Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
It’s Monday, but the coffee shop is closed for the Thanksgiving holiday, which means I get to sleep in.
When I do finally roll out of bed, my first stop is the shower. I’m in the process of towelling off when I hear the ruckus.
Céline is barking at the top of her lungs. A man begins shouting, and then Noémie’s shouting back.
Not knowing what to think, I pull on the first shirt and pair of pants that I can get a hold of and hurry out my bedroom and start down the stairs.
Standing in the foyer, a tall man with broad shoulders and auburn hair towers over Noémie. “Why do you care so much about what he thinks?” he yells, fists balling at his sides.
Noémie looks about to answer, but then she notices me and closes her mouth.
The man turns his head, following her gaze.
“She’s my roommate,” Noémie blurts, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Roommate,” he repeats.
“We also work together. Her name is Jordan.” Noémie pins the man with a look that says he better play nice.
I take that as my cue to descend the last few stairs and introduce myself. I extend my hand to the man. “Nice to meet you.”
I notice that his eyes are very much like Noémie’s. Perhaps slightly darker grey. He looks me up and down. His gaze is a scale, weighing my self worth and value.
“Jordan,” he says, taking my hand in his own. His grip is firm. “I’m Claude?—”
“My brother,” Noémie chirps.
“Nice to meet you, Claude,” I say, dropping his hand.
Claude smirks. “You should bring her to Thanksgiving dinner.”
Noémie purses her lips. “Like I said, I’m not going to dinner unless I’m invited.” Bending, she scoops up Céline who’s still yipping and whining.
Her brother rolls his eyes. “We both know Hugo’s not going to do that, but you know our mother wants you there. She misses you.”
“Then she should be the one asking me to come, not you.”
Claude releases an exaggerated sigh. “Can’t say I didn’t try.” He turns towards the front door. Before leaving, he smiles at me. It’s a predatory smile full of teeth. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Jordan.”
When the front door clicks shut, Noémie walks over to the front window facing the street and opens the blinds slightly. She watches her brother slide into a red Ferrari—I recognize it as the one she’d stormed out of weeks ago.
Claude reverses out of the driveway and peels off.
Noémie closes the blinds. I don’t think she realizes that I’m still around because she sags against the wall and slides down to the floor, burying her face in Céline’s coat.
I move in her direction.
She looks up at me. Her grey eyes sparkle with unshed tears. She looks so small and sad. This is a side of her that I’ve never seen.
I want to wrap her in my arms and hold her tight. But doing that would cross a boundary. We aren’t friends. So I don’t.
Céline squirms in Noémie’s arms until she’s free. The dog shakes its body violently and takes off down the hallway.
Noémie hugs her knees. I drop down beside her and hug my own knees. Our shoulders brush.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
Noémie shakes her head.
I don’t press for an answer. I don’t move. I just sit with her in the silence.
A sad sigh escapes Noémie’s lips, and she leans to rest her head on my shoulder. The scent of her shampoo makes me dizzy.
“Claude hates our father so much,” she states, “and he’s always looking for ways to punish him. I’m so sick of it.”
I frown as I digest what she just told me. “Don’t you hate your dad for cutting you off?”
“No, he has his reasons,” Noémie says. She doesn’t elaborate.
I nod and try not to notice how our bodies touch at multiple points, how hot I feel all over. My fingers itch to comb through her hair, so I sit on them.
A hush ferments between us. I can’t say what is going on in Noémie’s mind. Her gaze seems so distant. Me, I’m trying to think of something to say to tether her back to reality and make her smile.
“So you’re not celebrating Thanksgiving with your family … Did you want to join my family dinner?” I ask.
Noémie lifts her head from my shoulder. Her lips curve up slightly. “Sure, if it won’t be too weird.”
I don’t tell her that it might be weird. I’ve never brought a friend over to meet my family—not even Sarah. My mother always took that to mean that I was embarrassed of where I grew up. She wouldn’t be wrong. Also, I can’t say how my mother and grandmother might react to seeing Noémie. I can’t bank on Amari being polite. I can’t rule out that my cousins won’t be jerks. But it’s too late to take back the invitation.
At quarter to four, I climb into the passenger seat of the Model X and fasten my seatbelt. Noémie starts the car, and we are off, heading out of the city core and eastward towards Scarborough.
