Chapter 23

October 22nd, 2005

It was about ten degrees out. Not cold, but, you know, not great. And the wind coming off of Britannia Bay wasn't making us any warmer, that's for sure. We had our backs to the duck pond, and our eyes set out on the group of sailboats making slow laps of the river between the marina and the Quebec side. I tapped the skinny side of my brush between my teeth and grimaced slightly.

"It's hard to paint the clouds when they keep changing."

"The point isn't to paint exactly what you see. It's to paint a picture of what you see. If the clouds stayed in place and allowed you to paint them, the sky would be dull. And you would achieve the same effect as taking a photograph."

I sighed.

"See, this is why I went to a public school and you went to an art school. I can't paint 'cause I don't understand it or whatever."

Russ chuckled at me, and adjusted his easel slightly so the wind would catch it less.

"Everybody can paint, Weiss. Painting doesn't have to be a perfect recreation of the world around us. And once you realize that, everything you create becomes art. Do you play music to exactly copy what other artists have already made?"

I sniffled and scanned the horizon. A bit more titanium white is what I needed. Gently pressed against the blue background, and muddled with a dry brush.

"No, but-"

"Then why be concerned about getting your picture to be exactly correct?"

"I guess I shouldn't be."

I paused for a moment to watch Russel paint. We had our canvases at such angles so we couldn't see what the other was painting, so it could be a surprise when we were finished. The movements of his arm and wrist were extremely fluid, which was the same way and posture I'd seen him use while playing drums. With a certain grace and fluidity not present in most punk-rock drummers. But Russel had adopted a slightly less punk-rock vibe in the last week or so. The usually extravagant red mohawk had been combed back down so it hung neatly over the left side of his head, and gone were the loose black studded jeans as well. He had really calmed down his look, and it actually suited him really well.

"All art is open to interpretation, and that includes by the artist during the… working of the art. If I wanted to… change what I was painting halfway through, I'm allowed. That's also why I never do pencil drawings beforehand. This is gonna sound cliche as shit, but I let the canvas,"

He paused for dramatic effect. Or to change brushes, I wasn't really sure.

"...Tell me what it wants to have painted on it. Who am I to constrain it to four wooden borders?"

"Extremely philosophical for…" I checked my bare wrist. "Ten thirty five in the morning on a Saturday. And are you saying that doing pencil drawings is wrong?"

Russ chuckled and took a sip from his thermos. I could smell the Jasmine tea from like seven feet away. He liked it strong.

"No, of course not. Having a template is always good when you're trying to figure out what you want. You wouldn't go into a restaurant you've never been to before and try to order something without opening a menu. You wouldn't pick up an instrument you'd never seen before and immediately try to play variations on a theme, would you."

"But you, on the other hand, would?"

"I- ugh."

He smiled and held up his palette.

"I've been to this restaurant before. I've memorized the menu. So well, in fact, that sometimes I dream about it."

"You dream about painting?"

He nodded.

"Oh, yeah. I dream about painting, about playing the drums."

"Most guys our age just have sex dreams."

"I mean, I have those too, don't get me wrong. Quite vivid ones at that. My point being, I can paint without a template. That doesn't mean you have to as well."

"Huh," I mused, adding more clouds to my sky. I chewed on my tongue. "What else are you good at, Russel?"

He briefly stopped painting and looked around his easel at me.

"What am I good at?"

"Yeah, like, what other neat skills do you have that I don't know about? Because I'll be honest, painting certainly wasn't something I expected from you."

"I went to an art school, Weiss."

"I know, but still. You don't exactly look like a painter."

"What does a painter look like then, Miss Expert?"

I chuckled.

"I dunno, kind of eccentric, fashionable hair, a tucked in blouse, giant glasses, something to put themselves unique to everyone else."

"Not every artist is Andy Warhol or Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz Picasso, you know."

A snort escaped me.

"I… I'm sorry, what?"

"I had to memorize that for a test last year in Art History, it's not often I get to flex that particular muscle. Now, that's something else I'm good at, memorizing useless facts."

"Very funny, Russel, you know what I meant. Like, can sing, or dance, or… juggle or something useful."

"Juggling isn't useful."

I shrugged.

"It is if you're a clown."

"I take it you can juggle, then?"

"Oh, you're an asshole!" I sputtered, flicking the water off my brush at him.

"Ah! Watch the jacket, it was expensive!"

"Fuckin'... you and Emerald buying expensive clothes all the time. The two of you have, I dunno, weaponized vanity or something."

Russel smirked.

"S'cause I gotta look good."

I rolled my eyes. Him and Emmy really weren't that different, now that I thought about it. The only real difference was height and skin colour. I eyed him up and down, admiring the dark grey blazer, recently ironed pants and expensive-looking leather shoes. It looked like he had put quite the effort in, which I genuinely appreciated.

