GABRIELLE PRENDERGAST
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Text copyright © 2014 Gabrielle Prendergast
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known
or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Prendergast, Gabrielle, author
Capricious / Gabrielle Prendergast.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0267-4 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0268-1 (pdf).-
ISBN 978-1-4598-0269-8 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8631.R448C36 2014 jC813’.6 C2013-907624-7
C2013-907625-5
First published in the United States, 2014
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013954149
Summary: Ella’s plan to have two secret boyfriends backfires when both boys face separate
family crises and Ella is tormented by some girls at her school.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs
provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book
Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia
through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Chantal Gabriell and Teresa Bubela
Cover artwork by Janice Kun
Author photo by Leonard Layton
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468
Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA
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17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1
For Margaret
Contents
Chapter One: Unplanned
Chapter Two: Unmasked
Chapter Three: Unexpected
Chapter Four: Insufficient
Chapter Five: Unruly
Chapter Six: Unseen
Chapter Seven: Imprudent
Chapter Eight: Unfinished
Chapter Nine: Unfeeling
Chapter Ten: Indiscreet
chapter eleven: Infinite
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Unplanned
AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION
I’ve never been a girl to make plans
Beyond about a week in advance
Some girls have their whole lives
Laid out like a spreadsheet
Instead I lay myself out
Samir’s fingers tracing
The curve of my naked hip
On a blood-spotted white sheet
Are you okay? he says, wide-eyed
Neither of us expected our reunion
To find us tearing at each other’s clothes
In the narrow staircase.
He rested his hand on my thigh
As he drove us home from school
And I slid his fingers up and up until
His face flushed hot.
We kissed at the mudroom door and fell inside
Latching the lock behind us
Tumbling upward with arms and legs
And lips and tongues entwined.
It was unplanned and unprepared for.
And Samir is surprised by the blood
I thought you and David might have…
I told you we’re just friends, I say.
Though in my mind David flickers
Brightly and briefly.
The half-naked boy next to me
Is enough distraction.
We should have used a condom, Samir says
Grave and shamed
Are you on the pill?
I reassure him: the wrong time of month etc.
Though worry niggles at me
I’ll deal with it tomorrow
I know where the clinic is
Every smart girl does.
Samir curls his arm around me
And pulls me close
I’ve missed you so much, habibti
He says, I love you.
Can we be back together?
Can it be like it was?
We won’t do this again if you don’t want.
We can pretend it never happened.
I stroke his nascent beard
Breathing in his sweaty sweetness
And touch him, everywhere
Claiming all of him back to me.
HIS PRESENCE
Makes my heart
Grow
Fonder
Stronger
Less inclined to
Wander.
Makes me wonder
At my plan
To pretend
That David is
“Just a friend.”
To play it out
This selfish drama
All the way
To the end.
MOTHER OF THE YEAR
Mom comes home with groceries
Samir and I are on the couch
The TV on, feet touching
Like nothing special happened.
Samir helps her bring the bags in
It’s nice to see you again, Mom says
Will we be seeing more of you?
I hope so, Samir says
And blushes so hard
It makes my heart ache.
When he leaves
I chop carrots and onions
And Mom fixes me in her stare
Until I feel I might crack
And crumble
My skin peeling off in strips
Like old paint.
Do we need to have “the talk”? she says.
Boys look a certain way
When certain things happen
I haven’t forgotten.
Your father still gets that look.
Ew, I say.
I suppose you’re done with David then?
I want to ask her
What she thinks
If I can have them both
But I know she’ll disapprove.
I’m just trying to be mature about it, I say instead
I’m friends with both of them
Nothing happened with Samir.
He’s just happy we’re talking again
And so am I.
LET’S REVIEW
There are rules
To being a white
Middle-class
Christian (sort of)
Teenage girl:
1.Be obsessed with clothes
(I’m not, apart from that one dress)
2.Have a circle of BFFs
(HA! My collection of friends is more like a black hole)
3.Have at most ONE boyfriend
(Who’s counting?)
And some other things
NOT to do
DON’T take naked pictures of yourself
EVER
Just don’t do it
DON’T have sex without protection
EVER
Because that’s just stupid
DON’T lie to your parents
EVER
That always ends badly
DON’T take drugs
This last at least
I have under control
So far.
BUT THESE ARE MY RULES:
On Clothes:
Maybe I AM obsessed
But it’s with the wrong clothes
Or the right ones
Depending on how you look at it.
Because girls’ clothes
Spea
k loudly
She’s a slut
She’s square
She’s a stoner
A nerd
An emo goth
A Muslim
A Mormon
A Jew
So loudly
We sometimes can’t hear
Our own voices.
But I don’t mind if my clothes speak for me
Though I prefer them to say
She’s crazy
After all, it’s better
If everyone knows in advance.
On BFFs and Black Holes:
One girlfriend might be manageable
But they travel in pairs
Or packs
And their density
Stretches me thin
Gravity sucking me
Down
Into the dark places
That are next to
Impossible
To escape.
On Boys:
I’m sixteen years old
Not sixty
Not old and bored
And married.
Are you guys together?
Are you, like, a couple?
What does that even mean?
Do the things I’ve done with Samir
Mean he owns me?
And the things I haven’t done with David
Mean he doesn’t?
What if I
Want to own
Them
Both?
LOGISTICS
There are details
That need working out
Some chess pieces that need
To be carefully placed.
But for now
I swish the spotted sheets from the bed
And bleach them
With my gym socks
And white cotton nightgown.
