Optimists Die First Page 11

  Words I didn’t think I’d ever deserve to hear.

  We started kissing again. I slid off his underwear. He slid off mine.

  “Are we doing what I think we’re doing?” he asked.

  “I’d like to give it a try.”

  “Have you ever…?”

  “Pssh, what do you think? Of course not. You?”

  “No.”

  “We have to be safe.”

  “Definitely. No teen pregnancies on our watch.”

  I was thinking of much more than that. But I didn’t want to spoil the mood by telling Jacob everything I’d read about pubic lice, crabs, genital warts, venereal disease, HIV, syphilis, and more.

  “I have condoms,” he said. “My uncle gave me a box of them for Hanukkah, mostly to bug my parents. He called it a preemptive strike.”

  He leapt out of bed, naked except for the shark socks, and got the box of condoms from his desk drawer. Then he crawled back under the covers and pulled out one of the packets. “I’ve never put one on before.”

  “Me neither. But I’ve stuffed a lot of sock monkeys.”

  He winced. “That does not inspire confidence.”

  “I also saw a demo once in health class, with a cucumber.”

  “Better.”

  “Let’s make it a team effort.”

  I took the packet out of his hand and tore it open.

  In a movie, this is where the script would read:

  Fade to black.

  I told my mom a few days later.

  Well, I didn’t tell her, exactly. I wrote her a note.

  Dad was working late and we were eating dinner in front of the TV again.

  Re: Our earlier conversation, the note read. I think I need to see our family doctor and go on the pill.

  Mom read it. Her eyes filled with tears. A couple of them plopped onto her spaghetti.

  After a moment she picked up the pen and wrote. She passed the paper back to me. Thank you for telling me. Would you like me to come with you?

  I wrote, Yes.

  She booked me an appointment with our family doctor. Jacob offered to come, but I wanted to go with my mom.

  We caught a bus to Dr. Bahri’s office in Kitsilano. She was very kind, yet it didn’t make having the insertion of a cold metal object into my lady parts any more pleasant. But this was the cost of doing business, and I wanted to do business.

  After the appointment Mom and I walked down Broadway together. I was sure I was walking funny.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like aliens just beamed me into their spaceship and probed my orifices.”

  “She only probed one orifice.”

  “Actually, three. She also checked my ears for wax buildup.”

  We stopped at Kidsbooks, which was Mom’s favorite bookstore and the one she hoped to work at one day if a full-time position opened up. Then we walked to Dairy Queen. “Backwards dinner?” asked Mom. We used to do backwards dinner a couple of times a year when Maxine was still alive, eating dessert first, the main course second.

  “Most definitely yes.”

  Mom took my hand and we went inside. She ordered us each a Peanut Buster Parfait. As we both shoveled deliciousness into our mouths, she said, “Just remember, Petula. It’s all about mutual respect. You must always be kind and thoughtful and honest with each other.”

  Kind, thoughtful, honest.

  I was sure Jacob and I had all three covered.

  Something else happened during those weeks.

  I allowed optimism to creep in.

  Optimists believe things will always work out for the best. Optimists live in a rainbow-colored, sugar-coated land of denial.

  Optimists miss warning signs.

  —

  Like the Saturday morning I was over at Jacob’s place, sitting on his bed and knitting while he edited Koula’s video.

  He stood up and stretched. “I’m starving. Want a sandwich? PB and J?”

  “Sure.” His parents always bought bread and jams from the farmers’ market, so even the most basic of sandwiches was elevated to a whole new level of delicious.

  My fingers needed a rest, so I put my knitting needles down and wandered around his room. I wasn’t snooping, not exactly. But when I found his old high school yearbook wedged behind other books on his shelf, I was immediately intrigued. NORTHWESTERN SECONDARY was on the cover in embossed gold lettering. There was so little personal stuff in Jacob’s room, this small discovery felt huge.

