XIV

With the gala in three days, my stress is at an all time high and I’ve given up completely on finding a dress and have been, with much increased vigor, trying to find a way to not go to the gala without being questioned about it for the rest of the month. Maybe even for the rest of my high school career given my assumed grandeur of the event: the entire town is abuzz with who’s going, what they’re wearing, and most frightfully, who they’re going with.

I don’t have certain answers to any of those three questions and it’s about time I accept that.

I’m jittery on my bed, my leg bounces uncontrollably and from downstairs I assume I’m shaking the chandelier. My teeth clack together until I clamp on the edge of my tongue: the pain, although sharp and nearly unbearable, is very much welcome.

The taste of blood makes me stop and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and as I suspected, there’s diluted blood and a small chunk of flesh in the centre of it.

Oh my God, what the hell did I just do? Grabbing a tissue, I wipe off my hands on my mouth only to toss it onto the ground at my feet.

I rise to my feet and unplug my phone, opening my favorites contacts and scrolling past Amelia’s name, Mark’s name, and Carmen’s until I reach Ethan. I’d never admit to his face that I had his number saved as a favourite, and nor would I admit that he has a personalized ringtone so I can know right away when he’s calling. I’ve gotten in the habit of only answering his calls, nowadays.

It rings once, twice, and then the call connects. “Waters, hey,” he says, “what’s wrong?”

Ethan, despite how much I think he wants to pretend to be oblivious to the feelings of those around him, is very good at reading my mind. He’s not as socially inept as I once thought him to be, so it makes sense he reads into the end of our last encounter on Sunday.

A part of me, a selfish and terrified part, wishes he didn’t know something was off with us, with me. But we don’t always get what we want.

“Waters?”

I realize I’ve stayed stupidly silent. “Yeah, sorry. Is this a bad time?” I ask. I don’t know if I want his answer to be affirmative or not, it’d be easier that way.

“No, not at all.” His voice, skeptical and tense, is more concerned than anything else. “What’s up?”

There’s still blood in my mouth, it makes my audible swallow burn. “Could you pick me up? There’s something I wanted to show you: it’s about Ava.”

It is, however, not about finding her, which is what we’d agreed to, remember, Ethan? I’m overstepping our agreement, right?

My worry is confirmed when Ethan says, “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Okay,” I say and he hangs up.

Far more times than I’d like have I stood on my porch or in my foyer waiting for the telltale hum of Ethan’s rusted truck. Too many times I’ve had a harrowing mix of fear and excitement in my body at the fast that Ethan Stock, the boy who doesn’t tread lightly, the boy who doesn’t know how much it means to me to have someone being real, and honest but not mean to me.

I make things difficult sometimes, I know I do, but despite agonizing attempts to stop it, that genetic defect is in the Waters women’s blood: and no matter what I pretend, I was nurtured by the only others of my kind. Ethan, makes things difficult because he makes it hard for me to make it difficult: it’d be harder to find Ava if I didn’t go with him wherever he asked, he convinced me, and it’d be harder if he let me pretend I was the only victim, because I’m not.

Something drove Ava away from St. Jacobs and it might just do the same with me.

As soon as the asphalt road iluminates with Ethan’s headlights, I’m off the porch and down to the end of the driveway. The backpack I packed with essentials⸺flashlights, water bottles, and an envelop⸺swings heavily on my shoulder.

Ethan has the door open for me when I reach the end of the driveway, and in the dim light of the warm bulb above his head, I know the look in his eyes: it’s the same relief and regret that I have.

Relief that in the rumbling nature of our lives, we are both still here, still intact.

Regret because we both no it’s coming to an end sooner or later. Sooner, I know, sooner, I’ve decided. He doesn’t know that, however.

“Hey,” I greet once my door is closed behind me and my bag at my feet. As he pulls away from the base of my property, I’m buckling my seatbelt.

“Hey,” he says quietly in return.

My words are accusatory but my tone is soft, and breathy when I say, “You’re driving but you don’t know where we’re going.”

Ethan opens his mouth to say something but after clearly deciding against it, he shuts it. After a heavy pause, he pulls the truck over to the side of the road. Finally, he speaks, “Right, yeah.”

I smile softly, knowing he won’t ask where we’re going without the need of another heavy, heavy moment of hesitation. “Go to Ridgehill,” I request.

His brows turn down and all of his forged superiority drops. For the first time in a while, Ethan is speechless. “Uh⸺You mean⸺uh⸺our elementary school?”

I nod, gnawing on the inside of my checks. “Yeah,” I say sheepishly.

If this was a few days ago, I wouldn’t let Ethan Stock’s opinion discourage me in the slightest, because up until recently I’ve felt I owe him nothing but the thanks I can give without real sincerity. If it was a few days ago, I’d have told him to keep his worries to himself. But it’s not, so even if I shouldn’t concern myself with his opinions or worries, I do.

Because I actually care what he thinks.

The air shifts and Ethan regains his normal disposition. His head is level on his shoulders, his eyes are narrowed, he’s closed off. “I don’t know if I mentioned this but I draw the line at breaking into schools.”

