8. SUBJECT: HOLY SH*T

to: cassandra.belford@baderu.com

from: weston.maguire@baderu.com

subject: Holy shit

sent: February 15, 2017 at 11:07pm

Dear Cass,

Wow. I mean, seriously, wow.

I'm trying not to let it go to my head, but I'm getting the impression that my emails are actually pretty important to you, or, at the very least, to your book. I'm not sure if I agree with everything you said, but I see your point. I can get on board with an ongoing conversation. Because I get it---this matters. If you're willing to write back, you know, give me some feedback and talk to me, then yeah, sure. We can keep going.

I gotta say, it feels good to have a say in this, and I'm excited to read more of your writing. Your email was really great. Even though most of it was about your roommate, you still felt more like a real person.

I figured I could tell you about my roommates. I live with Peter, Jaz, and Will.

Jaz is a hockey player, too. He's actually our captain. Jaz is a good player, but he's an even better leader. Everyone likes him, and more importantly, we all listen to him. He's also smart, like, smarter than anybody else I know. He's going to law school next year. I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up in politics. Jaz is the kind of person that they make movies about, if that makes sense. His family is from a small and rural town in India, and when Jaz was four they moved here with nothing. He's the first person in his family to go to college, and so he has a lot of responsibility.

When Jaz isn't on the ice, he's at the library. He got a huge scholarship, so his tuition is practically free, but he still works so fucking hard. He's also the only guy I know who never talks about how stressed he is. I think that he genuinely doesn't think he has anything to complain about. Jaz always greets the team with a huge smile, and says things like, "how's it going Wes?" or, "isn't this a great morning to be on the ice?" Not in a preachy way, but in a way that makes us forget it's 5:30am. We're not a great team in our scores, but we all get along because of Jaz.

Will is nothing like Jaz. He's not a bad guy, exactly. He's kind of the way that you described yourself: stuck-up, selfish, with a low tolerance for other people. (On a side note, is that true? I don't really know you, Cassie, but is how you describe yourself how others would describe you? At the bouncy castle party, I thought you looked pretty sweet.)

Will is not sweet. He never learned to play well with others. He's the guy who labels his stuff. Not just his food, but everything. The coffee maker is named Will. So is the butcher's knife and the kitchen radio. And the huge vat of olive oil in the pantry. I wish there was more to say about him, but unless he's pissed about something, he generally keeps to himself.

Lena doesn't live with us, but she's at our place often. She and Peter and I grew up on the same block, went to the same school, and have a lot of the same memories. Lena's pretty and, just as you seem to, she knows it. I used to have a crush on her in high school, right around the time she came out.

We were sitting outside, and Lena was lying in the grass trying to "get some sun." It was pointless. Lena doesn't tan. She burns.

I think we were talking about a TV show, I can't remember which one, when Lena made a big deal about telling a story.

I love Lena. She's funny, she's generous, and she makes the best cupcakes I've ever had in my life.

But the girl cannot tell a story.

She was talking for 20 minutes, no exaggeration, and I was trying really hard to listen because I could tell it was something important, but she was just all over the place. Then she goes, "so I've been trying to understand for a couple of years now, and I think it's time you guys knew---I'm gay. Or a lesbian. I don't know, can a person say, 'I'm lesbian'? Maybe the term isn't as common? Anyway, I talked to my parents last night and they were great, but I still haven't told---"

"Wait, what just happened? Did you just come out?" Peter asked. He'd stopped listening a long time ago and was only now catching up to the conversation.

I was surprised, and I had a lot of questions. But, because he'd zoned out, Peter had more questions, and they all came out a lot faster than Lena had.

So those are my people.

Before I moved to Kingston, I lived with my mom and Sky. Our dad lived with us too until he and my mom split up. I go home to Caledon over breaks and holidays, which I think I mentioned before. My house isn't big or anything; it has three bedrooms and one car that sits out front. When my dad first moved out it felt like the whole thing fell apart. The faucets leaked and the garage would always get stuck when we tried to open it.

My mom learned to fix it all for herself. We would sit and stare at the box of tools she borrowed from our neighbour, wondering which drill we needed to fix the dining room table. It involved a lot of phone calls to my granddad, but we learned how to take care of the house and it started to feel like home again.