  I found his class photo. Goal: To become the next Steven Spielberg. Then I searched for the senior boys’ basketball team photo. Jacob was in the back row. I was about to read the names in the caption to see if I could find Randle and Ben when something fluttered out from between the pages.

  It was a letter, addressed to Jacob. The return address read S. Esterhasz.

  Suddenly a bionic hand slammed the book shut, scaring the crap out of me. “You shouldn’t snoop,” Jacob said.

  “Says the guy who read my scrapbook when I first met him. You practically gave me a heart attack.”

  He took the yearbook out of my hands and put it back on the shelf. Then he crumpled the envelope into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Letter from an old girlfriend?” I asked. Only half joking.

  He said nothing.

  “You never talk about your friends. It’s okay to talk about them, Jacob. You let me talk about Maxine. I like talking about Maxine.”

  “Yeah, well. We’re different that way.” He sat beside me on the bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. And I never mind when you talk about Maxine. I’m just— It’s not who I am.”

  Then he started to kiss me. Which led to the inevitable.

  And I forgot all about the momentary weirdness.

  —

  There was also the Sunday night in March, when Jacob invited everyone from YART to come over and watch Inglourious Basterds, another of his favorites. It was getting dark out, and we could see the lights from the tankers that were always moored in English Bay, part creepy, part beautiful.

  Miranda laid out more awesome snacks: chips, smelly cheeses, strawberries that tasted like strawberries even though they weren’t in season. I made myself a heaping plate before Koula started double-dipping.

  Koula and Alonzo sprawled out on the couch, one of them at each end, feet touching. Jacob, Ivan, and I propped ourselves up with cushions on the rug.

  The movie was fantastic. Normally I couldn’t take that much violence, but when it involved a successful plot to assassinate Hitler, even I had to get on board. Jacob gave a running commentary about the techniques Quentin Tarantino had used, until Koula yelled, “Oh my God, shut up!”

  “I modeled my first films after Tarantino,” Jacob said when the movie was finished.

  “Really? Can we see one?” Ivan spoke through a mouthful of chips.

  Jacob shook his head.

  “Come on, we won’t judge,” said Koula.

  “Yes, you will,” he said to her. “You judge everything.”

  “Maybe so. But I also confessed my worst sins in front of all of you. And there’s no way your early films are more embarrassing than miming in public.”

  Alonzo kicked her. “Thank you, Koula. Thank you so much.”

  “She’s kind of right, though.” Bits of chip sprayed onto the carpet as Ivan spoke. “We’ve told you a lot.”

  “We’ve pretty much bared our souls to you,” said Koula. “And I bet Petula’s bared more than that.” She and Alonzo laughed, and I felt my face go hot.

  They kept pestering him, and Jacob finally said, “Fine. One. I’ll show you one.” He hooked his laptop up to the flat-screen TV. He found the file he was looking for and hit Play.

  It was five minutes long. The premise: A constipated burglar breaks into a house. He suddenly feels like he has to go. He leaves his gun outside the bathroom. The owner comes home while the burglar is straining to go. He picks up the burglar’s gun and kills him in
a hail of bullets while the burglar is still sitting on the toilet. The burglar’s last words as he lies dying in a pool of blood: “On the bright side…I pooped.”

  It was juvenile and over the top, but we still laughed.

  Except for Jacob. He didn’t even watch it. He unhooked his laptop before the credits could roll.

  Ivan figured it out before the rest of us. “The two actors. They were your friends, weren’t they? The ones who died.”

  Jacob didn’t respond.

  “Do you feel guilty?” asked Koula.

  He gave her a sharp look. “About what?”

  “That you lived, and they didn’t?”

  “Every day.”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s wasted energy.”

  “But we all feel that way, don’t we?” said Alonzo. “Guilty.”

  “What do you feel guilty for?” asked Koula. “Loving mime?”

  “No, bitchy-poo. Being gay.”

  Koula groaned. “Oh, get over it.”

  “It’s not that easy. My whole life I’ve been told it’s a sin. It’s hard to shake that stuff.”

