Crescent Lane

Chapter Thirteen

Only a tiny of portion of him is on display; most is curled beneath the blanket and beneath her. When Margaret stares down everything is hidden in the grey wool except for two socked feet. They are covered in competing stripes, riotous colours of yellow, purple, orange and green. It reminds her of that book by Robert Munch. Not that she'd mention that to her boyfriend. But as he flexes his toes it becomes progressively harder not to laugh at his rainbow of colours. The fire crackles beside them, warming the entire condominium with its heat, flashes of sparks lighting the small space. Margaret gives up her perusal of Keith's socks and snuggles deeper into his chest instead. She sips on her hot chocolate while he threads his arms around her waist. He squeezes but only lightly. She shivers even though it's been an hour since they returned from the ski slopes. Her fingers still feel numb, so she presses them tighter to the mug, letting the warmth spread into their icy tips.

Margaret had travelled to Whistler with Keith, Blake and Kathy. The addition of her brother made it acceptable but he'd disappeared a few hours before in pursuit of a ski bunny. Blake had disappeared a half hour later, taking the other girl with him. Kathy isn't much of a skier. Blake used to be, but like most pursuits for the brunette, boredom quickly overwhelms talent. Margaret and Keith had endured the longest, staying until darkness forced them back into the Lawson condominium. There they'd brewed hot chocolate because neither knew how to cook, and marvelled at the stars from the warmer side of the glass. It'd been a perfect afternoon, and when Margaret bundles her head beneath Keith's chin, it makes for the perfect evening.

“You looked pretty darling in your ski pants,” Keith mumbles into the quiet.

“The first time I fell or the second?”

“The first...the second wasn't your fault. You got cut off by a seven year old,” Keith reminds her, chuckle biting through the last couple words.

She gives him a slap on the arm. It doesn't stop the chuckles and within a minute her cheeks are no longer red and she's laughing too. “You didn't look that bad yourself.”

“I never do,” Keith whispers.

“Arrogant.”

“Truthful.”

“I can't take you anywhere.”

“I think,” Keith counters with a kiss at her temple. She feels her breath catch before he can finish the thought. “That you could take me anywhere.”

When his fingers run along her shirt, despite the layer of cotton, Margaret remembers just how alone they are. It stops her breath a moment, building a familiar flipping in her stomach. It's not an entirely unpleasant feeling. When his hand runs up again, dragging her sleeves an inch she lets her breath out. He turns that hand further, crossing over her neck, tracing backward against her shoulder. He pulls her hair aside as he moves, returning his lips to her neck. It feels different without the curtain of hair to insulate the touch. When his lips trickle downward she can feel the inch of dampness left behind. Her body tenses even as she shuts her eyes, leaning into the movement while a part of her wants to lean away again. If Keith notes the duality it doesn't stop his pursuit, he inches down far enough to reach her shoulder, artfully pushing the loose fabric aside to kiss the tiny bone that sits at the top. He whispers something but she loses it for the ringing. Her eyes open again, turn over to the table where her phone is alternating between chiming and vibrating across it. Keith moans when she reaches across to take it, audibly enough that she turns back to him. He pouts, naturally pink lips pushing out with boyish charm. It's enough that she puts the phone back, kissing his pout to a smile. She kisses the smile too, marking each side with a giggle of her own. When her phone rings again, Margaret only glances over. Her plan for ignoring lost when she sees the number. Then her lips go less playful. Keith looks too and she feels him fall back in defeat before she picks up.

“Blake?” Margaret offers in greeting, laying her head against her boyfriend's chest. The hammering of Keith's heart is nearly as loud as Blake's unfocused rambles.

“What colour is the roof?”

“The roof?”

“So Kathy said the condo has a red roof but I'm sure it's a plain old black one, or maybe it's a blue one...but roofs are never blue right...then again they're not red either.” Margaret has to clamp a hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter as her best friend rambles on. “So maybe roof colour isn't going to helps us...but there's a mural on the side right...I'm sure there's a mural on the side. Or maybe it was the bar that had the mural.”

“I can't believe they served you.”

“A little bribery can get you anything my dear...though...” His voice trails off with a slap, the sounds of Kathy whining in the background. “I told you not to wear those shoes. Who wears open-toed shoes on a ski hill? I don't care if they are pretty!”

Margaret can hear Kathy call out look, look, look before the bang. There's a clatter, a clamour, a lot of cursing but no more breathing. “Blake? Are you there?” she calls into the silence.

