Glass Half Full Read online

  “Is that right?” I ask when I notice her side-eyeing what I’m doing on the screen.

  “You got it, girl.” She starts punching something in herself when I’m done. “So, you knew Dylan before this, non?”

  “Huh?” My response comes out way too high-pitched.

  “I was gonna ask you earlier, but I forgot. You met him before you worked here, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I get my vocal cords back under control. “He told you about me doing the slams and stuff, I guess?”

  Her eyebrows shoot up with excitement. “You do the slams? He didn’t tell me that. I just guessed you knew him. That is so dope, chérie! The slams are awesome. I can’t wait to see you at the next one.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I squirm a little from the discomfort that comes with talking about my poetry these days. “I’m kind of, uh, on a break from that at the moment.”

  Her excitement dulls, but she doesn’t push the subject. “So you did poetry together. That’s so cool! I thought maybe...” She trails off and lets out one of her signature husky laughs.

  “What?” I prod when she just keeps chuckling to herself.

  “I just thought maybe you had a little bit of”—she pauses and wiggles her fingers at me—“history, if you know what I mean.”

  I’m sure my face turns as white as it’s possible for my skin to go. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Nothing like that. I mean, I was a teenager when I met him, and I’ve been away for three years. We didn’t even know each other very well to begin with.”

  “I see,” she practically purrs.

  “He’s my manager. This is my job.”

  That seems to strike a chord somewhere with her, and the playfulness slips out of her expression.

  “I know, ma belle. Excusez-moi. Sometimes I’m a little too...interested? Does that make sense? English is weird.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh along with her. “That makes sense.”

  “He’s also a really good guy, you know,” she continues, throwing a meaningful look down the hall. “I wish you got to see him before this whole manager thing. He’s been different, more...lost, maybe. I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s how he looks sometimes: lost. Well, except...”

  That DeeDee gleam comes back in her eyes as she turns to me, but we’re interrupted by a new flood of orders coming in from the servers.

  “I shouldn’t say it,” DeeDee urges, squeezing my arm before I can jump into action mode, “but when does Mamma DeeDee keep her mouth shut, hein? I’ve never seen him look as happy as he does when you walk in the room.”

  Eight

  Dylan

  AMPLIFICATION: When a writer embellishes a sentence with additional information in order to increase its clarity and worth

  Something with cats on it.

  I scan the items on display in the very hipster gift shop I’m searching. Everything is arranged on tables made of repurposed shipping pallets and shelving units created from rustic boards and old pieces of metal piping. It’s the kind of store you can find in all the trendier Montreal neighbourhoods. This one is only a block away from Taverne Toulouse. They sell greeting cards with classic art memes on the front and pins featuring cartoon avocados for you to stick to your backpack or denim jacket.

  Stella loves this kind of shit. She also loves cats. I haven’t seen her or Owen, my two co-leaders from back when I did the poetry workshops, in longer than I care to think about. Taking on the management position at Taverne Toulouse meant I had to cut back on the time I devote to the slam scene, but it’s a shitty excuse for not making time to see my friends. I missed Stella’s birthday last week. This place better have the hippest cat-related gift wear in the city. I have some reparations to make.

  “Hey there! Can I help you with anything?”

  A girl with purple hair, two eyebrow piercings, and what has to be every damn button in the store’s inventory pinned to her shirt smiles at me.

  “Oh, thanks, just looking,” I turn back to the shelves before deciding I might actually need the help. “But now that you mention it, what would you recommend for someone who likes cats?”

  The girl puts a hand on her chest. “I love cats.”

  Ten minutes later, I’ve got an armload of feline-featuring notebooks, stickers, mugs, and jewelry. There’s even an iridescent pink hip flask adorned with an illustration of a cat wearing a unicorn costume. I have no idea what social situation would require drinking out of a flask with a unicorn-cat on it.

  ‘Every social situation’ would probably be Stella’s answer. She’s going to love it.

  “Do you want a basket?” my cat spirit guide asks me after I almost drop a mug on the floor.

  “Uh, yeah, that would be great.”

  I watch her take off toward the cash register and get stuck ringing a few people up. I’m holding so much stuff I’m scared to move, so I stand stock-still where she left me, like some kind of human display advertising a special on pet-related merchandise. I’m still rooted to the spot when the bell over the front door chimes and in walks none other than Renee Nyobé.

  It shouldn’t surprise me; we are right near work. Her shift would have just finished, and I’m on my way over to the bar myself, but I nearly drop the mug again. It’s like my muscles still can’t get over the shock of seeing her, of being near her after all this time. They start twitching with the need to be even closer before I can tell them not to.

