James DeMille Prose Prize (2013)
Renovations
Geordie Miller
The summer that I think I almost had my first kiss, I was living in a hotel. We had a house fire in the spring. No one died; some ideas were borne out. My moms idea that homes were violable; my idea (my sisters too) that May could be much crueler than April; my dads idea of himself as someone way past hope when it came to home improvement projects.
I was down the street at the schoolyard playing basketball alone, developing my pre-shot free throw ritual. A van pulled up 20 feet from the baseline, rolled down the window and broke my rhythm. It was my parents friend shouting something about a fire. It took me another brick and a honk of her horn to realize that it wasnt basketball slang. We drove down Highland Avenue, past the hideous palette of front doors.泭
Ours had been forest green. We joined the crowd across the street.泭泭My dad and a polod man with a notepad gesticulating. I worried about the stack of library books under my bed, while firefighters arranged a makeshift yardsale.泭泭Our living room on the lawn, evicted by smoke.泭泭We stared so long that the black cloud became suspicious, peeking through the blinds. It saw my sister pointing back at it and laughing.泭泭It was hard to blame her: theres something funny about futility. AV整氈窒 watching people water brokenness.
It took two men named Billy and Frankie four months to rebuild our house. At first we lived at my Aunt Barbaras. She smoked in the house, so her furniture smelled like why we were there. We were welcome to stay as long as we wanted.
We moved into the hotel less than a week later.泭泭It was on top of the escarpmenta ten-minute drive from our neighborhood. At first my sister and I couldnt believe our luck. Hotels had reserved a place in our collective imagination alongside amusement parks, action movies, and our cool cousin Jennifers rotating cast of boyfriends.泭泭An enclosed mischief: extensive hallways to hide down, Nicky Nicky Nine Doors, Jacuzzi beards and groaning ice machines.
We devoted the first month to obliging our fantasies. The glass elevator was particularly conducive to games of tag. We would lie prone, ascending as our pursuer stalked the mezzanine below. Our bellies full of breakfast. To us continental came to mean wonderful; we never bothered to ask for definitions, preoccupied with the next croissant or the latest Did-It-Ourselves combo, like cantaloupe sandwiches, with maple syrup.
There were less delightful excesses. The concierge would broadcast our entrance with mortifying familiarity.泭泭Our suite had three televisions; the suitable selections in the pay-per-view catalogue could not keep pace with our spectacular orgies, reducing us to rounds of re-runs.泭泭Boredom we would wander into wedding receptions, testing how long we could last before being asked to leave by an exasperated banquet manager or the not-drunk uncle.泭泭We felt entitled to interlope, our sleep so often interrupted by their noisy afterwards.泭
One night I sleepwalked, though not for the first time.泭泭Rising from my double cot, kitty corner from the kitchenette, I ambled out, down three flights of stairs, into the vacant lobby. My striped boxer shorts a pale cloak for pubescence.泭泭I was on a night errand, allegedly asking the nonplussed woman at the front desk if she remembered to leave the window open so the cat could get in, before taking the elevator back upstairs.泭泭Back to sleep.
The dream of my residence being a bigger draw than Ryan Gillens new Sega Genesis did not survive into summer.泭泭My friends were like me. The indoor pools novelty evaporated.泭泭Everything about the hotel was too deliberate.泭泭July was for aimless Sega marathons.泭泭Or for weaving through the 40-block grid that circumscribed our lives. For biking around with no purpose beyond biking around. I was out of the loop, in the dormant period between the age when sleepovers were a weekend highlight and an alibi.
Anyways, I didnt need to vacation in my neighborhood because most weekends the hotel transformed into a veritable airport lounge of traveling youth organizations: soccer teams, dance troupes, even the occasional orchestra.泭泭I hardly hesitated to capitalize on my minor celebrity as one of the two kids who lived in the hotel, not to mention the oldest. These friendships could only last an afternoon or eveningtwo, at most.泭泭Such was the bond I formed with the left side of a Windsor hardball teams infield that I ventured to watch their game. We went out for pizza in the extra inning, then a stretch of table tennis in the games room. We exchanged addresses and became typical pen pals, writing once, or not at all.泭
I was just settling in to a certain lonesomeness, when the phone rang one afternoon. It wasnt an insurance adjuster asking after my parents.泭泭And it wasnt my sisters synchronized swimming coach. It was my friend Tim, who I hadnt seen in forever.泭泭I overcompensated for this absence; my hotel stories took on an edge. The concierge started receiving prank calls, I instigated a public feud between two rival gymnastics parents; pay-per-view erotica, and so on.泭泭Tim probably saw through this veneer of rebellion.泭泭He mentioned that Friday was Andreas birthday and she was having a party.泭泭Of course I knew it was her birthday; new to me was the tacit assumption that I was invited.泭泭Sure, probably.