My dad lived in a small apartment when he first moved out. He had a kitchen that he didn't know how to use and an old dog from the shelter to keep him company. His name was Bark (my sister named him) but he was a quiet guy. He was big and grey and very old, but, like my dad, he enjoyed having company. Bark lived with my dad for four years, which came as a surprise to everyone. He was already old when we got him. He was smelly and slow, but he was never in any pain, so that's lucky.

Now that I've told you about my family, maybe now you can tell me about yours.

Why do you spend the holidays with Simon? Does your family live further away? I've been trying to picture it, you know, your life before Bader. A huge house, with tall ceilings and a staircase that splits into two directions on the second floor, a pool in the backyard. Maybe a pink bedroom that still looks the same as it did when you were a kid. I can't remember what they're called, but maybe you have one of those beds with a fabric roof on it? (I just googled it, and the word was canopy. I think fabric roof is funny though, so I'm going to leave it there.)

Do you look more like your mom, or your dad? I get the feeling you take after your mom, but maybe she's less intimidating.

Excited to hear from you again.

Take care,

Wes

. . .

Texts sent on February 15, 2017 at 11:39pm:

Simon Idzik: What the fuck is all that noise? Are we being burglarized?

Cassie Belford: Frustration. That noise is frustration. Did I wake you?

Simon Idzik: Yes, obviously.

Simon Idzik: Generally, people do not sleep through a racket like the one you're making.

Simon Idzik: Do you need to talk to someone? Is it another nightmare?

Cassie Belford: Ew. No.

Simon Idzik: What is it then? School? Your book?

Cassie Belford: Book. Indirectly.

Simon Idzik: I'll be there in a second.

Cassie Belford: No, no. It's fine.

Simon Idzik: What happened?

Cassie Belford: I'd just like someone to explain what is it about the Y chromosome that makes men think they know everything? Seriously. It's as if it never crosses a man's mind that there are things outside his scope of understanding.

Simon Idzik: Speaking of Scope, we're out of mouthwash.

Cassie Belford: Ha. Ha. We use Listerine. You go get it.

Simon Idzik: You should go get it. I might accidentally buy us misshelved bleach.

Cassie Belford. Mmm bleach... the diet of the downtrodden.

Simon Idzik: Not cute.

Cassie Belford: Fine, I'll buy mouthwash tomorrow. But only if Hank sleeps in my room this week.

Simon Idzik: You know that he's not supposed to.

Cassie Belford: And you aren't supposed to end a sentence with a preposition. But we make exceptions.

Simon Idzik: He can stay with you for one night. ONE. Back to your frustration: give whoever he is the same shit you give me, and I'm sure he'll smarten up or run screaming.

. . .

to: weston.maguire@baderu.com

from: cassandra.belford@baderu.com

subject: Re:Holy shit

sent: February 17, 2017 at 1:20pm

Weston,

There are a few inaccuracies in your last email that I'd like to acknowledge.

You don't know me. At all. And yet you feel entitled to make assumptions about my family and my childhood? In what world is that okay? I simply refuse to let you walk around with that frilly pink fantasy you imagined. Honestly, I'd given you more credit, Wes.

Would you like to know where I'm really from? It's somewhere entire worlds away from that big house with the grand staircase you described. I'm from a place that has never heard of a canopy.

Let me supplement your faulty imaginings.

I am from a place that reeks of loneliness. It's the kind of place that few people leave and nobody wants to visit. It's not just the low income neighborhoods or questionable water supply... it's the fact that everyone there has thrown in the towel.

My house was the kind of place that tornadoes seek out in movies. It was old and surrounded by decaying lawn ornaments that sat on dirt, gravel, and cigarette butts instead of grass. Yes, Weston, you can break out the banjo, because Belford is the name of White Trash.

House, never home, was broken and unloved, much like my mother.

You were right about one thing; she and I look very much alike, though she's no less intimidating. I should probably be more grateful for her genes. There's no denying that my mother was beautiful. I inherited her thick hair and enviable bone structure, though her cheekbones were sharper and her eyes more narrow. Oh, and her nose was better. Mine doesn't turn up quite as prettily at the tip.

Mother dearest was loose in all the ways that a woman can be loose. Her morals, her sexual appetite, the canon of her predictability---she was loose.

I was born a few weeks after she turned eighteen.

And if you should say a single word about her bravery or motherly love, do not expect a reply from me. Some people should not have children and she was one of them.

