Suggested Listening: "Firefight" - Sweetheart

Take Your Time

~Firefight~

So, I'm sitting outside of the bathroom, waiting for Miranda to finish doing her hair (and she says I take a long time to get ready – yeah, right) and I have nothing better to do. I looked back over some of my entries from when I first started keeping a journal… I guess I felt nostalgic.

Or else just sentimental. Nasty thing that is; it catches like the goddamn common cold.

I normally don't read back over the shit that I write in these things (I like to have at least one place where I don't have to hold myself to a high standard), but on today of all days, I thought I'd make an exception. It's weird to read all the stuff that I wrote back in Grade Eight. None of it's at all honest, of course, because I was writing solely for the purpose of getting that harpy student counsellor off my back. It's mostly a bunch of bullshit about how angry I felt inside, how I felt like no-one understood me, how hard it was to deal with peer pressure, how the grading system was causing me a lot of anxiety, yadda yadda yadda. Sure, I did feel those things, but I made sure to put them down in the most insincere way possible.

Not once did I mention my sudden conflicted feelings over wanting my best friend's nuts (and I don't mean the kind that squirrels eat). Good thing I didn't, 'cause no matter what the bitch said, I'm sure that she read every single word of that first journal.

I don't know why I kept with the habit after it stopped being mandatory that I wrote in it, but I'm glad I did. Sometimes it felt like writing was the only thing that kept me sane during the whole situation that Matt and I were in – especially this past summer. Talking to Halle helped, but I never told her everything… and sometimes I wanted someone who would just listen. No reply needed, and definitely no judgement.

I think what I've written in these is the closest I've ever been to being true to myself.

Whatever – enough of that. I went a long way from what I originally wanted to say.

I've already resigned myself to the fact that today is going to suck, but I found something in my first ever entry that might give me confidence. It was some mission statement that I had to do about how I could conduct myself in order to be successful in life. It was the first and last thing she made me read aloud. I think I gained a grudging respect from her for it (and probably some fear, too). Anyway, here it is:

"Today, I will spite my enemies by being one-hundred percent, undeniably, uncompromisingly me. I will suffer no sympathy, nor will I make any apologies. I am who I am, world; take it or leave it."

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Even with stopping to get coffee (or hot chocolate in Rosette and I's case – I've taught that kid well), my family ended up being early for church. It wasn't a surprise to me; my mom liked to run a tight ship, and she could be especially pushy on Sundays. I remember when I was younger, Nicolai wanted to sleep in one time, and my mom sprayed him with water until he got out of bed. That was one of the only times I've ever seen Nicolai get really mad about something. My mom was immoveable on the subject, though. She told him: "I cook for you, clean for you, do your laundry, and keep a roof over your head. All I ask in return is that you keep your grades up and attend church on Sundays."

The requirement of actually believing in God was noticeably absent from that list, and Nicolai took advantage of the loophole.

Me, on the other hand… Well, I believe. It has nothing to do with the denomination or whatever. I take the things that make sense to me and leave the rest behind. I'm only Catholic because I was raised Catholic. But in my heart… –

"Well, hello, Mihael! It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Big smile. Lying eyes. Too much perfume, and too much underlying malice.

– I'm the black sheep.

I kept my expression neutral, taking a sip of my hot chocolate. I answered evenly, "Hello, Mrs. Newell." I knew the second part was a barb, and I simply ignored it. Taking a look around the lobby we were waiting in, I saw that my mom had been absorbed into the hen party taking place over by the coat racks. She hadn't noticed yet that someone had broken away from their group. She was usually pretty good at keeping other people's attention where she wanted it, but it looked like one of the hens just couldn't ignore the sight of fresh blood. Over by the sofas, meanwhile, my dad was keeping my sisters entertained by reading out some of the information on the bulletin board.

I knew better than to think he might intervene.

Mrs. Newell carried on with her act. "How was your summer?" she asked, widening her eyes in fake curiosity. The sad thing was, I bet she felt pretty good about herself for talking to me.

I couldn't help myself; I smirked. "Wonderful. Many good things happened. Things just seemed to… come together so naturally."

"Oh." Her smile became strained. She immediately changed the subject. "What are you thinking of for a career? Any plans for post-secondary?"

My brother's voice sounded from behind me: "He wants to be an author." He came to stand beside me, taller than both myself and the woman I was talking to. His face was a mask of boredom and indifference, but I knew my brother, and I could tell that he was annoyed.

Mrs. Newell visibly brightened. "Oh, Nicolai! It's so nice to see you!"

"Likewise," he said, tone bland.

