14: The Basement Floor

☽ Peter ☽

On Tuesday, I meet Ms. Crozier in the club room a few minutes between classes, the sign-up sheet on the desk in front of me. My name is at the top, followed by Nicole, and then Evan. Three names, and three blank spaces left to fill. Are we ever going to get there? This feels like we're one point away from a passing grade, one step away from success.

And I don't want to settle for that.

"Well, you're halfway there," Ms. Crozier says. "That's progress. How about the telescopes?"

I spent the weekend pouring over the sheet she gave me, and after many hours of research (that included a temporary break to post about it for facts at midnight), I had come to somewhat of a relative conclusion. "As far as beginner telescopes go, I was trying to find one that would be easy to set up, and relatively light. It's, uh... this one."

I rifle through my pockets and unfold the paper I've been keeping with the model number etched on it. "Celestron. It comes with two lenses, a ten millimetre and a twenty millimetre, and we'd probably have to find our own moon filter and a Barlow lens, but, I mean, all things considered..."

"Wow, I wasn't expecting you to do such in-depth research," she says. "I'll have to make a note of those—what are they, lenses?—to bring it up to the faculty. And if you have the time, would you mind seeing if you can find them? If not, I can figure it out—I'll mark it down as an expense either way—in preparation for the next week. We can worry about the semantics of it when we get there." She copies the number from me with a smile. "Okay, got it. These two thingies you need are supposed to do what, exactly?"

"Uh, the Barlow lens increases the magnification. And the moon filter is... pretty self-explanatory, it makes it easier to view the moon—it would look much too bright if we don't have one."

"Right." She nods. "Thank you. I wouldn't have known about any of that otherwise. I can take care of getting the telescope. Are you fine with looking for the lenses?"

I guess this is what I get for accepting the unofficial-official role of Club President. The one that Nicole unceremoniously shoved me into, but I digress. "Sure."

☆ ☽ ☆

My restless legs are shaking under the desk, and I press my hands against the table as a stabilizer. It's the day of the class presentations for history, and I'm next in the queue. Practicing aloud never serves me well, so I have my script written out in front of me, on a sheet of loose-leaf paper littered with reminders from Nicole in the margin, written in a variety of glitter gel pens. Keep going! You got this. Kick ass, and if anyone tells you to speak up, punch them in the face.

When my name is called, I get to my feet and cast a smile at the student who offered to stay and change the PowerPoint for me, Charlotte Johnson. Part of being in the French program is that the class size is small; the same group ends up in every class. Normally, I find this fact comforting. There was a familiarity in seeing the same twenty faces for three years. Right now, it just feels like they know too much, that they know me. I didn't give this class permission to know me, and I didn't want that.

I gave Sam permission. That was, blatantly, the wrong decision.

The presentation starts as expected. I stay on script, and I periodically glance to the ceiling, pretending to look at the class. Eye contact is part of the grade, it always is, and if I could get away with taking off my glasses to make the world so blurry that I wouldn't be able to see each person staring directly at me, I would do it. Unfortunately, I tried that once before, and I couldn't manage to see the page either. Quoi faire? Ça sera ce que ça sera. (What to do? It will be what it will be.)

Past the halfway mark, I deviate from the page. Looking down at it, the sentences melt together. The paragraphs all look identical, and I have no idea where I stopped. My hands grow clammy, and even though the effects don't show up visibly, I can feel my face heating up. The pause extends on and on, my eyes scanning the paper in front of me. Nicole's handwriting in the corner directs me to an arrow pointing to a sentence a third of the way down—and I locate the place where I left off. Gulping, I fumble to fill in the silence and resume where I left off, the faintest smile on my face fading quickly.

As soon as I'm finished, and nobody has any questions to ask, I return to my seat. The thought of excusing myself from the room enters my head, but I promptly chase it away. If I did that, it would only draw unnecessary attention to myself.

I sit in silence, listening to the next presentation as I fold my script in half. I keep folding it into smaller squares until I have a block of paper about the size of my fingertip. I'm keeping my head tilted towards my desk, inspecting the scribbling written there, places where the wood has chipped off and previous occupants have filled it with test answers and cartoon figures.

When the bell rings, I fall into step with the steady stream of students. The history classes are on the basement floor of the school, conveniently tucked away from the chaos. But the best location is the far corner, beneath the stairway. It's quiet, abandoned, and has an exit door beside it, as well as a bathroom directly across from it—the only place in the small building where I know I won't be bothered.