  “I feel guilty, too,” I said. “It may not be rational, but it doesn’t mean you don’t feel it anyway.”

  “I sometimes think,” said Ivan, “if I hadn’t made my mom mad? She never would have swum out so far.” Tears started to roll down his face.

  Jacob put an arm around Ivan. “What happened to your mom was not your fault.” He glared at the rest of us. “This conversation is over.”

  Alonzo shrugged. “If we can’t have this conversation with each other, who can we have it with?”

  He had a point.

  —

  Jacob wasn’t in school the following morning.

  He didn’t come to school for three whole days.

  —

  And last but not least: a couple of weeks later, Serge the Concierge stopped me as I entered the lobby and asked if I’d bring a letter up to the Cohens. “It got placed in the wrong mailbox.”

  It was another letter, addressed to Jacob. The return address: S. Esterhasz. I held the envelope under the light in the stairwell as I walked up to the sixth floor, but I couldn’t read anything.

  Miranda opened the door. “Serge asked me to bring this up.” I handed her the letter.

  The color drained from her face. She took it from me. “Thank you. I’ll give it to him later.” I kicked off my shoes and started toward Jacob’s room. “Oh, and Petula? If you wouldn’t mind, don’t mention this to him, okay?”

  That seemed weird. But I said nothing.

  The next day Jacob wasn’t in school again. He didn’t respond to my texts. His mom answered when I called their house; she said simply that he was “under the weather.”

  I was pretty sure that was code for “depressed.” Every single one of us in YART had gone down that rabbit hole, and more than once.

  I worried about Jacob when he dropped out like that, but after a couple of days he’d resurface and be his usual cheerful self.

  It’s only with hindsight that I see those moments were clues to something bigger. And that’s the downside of optimism.

  It makes you blind to signs of trouble ahead.

  “You either need way more streamers or none at all,” said Koula. She lay on the couch. Pippi Longstocking was on her chest, purring loudly.

  I was on a stepladder, trying to tape streamers to the ceiling. “It might look better if I had some help.”

  She didn’t budge. “I feel I’m best in a supervisory role.”

  My parents’ anniversary wasn’t for four more days, but I was surprising them early. At first I’d had more than enough helpers, but they’d dropped out one by one. Ivan’s dad had offered to take him go-karting, which was a huge breakthrough. “We haven’t done anything fun together since Mom died,” Ivan told us. Jacob’s parents had surprised him with a ski weekend in Whistler. And Alonzo had recently met a boy in his movement class; he bailed at the last minute to spend the day with him.

  “Do you actually make out?” Koula had asked him the day before at YART. “Or do you just mime making out?” Her bitterness was putting a strain on their friendship.

  So it was just me and Koula. It was the first time she’d been to my house. I’d been worried she’d make fun of all the cats. But she loved them, especially Pippi. “Look at her,” she said now as Pippi kneaded her paws into Koula’s chest. “She loves me!” She talked to the cat in a baby voice. “Who’s da pwetty kitty? Who’s da pwetty kitty?”

  I gave up on the streamers and ran into the kitchen to check on the cake.

  I’d gotten my parents out of the house with a gift certificate for a couple’s massage at a downtown spa. It had cost a small fortune, emptying what was left of my bank account. But it was worth it.

  When I came back into the living room, Koula was rubbing noses with Pippi. “So,” she said. “Are you and Jacob…” She made an obscene gesture with her hands.

  “That is really none of your business.”

  “So, yes.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Whatever. If you are, I’m going to assume it’s nice. For both of you. Doing it with someone you actually, you know, care about.”

  “So, you’ve…?”

  “Sure. Couple I remember. Couple I don’t.”

  “That sucks, Koula.”

  “Yeah. Well.” She rubbed Pippi’s belly. “Anyway. I’m glad for you. Jacob’s a good guy. Even if he is kind of mysterious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He never talks about his own crap. You know, his dead friends and everything.”

