CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 11 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
"Nice guy," Blake said, glancing down to watch in
the mirror as the two other men got into the Jeep. "He's a little young
for a teacher, though."
"Co-op program," West explained. "He was pretty
good at it, too; he was the one that got me so hooked on Shakespeare."
"That explains it," Blake replied with a nod.
"Explains what?" West asked, shifting a little as
they drove back into the heart of the town.
"Well, no one can touch you when it comes to Shakespeare,"
Blake replied. "I know because I'm trying." He smiled as he adjusted
his notebook to sit on his lap as he looked over at West, "But you really
love the subject, don't you?"
"Mister Carter was a good teacher, and Mister Greenwood..."
West shrugged, "Well you know, he's amazing."
"Yes," Blake replied shifting in his seat. "Speaking
of which, where are we going to do this essay?"
West shrugged. "Yours or mine?" he offered.
He felt Blake's eyes on him, studying him, trying to gauge the
hidden meaning, if any, in what was behind West's words. "Mine's quiet
right now--my dad works late on the weeknights. We could use the study."
"Sounds good," West replied, as he followed Blake's
directions, taking turns through the town till eventually they pulled up at
a large stone house sitting just back from the road.
The first thought that flashed through West's mind was how anyone
could afford a house like it--a squat two-story house that just sprawled around
him. Done in a similar architecture to some of the old churches he had seen
in Ottawa, it was constructed of dark stones that almost sang in the stillness.
Heavy leaded windows and a massive oak door that was flanked by a pair of
stone lions stared down at his truck.
West stared in surprise, "Wow."
"Don't be too impressed," Blake replied as he climbed
out of the truck. "It's a company house; we get to live in it for free
so long as Dad keeps working for Avery-Woods." He smiled. "We're
not really rich," he said as if trying to draw West's attention back
from the house.
"I'm sorry," West replied giving his head a shake
and following Blake up the steps into the house. It had to be one of the grandest
houses he had ever been in, and he found himself continuing to feel overawed
by it. The artwork on the walls was real, not a print but hand-painted. The
furniture was real wood, not MDF or plywood. It was intimidating when he realized
he didn't fit in there.
"Are you thirsty?" Blake asked, hanging his typical
black trench coat up in the hall closet.
"A bit, yeah," West replied, taking off his shoes
and adding his coat to the closet as well. He shifted his book bag to his
other hand as Blake led him through the massive house to the stylish kitchen.
It was bright and airy with lots of windows overlooking a low
garden. It was as if the ground dropped away from the back of the house and
stretched out to the tree line, meticulously maintained like everything else
about the house.
"Wow," he said again.
Blake glanced up from where he was digging in the fridge for
a pitcher of juice. "Yeah, the view is amazing," he said with a
smile. "My dad lucked out when he got this place, it's huge."
West nodded as he sat at the kitchen island, a tiled affair;
the whole kitchen reminded West of something out of the twenties, all chrome
and black and white tiles. Whoever designed it had a classical taste.
Blake poured a glass of juice and slid it across to him, "Kool-Aid
is about all we have, and Dad has to do some grocery shopping."
"So it's just you and your dad?" West asked curiously.
Blake nodded, "Mom lives in Vancouver, closer to her work."
"That has to suck," West said, wondering what he would
do if his mom lived halfway across the country. He loved to see her smile,
the way she cooked, sometimes the way she just seemed to know exactly what
to say at just the right time.
"A bit," Blake admitted sitting down across the island
from West. "She's doing all right, though, and I get to see her regularly
so it's not so bad. Plus, I get to live with my dad, who gives me a lot of
space."
"Cool," West replied as the two of them lapsed into
silence. And West took a moment to just look at Blake.
Blake had always been an odd character; the fact that he had
skipped a grade to get into high school a year early had made him an outcast.
He was a smart guy, but seemed to have only a few friends, most of them the
typical "Ottawa Goth" type who tried to be fashionable dressed in
blacks and wearing makeup and the like. Blake wasn't nearly as bad as they
were. Sure he wore a few too many rings on his fingers, and a couple of band
bracelets on his arms, but he stayed well away from the makeup and bad dye
jobs so typical of the other goths. And although he looked like a sixteen-year-old,
he sometimes sounded like a thirty-year-old.
"What?" Blake asked, cocking his head to the side
again and fixing his blue eyes on West quizzically.
"Nothing," West replied with a slight smile.
"You were just staring at me as if you saw me for the first
time," Blake replied leaning forward on his elbows on the counter. "So
what do I look like through your eyes?"
