BY PAULINE SHEN
First published in Dreamers Creative Writing, is. 10, November 2021-February 2022. Copyright is held by the author.
“THEY DO this stuff to cover their ass,” was the first thing you whispered to me after the teacher ushered you in to the assembly. “It’s called P.R.” The projector cast the words, Be Smart, onto the gym wall. CN Rail. They were doing school visits. That was your first day in our class. “Call me Kat,” you said.
“I’m Milly,” I replied. From that day, we hung out at recess. We painted our nails wacky colours and yakked about wicked new bands. Your hair entwined with mine as we shared your headphones — volume cranked. Bush was your favourite. When “Glycerine” came on, you’d play it twice. We both knew the words by heart.
“Gavin’s hot,” you’d sigh.
I remember the first time I slept over at your house on the edge of town. Your parents set up the camper for us in the yard. When we finally lolled off to sleep after midnight, a thundering clatter jolted me from my dream. “It’s just a freight train,” you bellowed and rolled back into slumber. Your property touched the tracks — you were used to the roar.
In eighth grade, we pushed our desks together. We wove friendship bracelets and passed notes. Sometimes, after school, we’d linger in the conservation area and gawk at high school seniors necking in the parking lot. Then we’d laugh and run all the way to your house.
One of those times, a heavy pang pulsed in my guts as we clopped along the trail. “Let’s take a shortcut,” you said while squeezing my elbow and pointing out the crimson blot on the seat of my pants. Aunt Flow was still new to me. We pushed our way up the ravine and followed the rail tracks straight to your place. There, you wasted no time in grabbing a pad and change of clothes. “Cold water,” you said, “will take out the blood.” We dumped my stuff in a bucket and let it soak while we watched MTV. It worked. The stain was gone.
We hung out so much that, by the time we started high school, our cycles synchronized. “That’s our blood bond,” you joshed. I coached you in solving for x, and you showed me how to sew a purse from an old pair of jeans. As high school went on, though, we sat together less often.
By 11th grade, we weren’t in any classes together at all. “Different kinds of smart,” you’d called it. My evenings filled with books. Yours filled with boys. I’d see you on weekends. Maybe.
They say if you burn a note, our departed will get the message. It’s supposed to be spiritual. I’ve never tried it before, but there’s a first for everything. I wanted to tell you these things. I want to tell you I’m sorry.
“Not him!” you thundered when I told you Niall asked me to junior prom. He was hot. You were cold.
“She can’t come to the phone,” your mom answered after countless callbacks. Did I hear sobbing in the background?
Niall was so polite at the door with my parents. He said things like, “good evening,” and cradled my hand to slip a pink rose corsage around my wrist. He caressed my hair when I leaned-in to clip his boutonniere. We smiled for pictures. He smelled amazing.
I thought you were avoiding me. “She wears too much makeup,” he responded when I said I couldn’t find you at the dance. Maybe you were running late, then. Did he just say “kife?” Oh! How Niall’s fingertips tickled my shoulders. How his thumb traced my jaw to meet my lips. “You don’t really wanna stay here,” he whispered.
It took until now for me to grasp the reason you were pissed. It’s the same reason why you knew where to find us that night. I heard your pickup engine barreling down the conservation area’s lane. I remember the way you blasted the horn and projected your high beams right into Niall’s windshield, lighting up his grubby paws on my bare chest. You caught us halfway there.
“Loser!” you yelled. Niall’s reply left spit on your face. Wait, did he just call me a name? I felt your grip tighten around my elbow as you hoisted me out of his car.
“It’s his M.O.” you blurted as your tires rolled into my driveway. I huffed and slammed the door in your face.
Niall never talked to me again; I saw that as a tragedy. I never talked to you again; that was the real one. Age brings wisdom. I think it’s a different kind of smart. It’s what you, my dear friend, would say if you were here.
“Glycerine” came on the radio while I was heading home for Thanksgiving as a university student. Just then, I noticed something. That song has no drums and no bass. There’s one voice with no backup. Solo. Strange how the absence of a thing made me consider it more. Silence is a reminder of what’s missing. Of what’s been left behind. Or what’s been taken away. I cranked the volume and sang along like we used to do. Together. By the last verse, I’d resolved to give you a call.
It was too late. News of your accident was all around town. How you skidded out of the way of a blaring locomotive. How there were two sets of tracks; two trains. The first train was too loud to hear the second. You didn’t see it coming, they said. No one could pull you out in time.
Our last year of high school, you’d flash me a peace sign from the smoking pit while taking a long drag. I’d flip you the bird with one hand as I cradled textbooks with the other. You’d toss your head back, mouth wide, letting smoke billow up toward the boundless sky.
***
Pauline Shen’s work aims to highlight beauty and truth. Her stories showcase strength and unity in the face of countless forces that pull us apart. Her writing and visual art is published with Amethyst Review, Blank Spaces, Cool Beans Lit, Dreamers Creative Writing, and Quibble Lit. Pauline is located in London, Ontario. Follow her blog at paulineshen.ca and on X (Twitter) @ZenPaulineShen
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