I reach the stairway, and the door slams shut before I get there. Through the glass, the gravel pathway diverts to a cluster of trees overlooking the main road. A slight breeze bustles the grass, sending it swaying from side to side.

I turn halfway around, pinching the bridge of my nose. A sigh, torn apart by hitching breaths, tries to push its way out of me.

I sit with my back against the wall; my elbows propped against my legs to prevent touching the floor.

And I shut my eyes, staying there until I lose track of time.

☆ ☽ ☆

Scattered across the desk at the hotel, university brochures in a variety of colours coat every spare centimetre. The names of the programs have knit together in my blurring vision. The school's career fair took up my last two classes, which I spent flitting about and waiting in lineups. My social battery is sufficiently drained for the next century.

In the back room, I spot Dina quietly helping herself to the microwave. "How's the search going?" she asks.

"Sorry?" I lift my head, my chair rolling backward a little. "Ah, you mean those." I point to the glossy brochures covered in staged photographs of students on campus plastered in merchandise.

"Yes, those. I came into the room twice and you didn't notice."

I place the paper down. "No, you're right. I should be paying attention. I can do this later, anyway. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you."

Dina smiles. She points her fork at me and waves it through the air. "It's not a big deal. I was being sneaky, trying to slip past you while you were distracted. What university are you looking at, anyhow?"

"None in particular, to be honest," I say, sighing. "I'd like to stay relatively close to Northwood, in case... my dad needs the help."

She tosses her plastic bowl in the garbage can as she approaches, her lips pursed. "That is something you didn't tell me before. I wasn't aware you were the owner's son."

"I tend not to mention it. It works out better for me that way," I reply.

She leans against the desk, her name tag lifting from her shirt. Pinned next to it is a button with a Hindi script. "It would have been nice to know that before I spoke to him and called you an employee."

"I am an employee. One hired by nepotism, nevertheless."

Dina blinks. "I don't think that's how..."

"Right." I force a chuckle. "I was kidding."

Strangely, I'm used to this reaction. Dina gives me a chuckle out of pity. It's the same reaction I get from my parents, and even from Nicole, who claims my straight-faced way of delivering jokes throws her off. The trouble of fixing this issue has never been solved, for nobody can seem to explain what I'm supposed to do.

"What does your button say?" I ask when the silence grows too heavy.

Dina glances down at her pin. "Oh! Shaanti. It's the Hindi word for peace. I got a button maker a few weeks ago, and I've been learning how to use it. Personally, I think it was a wage well spent."

I wonder if making buttons for the Astronomy Club would help us find our elusive sixth member. "Sounds like it. Does it take a lot of work to make?"

"Not really. I make the image on a computer, and print it out before pressing it with the machine. If you want, I can show you. It's pretty self-explanatory."

I nod. "That would be great. I doubt it'll work, but... maybe it'll help bring someone into my club. Did you see the posters?"

"That was you?" Dina asks. "Wow, I wouldn't have guessed. A science club, isn't it?"

I nod. "It's a bit, uh, boring at the moment, but I'm trying to make it into... well, I'm trying to avoid turning into another version of the chess club."

Her eyebrow lifts. "We have a chess club?"

And so the mystery of the club-that-isn't-technically-a-club continues. "Case in point."

Dina checks the time on my monitor and gasps softly. "I should get back to work. If you want... we could use the extra help? We're missing a waiter today."

"Again?" I I grab my gloves. The boxes are split evenly between my mother, who uses them for work, and the hotel staff, who end up walking around with (on occasion, bright pink) medical-grade gloves. Dina watches me for a moment before adjusting her hairpin, clipping her long hair back into place.

At least she doesn't ask. The usual routine is avoiding the questioning glances, waiting with my breath held for the inevitable time where I am asked why.

"It's the new waiter," Dina says, without missing a beat. "I'm not sure he actually exists. We might have hired a ghost."

We head through the connecting hallway beside the elevator to the restaurant, its tables occupied by a few scattered patrons. Dina checks the sheet behind the desk and heaves a sigh, directing me to the drinks section. I follow her cautiously as she explains what I have left to do—cleaning the machines, mostly. And she scuttles away to attend to the remaining guests, leaving me to finish the job.

I have helped at Lotus before, so I know what I'm doing. Time slides away without me noticing, and by the time I check the adjacent window, the sun is shining on the horizon, casting a burnt orange light on the waves outside the hotel.