She can hear the phone scratch along the cement before Blake retrieves it. “We might have a problem,” he admits.

“Just one?”

“We might be lost.”

“That's too bad...I'm sitting in front of a warm fire,” Margaret teases with a conspiratorial look at her boyfriend. It's his turn to stifle the laughter.

“Could you come and find us?”

“Warm fire...”

“Is always better when you share it with friends.”

“Keith is here with me.”

“Even better...two heads are better than one and all.”

“Except for you two?”

“Well you know...with us two it's really only one.” Margaret can hear another slap with that comment. The smack is hard enough that the phone falls to the ground again, bouncing twice. “That hurts you know,” Blake yells into the background, a scuff followed by momentary silence. It takes a moment for him to recover, breathing coming in gasps when he does.

“I'll send out a search party,” Margaret promises. Her boyfriend whines beside but Blake's hung up before she can reconsider. “Come on,” she slaps at the blonde's leg. He doesn't jump to attention, just buries his face deeper into her hair, lips tickling against her neck.

“How long do you think we have before frostbite sets in?”

“With open-toes shoes? I say fifteen minutes,” Margaret promises in return. She takes only one more sip of her hot cocoa and then sets it on the table beside her.

“Who really needs toes anyway,” Keith murmurs further. Pulling her back, he lets his lips trail down to the apex of her shoulders again. “I say we don't move until they're in danger of losing an ankle.” He bundles the woollen blanket closer around her with the suggestion. “Maybe later.”

“You'd lose your chance to be Prince Charming,” she teases. “I know how much you like being knightly.”

“You're not lost.”

“I might become lost if you don't help,” Margaret says as she wiggles free from his grasp. The chill bites as she tosses the blanket aside and has her jumping on her toes once she's clear. Keith shivers behind her, moaning louder than he did before. “I need more clothes,” she announces and bounces towards the stairwell.

“More clothes? I knew this was a bad idea,” Keith swears with a hand to the blanket. He tosses it over his head before burrowing deeper down into the cushions.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There are moments in life that reflect on others, a mirror into past thoughts or events or emotions. Sometimes they materialize within us and sometimes they're on display outside; the first is easier to reconcile because it's inherently family but the second is just a whisper of something, as open to interpretation as truth. So when Blake stares at David standing at the end of the hall, it's not as much a mirror but a familiar sense of hopelessness. The boy is standing by the far exit doors, staring at the metal with something akin to a lingering sense of freedom. He stares down at his shoes and even from twenty feet down the hallway, Blake can see the younger boy shut his eyes. He can see the familiar clenching in his jaw, and recognizes the feeling if not the exact thoughts.

Blake doesn't follow him there, choosing to stand behind a row of lockers instead. He will follow if he needs to, but David isn't walking either way at present, just standing in the middle of the quiet hallway. It's only when he looks up again that Blake starts to grow nervous. When he takes a step forward, that's when Blake realizes he could have screwed up. That rather than pointing out the truth, he might have said the entirely wrong thing. David doesn't take more than a step though. He stares down again, fumbling with the cuff of one sleeve and then shakes his head. It's just the tiniest dismissal but it's enough for Blake to smile, or at least breathe with more easiness than he had the moment before. When David turns back around, that's when Blake is fully calm, enough to emerge from his hiding space.

David's eyes turn at the movement in his peripheral vision, hold longer when they catch on Blake. The jaw nearly stiffens again, the eyes begin to roll but they lose some of their power in before they're done. The younger ends up staring with more blankness than either vehemence or friendship. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” Blake offers with a shrug.

“Do you ever give a simple answer to a simple question?”

“Sometimes,” Blake admits with a twisting smile, a certain candid amusement that suits the boy so well. “How about you?”

“Ask me a simple question,” David prompts.

“Have you made your choice?”

“Yes.”

“A simple answer,” Blake concedes. “Unfortunately, you always give simple answer to any question. You need to work on expanding beyond monosyllabic masterpieces.”

“If only you knew,” David counters with a smile. It's very nearly dumbfounding to see it, as much for the recent total absence as the genuine emotion.

