Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
“I’m not going to sleep with her.” I shove a cardboard box into Amari’s outstretched hands.
My older sister snorts. “You said the same thing about your art teacher,” she says. “And wasn’t she wifed up?”
It’s times like this that I wonder why I tell Amari anything. It’s just like her to throw past indiscretions in my face.
“Professor. And I didn’t know she had a husband—she never wore a ring,” I explain, not sure why I even bother. I’ve probably told Amari a million times now that I thought Ms. Moretti was single. But Amari always likes to think the worst of me. Trying to convince her otherwise is wasted breath.
Bending, I reach for a box and grunt as I pick it up. It’s heavy, and Amari is blocking my path through the doorway.
I glare at her. “Quit being useless. The truck isn’t going to pack itself.”
“Don’t cheese me, fam.” My sister rolls her eyes. “You should be nice to me styll—am here doing you a favour.”
It’s my turn to snort. “You’re only here because you’re nosy.”
Years ago, when I’d moved out of our mother’s apartment to live with Sarah, Amari had been far too busy sleeping in to assist me. But now that I’m moving to Yorkville to live with Poutine Heaven’s founder’s daughter, Amari just happens to be free and willing to lend a hand. I don’t buy Amari’s newfound altruism. Not for a second.
I’m losing my grip on the box. “Seriously, can you move out of the way?”
Side-eyeing me, Amari turns and walks out of the bedroom.
I follow my sister up the stairs and hurry over to Uncle Weston’s truck. He’d been nice enough to loan it to me for the day, which saves me the cost of renting a U-Haul—though I’m not sure I have enough things to warrant renting a moving van. Over the course of the last few weeks, I’ve sold or given away what little furniture I owned along with the kitchen table and sofa Sarah left behind. Now, all my worldly possessions fit into eight boxes and three black trash bags.
Unloading my burden onto one of the back seats of the Tacoma, I let out a sigh and wipe away the sweat weeping down my forehead.
Outside, the air is cool and crisp. Summer is in the rearview. In a week, it’ll be Thanksgiving. The leaves are starting to change colours, and it won’t be long before the foliage falls, losing colour and brightness to decay. I stare at a giant maple and consider that, in a lot of ways, I’m just like a leaf. I budded and grew, and for a moment, I even shone bright and healthy. But now I languish on the branch of life. It’s only a matter of time before I detach and break down. I’m scared I will become my father. I don’t want to die alone.
“Who’s being useless now, eh?” Amari says, bumping me a little too forcefully.
“Ouch,” I say, rubbing my shoulder and shooting daggers at her with my eyes.
Amari smirks.
Thirty minutes later, the basement apartment is empty, the truck is fully loaded, and I’m seated behind the steering wheel. As I back out the driveway, an odd sensation comes over me. Perhaps it is trepidation. Maybe it’s more a feeling of moving towards something.
Definitely, moving in with Noémie is not the wisest decision. There’s a high chance that things won’t pan out well. Like, at any moment, Hugo St. Pierre might welcome his daughter back into the fold. And where will that leave me? I doubt Mr. St. Pierre would approve of his daughter living with a dyke.
And my track record’s not the best. I’ve never been good at denying myself. What if I can’t keep my hands to myself? What if I cross a line? What if Noémie lets me? My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I continue thinking up ways that moving in with Noémie can blow up in my face. Sarah would say that I am doom spiralling.
Amari connects her phone to the truck. Cardi B’s “WAP” blares through the speakers. The lyrical rhymes about wet-ass pussy are not helping my anxiety, and I’m reminded of the TikTok video of Noémie and her hot blonde friend twerking to this very song. My body tingles.
Shifting in my seat, I lean forward to change the music.
Amari smacks my hand away from the controls. “Not interested in hearing your white-ass music, fam,” she says.
My jaw clenches. I hate it when Amari tells me that I’m white or that my interests are so white. I’m much lighter skinned than my sister, and my hair texture is finer. Amari has always held this against me. In my sister’s eyes, I am more like our father than our mother. In my sister’s eyes, I am a traitor to my race because I enjoy classic rock, refuse to talk like Scarborough mans, and actively avoid going to any parties or cookouts hosted on the block.
Amari knows full well why I keep my distance. She knows why I left home as soon as I could afford it. She knows why I barely visit. But she refuses to acknowledge what happened. Instead, Amari prefers to make ridiculous statements. She likes to tell me that I don’t like Black people and that I’m one of those lesbians who hate men. I don’t hate all men, and the first statement is completely false.
I’m proud of my Jamaican heritage. But I’m also proud of our Scandinavian roots—our father’s roots. My sister, however, rejects that part of herself. From an early age, she wedged a distance between herself and our father, and when he passed away, I don’t think she spared a single tear for him.
“Can you just change the song?” I ask. “I’m not in the mood to hear it.”
My sister sucks her teeth and turns up the volume. “I don’t care what you’re in the mood for, fam.”
I grit my teeth but don’t bother trying to change the song again. There’s no point.
Almost an hour later, I turn onto the quiet street leading to Noémie’s Victorian home.
