Chong - Beauty plus pity: a novel

I considered keeping my promise to my mother not to see Hadley. I resolved to be more self-sufficient. But then Hadley called and reminded me that Id promised to drive her and Krista to the university, where the first information session for their trip to Guyana was held. A program coordinator led a short talk about Guyana, with general information about the climate and population and what to expect from the programnot only the fundraising component and the hundred hours of local community service once the project ended, but some security issues about the capital city, Georgetown, and the limit on cash each participant was allowed to bring. Most of the volunteers were a few years older than my half-sister, who would turn eighteen only a month before the program started. One member recently back from Costa Ricaa lean, tanned man with a scraggly beardpresented a slide show. There were handout sheets, crackers and cheese, warm ginger ale, and a question-and-answer period.

Afterward, at the deli in the student union basement, I bought Hadley and Krista some vegetarian Jamaican patties.

Krista looked down at her hot chocolate, clinking her spoon against the mug. It doesnt seem like too much fun, she said.

Id had the same thought, and was glad shed voiced it, even if Hadley responded with a look that didnt belong on her facethe kind of rage-soaked, paranoid expression that you could use to sell pepper spray and home-surveillance devices.

Its not a vacation, she told Krista, flatly and soberly.

I know that.

Well be able to do some good.

Youre right.

It was your idea.

I know, Krista said.

Dont chicken out on me.

I wont.

Hadley kept watching her, the eyebrows over her large, finger-cymbal eyes knitted, until she was able to exact another promise from Krista that she wouldnt abandon her. It surprised me how shrill she was about this trip, and it hurt me that she was so eager to leave everyone behind.

Wont you be sad to leave Marco for a summer? I asked.

I guess, she said.

Were you out with him yesterday?

What? she asked me.

Your mom called me last nightlate.

Hadleys face shrivelled in embarrassment. I guess Ive been avoiding Mom a lot.

Krista laughed coyly. You cant get enough of Marco.

She responded with what I perceived to be hesitation. Definitely. Hes great.

Is he coming to Liams party?

I didnt bother asking himdo you think he wants to spend any time with Liam?

I guess not.

And Im only going because you want to meet that university guy. Hadley said this forcefully, as though we needed to be convinced.

Krista let out sigh. Hes hot, she said. Hes a swimmer.

Were swimmers, too.

Yeah, but hes hot.

We have different taste in boys.

Definitely. You like hairy guys.

Not really.

What about Marco?

Hes just one boyfriend. Liams not hairy.

I like smooth guys. Krista looked at me when she said this.

Throughout their discussion of male aesthetics, I watched some of the female university students pass through the deli. As one beautiful woman withdrew from sight, another one appeared.

Like what you see? Krista asked.

Hadley laughed.

I shrugged.

You should let me fix you up with my sister.

What makes you think shed like me?

Krista started giggling. Trust me. She likes everyone.

When I agreed to work at Totem, a preppie nightclub with kitschy pseudo-gothic chandeliers and mounted animal heads on the walls, it was to pay my own bills and to put my presence out there, but I could barely sell it to myself.

At the club, staff dressed in black jackets and cocktail dresses attended to the patrons, most of whom sat at tables or shot pool in the back. The dance floor and the bar were empty. When I arrived, Clint, my friend from modelling school, was already sitting at the bar, flirting with a blonde as she waited for a drink the colour of Windex. The blonde, who fidgeted with her hands as though she were in need of a lapdog to pet, cocked her head back and cackled, even though Clint was about as funny as a speed bump. Once the bartender arrived with her drink, she borrowed his pen and wrote something on the back of Clints hand. As she returned to a table full of her pretty friends, she looked back at him once more and waved.

I assumed Clint had been a great kick-boxer, because his face was smooth and free of wear; or maybe he only took kick-boxing classes. From a Cree grandmother, he had inherited high cheekbones, tawny skin, and dark eyes that, in his better moments, reminded me of Richard Gere shoulder-rolling and reaching for his pistol at the end of the 1983 remake of Breathless. He was broad-chested and long-limbed, and dressed in wool slacks that fit snugly around his narrow waist, a black pullover top, and a ropy gold chain around his neck. Although his vision was perfect, he wore a pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses to add a garnish of distinction. When Clint finally noticed me, he brought the back of his hand to my face in a mock karate chop.