He annoys me a little. How can he be so cool yet sometimes so ignorant?
“You on the pill?”
“Yeah. Sort of. I have this thing in my arm. Mom made me get it.”
“Good.” He switches his tone. “So, why do you think you’re with so many guys?”
“I’m not with ‘so many guys,’” I say defensively.
“Enough guys …”
“I don’t know. Yeah, maybe. But once you start, it’s like, ‘Why not?’” Then I tell him what I always tell Eric:“It just feels good.”
“Well. Hell! Yeah! Of course! Lots of things feel good. But that doesn’t mean you have to always do it. Sure, sex is excellent, hot … but it doesn’t mean you screw every guy you see.”
I get pissed at him. “I don’t!”
His silence is his objection. It pisses me off. If we were done our joint, I’d go back in. I fold my arms and wait for him to pass me the last bit.
“What do you think the guys say about you?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, knowing full well what he means.
“You think they respect you, or do they think you’re trash?”
I laugh.
“No, I’m serious. You think they talk about you?”
I shrug my shoulders.“I don’t know.And I couldn’t care less if they did.”
“You would if you heard what they said.”
I start to get angry.“How do you know what they say? What do you know?”
“I know guys. I was your age, and I’m still a guy. I definitely know guys.”
“Well, I don’t fuckin’ care what they say. I do what I want to do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this: they don’t respect a girl who’s with everyone. They might be nice to your face, but they say shit to each other about you. And I don’t see any of them wanting to be your boyfriend.”
Now I get really mad. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying it like it is, Melissa.”
We’re quiet for a bit. I’m too mad to talk and he’s probably trying to find a way to end a pathetic conversation on a positive note. I consider telling him about Michael, but it would only be for me to prove a point. And in the end I know I’d regret it, ’cause he’d just get pissed about how old he is and get all worked up about wanting to go find him and kick his ass.
“I’m just saying, Melissa, that there’s a reason you’re doing it.” His voice changes to this caring tone. “And if you have sex with so many guys—”
I contest, “Not so many!”
He lights a new joint and passes it over. “So, anyway, the question is, what do you think you get out of it?”
“Now you’re really sounding like my counsellor,” I say, taking the joint and inhaling.
I stand there awhile, staring at the red embers and thinking about it. He’s right. Damn, he’s smart sometimes. There must be something more. I don’t do it to get a boyfriend, like Shayla does. And it’s not like I don’t feel pretty enough to get a guy so I have to be a slut, like Allison. So what is it?
“I guess I like that I’m good at it,” I conclude, not really satisfied with my own answer. I turn and look directly at him. “Why do you like it?”
He laughs and then lights up a cigarette.“I never said I liked it.”
“Whatever. You have three kids.”
He doesn’t respond, so I let it drop. Like me, Freestyle has a short attention span, and once he’s done with a topic, it’s done. He turns and looks in through the window to check the TV. “Those goddamn cartoon beavers on those commercials. Are they faggots or what? Let’s go in. It’s cold out here.”
Twenty-Eight
I usually take the codeine pills from work, just two or three a week. Just enough to keep me going on the boring Saturday and Sunday afternoons when I’ve partied all night and want to crash the next day. I can never really sleep. Not fully, because the E or the coke or whatever is still pulsing in my blood. So I put on a DVD, close the curtains, get under a bunch of blankets on the couch, and pop a pill.
The pills don’t make me feel high, just cozy. And it means I don’t have to worry about my mom, hungover in the next room with whoever she’s with. Or about my neighbour screaming. Or about my friend Sid knocking on the front door with a pocketful of weed and a hard-on in his pants.