West frowned, "I...errr..."
"I'm a writer," Blake replied. "I love seeing
the world through other peoples' eyes... like this," he held up a small
box. "What is this to you?"
"A box?" West asked carefully.
"Yeah?" Blake said turning it over in his hands. "Well
to you it's a box, to me it's green, to someone else it's a cube, or a container,
or a hundred different things." He closed his slender fingers over it
and smiled at West, "Like you, for example, so many different things."
"How so?" West asked, amused by Blake's eccentricity.
"Well, what are you to you? Some people see a jock, others
a friend... to a few you're a bit stuck up and arrogant," he smiled.
"Well, you can be," he replied, laughing at West's surprised reaction.
"Well, what about to you?" West asked, sipping his
Kool-Aid.
"Good question," Blake replied, "but I asked
you first."
West stared across the counter at the dark-haired young man
with the enigmatic smile and lean frame, what did he see? "I see a writer,
a pretty good one, who's a bit of a goth..."
Blake winced, "I hate that term; just because I wear black,
that automatically makes me a goth..."
"Well, you wear nothing but black," West replied.
"And you wear nothing but polo shirts and that letterman
jacket of yours," Blake shot back, "but you're more than a jock,
right?"
"Yeah," West responded nodding. "I see an intelligent
and witty guy with a happy look in his eyes."
"Happy look?" Blake asked, surprised. "That's
a new one..."
"I don't know, you just seem happy. You don't care what
other people think or do, you're just yourself and content to be so. That
and you're always smiling--if not with your," he gestured to Blake's
mouth, "then with your," he moved his hand up to gesture to Blake's
eyes.
"Cool," Blake replied with a smirk. "Thank you,
I think."
"You're welcome," West nodded. "Your turn."
"Well," Blake said jumping his stool forward a centimetre
to get a better look at West, "I see an outwardly confident guy, school
hero, the guy that's going to restore the school's honour after the drug mess."
He shrugged, "But at the same time I see some insecurity in there, like
you're so used to playing a role that you no longer realize you're playing
the role--you are the role." He shrugged lamely, "I can't explain
it, you're like this big hero, but you're human, and you're worried about
making mistakes." He grinned and downed the last of the Kool-Aid, "Like
right now, you're nervous."
"What makes you say that?" West asked, chuckling at
Blake's boldness.
"The way you're sitting," Blake replied. "The
way you're trying to play cool and aloof, yet at the same time not saying
too much. You're one of those guys who, when uncertain, tends to go quiet
and let others take the lead..."
"You really do watch me..." West said musing and swallowed
as he realized what he'd said.
"Oh yes," Blake admitted. "I wrote about you
in one of my stories; you know, trying to get at the guy underneath all the
hockey gear, and hard jock exterior."
"You know that sounds kinda..." West shifted uncomfortably.
"Yeah, it does a bit," Blake admitted again with his
grin. "But it's what I do when I write; I need to get inside their heads,
let the characters show me who they are..."
"So who am I?" West asked folding his arms, adamant
to shift this back onto Blake.
"Wow," Blake said looking thoughtful. "There's
a difference between the character I wrote and you. I mean, it's just that..."
he swallowed, "well, he's not like you."
"Can I read it?" West asked curiously, he'd never
been the character in a book before; it was kind of flattering in a way, and
mildly intimidating in another.
"It...I..." Blake turned red, "You don't want
to read it. We should... err get to work or something..."
"Now who's hiding something?" West asked, standing
up and following Blake through the house to the study. The room was designed
like something out of an old Victorian photograph. Maps and books lined the
walls and there was a smell of old paper and of cigar smoke. It was a warm
room, and comfortable. Very masculine and very old, except for the brand-new
computer sitting on the heavy oak desk.
Blake went around and sat down in the large chair and pulled
himself up to the keyboard, "So... where were we?"
"You were about to show me your story," West replied,
standing before the desk and grinning.
"I was not," Blake replied firmly. "We were going
to get this essay done."
"That's not fair, you know," West said as he came
and sat down at the desk. "You just can't tell someone they're a protagonist
in a story then not show it to them."
Blake sighed and looked up at the ceiling, "Ok, but if
I show it to you, you have to promise to take it in the context of the story;
the character's only based on you, it's not actually you...."
"I promise," West held up his hand in a scout's fashion.
Blake's heaved a long sigh, "I can't believe I'm actually
considering showing you this." He pulled out his notebook and fished
through the pages till he came to the one he wanted and passed it over the
desk.