"How are your wedding plans coming along? Have you set a date yet?" She angled her body towards him, obviously trying a new tactic on me.

Too bad for her that I couldn't give any fucks less whether she paid me attention or not.

Nicolai nodded. "It's in August."

"Will you be having it here?"

He paused, pushing up his glasses. He smiled. Quickly, I hid my own smile behind the rim of my cup.

Here it comes…

"Actually, no," he said. "Francine's family is Protestant, so we decided to compromise by holding it at the community centre and having a Justice of the Peace officiate. There are going to be some prayers, though. Also, I did make one allowance; it's an important tradition in Francine's family that a pig be released into a field to be chased and slaughtered by the bride and groom. Then, it's roasted on a spit over an open fire. Supposedly it enhances fertility." He shrugged and raised his hands as if to say, What else can you expect of those crazy Protestants?

Mrs. Newell's eye twitched as she continued to stare at Nicolai for a good ten seconds. To her credit, she actually recovered pretty quickly. "Well – isn't that nice…" She excused herself, then, before walking back over to the gaggle of women and whispering fiercely to a few of them. My mom must have caught some of what the woman was saying because she shot a stern look in our direction (although, I could clearly see that she was trying hard not to crack a smile).

"There," Nicolai said to me. "That should take care of it for now."

I chuckled. "Francine is going to kill you."

He smiled. "No, she isn't. She's going to be a Keehl soon, too. She knows how we feel about family. In fact, if she'd been here, she would have done something herself."

Frowning, I looked down at my shoes. I didn't know what to say.

"Hey – relax." He clapped me on the back. "It's just church."

Just then, the doors to the sanctuary opened and the voices of the choir, only background noise before, could be heard in their full capacity. Almost against my will, the sound stirred something in me, and I found myself thinking that maybe I had more than just the one reason for coming today. I finished the last of my drink, and then chucked the cup into a nearby garbage can. As people started to filter in, I was among them.

After all, the one thing that a black sheep wants more than anything else is to belong.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

As I moved with my family towards the pew that we usually sat in, I felt a light pressure on the sleeve of my suit jacket. At first, I wrote it off in my mind as being nothing more than part of the normal brushing up against people that happens in a crowd, but I couldn't ignore it when a hand suddenly grabbed at my arm. I tensed and whipped my head to the side to see who it was – only to immediately relax. I saw that the hand was small, slightly wrinkled with age, and adorned with large rings, while its owner was smiling up at me with a gleam in her eye.

I gave her a mock-haughty look. "I thought I was always the one to sneak up on you, not the other way around."

Mrs. Callum winked and pinched my arm lightly. "Turnabout is fair play, my boy. Care to escort me to seat?"

"If I must."

My dad was looking over to see what was holding me up, and I gave him a nod to let him know I'd be along in a minute. Then, walking at a pace that she was comfortable with, I led Mrs. Callum down to one of the pews that was in the second row from the front. As long as I had known her, she had never sat anywhere else, even with the difficulties that her arthritis brought as she got older.

It was amazing to think how long I had actually known this woman. Mrs. Callum had been a friend of my grandmother's, and I met her during one of the times she came over to play bridge. That was one of the things about my grandma that most people would be surprised to know: the lady had had a breezy, generally happy personality, but she could be tough as nails when it came to her card games. She was a real cardsharp. Mrs. Callum, on the other hand, had a terrible poker face. So instead, she spent the majority of the games cracking jokes and sharing my portion of chocolate brownies from my grandmother's winnings. I think my favourite part of those games was the fact that they played for baked goods… It's amazing that I didn't get fat – although, there was more than enough teasing from my grandmother and her friends to say that I would.

And then… when my grandma died… Mrs. Callum was the only person I felt comfortable talking to about it.

"My goodness," Mrs. Callum sighed, sinking down onto the cushioned seat. All of a sudden, she squinted up at me, pursing her lips. "Did you get taller again?"

"No." I snorted. "You must be shrinking."

She sighed again. "That's the way of it, isn't it? Everything starts to wear down on you. Though, I'm not so senile yet that I can't see that you haven't changed your haircut in the last thirteen years. I remember when your gran cut it that way for you… You would've grown your hair down to your ankles if the mood took you, but your mum was worryin' about all the dirt that you would get in it. Obviously, you took to the compromise quite well. Smart lady, your gran was; she always knew just the thing to set a situation right…"

I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets. Behind me, I heard the choir getting settled into their seats. I took a glance back to see that Father Carmichael had come to the ambo, but he was preoccupied with fiddling with his microphone.

