22: How Should I Know?

☽ Peter ☽

The week drags incessantly, to the point where I'm convinced time is playing tricks on me, digging its fingers into the mediocrity of each day and never letting go.

Halloween decorations line the hotel walls as the month draws to a close. Bent over her seat, Nicole paints her nails a bright shade of green. The same colour invades her outfit, a holographic t-shirt and matching pants. On her head, a headband with two green pompoms bounces as she moves.

Seated behind the desk, I bend over the guest book next to me. As I record the number of guests for the week—eleven, which is three more than the average for October—Nicole slams her hands against the table. "Are you done?"

"Almost," I reply. She hovers over me, tapping her shoes against the floor. The noise it makes is erratic—the beat of an unknown song. Two hits of her foot against the desk, then three.

"It'll be dark soon. I can't believe you want to work today." Sighing dramatically, she twirls a strand of her hair around one of the hotel's pens. She covers the logo, cutting the crescent moon in half. "By the time we get out there, all the best candy will be gone."

I sigh. "Please don't poison yourself with Reece's Pieces."

"You don't tell me how to live my life. If I want to die eating peanuts, then that's what I'm going to do. At least then I get to die like a badass."

I take a sip of water. My throat is dry—it tastes almost scratchy when I swallow—from the new medication that the psychiatrist prescribed. It's the most prominent side effect, besides a slight headache. "Dying from a peanut allergy is not as cool as you think it is. Please tell me you brought your EpiPen."

She blinks at me. Her eyeshadow makes her lashes longer, and the slightest hue of blush highlights her cheeks. When it catches the light, she looks a bit otherworldly, which I'm guessing was the intention. Nicole can be sweet when she tries, and the mismatched clothes she usually wears is like the mimicry of a butterfly, but if I'm honest, I'm not sure what she's distracting from. "I can't believe you sometimes. You're on my case just like my dad, do you know that?"

"If I'm half as worried as him, you can hit me over the head," I say, knowing that Nicole's father tends to get himself worked up about it. It's the only time that he does, however, and for good reason. Seven-year-old Nicole thought it was funny (read: a terrible idea) to shovel ten peanut butter cookies into her mouth before I could stop her, sending her to the hospital. She wasn't even guilty about it; I feel like I just cursed humanity with my hubris, she'd said, and in that case, it was worth it.

"You're not even ready yet. My costume makes no sense without yours," Nicole says.

She waves the pen at me, smudging her finger with green paint. As she moves toward me, I duck. Pushing the guest list out of the way, I amble out of my seat and walk over to the seating area. The semicircle of chairs hosts my costume, which contains three pieces. The helmet with its visor, that feels like putting a fishbowl on my head—and the jacket and pants. Nicole is grinning ear-to-ear when I slide on the jacket. The sleeves glitter with silver, and it's backed by a cluster of stars. My mother stitched my name on the front, right underneath the NASA emblem, like it's always been there, like it's a real jacket and not a Spirit Halloween knockoff.

"Very Chris Hadfield of you," she says, and I smile, although I look nothing like the astronaut. He was practically my idol in middle school; we had gathered in the gymnasium to watch a live feed of the first Canadian astronaut to walk in space. Nicole cinches my collar so she can zip it up. "Now we match."

I can't believe I agreed to this. The alien and astronaut combination was sort of my idea, but I had to wrangle Nicole out of multiple (horrible) ideas first. This was the least embarrassing suggestion, so I'm willing to take what I can get. "You did tell Evan that we're matching, didn't you?" My voice sounds faint, behind the thin plastic of the helmet.

Her smile slides off her face. "Fuck," she whispers, "I thought you were doing that. I mean, you were both at the movie. And you didn't think to bring it up?"

"Why would I bring it up when you were meant to tell him?"

"Oh, my god," she murmurs, stalking off to pace around me in catatonic circles. She says it again, softer. "Oh, my god. Oh, my fucking god. We are going to look like such jerks."

I glare at her. I don't know if she can see it through the visor, so I lower it. "We? This is not a 'we' issue, Duford, it's a 'you' issue. It's your fault. I accept no responsibility for this."

"Okay! But it's not like I can fix it now. We're stuck like this, and he's coming in, like, five minutes. Maybe I can convince him I already said it, and he just forgot—"

"Absolutely not."

My mother comes into the lobby, taking over after my shift concludes. She sweeps her braids behind her head and organizes the shelf to her side. "I thought you'd have left by now," she says.

"We're waiting for our third person," Nicole says.

This seems to catch my mother's attention. "Ah, I didn't know. Who?"

Facing the window, I watch Evan's car snake its way up the street. He lingers in the parking lot for a bit before ambling out. He's dressed like a pilot; aviator sunglasses propped against his caramel hair, camouflage jacket and a dog tag hanging from his neck. As he enters, Nicole clasps her hand to her chest. "It's a miracle. We match!"