"I'll admit that's one thing you do well, you look very nice today."

"Thank you, Weiss, that's very nice of you to say."

"Can I ask why, though?"

"Why what?"

"Why you're dressed up so nice?"

Russel set down his pallet and picked up a second one from the box of supplies that sat between us, and grabbed a new pair of clean, dry brushes.

"Well, the common courtesy when taking someone out on a date is to appear presentable, whether the date is between friends or romantic in nature. It shows care, and appreciation of the other person."

"Geez, I wish someone had fuckin' told me that, I'd have put on a dress or something."

Russel kind of smirked at me, continuing to paint even though he wasn't even looking at his canvas.

"I think you look beautiful anyways."

"Listen here, you skinny bastard, I'm wearing jeans and a stolen hoodie, no makeup, and barely brushed hair. Now smarten up and tell me how I really look."

I was trying not to grin like an idiot as Russel stepped back from his canvas, crossed his feet, and looked at me the way a fashion designer looks at their models.

"Like a work of art."

"I swear to god, I'm gonna throw my canvas at you, stop."

"The winds and the tides may erode the land, but are the mountains not still beautiful? The trees, not still elegant?"

I laughed as we both went back to our canvases.

"Where do you come up with this shit, dude?"

"I knew a guy at Canterbury who was a very verbose wordsmith. Every single thing he said, to anybody, they would fall in love with him instantly. He just- I mean, it helped that he was handsome as hell, but my point stands."

"Anybody? Even you?"

He kinda wrinkled his nose into a smile.

"Words are but gusts of wind. But winds have been known to topple even the tallest of trees and the sturdiest of structures."

"Sooo…. That's a yes?"

"He was good with words."

"Nice. So back to my question…"

"Right, right, things I'm good at. Uh… deflecting conversation?"

I nodded and looked around my canvas and out at the bay, taking in the colours.

"Yes, very good at that indeed. Can you cook?"

"Cook? Uh, I don't know. I can spin dough, though."

"Well that's a useful skill. I can't do that."

"I believe you. You can't even reach the counter to grab the dough."

I couldn't stop the smirk.

"I think I liked it better when you were baselessly complimenting me."

"Well, I don't like that you think it's baseless. What would Jaune or Emerald say?"

I nodded, conceding.

"Emmy would tell me to kiss her ass, or put me in a headlock or something like that. She thinks I'm very pretty."

"And Jaune?"

Irritatingly, he hadn't been stopped by my misdirection. I grimaced.

"I don't know, he would probably tell me to stop being self-deprecating."

"Huhh, I think he would tell you exactly how pretty you are."

I scoffed.

"Do you think I'm pretty, Russel?"

"Did you not hear what I just said? Were you listening at all? Yes, of course I do!"

I paused for thought, trying to come up with something to catch him off guard. It hit me.

"Would you date me?"

He stopped mid-brush.

"Would I what?"

"You heard me. Would you date me? You said this was a date, so now I wanna know. Would you date me?"

"Um… N-" he squinted at me. "...no?"

"Oh, right, I forgot, sorry. You like blonds, and this isn't close enough," I chided, flipping my ponytail around to my other shoulder.

Russel nodded, turning back to his easel.

"You're right, I do like blonds. My last two relationships were with blonds." He paused to grin to himself. "They were hot. But that's not… exactly the reason."

"Am I too short?"

"No," he chuckled, "It's 'cause you're my friend, and I have no intention of jeopardizing the relationship we already have. I'd absolutely date a short person. Or a tall person. Or someone without blond hair. My answer wasn't based on a matter of preference to physical appearance. I value your friend and companionship. As I assume you do mine."

I sighed. "I mean, yeah, but I was asking a hypothetical. If you didn't know me, and you weren't my friend."

He stopped painting for a second and gazed out over the bay.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Well, you are kind of a bitch."

I nodded.

"Yeah, that's fair."

"I mean, now that I've had eight years to get to know you, I've realized the nuances of your personality and have come to like those very quirks that make up your bitch-ness. But, of course, more than that, you are my friend and I don't believe it would be beneficial to either of us to romanticize that. I wouldn't date any of my friends. Not even Emerald or Jaune."

I scoffed, making him chuckle.

"Oh, please, everyone would date Jaune. He's perfect."

"Except you."

"You shut the fuck up," I pointed menacingly with my paintbrush, "I'll have your head, ya smarmy bastard."

Russel laughed. Laughed!

"Yeah, yeah. One of these days you'll both slip out of your fantasies and come together like you're destined to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, as much snark in my voice as I could muster.

"You'll figure it out."

"I'd better, for your sake."