“Give me a chance?” Blake offers with a hand. It dangles in the space between them, past the moment where Blake figures he's lost. Then that smile comes again, precedes the handshake and Blake decides that he's on a winning streak.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Kathy leans across the side of the picnic table into him but Blake barely notices. His eyes are too busy trying to outmanoeuvre hazel ones with the conversation building and dying around them. It's only when Kathy puts a hand to his shoulder that he notices her, the bracelets ringing before her voice. “Why don't you just tell him?” Kathy whispers before she pulls back, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and shock. Blake turns to her immediately. His face is blank, the thoughts cleared. It shouldn't be surprising. He ought to have guessed she knew but she hadn't said anything and so he'd let the premonition blend away to nothing. Now he can feel his breathing stop at her smile, thick red lips opening and closing as her dark brown eyes stare purposefully across the table.

“Why don't you shut up?” David tosses across the table and Blake realizes he's missed his cue. He was supposed to be the bridge, the one to cover the insults doomed to fly between boyfriends of girls with pink hair and jocks with blonde hair. Margaret is the one to embrace the role in his absence, stuffing a corner of her sandwich into her boyfriend's mouth. You would expect Kathy to do her part but a brother's girlfriend isn't a brother, and she's too busy flirting with Keith to attempt to discipline him. At least Keith is too preoccupied to throw more than the occasional revilement. The blonde is caught between deflecting Kathy and intruding on any attempts at conversation between Maggie and himself. Blake shivers in the fall wind, taking a larger spoonful of his soup and deciding they've all become strange caricatures of friendship. On one level they can maintain the presentation, converse and smile and make mindless comments on the weather. Beneath they've become a mass of string, tangled together and roughly thrown into a ball.

“I heard that Hinton is going to make the final project worth thirty percent of our grade.” Kathy nearly purrs. She stretches her hands across the table, nearly close enough to touch Keith's. If she notices the boy's discomfort it doesn't unnerve her. She expands her smile instead.

Mr. George Hinton is their Social Studies teacher, archaic like most of the teachers in their school. At least he has great historical insights, most probably because he was alive to experience them firsthand. It's the only block the entire table shares, well except David obviously but the younger boy has him for the younger grade too. Grade Eleven in British Columbia is the year that students begin to diverge, tracks appearing and disappearing depending on interests. Sciences are subdivided into Biology, Chemistry and Physics. Maths are levelled into Essentials, Applications and Principals. There are even two levels for English though Hollyburn School doesn't provide the easier Communications program. Only Social Studies continues as one unified course, at least until the Twelve grade when it becomes elective rather than mandatory. Margaret is the only one of the four to diverge into biology. She also selected chemistry though she, her boyfriend and Kathy won't take that until the summer term. Blake, for all his hatred of schooling, has deferred into Physics. The semester system means they'll finish each course within half a year and next term they'll share English 11 but this term they meet only in Social Studies 11.

“You hear that Blake?” Keith throws across the table, arm wrapping more securely around his girlfriend's shoulder. “You might be able to pass after all.”

“My grade's not that bad.”

“Isn't it a group project?” Margaret throws out over the competing glares.

“Partners,” Kathy says with far more contentment. She's the only one to appear relaxed in the table of five. Even her brother has taken to looking back and forth across the wood with growing alarm. “I wonder if Hinton will do alphabetical this time. Doesn't he usually do that for the last project of the term?”

“No,” David interjects. Blake even feels him kick his sibling under the table.

“Would that put you with Bethany or Courtney?” Keith ignores the interjection. “Perhaps a group of three. After all, you've already worked with them both separately haven't you?” Blake can feel the curse form behind his lips; they part but he sucks the insult backward. What is he supposed to say? It's the truth. So he puts a hand to his face instead, rubbing a finger across his brow. “Maybe you could turn it into a multimedia project. Use a video camera.”

That's enough for Blake to stand up, kicking one leg over the side of the bench. He stares at the blonde just a moment, has a flash of reaching across and pulling his smiling face into the wood by the tie. It's just a flash though. He doesn't do that. He only wraps his coat around, expressions of animosity restricted to the wool belt. It gets tied with vehemence. His lips press so hard together that they form little indents at each side of his face, a reflex scrunching his nose for a fraction of a second. He forces the lips back apart as he pulls the other leg free, breathing as deeply as he can to keep them steady.

Margaret starts to stand in time, pressing her hand to the table as she lifts. When Keith actually pulls her back down, the entire table is stunned into silence. They hold their breath in collective, even David figuring out the subtext despite his inexperience with the four. “You're not done your lunch,” the blonde offers as an excuse. The delivery is as lame as the attempt. Margaret still hesitates, eyes going back from the seated blonde to the standing brunette.

