I'm working on a longer project, but had to stop and write this, because I couldn't get it out of my head. Special thanks to my editors, Alianath Iriad and Lastman416, for their comments and corrections. They really helped straighten me out on this one.
*****
It was the 4th of June. I was nineteen years old. I'd finished my first year of university, and was back (for the second time) at the best summer job I'd ever had. I didn't need a shower after every shift, my hands and my back didn't hurt, and the pay was excellent.
My phone rang, and I heard the haunting chords of Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way'. I hadn't listened to that song very often, this past year, but it would be forever associated (in my mind, at least) with Lisa Lejeune, the young lady who was calling me now - that's why I had made it her ringtone. But this might have been the second time she had
ever
called me.
- "Hello?"
- "Hey Kyle! It's Lisa."
- "Lisa who?"
- "Ha-ha. How are you, guy?"
- "Good, Lisa. You?"
- "Great! Listen: I have a proposition for you."
- "Oh?"
- "Not
that
kind of proposition." I could picture Lisa smiling, enjoying the opportunity to tease me, as she had done for years.
- "I'm at work, Leece." I said.
- "Cool cool." she said. "Look, I'm back on campus. Would you have time for a coffee tonight, or a beer or something? I can explain what's up."
- "I can be free by 7. Beer sounds better."
- "The Twelve Apostles? At 8:00?"
- "I'll see you there."
The Twelve Apostles was a pretentious pizzeria. But they had a dozen exotic beers on tap (hence the name), and rotated the brews regularly.
Lisa Lejeune. After all this time.
She was sporty, fun, clever, and I'd had a crush on her since Grade 11. I didn't think that I was attracted to redheads until I met Lisa. We sat together in advanced math, and I enjoyed helping her. She had a wicked sense of humour.
God knows where I found the courage, but I asked her out.
She let me down relatively easily, quoting from the friend-zone handbook. I really like you, but ... I hope we can stay friends.
No, Lisa. I'm going to remain obsessed with you, staining my sheets nightly as I fantasize about you. To my surprise, Lisa paid me more attention
after
that disaster than she had before. It was almost as if she had been barely aware of me at all until I asked her out - but now, I was on her radar, however remotely.
In Grade 12, we shared two classes. She sat on the opposite side of the room, with her besties, but we interacted occasionally. Lisa would joke with me, and tease me. I'm fairly quick-witted, so we shared some fun repartee.
Was she at all curious about me? She had to know that I was still interested.
So I gathered my courage, and asked her to the senior prom.
- "Kyle ... I like you. I mean, I really like you - as a friend."
I understood. She was a 9, and I was a 6 - on a good day. I wasn't popular enough, or good-looking enough to sit at a table at the prom with Lisa's friends. I wasn't rich, and I didn't have a car. Lisa liked athletes, and I'd never played for any of the school teams, because I'd always been at work.
Lisa went to the prom with Roger De Vries. They were an item for about a month after that before they broke up.
Most of our graduating class didn't go to college or university. Of those who did, the majority stayed local. There were only a few who went to Mac (McMaster). I did, because they offered an academic scholarship and a co-op program where I could work and make money over the summer. I'd even made enough during the year to buy an old car. It wasn't glamorous, but it was reliable.
Lisa was one of the few who went there, too, because both of her parents were alumni. They'd met there, and married before they graduated. It was fore-ordained that Lisa would go to Mac, since they were paying her way.
No, it didn't affect my decision. In fact, it might have been better for me if she hadn't been there. I kept my distance from Lisa, but couldn't help running into her from time to time. She would ask if I'd been home, if I'd run into any of our old crowd - I never asked why she called it 'our' crowd, as if we'd been part of it together, on the same level.
Lisa would joke around, and tease me a bit. She'd ask if I was dating - the answer was 'not really'. Somehow she always got around to that subject. Then she'd bat her eyes, and tilt her head a bit, with a little sad smile.
- "You're not still stuck on me, are you?" she would ask.
- "Nah." I would lie. I could have drawn a map of her freckles from memory.
Then she would playfully push my arm, or elbow me, and look at me in that particular way, as if she was saying 'C'mon ... we both know you still want a piece of this'.
God help me, but I did.
I continued to wonder if she was even the least bit curious about me - about what she might have missed. But I suspected that she liked keeping me on the hook because it stoked her ego. If she was ever down, it must have felt good to remember that she had a faithful admirer that still hadn't gotten over her.
Life goes on, of course. I'd been with a few girls, and even got a few call-backs. But none of those encounters turned into a longer relationship. So I had no reason
not
to go and meet Lisa, and hear her proposition.
She looked awesome, of course. Her red hair was so clean and so thoroughly brushed that it positively shone. She was wearing shorts and a thin summer top over a light bra (it was already unseasonably hot and muggy for June). Lisa was five foot seven, with a slender but perfectly shaped body.
She looked up and saw me, and flashed me a smile, showcasing her perfect teeth. Her Dad was a dentist.
- "Kyle!" She waved me over.
- "Hey, Leece." I sat down opposite her in the little booth she'd commandeered.
- "What'll you have?" she asked. "My treat."
Interesting. That made it more likely that her 'proposition' was some kind of favour, something she needed that would benefit me only marginally, if at all.
I ordered a Weissbier. "So, this proposition of yours?"
- "Right. You remember Bailey Walker." She stated it as a simple fact. Of course I did.
Bailey Walker was the closest thing to royalty our high school had had. Blonde hair (dyed), blue eyes, perfect teeth, perfect skin, gorgeous face, rockin' body ... she had it all. Her parents were loaded, so Bailey wore a different outfit every day of the week, and rarely wore the same thing more than two or three times a semester.
She dated Steve Holmgren, a rich, popular, good-looking guy. He played tennis and golf (he was the junior club champion). Bailey was the Social Queen; together they were the Golden Couple.
Bailey was surprisingly nice. She
knew
that she was superior, in every way that counted, so she didn't go out of her way to rub it in. She had parties at her house - or mansion, I should say - and invited most of our graduating class. Bailey was pretty good at remembering names, too, which was not something I'd have expected from her. Girls probably envied her, guys definitely lusted after her, but most everybody liked Bailey Walker.
Steve, on the other hand, was an asshole. I worked at the golf club where he and his family were members. You know that old saying about getting a job: it's not what you know, it's
who
you know? Well, my uncle was good friends with the head groundskeeper at the golf club.
Steve Holmgren would be dressed to the nines, in his golf clothes (who the fuck wears
red
pants?), while I'd be in my grubby jeans and work boots, with a filthy T-shirt, all dirty and sweaty. Sometimes I'd be driving an ATV, changing the pin locations on the greens, or riding a mower, but most of the work was landscaping. My hands knew the feel of a shovel. It was hard work, and the pay was shitty. But I needed a job, and I had to save for university. It was the golf course, or McDonald's.