We chuckled together for a moment, the cool breeze soothing and sweet. I took another sip from my thermos . Unlike Russel, I had brought hot chocolate. Carnation brand, and extremely richly-mixed. No marshmallows. It was quiet between us for a while, maybe ten minutes or so. A lady and her dog walked by, a tiny little Bichon Frise wearing itty bitty wool booties. If I had known anything about painting live subjects I would have added the two of them to my work, but alas I am not nearly as talented as my companion for the day. I sniffled, rubbing my nose on the back of my hand.

"Speaking of figuring stuff out…"

"Mmm?" Russel leaned around, but didn't take his eyes off his canvas.

"Have we figured out a name and outfits for our band?"

He almost snorted.

"Name and outfits? We don't even know what song we're going to do!"

"I thought we agreed on that Foo Fighters one."

"No, you and Jaune were arguing about that yesterday, we made no clear agreement on anything."

"Oh. Well, then we're going to do that song."

Russ grinned at his canvas.

"Okay, that was the affirmation I was looking for. So we are doing the Foos then. I'll have to start learning the drum rhythm."

"Yeah, good. So back to my question."

"Oh, so, you think I have all the answers."

I shrugged, sheepishly.

"N-no, but-"

"Oh, I see. You have an idea and you want me to tell you it's a good one."

"You're irritatingly observant."

Russel laughed, reaching into his supply bag for yet another paintbrush.

"Lay it on me."

"Kay, before I do, I have to preface it with a question."

"Uh huh?"

"How comfortable are you with wearing women's clothing?"

Russel paused mid-brush at my question, almost like his body had been momentarily petrified. His eyes finally livened, flicking over as his brow furrowed.

"Probably more so than you would think. Why, what did you have in mind?"

I shuddered.

"Well… I haven't cleared it with Jaune yet, but I was having a thought the other day about some stage outfits for us."

I paused a moment to catch my breath.

"And I was thinking… you know that dress that Emmy's got in the back of her closet? The black one that's all frilly with the brass buttons? It's like… kinda like French Maid but it's all black?"

Russel nodded.

"Mm, yes, Gothic Lolita, I'm familiar. Said she bought it in Japan back in August. That kind of colour scheme is what you're thinking?"

A chuckle escaped me. A nervous one.

"Well… I was thinking more… those dresses. We wear… dresses."

Russel's paint brush halted on the canvas. His eyes leveled to the horizon for a moment, then flicked over to me again, his body frozen like a statue.

"...Dresses?"

I already felt weird about this idea, but now I felt even more embarrassed. I tried to slink down into my hoodie.

"Look, it was just an idea, I was gonna say we should call ourselves The Black Dresses and like, that would be our gimmick or whatever-"

"No, no, I'm not discrediting the idea, I think it's hilarious," Russes's body regained its animation. "I just wanted to know like, where that idea would have come from?"

I bit my brush.

"Uh… well… think about some popular band names. They're always The followed by some adjective and a noun. Like The White Stripes, or The Velvet Underground, or The All-American Rejects."

A nod.

"Hmm, yes, The AC/DC. You're right, it totally works."

I laughed.

"Dude, shut up, you know what I mean. And originally I thought we should be called The Adjective Nouns, but that's a lot of syllables and it wouldn't look cool on a headline. So I had this brainwave about Emmy's dress."

"Hmm," Russ scratched the side of his head. "I appreciate the lengths to which you went for a naming convention. And I do like the name, it's very catchy. But you want us to wear dresses…"

I sniffled.

"I mean… we could be called The Black Dresses and just wear our regular clothes, but, you know, it just wouldn't be as… cool."

"Hmm. Yes, I do always want to be cool. Alright, you've won me over. Dresses it is."

My eyes lit up.

"Really? You won't mind wearing a dress on stage?"

"Of course not! Especially if I get to wear a fifteen-hundred dollar tailored piece like Em's."

I pursed my lips.

"Okay, I didn't mean actually the same dress as Emerald has, I'm not a millionaire. I just meant that style."

"I know, I know." Russ chuckled. "Actually, my mom knows a local tailor who would probably want to make something for us for a cheap price."

"Ooh, that would be good. Say, I think I'm almost done with my painting."

I stepped back from my canvas. The oranges and yellows of the autumn scene had been muddled together by my lack of artistic talent and poor choices of brush size. I glanced around the painting to my source, the river, and sighed. It wasn't the greatest, I'll be honest.

"What a coincidence, I'm finished with mine as well. Shall we have a look at yours first, then?"

I shrugged and set my brush down in the communal cup of painty water as Russel, doing the same, stepped around to my canvas and took a look.

"Yeah, it's not great."

Russ smacked me on the shoulder.

