Chapter 21 Brave Face #2
There’s a little doubt in her voice, so I admit, I had help choosing it. A guy I know. I’m not sure how to categorize Mats now, besides a guy with far better taste than me.
Oh. Your boyfriend? The one that Jordan got all upset about?
I nod. When I see how nice the pendant looks on her and how Mats was able to choose it without even meeting my mom, I’m struck again by my loss. A partner who filled the gaps in me, on top of everything else we had together.
We’re not going out anymore, I say stiffly, trying to hold back the flood of regret.
Oh, Clee. Don’t tell me you broke up with him just because your brother wanted you to. So, my mother isn’t completely Team Jordan. Maybe she has doubts too?
But before I can ask, my Aunt Kelsie pulls her away. My mom is the guest of honour, after all.
The party is surprisingly fun, despite my bad mood.
It’s nice to be in a place where nobody knows that I’ve just split with Mats.
I talk hockey with my cousins and fend off questions about my personal life.
In an alternate universe, Mats would be beside me, impressing the hell out of my aunts with his style, sophistication, and smooth manners. All qualities I lack.
Maybe because I’m at home, I’m struck by this huge insight: relationships work when people complement each other.
My parents were always fighting for all the oxygen in the room, both of them wanting to be the centre of attention.
Their marriage worked when my mother adored my dad, but once she realized she needed her own spotlight, the fighting began.
Jordan is here, of course, though he’s doing a Frogger-level job of hopping out of my way. But I bide my time; there’s no way I’m leaving without interrogating him once and for all.
Hey, Cleo. What are you doing here?
I turn to see Nick Johnson. He went to my high school, but he’s kind of arrogant. He thinks he’s a big deal because his family owns our local pharmacy and hardware store, so they have money.
Duh, it’s my mother’s birthday, Nick. Why are you here?
Jordan and I hang out a lot these days. Nick is short, and he used to be skinny. But he’s hulked out since high school.
You must really be hitting the gym, I observe politely.
He actually pops a bicep. Barf.
Not so bad yourself, Nelson. Then he actually squeezes my upper arm. Again, I long to have Mats here, because his biceps would make Nick’s biceps look malnourished.
Hey, how about a selfie? Nick drapes an arm around my shoulder and has his phone out before I can even answer. In fact, I’m saying No as he takes the photo.
I brush his arm away. What the fuck, Nick?
Just wanted a photo with the leading scorer of the Monarch women’s team, he says. As if sensing I’m pissed off, he glides away to chat with Jordan.
The dining room table is loaded with food.
It all looks delicious, but I’m probably the only person who feels like crying when she sees the funeral potatoes.
Which reminds me that we still have our Tuesday dinners.
At least I’ll get a chance to talk to Mats; I can apologize, and maybe…
nope, can’t get ahead of myself. First things first: Jordan.
After eating, we all sing Happy Birthday to Mom. She looks flushed and happy and relaxed. That little wrinkle of tension between her eyebrows is gone now. My talk with Graham made me realize that there have been too many times I blamed my mother for things that weren’t her fault.
When I spot Jordan putting on his boots, I collar him.
Going home, baby brother? We haven’t even had a chance to catch up tonight.
I’m not talking to you. He sounds like a petulant toddler.
Yeah, you are. I’m coming with you. I want to see Dad. I grab my coat and pull my own boots on.
I don’t know if that’s a good idea. He might not even be home, and I’m supposed to meet a friend, Jordan says, without meeting my eyes.
Well, then, you can bring me back here. It’ll only take ten minutes.
Our dad’s place is about two miles away.
I used to bike over for visits during the summer.
They split when I was twelve and Jordan was eleven, so we were old enough for some independence but too young to get into real trouble.
Besides, we were jocks. More likely to wreck the house with a game of indoor soccer than do anything illegal.
Our drive is even frostier than the weather. Jordan is first to break. He’s a talker, like me. I think Mom might be thinking of getting married again. I was afraid that they might make some big announcement at the party.
I kind of like Graham, I say. Jordan and I used to bond by making fun of the people our parents dated.
But, as I learned on my ride here, Graham’s not afraid to stand up for Mom.
She was always the disciplinarian, while my dad was the fun parent.
So, maybe now she enjoys relaxing and having someone else look out for her.
I certainly liked Mats’s considerate ways. It was like dating a man after boys.
That’s new, Jordan says.
He was really nice on our drive here, I explain.
Oh, that’s a shot at me because I wouldn’t drive you here. Well, that’s on you. If you never went out with Matsumoto, none of this would have happened, Jordan gripes.