When the last diners leave, Dina exhales and starts to clear their table. "So, is this the only Hope Hotel?"

I smile slightly at that, half-turning to her. I don't know when the hotel's name got confounded; when Croix turned to Croyances. I guess it makes more sense that way.

"What?" Dina asks.

I shrug. "Nothing. And there is another one in Montréal. Dad wants to expand and make the business into a chain."

She wipes her table down in one fluid movement, sliding the glossy menus under her arm. "I get the sense you don't want him to do that."

"Not necessarily. It's complicated." And by that, I mean I've been skirting around the subject every time my father brings it up. I take the extra shifts and deal with it, as I'm expected to do. It's in the Delacroix blood apparently, except that couldn't be further from the truth. The name doesn't belong to my grandfather—it never did—but to the French who colonized Martinique. All we have is a semblance of an identity, a flicker of persistence.

"And by complicated, you mean?"

"I like this job, I really do," I reply, "but it's a temporary one. I don't want to work behind the front desk forever. I think I'd drive myself mad if I forced myself to do that. I don't know how to explain that to my father—he learned how to renovate and repair to continue working here. I should have that responsibility next, but I'd rather just... study for a while."

Dina nods. "I see. I think I understand how you feel. My parents didn't want me to get a job at first. But they can't speak English as well as I can. I had to explain that to them. It's not easy. It takes time. I'm used to it—I have to make all the phone calls for my mother. She refuses to do it as if whoever is on the other end is going to judge her."

"Where is she from?"

"India," Dina says. "Both of my parents are. We came here to live near my brother, Amit. He's been in New Brunswick for a long time. It was lucky we were approved. What about you?"

I answer, "Here."

Dina pauses her work to look at me. "Like, your whole life?"

"Yeah, I was born in Northwood." This is the answer that seems to satisfy her. I step away from the partition to glance at the lobby, my eyes spotting someone waiting in front of my desk. It's a middle-aged man, his foot tapping against the floor impatiently as he stares at the sign indicating that I stepped away for a moment.

I squint, trying to figure out why he looks familiar. But then it clicks, and I stand there, stuck in place.

Sam's father. I can count the number of times I've seen him on one hand; he checks into the hotel for a night every few months. I've never pressed it, and quite honestly, I'm not sure I want to know.

"Everything okay?" Dina asks.

I nod. "Yeah, I'll... be right back."

Without checking to make sure she's heard me, I reach for my name tag and take it off my shirt, sliding it into my pocket. Once done, I step forward, holding my breath.

"How can I help you?" It bursts out of my mouth in one prolonged breath as I slide my pamphlets to the side. Sam's father keeps staring at the sign, Gone for fifteen minutes / Parti pour quinze minutes.

"It was longer than fifteen minutes," he says, eventually.

I apologize with a careful smile. "I'd be happy to help you now."

Even to me, the sentiment sounds false. I practiced it before speaking, so it seems flat—the pause that extends between us probably isn't helping my case. For some unknown reason, I can't force myself to sit in my chair; remaining standing feels more plausible, like I'm going to break the curse if I dare to move.

"Is there an available suite on the top floor?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes. I can book you the one on the corner, if you'd like. It overlooks the bay."

"Sounds fine."

I drag out dad's notebook, writing the room number down. He prefers it to the computer system we have to track guests—the faster way—and insists on continuing for the sake of tradition. We have huge binders filled with my grandfather's first guests, people who stayed in his home before the hotel was built.

Sometimes dad will encounter a passerby, and leaf through his pages to make the connection that someone with the same name stayed with us in 1987. His notes—written one third in Creole, one third in French, and the other in English, are practically decipherable only to me, a code that allows him to scatter comments throughout.

I hand Sam's father his key card and watch him as he heads to the elevator. The last time that I saw the man last year, it was at a game we both attended. I was warned against approaching him; if I had, the house of cards that Sam had so carefully created would have fallen and revealed how much he'd lied to me. How much Sam was keeping from them.

I doubt his parents would believe me.

The elevator door slides closed behind Sam's father, shutting the door on the encounter, and perhaps closing the door on the past. And I take my name tag from my pocket and slide it back into place.

☆ ☽ ☆

When my shift ends, shortly before six in the afternoon, I drive to the mall. The sun hasn't begun to set yet, and the sky is a soft crimson. Thick clouds devour the colour, making it a muted, watered-down pink. The glare at nighttime sets me slightly on edge; I grip the steering wheel and keep track of the yellow lines gliding past me on either side.