"What are you talking about, it's excellent. Very early-nineteen-hundreds French Impressionism. I like that the colours at every border have a softness to them, and that there isn't a huge amount of visual definition to anything. It's very soothing to look at."

"Yeah but I wasn't going for soothing. I was trying to paint a picture of the river."

"Weiss, what did I say about this earlier? If we were here to copy reality, we'd be using cameras. I'm going to direct you back to your own painting for a moment. I can see here that you've tried to paint the Aylmer Marina, which from this distance is just a barely-visible collection of thin white poles. And the technique I saw you use is brilliant for someone who's never taken a classical arts class, the use of a stiff-bristle brush and peeling back the bristles to create thin lines like that. And your reflections in the water are spot on."

I bit my lip.

"I can't take credit for that, I saw it on a Bob Ross show on PBS."

"And that's fine! I spent a lot of time watching Bob Ross shows, there's no shame in learning from entertainment sources. I had a teacher at Canterbury who was all 'Bob Ross is a hack who can't paint worth a damn', and how if we used any of his techniques in class it was an automatic failing grade. You know what, I submitted four Ross-taught paintings in that class, and she was none the wiser. That's not to say I just copied his paintings, but I did learn more about things like distance perspectives and 'Big Picture' painting where you don't focus on just the one detail at a time but rather all of them at once. But back to yours, it's very good, and exactly what my other art teacher would like to see."

"Did they like Bob Ross?"

Russel nodded with a sly grin, and sauntered his way back over to his canvas, eyeing it over once more.

"Very much so. He told us that inspiration for art comes from any source, that was in fact the entire point of doing art. The point of art is to make what you like, and what inspires you. And if that inspiration is a soft-spoken American with an Afro, excellent. Paint away."

I scoffed, folding my arms over my chest.

"Alright then, doctor, show me what you did."

"With pleasure."

With one hand, he lifted his easel and canvas and spun it around for me to see. I frowned at it. It was a lot simpler than mine, as it featured no prominent background or embellishments of the like. Just a woman, standing in the centre of the barely-blue primed canvas on a round patch of grass. In front of an easel, holding a brush and palette in her hands. The woman wore a long, ankle-length summer dress in a gorgeous vermilion, covered in wine-red accents. Her hair, a silvery colour I didn't recognize as one of the ones Russel had brought with him. The detail of the woman's face was also striking, as was the expression she had. Pensive, yet pleased. Of course, that's when I noticed the thin pink scar he had added. Over her goddamn left eye.

"Wait a second."

"Hmm?"

I glared at him.

"That's me!"

"That's right."

"You painted a picture of me!"

"Y-yes, I did."

I flushed a little red.

"Russel, I thought we were supposed to be painting the nature!"

"I never said that. I said we were going to come out and do painting, I never specified of what. Besides, I saw you standing there and I couldn't help it. I was inspired."

I stared at the painting some more. The patch of grass the woman was standing in had been meticulously done blade by blade, all with what looked like a single-bristle brush. Even the grain of the wood on the painter's palette was incredibly detailed. I examined the dress again, admiring the beautifully perfect shading between the dress's folds and the way it seemed almost to be swaying in an imaginary breeze the longer I looked at it. Like a photograph, taken with a long exposure.

"...I don't own a dress like that."

"I know. It's called artistic license."

I sighed.

"It's amazing."

"Thank you. I think I'll give it to Jaune as a Christmas present."

"What? No! No no nonononono! You can't do that!"

"Oh-ho, yes I can and yes I will. I'm gonna frame it and he's gonna put this on his mantle and look at it every day."

With wide eyes I tried to step forward to take the canvas off his easel, but unfortunately I am very short and Russel is significantly more coordinated than I am, having already lifted the painting from the easel and slid it into a protective cover that wouldn't smudge the paint.

"You bastard!"

"While that is factually correct, I believe you meant it in a malicious way, of which I have elected to rebuke with 'get wrecked'."

I crossed my arms and pouted.

"C'mon, man, that's not cool! Give it to Emerald, or my sister or something, not to Jaune!"

"Why not? I'm serious, why not?"

"Ah-"

To be honest I didn't have an answer. I knew he would appreciate it, in fact, I knew that he would probably actually mount it above his fireplace up at his parents' cottage up at White Lake. I mean, they loved me like I was one of their own, and a painting of me, especially one of Russel's quality, would be greatly admired by them. But I just didn't know why I felt so uncomfortable with the thought of him having this painting of me. Jaune had plenty of pictures of me, from when we were kids, when we were tweens, all the way up to the most recent ones he had taken on that old Polaroid he'd stolen from his grandfather. And this painting wasn't like the Mona Lisa or anything , I hadn't posed for it. Russel had just painted a picture of me painting a picture. I didn't understand why I felt so intimate about it.