Mrs. Callum noticed what I was looking at and chuckled. "Don't mind him just yet. This will take a while." She patted the seat beside her, and I sat down after hesitating for a moment.

I looked to see if my parents were waiting for me, but I saw that they were busy talking to my sisters. I shrugged and allowed myself to get comfortable.

"So," she began, giving me a sly, sideways look from under her crocheted cloche, "care to tell me why you've been truant these past few months?"

"Does it matter? I'm here now." I kept my eyes forward, watching as Father Carmichael got more and more flustered before finally, Mr. Vernon, the music coordinator, came to his aid.

"Oh, it matters a great deal. I was left without my conversation partner! Awfully dull without you, it was."

I chuckled. "My sincerest apologies. I guess… I just got caught up in things. First summer after high school, after all. I needed… closure – and I didn't think that I would find it here."

Mrs. Callum didn't say anything for a few long moments. When she did, it caught me off guard. "So, does he have a nasty wart or something? A terrible lisp? A protuberance of the nose? Perhaps even a split personality in that he acts cordial to you, but foul to everyone else?"

"… I don't follow." I did, but I'd been dreading this conversation since deciding that I would come today.

"Well, my boy, there must be some reason that in all this time that I've known of him, you have never introduced him to me!"

Now it was my turn for silence. At length, she rested her hand on my own. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth, but I found myself speaking regardless: "No, it's not any of that. He's… everything I'm not. He's wonderful."

Saying these words was both a pain and a relief. My chest felt tight afterwards, but I didn't allow myself to show my discomfort. I kept my eyes looking forward and my shoulders relaxed. From the outside, I looked just as confident as I always did. It was a part that I knew all too well how to play.

Though, I could tell from the way that Mrs. Callum was eyeing me that she didn't buy it. How could I expect her to? She knew me from back before I learned how to lie.

Suddenly, the microphone squawked and everyone covered their ears. Mr. Vernon fiddled with the sound panel for a few more seconds before giving the priest a thumbs up and heading back to his seat. Father Carmichael smiled sheepishly before saying into the now-functioning microphone, "Please follow me in making the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

As Father Carmichael began the Greeting, Mrs. Callum leaned over and whispered to me, "Keep your chin up, Mihael. There are many sinners that will cast stones, but the way to the Lord isn't through earning their acceptance. Accept yourself and love yourself as a part of God's creation, and peace will follow."

The last and also with you rang out in the nave. Then, the priest invited us to take part in the Act of Penitence, and as one voice, we said the Confiteor:

"I confess to almighty God,
and to you, my brothers and sisters,
that I have greatly sinned
in my thoughts and in my words,
in what I have done,
and in what I have failed to do;
through my fault
through my fault
through my most grievous fault
Therefore, I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin,
all the angels and saints,
and you, my brothers and sisters,
to pray for me to the Lord our God."

My ears were ringing through Father Carmichael's response. The Mass carried on. When it came time to speak, I spoke. When it came time to sing, I sang. Each action I did mechanically, unfeelingly, as if I wasn't present at all. Throughout the liturgy, I felt Mrs. Callum's hand resting as a heavy weight over my own. When it came time for Communion, the Host left a metallic taste in my mouth.

And I felt further from God than I ever had before.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

When Mass ended, and everyone rose to exit, I offered Mrs. Callum my arm again. She hooked her arm with mine before she promptly swatted me with her rolled-up copy of the newsletter.

"If I didn't know better," she said, "I would say that you're a proper gentleman."

I gave her a cheeky grin in return. "At least no-one can accuse me of false advertising."

Her only response was another swat. I let my grin relax into a smile. I already felt worlds better.

Now, if only I can get out of this itchy suit…

I caught sight of my family standing off to the side in the lobby. My mother seemed to be in a very involved conversation with Mrs. Newell. Wisely, I led Mrs. Callum in a circuitous route to avoid attracting attention. Some of the conversations that my mom and Mrs. Newell got into were bad enough, but add Mrs. Callum into the mix… We could be here 'til well into the afternoon.

However, my intentions didn't escape Mrs. Callum's notice. "You must be very proud of your brother."

We came to a stop a little ways from the front entrance.

"…I am," I said after a pause, wondering what she was getting at. "We all are. He's just finished his Science degree, and after his wedding, he's moving into a new house with his wife and then beginning a degree in Medicine. What's not to be proud of?"

For the second time that day, her green eyes speared me with a keen look from under the brim of her hat. "He's proud of you, too, you know. So are your parents."

I couldn't help it; I immediately broke eye contact. "I know that."

"There's a difference between knowing something as a fact and feeling something as a truth. If your heart doesn't believe it, it doesn't matter how much of a racket your head might put up."