With Kayli wheezing behind the nebulizer mask
She’s sticking with homeschooling until June
Mom enjoys teaching her, I think
And she’s learning stuff she never thought she would.
I watch Mom
Make dinner and eat dinner
And help her tidy up
And follow her around for an hour
Until I’m sure she won’t barf.
I wait for Dad
He comes home with a pile of essays
And groans as he reads them
Undergrads, he says, despairing
Confusing Constantine and Commodus.
Those morons, I say
Knowing I could never keep my emperors straight
They’re all penguins to me
But the past has always confused me
I can barely manage the present.
FRESH SHEETS
I run my hand over the place
Where Samir lay
Wide-eyed
Breathless
I lied when he asked
Did I hurt you?
I want to hold that moment
They say you never forget
Your first
And I’m not likely to
But just to be sure
I pull out my sketchpad and pencils
And try to find the right
Lines and curves
The way the afternoon light
Dappled the sheets.
But I get stuck on his hand
Holding my face
As he kissed me
Like he thought
I might turn away.
Disembodied
I pin the hand above the bed
And watch it hover over me
Protectively
Possessively
Most of the night.
ANXIETY
I dream of condoms
And lies
And David
And wake up thinking
I am under arrest again.
GOOD FRIDAY
Mom makes fish and chips
Which we eat in front of the TV
Watching Jesus Christ Superstar
While I count the hours
Twenty-four, twenty-five
Twenty-six, twenty-seven
Since Samir and I
Did not use a condom.
The clinic is closed today
In honor of the Crucifixion
Of our Savior.
There is irony in there
Somewhere
But I can’t be bothered
To winkle it out.
Instead
I smother my anxiety
In vinegary chips
And sneak a beer
It’s half-drunk before Dad notices
And scowls at me.
Technically, I know,
I have seventy-two hours
But each hour that clicks by
I worry and wonder
If I’ve stupidly succumbed to
The mother of all screwups.
HOLIDAY HOURS
Women’s clinics should be like peep shows
With discreet private booths.
Instead I transgress a line of protestors
Who should be getting ready for Easter
If they’re as Christian as they claim.
I give the finger to each and every one
And wait with weeping girls
Churlish, chastened boys
And a few disappointed mothers
To speak to a nurse counselor
About morning-afters.
You might have some cramping, she says
And gives me a box of condoms
For next time
Before running through some thought-provoking
questions
Are you safe at home?
Are you safe with your boyfriend?
Yes, I say
I would love to explain to her
That I felt so safe with Samir in my bed
That I never wanted to leave.
I wanted to pull the sheet over our heads
And cocoon us in that soft cotton world.
At the thought
My eyes fill with tears
Happy ones
But who can tell the difference?
So she says,
Is there anything else you want to talk about?
MY LIFE
Yes, my life
I say
As if that provides adequate parameters
For the rest of my fifteen minutes.
The nurse only nods
Anything pertinent.
I only moved here last year, I say
And I went to a new school
And I thought things might be different
Better, but in fact
They were much, much worse.
I met this boy, Samir
And he was so special
And so right for me
And wrong
That my brain kind of frazzled
And thought it would be a good idea
To take a picture of my pussy
And turn it into art
To display at school.
I pause there
Giving the poor woman time
To write something down.
I heard of this case, she says
That was you?
You were arrested, right?
I nod
And take a deep breath
Because I feel a little faint
Like my history is blood
And I’m pouring it onto the floor.
Another boy
David is his name
He put the picture on Facebook
And sent it to a younger friend
Who is a MORMON for God’s sake
And would you believe
He wants to date my sister?
Anyway, his parents weren’t impressed
Or people you want to trifle with.
I breathe again
I breathe
The threads of David and Samir
Tangling and untangling in my mind.
So that was bad enough, I go on
Then this girl, Genie
Took against me
I think she was jealous
Of the attention I was getting
Kids started writing on this wall
Messages of support and unity
I think I became kind of a folk hero
For about five minutes.
But Genie also had a thing for Samir
So she framed him
For a hate crime
And he was going to get arrested too
And everything I tried to do
To fix it
Only made it worse
So we thought we’d run away
But his father caught us together
And even though he was
Surprisingly understanding
I screwed it up again
And ran off
Because something came back
From my old life
And blew me to pieces.
I wait
Breathing
Blinking the stars from my eyes
I see, the nurse says
And what was that?
DARKNESS
I feel sorry for her
Because I know she’s imagining the worst
Some boy mashing me down
Behind a car
Outside a party
That kind of thing.
But before I open my mouth
And tell her what really happened
I remember only four people know
Mom, Dad, Kayli
And Samir, kind of.
I haven’t even told David.
So instead I say
My baby brother died
When I was nine
The half-lie slips out
Slippery as a newborn seal
It upsets me sometimes.
Upsets you?
She consults her notes
“Blew me to pieces,” you said
That sounds like a bit more than upset
Can you tell me more?
How did he die?
It’s easy enough to cry
Over the brother I never had
I only ever saw a photo
Of his tiny unfinished feet
My tears seem to satisfy her
So I don’t explain.
There are only two women
I trust in the whole world
And she’s not one of them.
TWO WOMEN
Mom
Because she bore me
She has to love me.
And Kayli
Because in the end
She needs me
As much as
I need her.
BUT BOYS ON THE OTHER HAND
Sometimes I think of David
With his cell phone
Snickering as he took a picture