Evan grins. The clothes cling to the muscles on his arms, framing his angular shoulders. It fits him perfectly—he lowers his sunglasses in slow motion as Nicole launches herself through the room to strangle him, or rather trap him in a hug. I might have imagined it, but he flinches—ever so slightly—and recovers before Nicole notices it. "What?"

He scans her costume and nods in approval. "Oh, yeah, I guess we do." Evan turns to the front desk and addresses my mother. I introduce them, my eyes playing ping-pong between the two. For his part, Evan smiles like a politician. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Delacroix."

"Oh, you don't have to call me that when I'm outside of the clinic. Please, it's Madeleine." She brushes him off, but I can tell he's gained some parental respect with that. She offers the three of us a pillowcase each to hold the candy. "It looks awfully brisk out there. Do you want a coat, Nicole?"

Nicole shakes her head. "I'll be fine. We can huddle for warmth." And she kicks my ankle, so I shove her back.

She continues the assault until we've stepped outside the hotel. The gentle wind rakes through the leaves, blowing in circles around the stop sign at the end of the road. We cut through Daybreak street to the bending street that runs close to the water. In the darkness, the waves look like onyx stones as they lap against the rocky shore, colliding with the white froth. Waves move in sets; although the seventh is not always the biggest, I find myself counting anyway, just to see the sleeper wave appear. It appears as we stroll past, shedding droplets of stray water onto the ground.

"There's a house here that gives out full candy bars," Nicole tells Evan in an utterly serious tone of voice, "and we need to find it, no matter what happens. I do not settle for fun-size."

"It's right before the house that gives out a toothbrush," I say.

"Which we are skipping at all costs," Nicole replies from ahead of me.

Evan chuckles, scraping his hair back. The curls seem to be stuck with gel but are rebelling anyway, drooping into his eyes. Pivoting to look at him, Nicole says, "I thought you would go with your girlfriend."

"Oh, she's hanging out with her friends from the student council. They're hosting a party by the waterfront, I think. This is much more... fun."

"Hanging out with us is fun?" Nicole asks, her eyebrows quirking.

"If that's the case, I feel bad for you," I add.

We reach the cul-de-sac buzzing with activity. Music filters out of the house closest to the water, drowning out the sound of the water splashing. Nicole instructs me to crouch down while we visit the houses, which makes Evan chuckle every time. After we complete the first row of houses, she leads us down a shortcut all while tearing packets of candy open at an alarming speed.

As the moon shines in the distance, and the cottony clouds pass overhead. In the cities that border Northwood, the stars are practically invisible. They shield themselves behind the cover of the hazy light, and even though Northwood is not that huge, the orange tint from the surrounding buildings spills into the constellations like a stain that never truly recedes.

I could spend hours gazing up at the refracting stars until my head starts to spin and it feels like I'm detaching myself from reality. It's the opposite of grounding—the opposite of naming objects around me to keep me rooted to the present—and yet it works in the same fashion. It's the same form of serenity; the reminder that nothing is permanent, and everything is temporary.

A few minutes later, we run into Jay and Lexa. The former is dressed like a cowboy, complete with a brimmed hat and boots that jingle when he walks. (Lexa does not seem impressed by this, for their part, as their Leia from Star Wars doesn't quite fit without an accompanying Luke.)

"Where's Tyler?" Evan asks.

Shrugging, Jay pretends to chew on a piece of grass. "With your sister, I think. Said they were too busy making a song to study for their test."

Evan's tone is measured as he replies, "Well, she already got in trouble once this week, so... if anything happens, I swear to God, I will kill you and your brother."

"You can't kill Tyler," Lexa says, aghast. "He's the only sane person in the family! As in, he's the only one who hasn't completely lost his goddamn mind yet."

Since Lexa and Jay are closer to Nicole than to me, (she was the reason they both joined the club, in any case) I know little about them. If I remember correctly, Jay is the middle child, between his older brother Zachary and Tyler. I'm pretty sure Zach is a student, and as far as I understand it, left the country to study law.

"Canley," Jay starts, addressing Lexa, "you have to admit, I'm at least somewhat sane."

"Not in that Halloween costume, you aren't." They shake their head at him.

Evan tilts his head. "What is your costume, anyway?" he asks Lexa.

A collective gasp emits from the group. "Please tell me you're kidding," Nicole says.

"No, but I feel like I should—"

"Princess Leia, from Star Wars," Lexa interrupts, pointing to the buns in their hair. "You've seen the movies, right?"

Evan laughs nervously and shakes his head. In response, Nicole grapples him into her arms and exclaims, "We have to fix that, like, as soon as plausible."

"Possible," Lexa and I say at the same time.

She rolls her eyes. "That's it. We're hosting a movie marathon. No arguments. Watching those movies is a cultural experience. You can't be part of an Astronomy Club without having seen them—it's just not right."