“I'm only going to get some hot chocolate,” Blake says. “Maybe you'd like some?”

“Sounds good,” Keith answers for them both, laying a hand across Margaret's. She stares down at it, up at the blonde and then purposefully pulls that hand into her lap. Blake doesn't bother to stay and watch the show. He's caught enough of the subtitles to last through the afternoon. So he abandons it all. He's three steps clear of the table when the next voice makes him stop.

“I can help you carry them.” Kathy suggests as she stands. She runs her hands down her navy skirt, brushing out the kinks that have formed. She swings her hips as she steps, running a hand self-contentedly through Blake's arm. “So?” Kathy pronounces clearly as they pass through the school doors. Her red lips rounding into a little 'o' as she pauses.

“Leave me alone!” Blake pronounces just a clearly but without the smiling undertones. His lips are steady as he pulls his arm free from hers, carrying off down the hallway alone.

“You'd get what you want,” Kathy calls after him.

His shoulders knit at the idea, breathing controlled again. He takes the first flight of stairs, skipping every other in his haste. He keeps running until the third floor, until he's out of breath. Then he enters the empty hallway, putting a hand to a bright blue locker as he gasps. It's only momentary, he's fit enough to bring his breathy steady within a minute. Then he paces the small space. The third floor is mostly storage. The only classroom is the band room in one corner. Even the lockers are mostly empty. Blake opens one, slamming it back closed again. It bangs loud enough that he continues, opening one and then the next, slamming them closed again and again until he hears the voice.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Blake spins around to see the band teacher. He's hanging half out of the classroom. It's a weird construction, actually sits three steps below the tiled hallway. Blake stays silent, but he does proceed to close the last locker with a more gentle touch. He goes as far as to close the others, the ones still hanging half open from his tantrum.

It doesn't appear to impress the music teacher. His name is Albert Prescott and he used to teach Blake in the eighth and ninth grades. That was before the mandatory tutoring block. Blake attends a remedial block three times a week, Keith's little jab not falling that far from the mark. Blake isn't failing all his classes. In fact, he's excelling in a couple. It's the others that created the need.

“I think you should step inside,” the balding teacher suggests. It really isn't a suggestion, the waving arm and arched brow making it more a demand. Blake runs a hand through his hair and decides he doesn't need another black mark on the week. So he acquiesces. The band room is the largest classroom in the school, except of course the gymnasium. It's pretty open between classes, chairs lined precisely on one wall and metal stands on the others. There aren't many instruments about. Most the students own their own, and the communal ones are hidden in the storage in the back. Blake walks into the middle of the room, putting his hands in his pockets and waiting for the lecture. “Why don't you play something?”

Blake startles at the suggestion, taking a look to his left and right. “I don't have my guitar,” he reminds the teacher.

“Play the piano,” the older man suggests with a wave at the instrument in one corner. It's an expanse of cherry wood, too expensive for a school music room but everything in that school is too expensive for a school.

“I'm not good on the piano.”

“I didn't ask you to play well.”

Blake very nearly laughs at that. He figures that's worth another silent acquisition. So he pulls the bench out and takes his seat. He doesn't really play the piano but he knows how to read music and his mother had shown him enough to fumble through the difficult passages. His focus had always been the violin, at least until two or three years ago. And it's not like he'd ever played that for the teacher anyway. He'd preferred to play it outside the school. He nearly retracts before he's begun, putting his hands to the keys and then letting them slide back into his lap. When he looks at the teacher he's stuffing noodles into his mouth, barely even paying attention. So Blake turns to the very first song in the book, and places his hands on the keys. It is a fumble, and he's still angry enough to bang the keys beyond the necessary touch. But he plays through, banging and missing keys and, he realizes halfway through, feeling much better about everything. Maybe Margaret had a point. She's the one who insisted he play when he's angry. The idea is enough for him to force the next keys hard enough that the bang nearly outdoes the note. It's the last one. Blake pulls his hands back as the music dies.

“Not that bad,” Mr. Prescott promises as he grabs his Rubbermaid container off the desk. “Now, I'm going to go enjoy the rest of my lunch downstairs,” he says dismissively as he leaves. “Stay as long as you need, but leave the lockers alone. They're nearly as old as me.”

He decides to laugh that time, watching the older man retreat, closing the door in one smooth and silent movement. Blake puts his hands back to the keys. He doesn't turn the page or seek out another song. He just plays around, hitting keys at random, gently and then harder again. Eventually the interest wanes and he stands, pushing the last with his thumb as his hand falls away.