  I shrugged. “We all deal with things in different ways.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve told him a ton. He hasn’t told us much at all. It’s like we’ve peeled back all our layers, and he’s only peeled back maybe one.”

  “I think that’s your soap operas talking,” I said. I knew Koula watched at least three of them religiously.

  Pippi batted at Koula’s nose, trying to get her attention. “You is such a silly kitty,” Koula said in her baby voice.

  A thought struck me. “Does your dad like cats?”

  “He’s indifferent. Why?”

  “Mom’s trying to find a forever home for Pippi.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very. You’d be doing us a huge favor. It would be the ultimate anniversary gift.”

  “I’ll totally take her! But just a heads-up: I’m changing her name.” Koula looked at Pippi. “From now on, you’re Lorena Bobbitt.”

  “Who’s Lorena Bobbitt?”

  Koula punched the name into Google on her phone and handed it to me.

  “Oh, Koula,” I said.

  She cackled.

  —

  I’d rented a helium tank for the afternoon, and Koula finally got off her butt to help with the balloons. Except she kept taking small sips of helium. “Do you think your sponsor would approve?” I asked.

  “Who cares? This is so much fun!” She sounded like Alvin the Chipmunk.

  At four p.m. I took the cake out of the oven. Then I got supper started. I was keeping it simple with a three-step lasagna and salad.

  My parents weren’t due home for at least another hour. I’d told them I’d be out when they got back. The plan was that I would greet them with a candlelit room and a glass of wine. Then I would show them the video I had made for YART. Afterward I would serve dinner and leave. Koula had said she’d hang around downtown so we could go see a movie. My parents would have the apartment to themselves for the rest of the night.

  So I was startled when I heard a key in the lock.

  Koula and I were in the kitchen, where I was icing the cake. Koula, who’d just taken another sip of helium, squeaked, “Hide!” She slid the door closed.

  “I just wanted to have a relaxing cup of tea after the massage,” I heard Dad say. “But you had to ruin it by dredging things up—”

  “How is it dredging things up to talk about our d
aughter?”

  “You do it all the time.”

  “I don’t do it all the time! You make me feel like I can’t. It’s awful, not being able to talk about Maxine when I want to.”

  “I’m sorry. But you have to respect my way of dealing with things—”

  “Which is to act like she didn’t exist—”

  “She does exist!” Dad was shouting. “She exists in every breath I take. Every moment I mourn for her, but I just don’t need to talk about her all the goddamn time!” Suddenly there was a screech from one of the cats; he must have stepped on a tail. “Jesus Christ, are you even trying to get these goddamn cats adopted?”

  Koula stared at me, wide-eyed.

  “Oh God,” my mom said, and I knew they’d stepped into the balloon-strewn living room.

  A moment later Dad opened the kitchen door. “Happy anniversary!” Koula squeaked in her helium voice.

  —

  “Hey, I’m Koula, really great to meet you both,” Koula said as she slipped past my stricken parents. She grabbed her Doc Martens from the foyer. “I’m, uh, I’ll just put these on in the hall.” To me, she said, “How’s about I pick up Lorena next weekend?” She slipped out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.

  My parents looked ashen. They apologized. I tried my best to regroup. I poured them each a glass of wine and made them sit on the couch. I hooked up Mom’s laptop to the TV and put in the USB stick Jacob had given me the night before. “I have a special present for you.”

  My idea had kept us busy at YART for quite a while. I’d pulled boxes of photos and old videos from our storage locker and the five of us had divvied up the work, watching hours of footage and sifting through hundreds of photos, marking the best. Jacob had painstakingly edited the video and added music.

  But even as the opening frames came up, I felt an impending sense of doom.

  It was ten minutes long. The first part, set to “I’m a Believer,” by the Monkees, was a series of pictures and videos that told the story of how my parents had met. It included footage from university and trips they’d taken, like hiking in the Andes and trekking in Nepal. The second part, set to “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups, had footage from their wedding day and their honeymoon in Nicaragua.