We’re going to talk about this. But I want Dad to be there too. I’m finally going to get to the bottom of what happened.
Dad is home; he’s sitting in his easy chair, watching the Wild play the Vancouver Canucks. Sigh. Yet another reminder of Mats.
Clee, what a wonderful surprise. He gets up and gives me a crushing hug. Can we get you anything?
No, thanks. I’m stuffed from the party, I say.
Ah, yes. How was your mother’s big fête? he asks, with very little interest.
Boring as hell, says Jordan, who seemed to be having a good time every time I saw him. But Dad doesn’t like hearing about parties that were successful without his charming presence.
So, what’s new? How’s hockey going? Are you still the leading scorer on the team? asks my dad.
Yup. We wrapped up the regular season this weekend in first place. Playoffs start in a couple of weeks, if you still want to come to a game. I hate myself for asking again, but it’s automatic now.
Of course, of course. Just send me the schedule. He settles back into his chair and sips his can of beer. Maybe Jordan will come along with his old man.
Fat fucking chance, scoffs my brother. I’d never go to a hockey game at Monarch.
This is my big chance. Speaking of Monarch, I’d really like to know exactly what happened when you got kicked off the team.
Jordan looks at Dad for support, but he seems to be absorbed in the Minnesota power play.
I’ve already told you. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend?
Because he’s not my boyfriend anymore, I state simply.
Jordan’s eyes widen. Fuck yeah! You dumped his ass. Serves him right, I hope he’s miserable. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would have come to get you.
I shrug, trying to suppress how much breaking up still hurts. We didn’t break up because you wanted it to happen.
Whatever. Ace move, Clee. Jordan goes to the kitchen, and I hear the fridge open.
I perch on the edge of my dad’s chair. Well, Dad, you told me that Mats wouldn’t be welcome here, and now we’ve broken up. And I really cared about him. Are you happy?
His gaze shifts to me and he looks a little guilty. Ahh, Clee. I’m sorry I came down so hard on you. But it’s all for the best. You’ll find a much better boyfriend than him. Plenty of fish.
Jordan returns and slumps into the chair beside Dad’s, then raises his can of beer in salute. Yeah, screw that motherfucker. He should just go back where he came from.
What the fuck did he just say?
His words are a wake-up call. I feel nauseous, yet victorious. I was right; I knew once I saw Jordan in person I could get the truth. And here, where he’s completely relaxed, with his defences down, his truth is revealed. My beloved little brother is a fucking racist.
Still, I need to be completely sure. You mean Canada?
Naw. I mean China, Japan, wherever. Jordan is focused on the game, not paying total attention.
That’s a very racist thing to say. Mats is Canadian. And he’s at Monarch because Coach Norman recruited him. The Mustangs needed his hockey skills and leadership—things you didn’t have.
Jordan’s head jerks up in surprise. What the fuck? Has Mats brainwashed you too?
I face him, hands on hips and my voice indignant. No, you’re the only one who’s been brainwashing me. I vouched for you, Jordan. When Coach Norman asked me about that incident in high school with the Black player, I repeated the story you told me—which I now realize was total fucking bullshit.
I turn to my father, who is pretending to ignore our fight since he hates conflict. Dad, why are you just letting all Jordan’s racist shit slide?
Ahh, Clee. He’s young, and he’s had more than his share of bad breaks. Jordan’s not as mature as you, he replies.
What does maturity have to do with prejudice?
The two of them relaxing comfortably here gives me a shattering insight into their lives.
They sit here and complain about the unfairness of life, and how other people get all the breaks.
Because blaming others is easier than looking at yourself and realizing you need to change.
I pity their tiny lives, because they’re only going to shrink further.
And now I’m angry at myself for idealizing both of them for so long. I don’t want to be the mature, responsible one if it means cleaning up my brother’s messes anymore.
Do not ask me for favours ever again, Jordan, I say.
Easy for you to say. You’ve gotten all the breaks, he replies.
How can he even say that? Jordan is actually the more gifted hockey player.
I’ve worked my ass off to better my athletic skills.
I’ve absorbed coaching lessons and worked on my mental game.
We used to train together, and I was the one who kept going after Jordan left to relax or meet his buddies.
Any breaks I’ve had, I made for myself. Why did I never recognize Jordan’s laziness before?
He’s always looking for the easier path.
It’s Mats who has always told the truth. I should have believed in him over my brother, and now I feel even worse about our breakup. I fucked up spectacularly.
I snatch Jordan’s keys from the shelf by the door and slip my boots on. I’m taking your truck to Mom’s. You can figure out how to get it back.
Then I leave, the door slamming very satisfyingly behind me.