I clenched my jaw and gave a single nod. We stood there for at least five seconds before I looked up. I met her eyes, but on the inside, the wall was up again.

"Do you have a ride home?" I asked.

"Yes, dear." She patted my hand, and her features softened into something that left a bitter taste in my mouth: sympathy. "My granddaughter will be here any moment now. I will be spending the day with her and my two great-grandsons."

"I hope you have a good time."

"Oh, we will. We're going to the park for a spell before going shoe shopping for the youngest. It's amazing how fast they grow at that age…"

"Well, if you're going to the park," I began, a hint of a smile starting to re-emerge, "just remember to not go off with any elderly men that want to take you for a spin in their tricked-out golf carts. They may wear nice clothes and say nice things, but guys only want one thing – no matter their age."

I got the newsletter treatment for a third time. I rubbed my shoulder in an exaggerated manner, pretending that it hurt. Mrs. Callum was more than a little amused by this.

"There you go again! Out of the mouth of a true gentleman!" she teased. "I will take your advice, however. By the by, that's another reason for me to meet this… good friend of yours. I'm sure he'll have many stories to tell me about your own advances. Tricked-out golf carts, indeed!"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah… Hey – I think I see your ride pulling up."

"Oh, yes! That's her." She let go of my arm.

"Are sure you can take the stairs by yourself?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as I held the door open for her.

Mrs. Callum made a flippant wave of her hand. "I'm not that old."

"If you say so."

"I do." She winked at me before stepping through the open doorway. "Oh – can you do something for me?"

I caught the door with the edge of my foot as it started to close. "Sure."

"Promise me that you won't be so hard on yourself?"

I exhaled heavily through my nose. "… We'll see." Outside, I saw that the granddaughter had gotten out of the car and was starting to walk up the steps.

She chuckled, shaking her head, but there was a lingering hint of sadness in her eyes. "Good enough, I suppose."

The granddaughter reached her, then, and I let the door close under its own power. Through the glass, I watched as they carefully made their way down the stairs. At last, I turned away and, thinking that I might as well bite the bullet, I started to walk back towards my family.

That's about the time when some idiot decided it would be a great idea to nearly bowl me over.

The pain in my right side was minimal, but the force of the impact still caused me to lurch forward. My hair obscured my vision enough at that moment that I couldn't immediately recognize who had run into me, but I could distinguish what the person had dropped. On the floor, scattered all around us, were booklets. Big, yellow bubble letters on the front cover exclaimed: Youth Music Camp – Fall and Winter Sessions. Let your soul sing!

"Oh, shoot! I'm so sorry!"

Well, fuck me sideways. This is just my luck.

I pulled back as if I'd been burned and, just as I'd suspected, I saw Isaac, Mrs. Newell's son, standing in front of me. The rest of what he said next was mostly incomprehensible (I caught a few more stammered apologies, but the rest was just nervous babbling). He didn't even look up at me at first; he was too busy picking up the scattered booklets. When he finally did meet my eyes, his first reaction was to press his lips into a tight line and widen his eyes as much as they were physically able.

I felt something in my chest crystalize into ice.

I kneeled down and picked up the remaining booklets. With a defiant jut of my chin, I pressed them to his chest, where he was currently holding the booklets he had already collected. "No problem."

His face, which had paled for a moment, suddenly flooded with colour. His pupils flicked to a spot over my shoulder before resting on my face again. I didn't need to have eyes in the back of my head to know that his mother was watching us.

We both straightened. I held his gaze for as long as I thought it would take my intention to hammer into his mind before I turned on my heel to walk away.

Isaac finally found his voice. "You… I haven't seen your family here in a while."

Unlike his mother, Isaac didn't stay upstairs for Mass. He spent his Sundays downstairs with the children that choose to go to Sunday school; he'd helped out with activities for the children ever since his younger teens. I always opted to stay with my family. Although he and I were the same age, he had gone to the Catholic school, while my mother put my siblings and me through public school. Only Nicolai had gone to the Catholic school for First and Second Grade, but after my mom had had a disagreement with the principal, she'd pulled him out.

It's a trait that runs in the family: Keehls find it hard to forgive.

I turned back. "We never see you most of the time. It's nothing new."

Isaac suddenly took great interest in examining the patterns on the floor. "Well… Well, I know that, but… It's good, you know? It's good that you're back…"

I gave him a mirthless smile and a look that said, Is that all?

He nodded as if in answer to a thought he hadn't spoken aloud. "You should come more often."

The smirk I gave him then was two degrees shy of glacial. I knew the same coldness showed in my eyes.

