20: Merci Dieu, C'est Vendredi

☽ Peter ☽

The first indication that my day is going to be terrible is directly after my alarm rings, and I can't find my glasses. My wrist hits the wall, and the shelf beside me shakes like it's about to fall over and crash into my face. My room is decidedly blurry, and even when I squint, I can't see anything.

I rub my eyes. It serves nothing to clear my vision; without them, Nicole says I could wake up in a parallel universe and I wouldn't notice a difference.

And my alarm is still ringing. I move to shut it off and realize the notification bar is clogged with messages from the group chat. Based on the amount of texts, Nicole woke up before me, and early morning I haven't had my coffee yet Nicole is not in her best state.

I finally locate my glasses a few minutes later, and once I have them on, I step into my bathroom. Since it's spirit week, and despite my initial reluctance to participate, eventually Nicole and I agreed that we'd have less of a chance of embarrassing ourselves if we teamed up. It's pyjama day, so I keep my sweatshirt on and put on a pair of flannel pants that could pass for regular clothes—in case I'm the only person in my classes who looks out of place.

Finished, I make my way downstairs to the living room. Mom has just finished making breakfast—beignets—so I take my seat at the kitchen table. The granite countertop is covered in powdered sugar, dyeing the apron my mother is wearing.

"I hope I didn't wake you," she says by way of greeting. "Your father is across the street, fixing all the rooms on the third floor. The water isn't working. I thought I'd bring them something to eat while they wait."

"Shouldn't Lotus do that?" I ask.

She shakes her head at me. "It's not the same. We need to make a good impression."

I eat my breakfast and hold myself back from rolling my eyes. Of course, we're the only hotel in town. I don't think they have much choice.

My mother's pager sticks out from under the apron, permanently attached to her. I wait for it to beep, but she simply continues humming as she waits for the breakfast to finish. "Pierre, don't you have a meeting with your psychiatrist today?"

I should have known she would bring it up. It's like clockwork, and so I say, "Yes."

"How's it going?" she asks.

I don't think I know what to say to that. It isn't like therapy is a ladder where the only direction to go is upwards. It's more like a sliding scale, a game of snakes and ladders where some days I can forge ahead as if nothing is wrong, and other days I backslide to the beginning. "It's fine."

I know what she wants me to say. That I'm done with needing my brain power-washed, that I can function without intervention. But I also suspect she's still thinking about what little she knows about Sam; I never told my parents about him, and maybe that was my best defence.

Once breakfast is finished, I step outside and drive the fresh beignets to the hotel. The lights on the third floor are illuminated in a row, and through the open curtains, I spot my father's shadow, nervously pacing back and forth. Outside, the sign is flipped to closed, and upon entering, the lobby is strangely silent. Typically, I can hear the pipes groaning at odd intervals, or the sounds of guests travelling through the hallways.

I set down the plate and head back out to Europa. By the time I get there, my phone has buzzed with countless texts, and even without checking, I know they're all from Nicole. That girl really has a charm for sending each sentence in its own individual text.

Nicole:

pierre, you're coming to pick me up right?

Without paying much mind to it, I type up my response and hit send.

Peter:

Yes. Sorry. I got caught up doing hotel stuff.

But when I look at the messages, I realize she's texting me from the Astronomy Club group chat. My stomach twists in knots as I watch a reply appear.

Jay:

Why are we doing this in the club chat

Nicole:

Because we can

Jay:

Oh my god

I was trying to sleep

Jesus

Lexa:

Put the chat on mute then.

Nicole:

what they said ^^

Jay:

I'm sorry I'm not psychically able to know you were going to start texting everyone at six in the morning, my bad

Peter:

Who was awake at six A.M.?

Nicole:

hello yes, t'was me

Evan:

Also my fault. I was awake too

Nicole:

Six am buddies

Jay:

Do I even want to know?

Nicole:

its literally not my fault, my circuit rhythm is messed up

Peter:

You mean circadian rhythm.

Nicole:

whatEVER

Evan:

lol

I was on a morning run

Lexa:

Why would you willingly go on a "morning run"

Evan:

Is that a serious question?

Nicole:

yes

Lexa:

Yes

Evan:

It's relaxing?

Lexa:

You're insane

I scoff, travelling to Nicole's apartment. It takes her an eternity to get down to the street, and when she shows up, she's wearing her pyjamas. A fuzzy pair of pants decorated with cats wearing party hats and an oversized sweater to match.

She hits me with the sleeve as she climbs inside. "You look boring," she says, pulling up her hood. The soft lining of it frames her face, with two cat ears poking out.

I shoot her a smile. Then she continues, "Can we get coffee first? I promised sporty-hottie boy I would get him Tim's on the way to school."

I don't bother pointing out the nickname this time, (but let it be known that I still oppose it). There's only one Tim Hortons in Northwood; it's where the students congregate during lunchtime. Predictably, the parking lot is full to the brim, so Nicole fetches her order while I wait in the car. She returns ten minutes later, a tower of red cups in her hands. Waving her paper bag at me, she says, "Guess who got donuts. Want one?"

"I already had breakfast." I was never a coffee person before Nicole started drinking it. It seems to have the opposite effect on us; she turns into a caffeine-fuelled menace, and I stop jittering long enough to get me through the day. I take a prolonged sip as Nicole pouts about not being invited for breakfast.

"I would literally die for your mother's blueberry waffles. I don't think you understand. Like, I would commit actual, honest-to-fucking-God murder for them. Why would you forsake me like this?"

