In a way, Candice hasn’t lied. She and Gloria are collaborating on a school project. Sort of. Like, it is biology, isn’t it?
Okay, so sure, she and Gloria are no longer in the same biology class, but hello? Is that her fault? If Candice’s demented parents hadn’t hauled her out of her high school, then, of course, she and Gloria would still be in the same class, and they wouldn’t have to sneak around like this against their parents’ wishes. No, not wishes: demands. Like, court orders.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vermicelli agree with us,” Candice’s parents said. “This is the best for both of you girls.”
As if! Putting them both into different high schools only guaranteed they had to see each other more often, ’cause Candice wasn’t able to make friends at her new school. Not award-winning friends, anyhow. Not friends you could trust.
As Candice strips off her sweater and casually tosses it onto Gloria’s bed, she feels another twinge of guilt for leaving that hasty message on the answering machine at home. She deliberately spoke fast, hoping Karen would still be searching for her crutches by the time Candice got off the phone.
Of course, there would be a major crisis to deal with later for even admitting to being at Gloria’s house, but why bother lying? Gloria’s rank brother saw Candice come in the back door when he should have been out smashing his head against other football players. He had a practice scheduled, Gloria said so, but no, the ignoramus caught a cold, came home straight from school, and it was guaranteed that he would tell his parents, and they in turn would fall all over themselves to phone Candice’s parents.
“Don’t worry about it, okay?” Gloria now says. She cracks her gum and unbuttons her jeans. “If you stick to the school project story, what can they do about it? Crucify us?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Candice says with a shrug. She pulls her Calvin Klein sports bra over her head and drops it to the floor. From the corner of one eye, she sees Gloria — naked, olive-skinned, raven-haired — check the lock on her bedroom door and turn the music higher. Her burgeoning body reminds Candice of one of those Italian sausages Mr. Vermicelli sells — shiny, spicy, stuffed so full it threatens to burst its seams.
Parental-focused guilt flees and instead wet impatience fills Candice. Her nipples go rigid, the skin on her scalp tautens. She continues to undress, taking her time, oh-so-casual ...
But what if Gloria doesn’t make the first move? Then what? As if Candice will! No, it has to be Gloria, always Gloria, ’cause Candice is too cool for that, even though between her thighs she is steaming and pulsing like a potato in a microwave.
But what if Gloria doesn’t make the first move? What if Gloria starts laughing instead? What if all their prior games — none as committed as this — have just been part of a setup to get Candice completely exposed while some hidden camera records her total humiliation?
Gloria approaches her. “You’re just so spinal,” she says, running a finger across Candice’s back. “I’d totally kill to be as thin as you.”
Candice shrugs, though her skin puckers at Gloria’s touch and the baked potato between her thighs releases a jet of steam.
“And your skin is sooo white, like a swan or something.”
“Yeah, but I burn easily. In the summer, you know.” She can’t turn around, can’t face Gloria. Her heart is a bullhorn in her ears, her legs whimper to sink into the bed. So bad she wants to turn around, to press and slide her skin all over Gloria in a wild feeding frenzy, but she can’t, no way.
She feels two cool, soft breasts press against her back, feels Gloria’s fuzz against her own naked buttocks.
“You sure you want to go ahead with this? You don’t have to, you know.”
“I know,” Candice says calmly, almost indifferently.
“We’ve got plenty of time to change our minds. Mom and Dad won’t be home for a couple more hours yet.”
“Do you want to change your mind?”
“Do you?”
Candice shrugs again, as if she cares less.
“I mean, we’ve talked about this, right?” Gloria says. “It’s not as if we’re lesbians or anything. We’re just practising, so we don’t make idiots of ourselves when it comes time to do it with a guy. Right?”
Candice doesn’t want to hear that word, not right now when she’s burbling and rippling down there, all briny with heat. So she turns and says, “Sometimes you talk too much, Gloria. Let’s just fuck, okay?”
And Gloria says, “Okay.”
Which is, like, what she’s supposed to say.
Morris finishes work at 5:15, says good-night to Clara, his receptionist, and heads home. He thinks of Karen while he drives — specifically, how he first met her. His last appointment prompted the memory: Penny Edmonds, a twenty-five-year-old delicately laced with lavender perfume. For a half-second, until Morris noticed her weak arches, her feet took his breath away.
Karen had feet like that when he first met her — slender and smooth, the nails tiny translucent crescents topping perfect alabaster toes. Impeccable cuticles cupped nail bed to toe. The ankles were slim and strong, the heels uncracked, the creamy skin flawless, soft, and cool as satin.
Usually, even the best feet suffer some flaw, some minor imperfection. The big toes sprout a few hairs, or a thick vein protrudes on the ankle bone. Toes can look like squat sausages, not in proportion to the length of the foot, or like thin, groping fingers. Something always mars the foot’s elegance.
So although Penny Edmonds’s weak arches are only a minor flaw, Morris’s connoisseur eye noticed them instantly. As he drives, a pang shoots through him and, wistfully, he remembers the first time he saw Karen’s feet.
Lying on Ambleside Beach, baring his lean, student-white frame to a lukewarm sun, eyes safely shielded beneath his Hawaii Five-O sunglasses, Morris was studying the myriad of feet walking by him. He was stretched out on his belly, of course — so many exposed feet in a constant dizzy parade provoked an impertinent bulge in his blue Speedo bathing suit.
Then they passed him: naked, dusted with sand, a thin band of gold around the right ankle — the perfect feet. He gaped, he became dizzy, a strangled cry escaped his throat. As the feet walked away, he scrabbled from his beach towel and stumbled after them.
Above the smell of hot dogs, coconut oil, and vinegar-doused french fries, the smell of lavender perfume drifted, coming from the owner of those wondrous feet. Like a drunken man, Morris introduced himself, ignoring the fact that the girl was at least ten years younger than himself. He was immune to the derision on the faces of her friends. All he cared about was her feet.
Morris shifts on the cracked vinyl seat of his car, restless from the memory. He carefully applies the brakes as he approaches the corner of Mountain Highway and Lynn Valley Road and admonishes himself to concentrate. This area is rife with hazards, positively rife. Bicyclists cluster around the Starbucks coffee shop to his right, attracted to the heavy, cloying aroma of roasted java beans like hummingbirds to nectar. That’s what they always remind Morris of, those cyclists — gaily coloured, spandex-sheathed hummingbirds. And the bicycles are hummingbird wheelchairs.
To his left, smelling of gasoline and grape bubblegum, stands a 7-Eleven convenience store made hazardous by the horde of teenagers lurking outside, dressed in their immensely baggy pants, ski toques, and brand-name sweatshirts. More than once Morris has witnessed an accident between a cyclist, a teenager, and a car at this busy junction. And Morris hates accidents. Getting Karen pregnant was an accident.
He frowns and turns the corner onto Lynn Valley Road a little too sharply.
Morris would have eventually married