West took the notebook and started to read; it wasn't long,
only about eight pages or so. He flipped through it thoughtfully, recognising
himself in the main character, and blinking at the...
He looked up at Blake, who was sitting gripping the edge of
the desk nervously, staring at him expectantly. "Who's James supposed
to be?" West asked with a smile.
"N-no one," Blake replied shaking his head, "he's
just a character I came up with..."
"Sounds like a good kisser," West murmured flipping
the page.
Blake's jaw must have hit the table, because when West looked
up again he was being stared at in open shock. "What? I like it, I'm
a sucker for a good love story, are you going to finish it?"
"Y-you're not upset?" Blake asked, trying to piece
together his shattered paradigm. The straightest guy he knew had just read
a gay short story about himself and enjoyed it.
"Upset?" West shook his head, "I want to read
more. Like, does James ever work up the courage to say anything about his
feelings? I mean a kiss is a kiss, but come on, inquiring minds want to see
what happens afterwards."
"I-I haven't written anymore about James, but I have written
some more about..."
"Me," West said sitting back into his chair and smiling.
"You know, you're a pretty good writer, I'd love to read the others."
Blake nodded to the notebook, "They're all in there, but..."
"But?" West asked looking up.
"Well they aren't as... I have a pretty active imagination,"
Blake admitted, pasting a typical smile on his face, even though his eyes
continued to show he was scared to death.
"You mean I get to take my clothes off?" West asked
with a broad grin as he flipped through the book. Finding something, he stood
up and started to read, "And he felt the sweat roll down his skin, a
single bead that trickled over his breast as he heaved a sigh of anticipation..."
"Hey!" Blake said hopping to his feet. "Don't
read that..."
West ducked around the desk to keep it between him and Blake,
"He felt the touch, feathery fingers dancing over his..." he grinned
up at Blake, "you do have an active imagination..."
"Give it back," Blake laughed as he lunged after the
book, but West continued further around the table.
"As he drew closer, he felt the heat of his breath, catching
the scent of leather and fading cologne..." West stopped suddenly as
Blake collided with him, snatching back the book.
Blake looked up at West, his head cocked and a typical questioning
smile on his face. "What?" he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.
" You just 'saw' me again."
"I did," West said with a nod as he instinctively
reached out to put his hand on Blake's waist.
Blake's eyes widened. "Hello," he said, looking down
at the hand and up at West again.
"I'm sorry," West withdrew his hand, "I shouldn't
have done that."
"Nope," Blake replied still smiling, his eyes searching
West's face. "You're gambling your reputation, Captain Condor."
"Sometimes you have to roll a hard six," West said
with a shrug.
He couldn't help but wonder what was going through his head.
Coach Highmore's warning rang in his ears about how difficult it would be
if he chose to... chose to do what? Prove that the perfect athlete wasn't
so perfect? That he was human underneath the jacket? Hadn't that been what
he had tried to tell Peter? How hypocritical was it of him to say one thing
to Peter and not act upon it. But what was he...
Blake nodded at him, "It certainly explains the whole Jenny-Lynn
thing."
"Does everyone know about that?" West asked incredulously.
"No," Blake replied, "I didn't until just a moment
ago, when you..." He smiled, "Do it again."
"No," West chuckled, "it's not the way I want
to do things..." He shrugged, "I'm too old-fashioned, I guess."
"So which one of us asks and which one of us gets to play
the girl, titter and fake thinking about it before saying yes?" Blake
smirked.
"Oh," West reddened slightly, "you mean... like
a date."
"Well, that is what you were implying, right?" Blake
said broadening his smile.
"Would you like to go..." West began.
"Yes," Blake cut him off, grinning.
"Weren't you supposed to fake thinking about it?"
West accused.
"Turn down a chance to go on a date with the captain of
the hockey team--do I look stupid?" Blake grinned, "I'm free Friday
night."
"Good, so wear something other than black," West said
folding his arms.
"Only if you wear a tie," Blake shot back.
"A tie?" West asked in amusement. "I don't think
I own one."
"Go buy one," Blake stated with a firm nod.
The sound of a key in the door caused both young men to take
an involuntary step away from each other, as Blake's father, a broad-shouldered
Hungarian man, walked into the study.
Side by side, West could see the resemblance--Blake was a smaller,
thinner copy of his father, with the same eyes and typical Eastern European
curve to their features. Mister Wolchowski clapped his hand over Blake's shoulders,
giving West the once-over as they were introduced.
Satisfied with the introduction, the older man left the two
of them to work on the English paper together, sharing casual glances across
the broad desk, and the occasional conspiratorial grin.