Lexa and Nicole start planning their ultimate overnight movie marathon as the night goes on. I stay behind them, with Evan walking next to me.

Not knowing how else to proceed, I spin an imaginary roulette wheel, filled with Suzanna's conversation starters. (I ignore the voice inside my head telling me it's my imagination, so I decide where it lands.) "How are your classes going?"

He shoves his hand into his pocket only to remove it a moment later to scratch behind his neck. "If I tell you something, do you promise not to judge me for it?"

"Why would I judge you?" I reply.

He looks at me. It's easier to meet his gaze when the helmet of my costume keeps him from staring directly at me. "Just promise me, okay?"

"Okay. I won't make fun of you."

Slinging the pillowcase over his shoulder, he opens his mouth like he's debating it, mauling it over in his head. "I told you before that I'm in a math class—math at work, where we learn about fractions, and accounting, and a bunch of other shit that's useless to me. It's non-university prep. So... it's stupid math, basically, and I hate it. Claire was trying to convince me to apply to university as if I could ever get accepted with my stupid math class. My mom signed me up for it. I almost failed math eleven last year, and she didn't want me to get taken off the team. And I'm pretty sure she screwed my future."

I blink at him, lifting my hand to adjust my glasses. There's no reason for it; the helmet is keeping them firmly in place. But I don't know what else to do. "It's not stupid math."

"Come on. You're in IB calculus. Don't pity me, Peter. I know that I'm not as smart as you, or even as smart as Nicole, but you don't have to pretend otherwise."

"I don't think you're stupid. Really, I don't. And I would know, because I've met a lot of idiots."

He stares at the path ahead of us, and I wonder what he's thinking. "That totally doesn't sound pretentious at all."

"I wasn't—" I start, but he lets out a tiny laugh, and I belatedly realize he's kidding. "Ah, I mean, I'm an idiot sometimes. That should be obvious by now. But what I mean is—I'm not that smart either. I didn't have the best grades in grade ten, and for a while, I thought I would have to retake grade ten math, and that would ruin all of my plans, and... I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sure you're better at it than you think. As in... you could take math again next semester, right?"

Sighing, Evan cranes his head to the trees hanging over his head. When he walks, the stray leaves crunch under his boots like the quiet shattering of glass. "And if I fail?"

"And if you don't?"

Softly, he replies, "Then maybe I would have a chance of getting out of this town. Maybe it was on purpose, you know? Maybe my mom doesn't want me to leave, because—"he gestures to the ocean—"what the hell could be better than this?"

I follow his line of sight, and I guess the view would be remarkable if it was the first time I was seeing it. Looking at the water is the same as looking at the painting in the hotel's lobby; after so long, it mutates into an indistinguishable bundle of shapes, and watching guests stare at it in awe only confuses me further. "Why would she do that?" I ask quietly. I don't expect Evan to answer me, but he does.

"Because she's scared of being left to fend for herself," he says. Then, as if swerving to avoid falling into a cliff, he switches the topic. "Where are you going once you graduate?"

"Probably Mount Allison," I answer. "It's close, and I can keep working at the hotel over the summer. I think it's a compromise, really. And what about you?"

He shrugs. "That's the question, isn't it? I don't fucking know. And I feel like I should. Everyone else does. It's expected, by now. But I still have so much time left to decide, and it's like a contradiction. I was researching different places... colleges, mostly. I don't have the grades for university."

"Really? Which college?" I can tell he knows more than he's letting on; it's in his minute movements, in the way he slowly lets it slip, as if it's a secret he's been holding onto for all this time.

"NSCC," he murmurs, "it's a community college in Nova Scotia. I would be able to study art. But I'd have to submit a portfolio, and... I don't know. I wouldn't know where to start."

"But if you want to do it..." The unsaid words hang between us. Evan nods, so I continue, "I can help if you want."

He pushes a hand through his hair again. I guess it's a nervous habit, as he can't seem to stop repeating the action, even though there isn't a curl out of place. "You don't think it's stupid?"

"Éric, if you want to do it, then that means it's worth doing. There's still a lot of time. How many days are left—two hundred and forty... five days, isn't it? I can't remember."

"Two hundred and forty-three," he corrects. And I must have counted wrong. I don't know how he keeps track.

And that's when it dawns on me. "You know how I know you'll be okay? You have that countdown clock. Could anyone idiotic do that? I mean, I don't think they could."

He pauses for a few moments. "That doesn't count. It's different. I'm not... I'm basically just subtracting the total days in a school year with how many weeks have passed. It's thirty-four weeks right now, so..." He stops again to look at my expression and reaches over to hit me on the arm. His punch (as light as he tries to make it) is strong, and I rub my hand over the bruise I can feel forming. "Don't call me smart. I'm not smart."

I lift my hand in surrender. "I said nothing."

"You were about to. I can feel it."