no matter what, she thinks Leah looks glamorous. She studies Leah’s profile until she’s completely taken it in. Later on Rachel will pose in front of the mirror, holding a pencil. She will blow her imaginary smoke to the ceiling and laugh and say, “He’s such a retard,” and it will feel like sinning because retard is a word that is so much worse than fuck or piss.

  “Do you wear a bra yet?” Hannah asks.

  “What?”

  “A bra. Do you wear one?” Hannah stares at Rachel.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, you’d know, honey,” Leah laughs.

  “Because,” Hannah says, “if you can put a pencil under your boobs and it stays there when you are standing up then you need a bra. That’s a fact.”

  Rachel feels her face go hot. “Oh,” she says. She can’t think of anything else to say. She looks down at her thigh, where Terry touched her. She can still feel his hot hand.

  “True,” Leah says, contemplatively, “a pencil or a pen. My mother used to say that. It’s one of those things that people say.”

  “I have to go now,” Rachel says. She stands. She zips up her jacket. She starts towards the side door. “Thanks for the hot chocolate. It was nice to meet you.”

  Out the door, into the car park. Rachel turns back and sees Terry standing up by the kitchen table. His hands are deep in his jean pockets. He looks right at her. Leah swats his hands away from his pants and waves goodbye to Rachel. She mouths something, but Rachel doesn’t catch it because she is walking quickly away.

  At home Rachel goes straight into the bathroom.

  “We’re eating early tonight,” her mother calls out. “I have hockey. You don’t have to take care of Carrie. Dayton found someone else for tonight.”

  In the bathroom Rachel lifts her shirt and looks at her chest. Two small bumps. The nipples are large. There is no way a pencil would stay.

  “Did you see the new bear?” her mom calls out. “In the laundry room? A Pig Bear. He’s a pig, but he’s a bear. In pig costume.” Her mother laughs.

  “Oh,” Rachel calls back. Shut up, she thi
nks. A pig bear?

  The phone rings.

  Rachel picks up a pencil from on top of a crossword magazine left by the toilet. She grabs a roll of baby fat from her stomach and pushes it together, placing the pencil in the crease. When she lets go of the roll the pencil falls out.

  “Rachel? Is Becky in there with you?”

  “I’m in the bathroom, Mom. Stop bothering me.”

  “Is Becky with you?”

  “Why would Becky be in here with me?”

  “What are you doing in there? Are you okay?”

  “I’m busy. Don’t bother me. Leave me alone.”

  “Becky’s mom just called. Becky isn’t home yet. Do you know where she is? Wasn’t she with you this afternoon? I thought you two went out together? Didn’t you come home together?”

  Rachel stares at the pencil on the floor but all she can see is Terry with his hands deep down in the pockets of his jeans and it makes her feel weird. He is a retard, she thinks. And then she feels nauseous. She picks up the pencil and holds it like a cigarette. She blows imaginary smoke up to the ceiling. She could easily be as glamorous as Hannah’s mother.

  “Rachel? Are you listening? Come out now. What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m busy, Mom. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Rachel can hear her mother murmuring into the phone. Stupid Becky is probably wandering around lost. She’ll get them both in trouble.

  I may not be good at spelling, Rachel thinks, but at least I’m not an idiot like Becky. Rachel knows that this is a word that would never be on the spelling test because it’s too easy. Idiot. Although Rachel also knows that you could, maybe, spell it with an It, as in Itiot. But she also knows that if it was on the spelling test she’d have no problem spelling it the way she sees it: B-E-C-K-Y.

  Rachel smiles into the mirror. She puts the bra determiner/cigarette pencil in her back pocket and leaves the bathroom.

  Her mother is standing in the kitchen. She places the phone into its base and turns and looks at Rachel. That’s when Rachel hears it. From outside. A screaming, screeching sound. Becky’s mother calling out for her daughter. “Becky. Becky!” Rachel’s mother’s face goes white. Rachel’s father turns off the TV and sits up in his recliner. The couch is covered with scraps of material — new bear accessories being made in front of the TV.

  “Their only child,” Rachel’s mother whispers, as if losing one of either Rachel or Charlie would be okay, because there would always be the other. “Missing. Can you imagine? Remember that guy who came here before Christmas? Remember him? The one with the pamphlet? Oh god.”

  “What guy?” Rachel says. “What guy?”

  “Never you mind.” Rachel’s mother and father look at each other.

  Rachel goes to the front door and looks out across the street. Becky’s mother has her hands cupped in front of her mouth and is calling, calling, calling. Looking left and right. Behind Rachel her mother begins to put on her coat and boots.

  “She’s not missing,” Rachel says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s just lost. That’s all. She just got lost. She’s stupid.”

  “Rachel. No matter what you call it, Becky isn’t home where she should be. And it’s getting dark out. Where were you two this afternoon? What happened? Come out and help us find her. You can tell us where you were so we know where to start looking.”

  “There has to be another alternative,” Rachel whispers, “another option.” But her mother doesn’t hear her as she rushes out the front door into the cold. “A-L-T-A-R-N-I-T-I-V-E.” Rachel isn’t sure if that’s right or not. The snow begins to fall. Rachel hates the English language.