"Fine, whatever. I don't give a shit."

Russel narrowed his eyes at me.

"Hmm, I feel like you do. I don't know if I should give this to him anymore."

"Well, now you have to 'cause I'm telling you to. Do it. Give him the painting."

"Arright, if you insist."

"But as payment for your betrayal, you're paying for lunch today."

He smirked as he walked past me with the paintings.

"I wasn't even going to let you try to."

/.../

"What're we feelin', Ronnie's?"

"Yeah, lay it on me."

"Solid."

I flicked the turn signal and moved the truck over in the lane, slowing down behind a yellow X-Terra that had the same idea as us. Using my mirrors to gauge width, I made it around the turn and into the parking lot without curbing one of the expensive alloy wheels, and pointed the nose of the truck at the drive-thru entrance.

"Hey, Weiss, can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah, sure."

Russel reclined into the plush red corduroy seat on his side of the bench.

"How did you manage to scavenge Jaune's truck from him?"

I snickered and pulled into the queue behind the Nissan.

"Daylight robbery. Broke into his house and stole his keys."

"Oh, fair, fair. That would do it."

"No, actually I asked him nicely. See, my sister had to drive to Toronto for some conference with Environment Canada, and she told me she wasn't interested in putting that kind of mileage on the Catalina, which despite being an excellent road trip vehicle isn't exactly good on fuel or easy to park."

Russ snickered.

"You have to get clearance from the Coast Guard to park that thing."

"Yeah, exactly. So I leant her the M5 for the weekend, and since I still needed to be able to drive around, I asked Jaune for the keys to his truck."

"And you couldn't have just taken the Catalina?"

"Oh, absolutely, but Winter doesn't really like me driving it, and I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to borrow Jaune's truck. Besides, this thing is the coolest vehicle any of us has."

Russ laughed, and I stifled the urge to do the same.

"You fuckin'- You stole his truck from right under his nose!"

"You're damn right I did. This thing is rad. Helps that I can just say 'Jaune, gimme yer truck' and he literally throws the keys my way."

Russel laughed and rolled his eyes, banging his temple against the window.

"Hell..."

"I mean, hey, it's not like this is an isolated incident. He leant it to Emerald last weekend, her dad needed to pick up a bunch of furniture from that place over on Merivale by the Chinese Buffet."

"Guess it wasn't gonna fit in the S600."

I shook my head as we advanced one place in the line.

"No, that's very much a 'people-only' car. D'j'you know it's got a champagne fridge between the back seats?"

"No, shit, really? I've never actually ridden in that car."

"Oh, dude, it's like a limousine. I can stretch my legs all the way out and not touch the back of the front seats."

Russ turned a sly grin at me.

"Yeah, that's not really saying much."

"Asshole. I'm not that short."

"What're you, like, four-eleven?"

"Five foot three and a half, thank you. Besides, you're not even six feet tall, it's a wonder anyone even considers dating you."

Russ clutched at his chest in mock offence.

"Ow, my self-esteem. That digs deep, Schnee. That digs deep."

We rolled up to the order stand, and I lowered the leisurely-paced electric window.

"Alright, what do you want?"

"Big Mac, extra pickle."

"Aight, cool."

I lifted the gear lever into park and shut off the motor, and leaned out the window to the microphone. After a moment, a voice came back at me. Tired, and severely under-caffeinated. People in the service industry, especially food service, get a raw deal.

"HiwelcometoMcdonalcanItakeyourorder?"

"Uh, yeah, hi, can I get a Big Mac meal, extra pickles?"

A pause.

"Whattodrink?"

I looked to Russel. He shrugged.

"Pepsi?"

I turned to the window.

"Pepsi, medium."

"OnlyhaveCoke."

I turned to Russel. He gave a very overdramatic sigh as if to say 'if I must, I will endure the suffering'. I turned back to the mic.

"Coke it is."

"Anyelse?"

"Uh, a Double Quarter with cheese meal, no pickles, root beer, medium."

Another pause.

"Okayanyelse?"

"No, that's everything for today."

"Tennineyeightfirswindow."

"Thank you!"

I fired the truck back up, the bassy growl reverberating up through the thin floorboards, and pulled up towards the first window, still one car behind in the line up. I sniffled, and turned the heater up one click on the black plastic dial.

"S'you know what'cher gonna do post-secondary?" I asked as we waited patiently.

"Yeah, I got a plan. I applied to the Royal Conservatory."

I frowned.

"That music school in Toronto?"

"Yeah, and a few others."

"Don't you have to be like… a musician for that?"

He kinda looked at me with that 'are you serious' look. I felt the need to clarify.

"I meant like, classical musician. Like, violin or something."