"For the good of my soul, right?" I retorted.

The ice in my chest felt like it was stabbing my heart with its sharp edges. As I turned away for the final time, the ice shattered, and I felt raw, like old wounds were bleeding anew. Less people were standing in the lobby now, and I easily located my family.

I just wanted to go home.

" – so we'll need a couple hundred Styrofoam cups and plates in total, but we should aim to get extra plastic utensils this time," Mrs. Newell prattled on as I walked up, not even sparing a glance in my direction. "I swear that people must stuff handfuls of them into their pockets!"

My mother kept her expression neutral, but the look that she slid in my direction under her eyelashes was full of warmth. "The children use them in their games. No harm done."

Mrs. Newell pursed her lips, and the angle of her head caused her nose to look sharper, so that it almost looked like a beak; she reminded me of a magpie ruffling its feathers and squawking its displeasure. "Now, that is where our opinions differ."

A little ways away, I saw my father, his back turned to the conversation as he examined one of the stained-glass windows. I hazarded a guess that Nicolai had gotten tired of the inanity and had decided to take the girls out to the car.

I should've gone there first.

"Unfortunately, the committee for the Fall Fair is full," I heard Mrs. Newell say as I tuned back into the conversation, "but plans for next summer's fundraiser are beginning. It would be wonderful if your talents could grace the committee for that event." My teeth clenched involuntarily at the insincerity of the comment. She went on: "It's too bad that you aren't going to enter something in the baking competition at the Fall Fair this year, though. It's just not a competition without you! We all adore your chocolate cake… Your mother's recipe, wasn't it?

"Though, I'm feeling quite confident in my entry this year. Even if you did enter," – at last, she aimed a look in my direction, her lips curling up into what was meant to be a polite smile, but seemed more like a snarl – "I have a strong feeling I'd still win."

I looked over at my mother to see her reaction. Her expression was still guarded, but a spark had ignited in her eyes that I recognized all too well. She drew herself up to her full height – all fiery five feet two inches of her – and she wore an expression that would have made men twice the size of Mrs. Newell wither.

Whenever I see that look on her face, I think that it must have been the expression that history's greatest generals wore each time the winds of war called them into battle.

"As you know," my mother stated evenly, almost sweetly, "we are all entitled to our own opinion."

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

The mood in the car was oppressive as we left the church, as if we had thunderclouds circling around our heads. As we reached the first set of lights, the first crash of thunder rent the air in the form of my mother exclaiming: "That… That…–!"

From in front of me, I heard Rosette pipe up with, "Hey! If you say a bad word, you have to put a nickel in the swear jar, too."

"– Insufferable woman!" my mother finished.

I laughed, shaking my head. "Seriously, Mom, I think her comment bothered you more than it did me."

"Yeah," Miranda, who was sitting next to me, sniffed. "Just look at him over there, lapping up all of the attention."

There were many things I wanted to say to her in that moment, but I chose to communicate them with the force of my glare. Miranda was undaunted. Attention whore, she mouthed to me with a smug smirk. I leaned towards her, eager to wipe it off her face. She jumped and ended up kicking the back of Nicolai's seat.

"Do you two ever stop fighting?" Nicolai shot us a stern look. "Cut it out."

Miranda was sitting back in her seat as far away from me as possible. "I would, but he's such an –"

"Five cents!" Rosette chirped.

"– Asshole."

I snorted. "Trollop."

"Fag."

The car went silent, but the air buzzed with electricity.

My mom whipped her head around. "Miranda!"

"Oh, come on! Did you not hear what he called me?"

My mom opened her mouth to answer, but my dad beat her to it. "That's enough." His tone didn't leave any room for quibbling.

Sullenly, Miranda and I both flipped each other off. Rosette, meanwhile, had her body twisted around in her seat, and she watched this exchange with greedy eyes. She shoved a hand under our noses.

"Five bucks," she whispered to us, "and I won't tell Mom and Dad."

Miranda shook her head obstinately, but I coughed it up for no other reason than I found Rosette's behaviour amusing.

Rosette gave me a little grin and turned back around in her seat. "Daddy!"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Can we stop by 7-11 to get candy? I have money."

I couldn't see it, but by the way that Nicolai moved his shoulders and turned his head, I knew he'd rolled his eyes.

"Yes, we can." My father heaved a sigh.

"Is there something wrong, Al?" my mom asked.

He shook his head slowly and gave her a tired smile. "Oh, nothing… I was just thinking how much I enjoy going to church with my family…"

Nicolai slumped in his seat and muttered, "Amen to that…"