The Truth About Keeping Secrets(20)

A new sound: the soft hiss of her breath, and I listened as she inhaled for five seconds, then exhaled for five more. I couldn’t help it; I matched the rhythm once, then again, until the room itself seemed like it took a breath too. June’s shoulders relaxed, and I watched her become the girl from the cemetery, sincere and light.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘I lied. I just lied to you.’

‘About what?’

‘I wasn’t just bored. I’m having a really bad, shitty night. And sometimes when that happens I like to go for walks. So, I was passing the cul-de-sac anyways, and I feel like – I enjoyed talking to you. Before. And I saw from the street that the light was on in here. So.’

‘Yeah, OK. Yeah. That’s fine.’

‘OK.’

And then it was sort of painfully awkward, and neither of us knew what to do, so June got up and left. I’m not joking. She lifted herself off the couch, opened the side door, then shut it behind her.

A half a second later, though, there was a knock.

I smiled despite myself. Got up and answered.

‘Hi,’ she said as if we hadn’t already spoken, in some animated Valley Girl accent, and offered her hand to shake. ‘I hope this isn’t, like, a bad time, but I was passing by and was wondering if I could come, like, hang out.’

I took her hand in mine. It was warm despite the cold. ‘Oh, sure, come on in.’

‘Cool, my name’s June Copeland and I am, evidently, a complete weirdo.’

‘Yeah, I’m Sydney Whitaker, I’m … a bitch.’

She snorted with laughter and I followed suit. ‘OK,’ she said while we resumed our previous positions. ‘We’re cool, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So. Starting over. What have you been up to this fine evening?’

I decided it would be best to rewind to a point before Grief Counselling and Grief Therapy. And the ToD. ‘I was just, uh, watching a movie.’

‘What movie?’

‘It Follows.’

June smiled. ‘Ooh. Are you some freaky horror buff?’

Heat rushed to my cheeks. Suddenly I felt very self-conscious: hair up in a greasy ponytail, sweatpants with years-old stains, bare feet with toenails I hadn’t looked at in weeks, let alone clipped. And she was here, completely polished, like she’d done her makeup just to come and sit on the couch. ‘I take offence at “freaky”.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a perfectly normal –’

‘No, I mean why do you like them? I can’t stand being scared.’

‘I don’t know. I sort of just like to prove to myself that I can handle them. And I guess not much actually scares me any more.’

‘Do you think you’re desensitized or something?’

‘I mean, sort of. I guess I am.’

‘So weird. You don’t seem like the type.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just picture, like, a goth.’

‘I am decidedly un-goth.’

‘What’s your favourite?’

‘Favourite horror movie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You can’t – you can’t pick a favourite.’

‘You totally can.’

I smiled again. There was a lot of smiling. ‘I don’t know, I like different stuff at different times, I guess. OK, what stuff do you like? Let me judge you for that.’

We laughed. ‘I’m not judging you!’ she said. ‘Oh, man. Books! Yeah. Books. Music. And I actually like, um, robots.’

‘Robots?’

‘Yeah. I kinda want to go to school for robotics engineering.’

Christ. If I hadn’t felt inadequate before … ‘OK, what’s your favourite?’ I asked, imitating the way she’d said it.

‘Touché … Wait,’ she said when I laughed. ‘I’ll try to answer. All three?’

I nodded. ‘Ten seconds. Rapid fire.’

‘Ok, I guess I like Their Eyes Were Watching God but I might just be saying that because I just read it, my favourite robot is Sophia, the one that says she’s gonna kill everyone, and, God, like … I can’t pick a song. I like this album by Arcade Fire. Funeral?’

‘So, you only sort of picked a favourite book, and then you had the audacity to pick an album called Funeral.’

Her frown suggested she thought I was serious at first, but I broke, smiled, and then we both came apart in completely inappropriate laughter. Something about the way we spoke reminded me of dancing, one foot moving to match the other, a quiet swapping of dominance. I worried I would step on her toes.

‘Sorry. But, er, speaking of which.’ She swung towards me, crossed her legs. ‘How … are you?’ She didn’t say it the way it’s normally said, with a sort of indifference as to what the answer will be; this was heavier. She meant it.

‘Yeah, I’m, uh, yeah, I don’t know. Fine, I guess.’ June raised an eyebrow. I worried she could read my mind: not fine, not fine. ‘Mom, uh, my mom wants me to go to a support group.’ I said ‘support group’ slow, like I was trying to pronounce words in another language.

‘Oh yeah?’ June replied. I nodded. ‘Were you studying up?’ She glanced over at Grief Counselling and Grief Therapy, then tossed it to me over the coffee table.