"I wonder why," I reply humourlessly. "In all seriousness, my parents love you. I'm sure you can come and visit."

She knocks back her coffee cup. "As long as I don't have to fix a sink or some shit while I'm there."

"That's understandable." Not that I'd let her touch the hotel, but considering that I can't help either, we're evenly matched when it comes to using a wrench.

"Oh," she says, tipping her cup towards me, "by the way, Evan wants to come with us on Halloween."

This is the second indication. I already over-shared to Evan about my family while we were hiking, and the thought of winding up in the same position is making me queasy. It's the same rush of a waterfall that happens to me when he mentions a topic I like: the floodgates open, and my knowledge spills out, and I can't quite make myself stop. "Why?"

Nicole shrugs. I'm holding the steering wheel with both hands; my coffee is sitting in its designated spot by the heater, and during the pauses at the stop signs, I take a drink. "Well, it might be because I mentioned it in the group chat, and he said he wanted to come, so I invited him. I couldn't just not invite him, Pierre. I'm not..."

I catch the implication, even though she doesn't say it. I'm not like you. "Well, that explains it. Of course, he wants to come if you invited him. That's normally how it works."

Once we get to the school, I breeze through my drink. Weaving between the students in the hallway, Nicole prances over to the cafeteria, pushing between the crowd without a care in the world. The hood of her sweater slips down, and her dishevelled hair stands on edge, jolted with electricity. Approaching Evan and Claire, she raises her voice to liftoff. "Hey. I'm so sorry to bother you."

For his part, Evan looks bewildered. His legs are thrown onto the table, and he takes out one of his headphones. The cord hangs between him and Claire, an unbroken thread that reunites them. "I don't—"

But Nicole interrupts him with, "I... I was accidentally given an extra coffee this morning. And I don't know if you want... I figured I would ask, just in case, you know—you wanted to take it from me."

"Sure." Evan reaches for the cup, and the tangled headphones force Claire closer to him. She flips her hair between her fingertips and smiles glossily at Nicole.

I watch Nicole as she walks away, her cheeks pinched to keep herself from laughing. She fidgets with the zipper of her pyjamas, and as she passes me, she gives me a high-five. "Miss Lethbridge thinks I'm trying to poison her boyfriend."

"Are you?" I lift an eyebrow at her.

She snorts. "Of course I didn't put fucking arsenic in his coffee. How would I even manage that?"

To be fair, she did say she'd commit murder for waffles. "Ah, so you were kidding before? That makes a lot more sense."

☆ ☽ ☆

My mother works at the clinic, in its secluded corner of town. The automatic doors slide open for me as I enter, and the scent of cleaning supplies bombards me immediately. I once shadowed my mother for a week, as part of the school's career fair back in seventh grade. And I wore her lab coat, with our family name printed on the front and a pen stuck in the pocket, a finger puppet given to me by one of the nurses in my hands.

It was the first time I'd been inside a place that was entirely its own, where the outside world didn't exist. There was no time for town drama, and certainly, no time to care about who I was. It is maybe the only place in Northwood where my last name isn't associated with the hotel.

Drifting over to the elevator, I press the button and wait for it to arrive. As I get on, a vaguely familiar face adjusts her crutches and hobbles off. I've seen her before; she must be a grade eleven student, the one who broke her leg after getting in a car crash outside of town—Lyra, I believe her name is. She nods, and I return the gesture. I have seen other students in the elevator before, and I don't know them personally most of the time. It's like a secret that never leaves the confines of the building. I was never here.

I pick up the script for my new medicine, an easy transaction. Maybe this time it'll work, unlike the four previous attempts. Or maybe my brain is just unfixable.

Before I head back home for the day, I join my mother in the atrium of the clinic. Each of my shoes is placed in the centre of a tile. In the stagnant waiting room, chairs sit in a row, a few of them occupied. The clock above the reception desk ticks, showing a time that's far ahead of my phone. Next to it are clocks displaying the time in different time zones, the second hand moving slightly out of synch.

My mother comes into view, and the elevator doors close behind her. She rubs her hands clean with hand sanitizer before she sits in the seat next to mine, so that we aren't technically facing each other, but staring at the wall.

"Thank goodness that today is Friday." Her voice is different when we're outside the house, just like mine is. It's crisper, like we're both trying to scrub away the accent. It reminds me of the signs in Northwood; how they can never seem to decide which language comes first. Half of the posters on the wall place English first, and the other half does the opposite. "I brought you this."

She extends a finger puppet towards me. It looks handmade; its tiny dots for eyes, and hair made of string. It's wearing round glasses and a folded polo shirt. "One of the nurses made it," she says.

"I feel a bit too old for puppets."

"Honestly," my mother mutters under her breath. "I know life was different for your father, but he needs to quit it with the comparisons about what he did when he was your age. Je m'en câlisse." (I don't care.) She taps my shoulder lightly. "You're never too old to have fun. That's what I think."

"Sure." I shrug, staring down at the puppet.

"I'm trying to get time off soon. I want us to get out of town for a few days. The fresh air would do us all some good, don't you think?"

Away. Ever since the Astronomy Club meetings, I'm periodically checking the time. I don't have the dates memorized like Evan does, but I'm dividing the hours into minutes, trying to figure out what the point of it is. The question isn't why he's counting—that part I can understand—but what I don't get is what he's counting down for. It's not like the world is going to forget the past three years, and counting only makes me realize how slowly this year is passing.

"Sure," I repeat, knowing exactly what my parents want me to get away from.