Noémie’s playlist is a blend of new music and early 2000s hits that take me back to high school. It surprises me that she’s familiar with The Used and Evanescence.
“Aren’t you a little too young for this music?” I ask, rotating in my seat to look at her.
Noémie’s hands visibly tighten on the steering wheel. “The Used was my sister’s favourite band …” She clears her throat. “And she had an unhealthy obsession with Amy Lee.”
I hadn’t known Noémie had a sister. Then again, I just learned today that she had a brother. There’s so much about her that I don’t know.
“She has great taste in music,” I say.
“Yeah, she did,” Noémie whispers.
Fuck! “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry, it’s okay,” Noémie says, sparing me a brief glance before turning her attention back to the road. “She died years ago …”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt,” I say, thinking about my dad. “The hole of your grief might get smaller with time, but it never goes away.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” she agrees. “October fifth was the anniversary of the … the incident. Antoinette got hit by a car. When that date rolls around, it’s like I feel everything all over again. If that even makes sense.”
“It does,” I say. “My father overdosed three years ago around Christmas, and I can’t find it in myself to feel merry around that time.”
“I guess we have something in common.”
“Guess so,” I say. I’m not sure why I told her about my dad. It’s not something I usually share.
“Were you close with your dad?” she asks.
I blink. “It’s complicated,” I say. “Before my parents divorced, my dad was always around. He was the one who picked Amari and I up from school and made us dinner. My mom’s a nurse, so she’s always worked crazy hours. After the divorce, my grandmother moved in, and my dad’s visits became more infrequent with time.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It is what it is.” I sigh. It crosses my mind that now is the perfect opportunity to ask the question that’s been weighing on my mind. “What’s the deal with your parents? Why’d your dad cut you off?”
“There’s nothing much to say. My family is dysfunctional. It’s always been that way, even before my sister passed,” Noémie says. She pauses for a moment, and I assume it’s because she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “My father has expectations of me and Claude, and if we don’t fall in line … it’s a problem. And even if my mother doesn’t agree with him, she always takes his side.”
“I hate that for you.”
“It’s okay. It is what it is,” she says, parroting my earlier words.
Noémie turns up the music. I take that as a hint that she doesn’t want to talk anymore, and we don’t speak for the rest of the drive.
Arriving at the apartment complex, Noémie parks in a visitor parking space. The shiny Model X stands out amongst the other vehicles in the lot.
When I exit the car, I examine the weathering orange brick building with its rusting grey balconies. Parma Court is one of the rougher places in the General Toronto Area. But as a kid, I never felt unsafe running around the neighbourhood. In fact, I often look back fondly on the days when my cousins and I played tag in the narrow alleys that were always peppered with brown and green glass from shattered beer bottles. I remember summers filled with reggae and R&B, and the aroma of barbecue mingling with the sweet notes of marijuana.
It had been a time before smartphones and unlimited streaming. Adults spent the better part of their days drinking, smoking, and slamming down dominos. Teenagers tended to congregate around the rec center or at the basketball court that had hoops without nets and cracked asphalt. Generally, kids were left alone to wander and explore. The only rule had been that Amari and I needed to be back inside before the streetlights came on.
Yeah. Sometimes, I remember the good things—the laughter, the camaraderie, the adventure. Mostly, I only recall the bad things. Like how the apartment building is infested with roaches that happen to find their way into everything—even the ice cubes in the freezer. Like how rowdy the neighbours are and how often fights breaks out. There were too many nights to count where I was awoken by the ring of sirens and a show of flashing red and blue lights leaking through the sheer curtains covering my bedroom window.
But nothing turns my stomach more than the groups of young men chilling on the block, who holler at girls the moment their boobs start showing—it’s disgusting. As a teenager, I often had to outmanoeuvre being grabbed or fondled. And then there was the time I wasn’t so lucky.
“You okay?”
I blink and look at Noémie. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “Maybe, I’m a little embarrassed. This isn’t Yorkville.”
Noémie rolls her eyes. “I know what you think of me, Jordan, but I’m not a rich white girl who expects everyone I interact with to come from money,” she says. “I would never judge my friends for where they come from.”
She called me her friend. She thought we were friends. I smile at her, and she smiles back.