Blake stares out the windows that line a single wall. There are oak trees old and tall enough to be seen on the third storey. The windows face the courtyard and as he approaches them, without willing himself to, he stares down into the familiar corner. David is still there, his sister having returned in the interim. They're both sipping hot chocolate. Blake's attention isn't there. It's on the other couple, the two engaged in a spirited discussion. Their heads are bowed together but the looks aren't friendly. He'd be inclined to dismiss it as wish fulfilment, but when he looks over at Kathy, the smile on her face proves enough.

Blake feels the tickle in his throat before the chuckle. It's just a short-lived giggle but the smile lasts longer. He doesn't linger, pulling the hood of his navy sweater as he turns. It's not the obvious fight. It's the fact that Margaret has his back. She always has. She has always protected him and cared for him, even to the point of wronging others. It's almost humbling.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Christi stuffs her assignment into her backpack as she walks out of the room. It rips in one corner but she couldn't care less. She doesn't need to hand the cover in, just the short essay formed out of the prompts. She tosses the flap back over, jingle of noise never registering. She weaves through the crowds of people with determination, shoving when they don't move fast enough. There are glares. They don't bother her. She wants to get out of this school, wants to be at home already. It's become even more stifling this week. She'd forgotten how much she relied on David to make sense of the space, wade through the place where she never truly belongs. It wasn't always like that. She used to rule with a beautiful smile and throaty laugh. That girl seems so far away now though. Like a figment of her imagination more than a distant memory. The crowds must agree as well because they no longer part for her. So she shoves harder, forcing what came easier before.

David is standing against her locker when she reaches it; his feet crossing and recrossing and eyes settling determinedly down. Christi can feel her breath hitch at the sight. Then she remembers it's been a week. A week where she hid in the library for lunches and picked up four extra shifts at work. She was never meant to work school nights. David sees her shoes first, black boots scuffed in more than one place. When he looks up she hesitates into the green of his eyes, crossing her arms even though it's not anger she feels. Anger is just easier to manage and simpler to portray. He flinches at the presentation and her arms go back to their sides.

He pulls a photograph from his pocket as she takes the last several steps. He offers it through the remaining distance and Christi can feel her throat catch at the familiarity, the normalcy of it all. When she takes it from him, looking at the what is portrayed, that's when the tears actually do start. It's a picture of a field, of dozens of scattered maple leaves in shades of red and yellow. It's beautiful not for the portrayal of nature but the message contained within the nature. David had taken the time to sort the leaves, to arrange them in the shape of letters until spelled out across the length of his backyard was the simple message 'I'm sorry.' “You were right,” David promises as she takes it. “You didn't deserve to be treated that way.” The honesty makes her smile. So much that, even when he pulls his hand away, it can't break the moment. “I'm going to try harder.”

“I didn't need this,” Christi says, flipping the photograph between her fingers. She swipes it through the air a few times but doesn't let it drop. She watches him until he moves, opening her lock in the space he provides. She puts the photograph on the top shelf. She touches the tape as she does, considers adding it to the collection on her door, the crisscrossing photographs that had yet to be touched. “I just need you to be stable,” Christi admits into the locker. She grabs a text from the bottom, shutting the door again with a bang. Then she leans against the metal, staring at her boyfriend. “It's not my fault. I don't want to feel like it is.”

“It's not,” David promises. “It's not your fault at all. And I will talk to you about this but I just need time.” He puts his thumb out, touching it to her cheek hesitantly at first. The touch doesn't remain hesitant, building as he traces out her cheekbones, finding the point of her jaw and tracing downward again. It makes her smile, lean across the small space to kiss him. He smiles in return but deflects in the last moment, pressing his forehead into her hair instead, binding her tightly in his arms. He squeezes hard and she relaxes into the hug, listening to the sound of his breathing against her cheek.

He smells likes home and that's enough for the comfort to linger far beyond his arms dropping down again. “Does this mean that you love me?”

“I told you before. I don't think you even know how much,” David swears, opening his eyes wider when the tears start to form in each corner. It doesn't help much, he has to blink repeatedly to achieve the end.

“Don't cry,” she whispers with a shove. It's hard enough that he nearly falls backward. “You'll embarrass me,” she promises, lips pursing as she turns away. She keeps a hand to his tie, dragging him down the hallway as she walks.