Disequilibrium

Part 2: Sophomore Year - Scene 7

Winter

 

"I swear, this weather's only here to fuck us over," Nichole says before taking another swing from her bottle. She shivers. "Just two days ago it was nice and sunny. Now look. I'm freezing my balls off."

I screw up my face and put the cigarette to my lips. She gets vulgar when she drinks; it's something Dad failed to mention. Not that he tells me much about her, anyway. She's an unspoken thing between us—kind of like air. Always there but never discussed.

"That's Canada for you," I say, watching the way her body trembles in her coat. I think about offering to go inside to get her a blanket or something, but decide against it. I don't need to be nice to her. I don't want to be nice to her, but I'd rather have her around than just my thoughts.

She's squatting in front of me while I sit leisurely on the lawn chair. I must look like the biggest asshole right now, but Nichole says nothing about it and keeps talking like she isn't uncomfortable. She's a good woman. I know that. I'd have been kind to her if she was any other person, really. But being nice to her would be like betraying Mom, and I definitely can't do that.

"You're on break from school, aren't you?" Nichole asks. "What do you have planned for two weeks? Other than Christmas, of course."

I shrug and blow smoke from my nose. Dad taught me. "I think I'll be going to my friend's house often. We like watching movies together."

"I thought you used to work for this old couple? Won't you go by their place when you're friend's busy?"

I sniff. I almost forgot about the geezers. A few days after the funeral, Elizabeth called. David was fine, but she thought it'd be best if I took time off to 'recuperate'. That's the word she used. I said okay, she wished me the best, and that was it. Not a single goddamn call since.

I shrug again. "Nah. If he's busy, I guess I'll stay home and waste my time and energy doing nothing."

She nods solemnly. "I see. Well, if your friend gets busy, why don't you come to my place? We can do Christmas things like bake gingerbread men and decorate a tree. Wouldn't you like that? It'll be a proper Christmas."

She looks nervous as hell when she says that. She should be. What she's pulling is risky business—I'm sure she can see that by the look on my face. I stare at her for a real long time; waiting for the moment she bursts out laughing and cues me in on the joke.

Gingerbread men, for Christ's sake. She's got to be kidding.

Nichole keeps her eyes trained on mine though, looking sincere as fuck. I shake my head and take another hit of the cigarette. "You seem to have it all wrong, Nichole."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know my dad's warming up your bed right now. I know he wasn't at work last night. I know he's a frequent visitor, and he often abandons me for you." I sigh. "Look, you're a nice lady and all, but with me knowing all these things, do you think I'd like to bake fucking gingerbread men with you?"

"Holden—"

"Tell me, Nichole, just because you've got a seasonal pass to my dad's dick at the moment, do you think you can become my mother? I mean, pardon my French, but you should know this is a touchy subject for me. You know that. So don't try it, okay? Don't even dream about it."

She's silent, but she doesn't look away or anything. She just keeps staring with those brown eyes of hers, all wide and glistening with tears that don't fall. I don't find them pretty, to be honest. My mother's were prettier. They were the colour you see when you can view the green moss at the bottom of a lake. Killer eyes. That's what Dad told me once.