Amari whistles. “This hood’s a straight up Jeff Bezos flex,” she says. “You sure you’re trynna live here? Karen might call the boydem on you for trespassing.”
Until my sister mentioned it, I never considered how I might be perceived by Noémie’s neighbours. While I don’t think the police will be called on me, I likely would get the odd stare here and there from the bordering residents. Like hot sauce on ice cream, I don’t belong in Yorkville. Scarborough is written all over me. It’s my swagger. It’s how I dress. For a long time, it was even how I spoke. I have conflicting feelings about where I’m from. People in general love to hate on my hood, but it’s the mecca of Toronto culture. Even big celebrities like Drake adopt our slang.
I pull into the empty driveway, and my sister exits the truck before I cut the engine. She leans against the hood and stares up at the home. I know she’s looking for a flaw—something negative that she can point out. But there are none to find. The home is gorgeous.
Amari’s face curdles—the lines between her brows and around her mouth deepen. “Deadass, I should start eating pussy too—find me a rich snow bunny with a nice crib to put me up.”
“I am not sleeping with Noémie,” I say, slamming the truck door.
“Samira says you fuck with everyone.”
At the mention of my ex—who is inconveniently my sister’s best friend—I tense. “Samira doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I say, knowing my rebuttal doesn’t matter. “And Noémie’s straight.”
Amari doesn’t care about the truth. Sometimes, I think her sole purpose in life is to piss me off. Sometimes, I wish our relationship could be different. It eats at me that she hates me. Kinda pathetic, but even in my thirties, I seek my older sister’s approval.
Amari folds her arms and gives me a cutting once over with her eyes. “Samira was straight until you fucked her,” she states, her tone pure ice.
When Amari found out about me and Samira, she nearly had an aneurysm—she’d been so angry. And for more than six months after, she’d given Samira the silent treatment—a big deal considering they’d been inseparable since kindergarten. All these years later, my sister still hasn’t let it go. She thinks I’m the one who corrupted her best friend. Truth is, Samira’s the one who corrupted me.
I was twelve when I realized I was gay. I’d been sitting on the floor between Samira’s legs as she braided my hair—a quite common occurrence back then. But for whatever reason, I suddenly became hyperaware of the sensation of her parting my hair with the tail of the comb and the scent of cocoa butter on her skin—the warmth radiating from the centre of her thighs.
When Samira finished, she’d bade me to turn around so she could appraise her work. I remember thinking that the light-blue Baby Phat track suit looked good on her. Without a mirror to see my reflection, I can’t say for sure what expression I emoted, but whatever it was made Samira smile devilishly. “You’re cute, but too young,” she’d said, her words making my heart liquify. And then she’d leaned over and brushed her lips against my cheek before running off to find my sister.
Even all these years later, I still recall my cheek burning from her chaste kiss.
Amari assumed that I’d been Samira’s first relationship with a woman, but I wasn’t. Before me, she’d been in at least two other sapphic partnerships. But knowing that her best friend wouldn’t have approved, Samira had kept her sexuality to herself until Amari stumbled in on us.
I decide not to acknowledge my sister’s comment. I decide to push thoughts of Samira away and grab one of the three trash bags filled with my clothes, slinging it over my shoulder.
The front door opens and Noémie steps outside, carrying a wriggling Céline in her arms. My breath hitches, and all I can hope is that Amari doesn’t notice. If she notices, she will say something. My sister might say something regardless. The grip I have on the bag tightens.
This afternoon, Noémie is dressed in a tangerine romper. Her auburn hair is loose, cascading past her shoulders.
Amari’s gaze darts between me and Noémie. Her lips curve deviously.
“I swear to God, Amari, you better not say anything,” I whisper sharply.
“You always think the worst of me.”
“I wonder why that is,” I mutter.
There’s a ball of dread rolling around in my stomach as Noémie descends the short staircase. The little dog is yapping and clawing at the neckline of her romper.
Noémie stops near Amari and extends a hand. “Hi,” she says, flashing her perfect smile. “You must be Jordan’s sister. I’m Noémie—I work at the coffee shop with her.”
Amari shakes Noémie’s hand and returns the smile. “Yes, I’m Amari. I must say your home is absolutely stunning,” she says, putting on her customer service voice. It’s so fake that I almost miss the Toronto slang. “And who is this adorable guy?” My sister coos.
“Her name is Céline,” Noémie replies proudly. Her grey eyes dart over to me and to the bag I carry. “Do you need help unloading the truck?”
“No,” I say, at the same time Amari says, “Yes.”
I glare at my sister and she glares back.
“I don’t have a lot to unpack,” I elaborate. Why is Noémie offering to help anyways? Seems out of character for her.
“If she’s offering to help, why not let her,” Amari says, still maintaining an air of politeness.
“It’s no bother. Let me just put Céline down,” Noémie says, rushing back into the house.
The moment she disappears, Amari whirls on me. “Nyeah eh, that bitch looks like Amy fucking Adams. And you’re saying that you’re not gonna fuck with her—okay buddy.”