I don't hate driving. I got my license mostly to keep Nicole off the road (hopefully forever) and because the driving test consisted of navigating through three intersections and then parking in an empty parking lot. The only way to fail is to drive straight through a red light—or, in Nicole's case—careen past the police station going eighty kilometres an hour.

Just for the sake of it, I always slow down at that intersection.

For a meagre population of around two thousand and five hundred, Northwood's mall is nothing extravagant. It's a relatively small building, and most of its stores have remained unchanged for years. As such, visiting it hardly bothers me. The mall is routine, and it isn't nearly as intimidating as going to a soccer game. There's a small, almost unnoticeable difference between the two: everyone knows my name at North High. Outside of its boundary, I feel less watched by the crowd. At least the stares don't follow me; it's just a sea of people moving to a destination, and as long as I'm moving in harmony with them, I'm safe.

I'm wearing a fresh pair of clear gloves on my hands to keep the sensory overload from getting to me, but they are unnoticeable when paired with my sweater.

Walking through the mall, I have a list of five stores to verify. I assume that none of them have either items I need, but Ms. Crozier is busy, and I am not about to let her down.

After the first two places prove unsuccessful, I head down to the first level and wind around the corner. After finally finding what I need, I exit the store. The grey tiles on the floor are sparkling, clear like a polished coin. I glance up from my paper and fold it into a square, placing it back inside my pocket.

A seating area along the thoroughfare, occupied by a preteen girl, catches my attention for a moment as she says, "Evan, wait, take this with you."

I pause, turning to look. Sure enough, standing next to the girl, with his arms crossed, is Evan McKenna. He swipes a package of fruit snacks from her. "Who gave you these?"

The girl looks like him—with the same sharp hazel eyes and curly hair—and although her cheeks are rounder, his skin paler, I can guess they're related. "I traded my sandwich for them. You're welcome."

He scoffs, moving his hands so that I can see the name tag on his clothes, belonging to the store behind him. "Please stop giving away your food," he says and glances up. Our eyes connect for the briefest second.

I have two options:

Option 1: Pretend I didn't see him. This is a stupid option, because it's obvious that he knows who I am. I would be fooling nobody if I were to keep walking and ignore him.

Option 2: Go over and intrude on his conversation. (Logically, this should be the clear right answer, but I neither want to make small talk, nor do I know what I would say once I get there.)

Apparently, there's a third option, which is what I end up doing; standing there without moving. Evan waves and his sister swivels to look at me, effectively trapping us.

He introduces me to the girl, Elaine, who throws up a peace sign and informs Evan his break is almost over. He nods his head in the direction of the store, prompting me to follow him.

"You caught me." Evan runs a hand through his hair.

My thoughts are stuck cycling between wondering how this town is so small and wondering why I keep running into him like this. If I keep it up, he's going to start thinking that I'm stalking him. (Which is what Nicole was doing, and I don't know if she ever stopped, which is not comforting in the least.) "I... what?"

"The club," Evan replies, chuckling slightly.

"Ah, right. I didn't think you were going to come this week." I pause, and Evan gives a halfhearted shrug.

"Contrary to popular belief, I actually enjoy it. Who's running for club vice president? Anyone?"

"Nicole seems to think Lexa will volunteer. I don't know if anyone else is vying for the spot, though. Why?"

He scuffs his shoe against the ground. "I thought I had to run it by you first. Since you're the Club President. You know, by default."

"Club dictator," I say, remembering Nicole's terminology. "And it's not necessarily a big deal."

Evan smiles. He's not really looking at me; he's looking past me, which is what I'm doing to him. We're both bypassing the subject, and part of me wants to move past it. But Sam's father is in a hotel room, relaxing, and I can't stop thinking that it's related. That I am never getting away from it until I find out exactly what Sam wanted.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to," Evan says. "You can tell me if you don't want that. I swear I won't take it personally." He holds his hands up, as if pleading with me.

"We happen to need someone to do it, so I'll allow it. I don't mean to push you out."

"No, I get it. Here, I'll give you my phone number, in case you want to use it." Extending his palm in my direction, I place my phone into his grasp after unlocking it. Evan only takes a few seconds to locate my contacts and add himself there, but time seems to extend for far longer.

"I should really get back to work, I'm already past my fifteen minute break. I'll see you at the club?"

I nod. "Okay. Good luck with your campaign."