Yes, definitely. Andrea Waler grew up on my street and we had known each other since kindergarten.泭泭I had invented all sorts of other common ground for our romance to spring from, but reality was a lot barer.泭泭Our mutual interest in a Thomas the Tank Engine puzzle never found an adolescent corollary.泭泭To be sure, I imagined us hanging out in my room and listening to the Counting Crows, but she liked Nirvana, and had freckles on her nose, and was sarcastic.泭泭I was in lovea love undeterred (perhaps further fortified) by an embargo ushered in at the Grade Five Fun Fair when her best friend Leah Zablocki caught me picking my nose behind the Dunk Tank.泭泭Andrea unscrupulously avoided me at recess for two years.
My sister had a synchro meet the same weekend as the party, and we were leaving for wherever at 6am on Saturday. My parents, slightly moved by my sudden urgency about a Friday night yet in no mood to negotiate, agreed to chauffeur me to and from the party, provided I accept an earlier curfew.
Friday belated, but it came.泭泭I had taken no chances and bought Andrea a gift certificate to SAM THE RECORD MAN.泭泭I got dropped off at Tims house.泭泭We watched the Countdown and then walked to Andreas together, amidst the old tree stumps and new porch furniture.泭泭Everyone was in the basement, the lights lower than the ceiling.泭泭I put my card on a pile next to the chip table.泭泭The couches and chairs were out-of-place, imports from the den and patio.泭泭Why we werent outside became apparent an hour later when people began playing spin-the-bottle.泭泭I retreated to the bathroom upstairs, blaming obscene amounts of pop.泭泭Dissatisfied with my exile and unsatisfied with the results of my tried-tested-and failed technique of ignoring whomever I like-liked, I talked myself into a dialogue with Andrea that went beyond hey, happy birthday.泭泭The clock on the kitchen microwave said I had 14 minutes until my ride showed up.泭
Returning, I was pleased to see that the game had dissolved and been replaced by slow dancing.泭泭I mumbled something to Andrea as Glycerine at last came on.泭泭We locked arms and I loosened up.泭泭As we spun around, Andrea made me laugh with her running commentary on how the people around us were or werent dancing.泭泭What would she say about us? I wondered, ready with the line I had rehearsed upstairs, the one about not letting a spun bottle decide宇hen the voice of Andreas mom at the top of the stairs; she shouted my name and I knew I had to go.
On our way home, I asked my dad to drive by the house.泭泭A tarp was exhaled in the dark; the roof looked nearly finished.泭
How was your night?
Pretty good, I replied.泭泭
My sisters synchro routine received the lowest score in the province, but I was proud of her.泭My lungs were full of chlorine, and my heart was full of matinees and mall walks.泭泭All weekend I was distracted by my next encounter with Andrea.泭泭I gathered anecdotes for her about would-be hecklers and a dull team dinner.泭泭On the drive back, I listened to泭August and Everything After泭the whole way through.泭泭I mouthed the words out the side and rear windows, to rest stops, headlights, my reflection, somewhere else.
I meant to phone Tim on Monday; he had Leahs number, and I could get Andreas from her, but I stayed up late watching sports highlights, not calling.泭泭A while later someone saw Andrea at a movie with a guy from West Park.
We moved back into our house just before the first day of school.泭泭In the final weeks at the hotel, my sister and I had grown desperate to get away from it.泭泭We would consent to long hikes, a previously untenable proposition.泭泭I began to enjoy any detour, especially ones that took us past the house.
It was a number of years later when we were told how the fire had started.泭泭My sister and I had always assumed that the furnace overheated.泭泭The dryer exploded, my dad explained to us at dinner one night.泭泭After I filled up the lawnmower, I poured the extra gas down the sink. I dont know what I was thinking.泭泭He shook his head, and we knew to be quiet. As if we had always known.
泭