"It's a musical education institution, said the brochure. And from what I could tell, they don't discriminate. Besides, I'm not certain there's much more I'd want to learn about drumming."

"So why are you going?"

"Music production. They've got a co-op program that would put me behind the boards at like, Cherry Beach Sound or the Rose Room or something like that."

I sat for a second.

"So you want to be an audio engineer."

"Yeah."

"Huh. Well that's fantastic! It sounds like you've got at least some semblance of a plan. Unlike me."

The line of cars indexed up by one, putting us next to the first window. I lowered the truck's luxuriously slow window motor and took Russ's debit card, sliding it through the reader. I frowned as the terminal continued to say 'swipe card' in its little Raster graphics display. I scrubbed the mag strip against my jeans for a second, then leaned out of the window to swipe it again. This time I was greeted by the 'Approved-Receipt?' prompt, and I pressed the 'no' button as I didn't, in fact, want a receipt. We were waved forward, back into the line.

"Why, what are you doing for post-secondary?"

I sniffled.

"I dunno."

"Been accepted anywhere yet?"

I shrugged.

"Yeah. Carleton, uOttawa, McGill, and U of T."

"Anyone want to give you any money?"

"All of them. Not, like, full rides or anything, but enough that they're all within reason of being affordable. That is, of course, If I can manage to survive on negative eleven hundred dollars a semester on food."

Russel did his best 'Yikes' face.

"That's a pretty strict budget. What courses are you taking?"

"Applied physics. Sciences department. You know, math and shit."

"Cool, cool. What are you going to do with that degree?"

"Don't ask questions I don't know the answer to, yet. I'm taking this degree program because I enjoy it and I want to study physics. I dunno, maybe I'll become a university researcher. Or something."

We pulled up to the food window, and I was handed the large brown paper bag with our spoils in it. I handed it gently over the wide bench seat to Russ, and reached back for our drinks and a pair of bright red plastic straws. It was about this moment I realized an inherent flaw with Jaune and I's modification to his truck.

"Ah." I said, pausing awkwardly with the two drinks.

"S'a matter?"

"No cup holders. They're in the console of the old seats."

"Huh. Shit. What are you going to do?"

I smirked.

"Turn you into cup holders. Here, take."

I handed the two drinks over to Russel, careful to not pinch the soft plastic lids and have them explode all over the seat, like I had done once by accident in my sister's old Ford. Damn the cheap mass-production of McDonald's products. I squeezed the truck out of the drive-thru lane and into a parking spot facing the main road so we could people watch, shutting the vehicle off with a jangle of Jaune's too-many-keys keychain. As Russel redistributed our food, I could hear Laurence Wall talking about whatever headline story was currently late-breaking. He was quickly replaced by the local hard rock station, currently in the middle of an ad trying to sell me a brand new Grand Caravan at Metro Chrysler. With only six and three-quarter percent interest, too.

"Think Jaune will be mad we ate McDonald's in his truck?"

I shrugged.

"I'll vacuum it, I'm not a monster. I've got cleaners 'n shit. I think he'll be mad that we ate McDonalds in his truck without him."

"That's true. He does enjoy McDonalds and hanging out with us."

There was a quiet pause in the air as we opened our lunches, the dull crinkling of wax-coated foil overlapping an ad for Grand & Toy playing quietly from the truck's many speakers. Man, radio commercial breaks have been getting longer and longer, eh? I can understand why everyone jumped on satellite radio as hard as they did when it came out in 2002.

"Hey Russ, can you sing?"

"Mmm-" he said, mouth full of fries, which he covered with his hand. "Yesh"

I waited for him to swallow before continuing.

"In what sorta range?"

He coughed and cleared his throat, taking a sip of his Coke.

"Uh, deep to mid baritone. My band teacher used to say I might be able to stretch into basso profundo if I practice. Why?"

"Just wanted to know. You've heard him sing, what range do you think Jaune sings in?"

He paused a second, frowning and mulling through some fries. I checked my burger for pickles, and scowled as I had to then remove the offending vegetables. You'd think asking for no pickles would be a simple request, but apparently not as simple as I originally imagined.

"Jaune has an extremely versatile voice. It can be buttery smooth and up high in the register, or deep and gravelly if he wants. But his speaking voice has no rasp in it, unlike mine which naturally does. The thing about Jaune's singing voice is that it's practiced, and studied. He can do the Dave Draiman scream because he knows how those sounds are made in the throat and he can replicate them without injuring himself."

"Yeah, I've noticed that, too."

"But in terms of range, he's like, high baritone, breaching into tenor. He was driving me home one day after school, you were with Emerald or something, and Bohemian Rhapsody came on."

"And you guys cranked it."

Russ chuckled. I did too, a little.