  Grudgingly, she pulls on her boots and coat. As she comes out of the house, shutting the door behind her, she looks up the street in the direction of the school. She walks to the sidewalk. There is a figure walking towards her, coming out of the heavy snow. A teenager. He comes closer, pauses slightly in front of Rachel, and then walks on. And there, up the street, towards the school, at the end of the block, is Becky. She is walking slowly, her snow pants rubbing together, her boots thick with snow. She is staring down at the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Mom. There she is.”

  And Becky’s mother pushes past Rachel and rushes up the street towards her daughter.

  Monday they are supposed to walk to school together but Rachel quickly moves ahead and ignores Becky. Both girls are grounded for going to a stranger’s house. They had what their parents called “a serious talking to.” Rachel is furious — she knows how to spell that. Becky refuses to talk.

  “The least you could do is apologize.” Rachel turns and shouts this at her.

  Becky says nothing. She is still relishing the feeling of having her mother rush towards her in the snow, worried. There was something about that that made her feel so good, so wanted.

  The spelling test is today. They walk on in silence. Rachel knows Becky will do well on it. And Rachel knows she isn’t ready. She knows she’ll make plenty of mistakes. No matter how much she tries. She always does.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Goalies and Beer

  Hey Gals,

  Sorry to pester you with emails so often, but we’ve been having some issues with the goalies this season and we need to reiterate our rules and regulations. All of you have signed an accident waiver, in case of injury. Remember that? I came around and collected them before the first game of the year. So when you invite your fourteen-year-old son to put on goalie gear because your regular goalie doesn’t show up, and he gets hurt, we get sued. This is why we don’t let just anyone play. We’ve had some complaints lately — from goalies and from other teams. I realize you didn’t win with your fourteen-year-old son as goalie, but still, the other gals thought it was unfair. After all, he is younger and more fit than most of us, right? If your goalie doesn’t show up, someone from your team — who has signed a waiver — can play goalie for you. It’s not the end of the world! And, goalies, please phone your captains if you can’t make it. It’s not nice to leave everyone hanging. Be a good team player and act responsibly and with courtesy.

  Which leads me to the second reason for writing this note: if you drink beer in the change room after the game — you know who you are — make sure you take the bottles home with you. Last week some kids found a few bottles in the garbage cans and proceeded to break them in the showers! I can’t stress to you enough how much trouble we got in for that — and how many stitches there were on some of the male senior team’s feet. I know, I know, who would take a shower in those horrible, moldy, contaminated stalls? But the men sometimes do and the beer bottles are dangerous. It’s not really our fault, you say? Well, we aren’t allowed to bring beer into the change room in the first place! Those are the rules.

  So: no extra goalies or players and beer bottles go home with you. Capisce?

  Play on!

  Tina Brady

  Parkville Ice Kats

  Co-ordinator Extraordinaire

  9

  Before Jude came here, his father said to his mother, “Claire, I have always loved your hair.”

  Now Jude is in the arena watching the women play hockey. Wednesday night. Dead of winter.

  What he doesn’t get, what doesn’t make sense to him, is why his father would say that now. It’s rubbing it in, pouring salt on the wound, kicking her when she’s down. Jude knows his father didn’t mean anything by it, he just said it. He told his fuzzy-headed wife that he has always loved her hair. It was something to say at the time.

  “It is already growing back, Claire,” he said. “It’s prickly.”

  “Someday it’ll be long again,” she said, rubbing her peach fuzz. “It’s growing slower than I thought it would.” Jude watched his mother watch his sister leave the room
. Dinner was over. Everyone sat around looking at each other and then his father said that about her hair and then, one at a time, they all left the room.

  The team is getting better. And the silly shouts and whistles and “woo hoos” have almost stopped. The occasional one here and there, but mostly they are serious and busy out there on the ice. Jude thinks he might like watching women’s hockey better than men’s hockey. This white team in particular. There is something about the way they play, the way they hold themselves out there on ice, the way they have attitude but in a nice way. They don’t fight on the ice and Jude likes that because there is enough violence in the world. In fact, they avoid a fight. Anytime an opposing player tries to smash someone into the boards, the white team backs away. They even help the other team up if they fall. Stop and put their hands out. Pull the player up from the ice. It seems to cause the opposite effect than you would think it would. The other team becomes more and more aggressive the nicer the white team is.

  Jude knows that some of them are probably moms. His mother’s age. When they are in their equipment they look like anyone — teenagers or college girls. Some of them even look like boys. Jude likes to imagine his mother, if she were healthy, playing hockey. This is why he keeps coming back. He gets his women’s hockey fix every Wednesday. Imagining that when his mom gets better he’ll bring her here and show her and encourage her to sign up to play. Lately he’s the only one in the seats. Sometimes the women’s husbands or kids or boyfriends show up to cheer them on, but now that it’s really cold outside he seems to be the only fan. Sometimes there is only one other guy, the one always talking on his BlackBerry. Once there was someone’s mother, a much older woman, and she carried one of those foam hands with the index finger up. The hand said, “#1 Maple Leafs” on it. She waved it occasionally, but mostly she looked at the ground. She might have slept a little, nodded off.