Despite his sharpened words, he pulls away from the side of the road and I know he’s heeded my request.

“It’s nice to know you have boundaries,” I say quietly.

He shakes his head and I know it’s not my place to continue pushing him.

Most of us were in the same class all throughout elementary school and then when we moved onto grade nine, we were mixed in with kids from other townships and even some from the tri-cities nearby. I, even with all of the years I spent in the same classroom as Ethan, don’t remember anything about him from before just over a week ago when I came to him.

I assume he doesn’t remember anything about me either.

Considering that fact, I think this between us is long overdue, seeing as we’ve known each other for eleven years.

Maybe I should be a bit easier on him.

We’re on the main road when he asks, “What’s in the bag?”

“Some essentials,” I say.

“You being difficult?” He asks, “no way.”

I exhale a small laugh and a smile reaches the corners of my lips. “You bring out my best, Ethan.”

The comment isn’t about his brash character or his constant need to out-wit me, it’s actually a back-handed thank you but I would never tell him that.

The tenseness from earlier dissipates instantly, and he says, “Yeah, I do.”

I welcome the smile that comes to my lips.

Ridgehill Catholic school is the only elementary school for St. Jacob’s, but with the catholicism in mind, we didn’t really learn too much about religion and our time there was similar to how I imagine a public elementary school: we didn’t wear uniforms, we had spirit days, and Halloween was made into character day in hopes to ward off scary costumes (it never worked but it continued annually anyways). At the end of eighth grade, we all graduated into the world of public schools when we all went to SJCI, which is ironic given the name is the town seeing as most of the kids come from even smaller townships without a public highschool.

All of us, really, upon entering grade nine are out of our element.

So maybe that’s why I feel so terribly anxious when Ethan rolls into Ridgehill’s staff parking lot. I’ve had no reason to come back after the last day of school two years ago.

Ethan too, I can see it on his face.

“We’re not breaking into the school,” I say when he shuts the ignition off, “if you’re still worried.”

“I figured,” he responds, his tone light and sarcastic. Back to normal, which I very much appreciate. “So where are we off to?”

I open my bag and dig under the envelop to pull out two camping grade flashlights. I hand him one and he takes it without question. Closing my bag, I swing it over my shoulder as I get out of the car, and if as possessed by my own movement, Ethan does the same. Flashlight tight in his hand.

“Follow me,” I insist.

I really don’t appreciate the deep nausea feeling in my stomach when I feel the tarmac of the parking lot become the well packed Earth of the Ridgehill recess field.

Ethan does as I ask, even mimicking me when I turn on the flashlight in my hand. He also stops three feet behind me when I stop at the wire fence separating the domesticated land of the school, and the wild lands of the city.

The forest is dark and daunting and the trees don’t start at small heights, most, even at the edge, tower way above fifty feet, their arms barely weighed down by the not yet fully bloomed leaves of summer.

I feed my flashlight through the fence and let it fall to the less trodden ground of the Conestogo forest. But before I can reach my hand up to grip the wire before I start climbing, Ethan has his hand on my wrist, gripping it softly.

I could pull away if I want to. I don’t move.

“What are we really doing?” he asks, so quietly so that I almost don’t hear it over the whir of cars on the nearby service road and the cooing of birds in the night.

“Ava and I found a tree-house nearby. I wanted to show it to you,” I confess, knowing that his desperation merits far more than an easy cryptic answer I could have given.

“Well then,” he says, his voice tight but without disagreement. Is he hurt? Upset? It wasn’t me was it? Ethan does the same thing I did with my flashlight⸺feeding it through the fence and it lands with a smush on the still sodden soil from the last rainfall⸺and offers me a hand. “Let’s get on with it.”

Before I know it, he’s jutting out his knee for me to stand on and gesturing with his fingers for me to accept his offer and take his hand. I, unceremoniously gulp and put my small, shaking hand in his that he so kindly offers. He isn’t warm, or soft but he is here, and it’s his hand I’m holding.

I’m glad his hand isn’t warm because then I’d feel bad about the sure shock he’d get when I⸺needlessly, because he was just physically supporting me⸺entwined our fingers because of the near rigid level of my skin caused by the temperature they remain at. I don’t hurt him this way.

“Let’s,” I whisper, worried about the levelness of my voice as I step onto his knee and grab the top of the fence. It’s been a little while since I’ve needed to be active this way but Ava and I used to climb this fence daily in elementary school when I was near two heads shorter than I am now, so I manage.

I lift my foot that doesn’t rest on Ethan and hook it to the top of the fence, making sure I’m stable and ready to actually follow through with it for worry I’ll make a fool of myself and fall right onto Ethan.

With his hands, he boots my other foot and I’m able to clear the fence and hop down without taking any damage to my dignity, though I think I got a scrape as I rotated my body on top of the fence.

Ethan, without the need of my help because his head is nearly at the top of the fence anyways, follows my actions and as much as I want to help him, maybe only to feel his hand in mine again, I keep my empty, non-flashlight armed hand, balled in a fist at my side.