"Oh, fuck yeah. He has an enormous amount of power in his voice, too. You know that part where the song goes 'Beelzebub as a devil put aside for mee, for mee,' and then Roger Taylor goes 'for meeEEE~,' right the way up to the top? Jaune can do that, no falsetto, just chest notes."

"Oh, shit, really? Isn't that, like, B flat 6?"

"Yup. I can't sing that high."

"Jeez, I don't even think I can go that high without falsetto."

I took a sip of my Coke and sat back against the red corduroy bench. Russel dabbed a bit of special sauce away on a napkin and continued.

"Very few people can, and that's what's fascinating about his voice. He's got the depth of Tony Robbins or, no, maybe like Otis Redding, and the highs of Geddy Lee, just, you know, better."

I snorted into my lunch.

"Wow, you and Jaune both hate Rush."

"I loathe Rush. Actually, on the topic of voices, can I tell you a secret?"

I paused and glanced over. Usually that question preceded either something deeply personal and embarrassing, or something I one hundred percent was going to let spill as I was and still am terrible with secrets. Seriously, trust me with nothing, unless it's life and death. Even then, if it's in any way humourous, it's getting out.

"Yes."

"This isn't actually what my voice sounds like."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Well… I speak with this deep and gravelly voice that you're used to as… sort of a mask. It's my… customer service voice, if you will."

"So what's your actual voice then?"

He cleared his throat and straightened his back.

"Like this," he spoke, his voice changing up almost an octave, softening with an effeminate quality. "It's actually much higher than I would like it to be, so I inflect it lower."

I blinked, almost dropping my lunch into my lap.

"Wh- why don't you like it?"

He cleared his throat, and his voice returned to what I thought was his 'normal', low voice.

"The deep voice sounds cooler. And… I was told once by someone I had a crush on that the voice I did for Lord Capulet in the ninth grade was sexy, so I continued using it and lied and said it was my normal voice."

"Huh. I respect the effort."

"Thank you. It's also beneficial for my job at Steve's, it's a lot easier to talk to old white guys who're very set in their ways if I sound like Johnny Cash instead of, you know, a little fruity."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with the way your voice sounds."

He nodded into his burger.

"I mean, I don't either, but the deep voice is sexy and has, on more than one occasion, gotten me laid. So I'll keep using the affected tone."

I snorted. "Nice."

"But we all do that. Every child affects their voice in some way to sound different. And, as is typical, girls tend to affect up and boys tend to affect down, and this happens like right at the beginning of being able to talk and enunciate and form sentences. Our voice is part of our personality, and as social creatures we strive so desperately to form one of those, and the sound and quality of our voice gets affected thusly."

I finished the last of my burger and dug into the bag for my sleeve of fries. Russ handed me a few ketchup packets from his side of the bench.

"I don't think my voice changed that much?"

"You think that, and everyone does. But it happens subconsciously, we have little control of it. And I think your voice has changed. When I met you, when we were nine, you had a pretty prominent Kraut accent that you've gotten rid of. Which was a conscious effort on your part. Because of the differences in enunciation between the two accents, you've developed a wider vocal pattern and a deeper voice."

"You notice everything, holy shit."

"Same thing with Jaune. When I met him he had a very prominent French accent, and in losing that he's developed this airy quality with just a hint of vocal fry. And I'm starting to think that the… effort put into losing his accent allowed him to better understand the principles of vocal control, since he explained to me that it was a conscious choice to get rid of his accent, not an exposure thing."

I scratched my head with the knuckle on my index finger as I didn't want to get burger grease in my hair.

"So by your logic-" I took a sip of Coke to clear my throat. "-I should be able to sing well too."

"See, now that's an interesting conclusion. You have perfect pitch, but you don't practice singing the way Jaune does. So I don't doubt that you could in theory hit all the right notes while singing, but I would wager that your vocal control and timbre would be lacking. Now, because of perfect pitch I think you would have a very shallow learning curve when it comes to singing."

I chuckled.

"It's funny, you've never heard me sing, and somehow you got that exactly right."

Russ tapped his temple knowingly.

"There's a lot of musical knowledge trapped between these ears, Weiss. Most of it is useless facts about history, but there's just enough theory and applicable skill that I remain relevant."

I grinned at him, drinking straw between my teeth.

"You'll always be relevant to me, Russ."

"Thank you, Weiss, I value and cherish your opinion."

"You're very welcome."

We sat in silence for a moment, and I noticed the radio had turned itself off to save battery life. I reached forward and clicked the ignition back to the accessory position and the radio sprung back to life, still somehow on the world's longest commercial break. This time it was something about Tim Horton's wanting my money to send underprivileged children to some camp in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Ontario. I mean, goddamn, they already got most of my money in coffee and iced beverages, now they wanted more? Can't please some people. I turned my attention to Russel and sighed.