My mother never said much about my father. I was told that he was older and passing through town when he and his friends stopped at the diner where she worked as a waitress. Dad must have liked them young, and my mother saw a good looking man who drove a nice car as an opportunity. Maybe she though he'd fall in love with her and whisk her away. They had a quickie in the bathroom, he paid his bill in cash and left. She didn't even get his name.

I never figured out why she didn't just have an abortion.

It wasn't all bad. I got a job as soon as someone would hire me. My first boss was Zackary David Efronn. Yes, he grew up being called Zack Efronn, but for whatever reason, he began using his full name towards the end of 2010.

Zackary owned a small pizza and ice cream place that attracted families and teenagers at all hours. He and his wife, Greta, had named the place Slice and Scoop.

Sloop was a twenty-minute bike ride from my mother's place, but they paid me fairly and let me eat dinner there whenever I was working. The place was badly lit and served consistently mediocre food. It was modeled to look like a 1950s style diner, with red vinyl seats, shiny silver tables, and printed photos of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe on the walls.

Zackary handled the financial side of things, and Greta put herself in charge of everything else.

Mrs. Efronn was rotund and always wore a full face of cakey makeup. She was secure about her weight; her confidence was enviable. She always said she'd rather be round in the ass and pretty in the face than skinny and look like a horse (this was particularly mean because Zackary did look like a horse).

I would ride my bike to Sloop after last period from 7th grade to senior year, and work until 9:00pm.

There was another girl who worked there with me when Greta and Zackary went home: Francine Porter. She was a year older than me, with small eyes, pointed features, and terribly dry hair. Zackary called her Franny, which she obviously hated. I waited years for her to tell him that being called Franny made her feel even uglier than she was, but she never did. Zackary made her work in the back.

He put Franny way back in the fanny where nobody ever had to look at her.

I, he said, was good for business. People kept coming back, despite the shitty food and service. Guys I recognized from school would sit in booths and take turns glancing at me. Even some of the fathers would stare at me when their wives were wiping chocolate off their kids' faces.

Whatever. The tips were generally good.

The worst days were those that forced Zackary, Greta and I to all work the same shift. They needed everyone there when they booked a birthday party.

It was terrible. Kids would shriek, and moms would try to sing, and Greta and Zackary would inevitably start a passive-aggressive fight.

"Cassie, ask my husband if he thinks the sun is gonna cook the pizzas or if he plans to stick them in the oven."

"Hey Cass, honey, do you mind cleaning the corner booth when my wife moves her fat ass out of the way?" Zackary only called me pet names to piss off Greta.

"Cass, don't date men who can't see past their noses. Especially if that nose is bigger than his dick."

"Don't talk like that in front of the kid!"

The jabs and snarky faces would last for hours, but eventually, he'd always go back to calling her sweetness and I'd go back to wondering how either of them could stand the other.

My mother loved that I had a job. The house was small, and hiding places were limited. Since Zackary paid me in cash, every once in awhile, she would go hunting for my treasure. I was pretty good at understanding how her small and narrow mind worked, even at 14 years old.

Once I knew which hiding places she'd found, I would stash a maximum of four dollars there, and hide the rest in really good spots (In the fleshy cotton of a pillow, in the pages of library books, in the battery compartment of a flashlight, etc.) I think she only ended up stealing about two-hundred dollars from me before I opened a bank account that she couldn't access.

Between saving from Sloop, student grants, and the scholarships I got, I didn't need her help to get to Bader.

I'm not a genius or anything, but I'm smart.

My mother told me that she was smart and got good grades before I "came along" (as if I wandered into her uterus) but somehow, I doubt that. I think she liked to remind me that I played a role in the destruction of her life.

Just so you know, I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you this so you can at least try to understand my personal history, rather than making one up for yourself.

Now, Weston, we find ourselves at a crossroad. You can recognize your assumptions for what they were---false. You can apologize, and we can move on from this blunder. Or, you can continue to write me off, and I can go about the painstaking process of finding someone new to help me with my work.

I need you to understand that the things you said were not okay. You don't get to decide what kind of person I am. Sure, the clichéd pretty little princess under a pink canopy is a cute idea, but it's also a fucking lie. From this point moving forward, I strongly suggest you avoid making guesses about me and I'll extend you the same kindness; I think it would be best for our correspondence.

Sincerely,

Cassie