I remember the path to the tree-house well since it was our route to and from school from when I was in first grade onwards. We walked it alone twice everyday, only stopping at the tree-house on our way home if we knew Mom wasn’t going to be home for a little while.

We stumbled across it one day after our normal hiking path was disturbed by a family of rabbits who Ava claimed she didn’t want to disturb, but I still think she was frightened of the mother who made some terrible noises and quick advances on Ava when she tried to get past. With that in mind, Ava and I swung left, knowing there was another, less used path that way (and hoping we weren’t going to get too lost because I was eight and she was eleven). Then, up some fifteen feet in a tree it sat: in the arms of a sprawling oak tree was a worn down tree-house.

Ava, always less worried than I, insisted we climb it.

I told her no, and kept walking, then when I turned around and she still remained at the base of the tree, I weighed my options: continue on the unfamiliar path knowing Ava will not follow, or follow her up into the tree-house that might be occupied, or rickety, or haunted?

I came to a decision and turned back to Ava.

We were late to school that day because Ava never wanted to leave it because apparently it was ours now.

We never went back to the path with a rabbit family.

I put the flashlight in my mouth and turn back to Ethan, who isn’t looking at me, he’s too mesmerised by the tree towering above us. Tightening the straps on my backpack, I reach for the first handle of the ladder nailed into the trunk of the tree.

Each handle is about a foot apart, giving us not enough room for Ethan to follow me directly. Quickly I’m already at least eight feet in the air.

I don’t say anything, mainly because my mouth is full so I can’t, but Ethan still understands my unspoken request when I look back down on him. C’mon, I’d say if I could.

“Fine.”

I smile to myself as I reach the top handle and swing my body over so I’m sitting on the branch that supports the tree-house. I don’t intend to go inside, it’s far to small for us now. Plus the air is nice and cool and I don’t know if I can cope being in an enclosed space with Ethan again so soon.

I return my flashlight to my bag and peer down at Ethan who seems to be having trouble. “What did you do for fun, Ethan? Nothing outdoors, I imagine.”

“Who do you take me for, Charlotte Waters?”

“Not a tree-climber, Ethan Stock.”

He’s likely rolling his eyes.

I don’t know where the courage comes from, but it must be above me because I don’t think I’ve ever have the guts to ask Ethan a question like this again. Shuffling further down on the branch so there’s room for him as he approaches, I ask, “How did you grow up? Nothing like me, I assume.”

He makes it up slightly breathless and sits next to me. There’s only a foot between us and it’s both too much and too little. “Well my dad died a little after I was born so it was just me and my Mom, until Linda.”

I get a warm feeling inside at his use of Mayor Smythe’s first name.

“What about you?” he asks and I almost fall off the branch.

What about me? Everything we do, everything you do is for me, about me, so what is there he possibly doesn’t know or hasn’t yet figured out.

“Only a kid with siblings would say this but you’re lucky you didn’t grow up with one,” I say, “but things were okay, nothing catastrophic.”

Ethan looks at me and I avoid his gaze. He laughs lightly, catching my lie.

“You’re so full of shit,” he says to me in the most kind tone those words could have. “Tell me the truth.”

“You don’t need me to tell you, Ethan, you already know.” Even if my answer is the least satisfying one I could give him, he doesn’t push.

I open my backpack and pull out the enveloppe. “Here,” I say, “pushing it into his hands.”

He looks at it but doesn’t make a move to open it, he knows what’s inside.

“Spend it on what you’d like, reimbursement for the gas, for your time, whatever,” I say indignantly because it’s easier than admitting I’m paying Ethan for his company, something I never intended. “It’s not much but I can give you more⸺”

“Charlotte⸺”

“⸺when my summer lifegaurding position starts⸺”

“Charlotte⸺”

“⸺then I can double that.”

“Charlotte.” His voice is low and it lulls my anxiousness. “Stop talking, please.”

I hold my tongue because I think my offering has offended him.

“I’m not taking it,” he insists, handing it back to me.

I don’t take it. “I’ve asked a lot of you, Ethan, I know that. And this is your out now, take it.”

Take it before I beg you not to go, please, do the thing I can’t do for us.

Please, Ethan, have mercy on me and take the money and we’ll be done. It’ll hurt less that way in the long run.

“Did it ever occur to you I’m doing this because I genuinely care?” he asks and for once in my life, I think I’m seeing Ethan Stock without his wits about him. “That maybe I’m not doing this because I want you to be in my debt? Because maybe I give a shit about this? About you?”

My eyes burn. “What are you saying?”

“Take the money and put it back in your bag, I don’t want to see it again.”

Dumbfounded, I accept the envelope back in my hands.

“Now let me help not as the Sheriff’s son but as someone who cares.”

I don’t know if this is a new beginning for us, but it sure feels like it.

Suddenly I’m not Waters, I’m just Charlotte. And he’s not Ethan Stock, he’s just Ethan, and we’re just two people who want to do right by each other.

“Okay,” I say.

He smiles and does something more unexpected: he leans his head on my shoulder and begins to hum what must be a classic rock song.

I tried to get out, get him out, but I’ve just solidified this now.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe it was the best thing.