"So, Toronto, huh?"

"Hmm?" he looked up from his fries. "Oh, yeah. Toronto."

"That's an awfully long way away, Russel."

"I know. But, you know, my parents live here, my little brother lives here, all you guys are still here. It's not like I don't have any good reasons to come back."

I sighed again. I wanted this to dig in.

"I know…"

"Also you have a cell phone, you could just - and hear me out on this, it's a groundbreaking idea - call me. If you call me and say 'Russel come back I miss you', yeah I'm gonna come back and visit. Don't be so melodramatic."

I smirked.

"Bitch, that's what I'm good at. I live and breathe melodrama."

"I've noticed."

"Has Jaune told you where he's going?"

Russ shook his head.

"No, you?"

"Me neither. He's being really cagey about it. He won't answer me straight up when I ask him about post secondary."

"I thought I heard Em say something in passing about him mentioning UBC or something."

I frowned.

"That's too fuckin' far away."

"I was gonna tell him the exact same thing, he's not allowed to go that far away from us. Couple hours drive? Sure. Several days? Fuck outta here. Trust me, I love the guy, but if he moves to B.C. I'm disowning him."

"I trust you, and I agree." I sniffled. "Hey, you what sucks, I've got a campus tour booked at U of T for the… November the… somethingth, I dunno, it's on the fridge, I wasn't paying attention."

"Oh yeah? Why does that suck?"

"'Cause it's gonna be boring, and I'm gonna be around a bunch of nerds."

"And that is a change of environment how exactly?"

"Shut up. Anyway, you should come along, we can go see your campus afterward, see all the music dorks."

"Again. Look in a mirror."

I rolled my eyes and threw a fry at him. Which of course, he caught and ate before it could ruin Jaune's upholstery.

"You know, I'm gonna be pissed off if this year is my last year with you guys. I mean it."

"Oh, please, you know it won't be. Even if I go to Toronto, Jaune goes to B.C., Em goes to Windsor or wherever, and you go to Montreal, all of our families live here, we're gonna wind up back together at some point."

"I know, but-"

"No, shut up, I won't have your negative attitude cramping my style today. This shirt was expensive."

I paused.

"What about tomorrow?"

"How about you wait and see where everyone gets accepted and chooses to go to first, then you can lament that it's a seven hour drive to come and see us."

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway.

"Whatever."

Russel smacked me on the shoulder.

"Whatever yourself. Who're you gonna miss most?"

"Probably Emerald."

"Not Jaune?"

I shrugged and drank the remaining scraps of fry out of the sleeve.

"I could take him or leave him."

"I'll take him, then." he said with a smirk, that I of course returned.

"He'd be in safe hands. Say, speaking of Emerald, I was at the gym with her the other day, and I was on the treadmill and she was on the mat next to me doing V-ups with a forty-five pound barbell weight in her hands! You go to the gym with her more than I do, is that normal?"

Russ cocked his head at me.

"Just the one?"

I balked. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, she's got this, like, police auction plate carrier she wears, I've seen her do pushups and situps with like a hundred and thirty pounds of plates. I can't spot for her anymore, I can't in good conscience stand over the bar because if she drops it, I can't lift it off her."

"Holy shit."

"Holy shit is right. That woman's a monster."

"Nice ass, though."

Russ laughed.

"Yeah, I will agree with you on that one."

We chuckled together for a moment. I looked at the time on the little digital display tucked into the red plastic dash. It was just after one. I sniffled.

"The movie starts in an hour. Wanna head over there now?"

"Sure, we can get seats and eat all our popcorn before the previews start."

"That's the plan, isn't it? Got our tickets?"

He tapped his lapel and pulled the stubs just out far enough that I could read 'The Hitchhiker's Gui' on the waxy front. I had taken Em and Jaune to see the movie when it had released in April, but Russ hadn't seen it yet and it was making it increasingly difficult to have him join in our inside jokes.

"Right here. Drive on, then."

I smiled and started the truck. Unsatisfied with the current lackluster music selection, I spun the dial all the way around to the Alt Rock station as I lined us up with the exit and put on my turn signal. And just as the radio guide landed on the station, the train horn from the beginning of Hard To Handle started playing. So I turned it up, and planted my right foot for the opening in traffic.

"Oh, yeah. This is a good day. Ain't that right, Russ?"

He laughed, sliding around on the seat as he had not done up his seat belt yet. I know, I know, as the driver I'm responsible for my passengers.

"Damn right. Hey, you know, I take back what I said earlier."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"When I said I wouldn't date you? Yeah, I take that back. You're a great date, Weiss. A damn good time."

I beamed, grinning like an idiot.

"You're goddamn right I am."