  She looks damn beautiful, as always. A few strands of frizzy hair are hanging loose around her face, the rest of it pulled back in a ponytail. She tugs the strap of her purse higher up on her shoulder and then scans the shop. When she spots me, her lips form an ‘O’ of surprise before shifting into a smile. She gives a cute, awkward little wave, and I raise my hand to do the same.

  “Oh, shit.”

  One of the notebooks tucked under my arm drops to the floor. I start to bend over to grab it before realizing that’s just going to make half the stuff I’m holding slip out of my grasp too.

  “Here.” I look up and find Renee right in front of me. “I’ll grab it.”

  All I can do is stare like an idiot as she braces a hand on the table beside us and retrieves the notebook. She scans the cover once she’s straightened back up.

  “‘I work hard so my cat can have a better life,’” she reads.

  I meet her raised eyebrow with a grin. “It’s totally pawsome, right?”

  She blinks once and then bursts out laughing.

  “I can’t take credit for that one,” I admit. “It’s from this mug I’m about to drop.”

  “Don’t they have baskets or something?” Renee grabs the mug just as the handle is about to slip from its precarious perch around my pinkie. “And why did you grab so much stuff in the first place?”

  “The store lady was supposed to bring me a basket, but she’s busy now.”

  Renee squints at the items I’m clutching to my chest, her head tilting farther and farther to the side as she takes in the stationary, hair accessories, and drinking vessels.

  “Dylan, do you, um...”

  “Do I like cats?” I finish for her.

  “I think this exceeds simply ‘liking’ them.”

  I chuckle. “Would you believe me if I said they’re not for me?”

  “Considering you don’t have enough hair for those elastics, I’m going to have to go with yes.”

  “Sorry about that, Dylan!” The purple-haired cashier returns with a wire basket in hand. “Why don’t you go ahead and pop those in here while I keep looking around for you?”

  “Um, actually, Cerise”—we ended up on a first name basis somewhere in those ten minutes of feline frenzy—“I think I’m good for now. I’ll go through this stuff and let you know if I need any more ideas.”

  “Great!” She flashes Renee and I a wide smile before leaving to greet a new customer walking in the door.

  Renee’s eyes follow her before turning to me again. She hasn’t stopped squinting. “So...you know each other’s na
mes?”

  “I’m having a wild time at this store, Renee. A wild, wild time.”

  “I’m not even going to ask.”

  I attempt unloading my trove into the basket, but I’m still holding too much stuff to allow for ample movement.

  “Do you want some help?”

  “That would probably be wise.”

  Renee starts prying things out from between my arms and chest, and I have to hold my breath to keep my cool. She’s so close I can smell the trace of something fruity in her hair. She doesn’t look up at me as she continues dumping things in the basket, and we’ve both gone so silent I can almost hear the whine of the tension ratcheting up between us. Her knuckles graze my chest, and I’m seized with an urge to let everything left in my hands clatter to the floor so I can pull her against me. I glance up at the ceiling to find some self-control.

  By the time I’ve got empty arms and a full basket, I’m sure the whole store must be buzzing with the current she’s sent surging through me.

  “I know I said I wasn’t going to ask...” I have to be imagining it, but I swear there’s a slight tremor in her voice when she speaks, her face turned away from me as she rifles through the basket. “But this has me very curious.”

  She holds up the pink flask.

  “Well you know what they say about curiosity.” I have to cough before I continue. I sound husky, fucking husky, like an old school film star about to make his move. “It killed the unicorn-cat.”

  Renee glares. “That was terrible.”

  “You loved it.”

  We both start cracking up. I admit who I’m buying the gifts for after we’ve calmed ourselves down, and we end up reminiscing about Stella and her enthusiasm for backpack pins and all things fluffy and feline. Renee helps me decide which presents to buy; purple hair girl hooked me up with at least two hundred bucks worth of merchandise, and even Stella doesn’t need that much cat stuff. We’re still joking about her infamous cat poems as I pay for the final selections and lead us out of the store.

  “So what were you doing in there, huh?” I ask as the rush of cold air makes us both pull our jackets tighter around us. “Do you have a secret avocado infatuation I should know about?”

  “If I told you about it, it wouldn’t be a secret.” Another strand of hair escapes her ponytail. I watch her fingers as she tucks it behind her ear. “My shift at the bar ended early, and I’m meeting a friend, so I thought I’d kill some time in there.”

  I nod. “Thanks for your help. I’m sure Stella will appreciate it, whenever I actually get a chance to give these to her.”

  “Of course.” Renee shifts on her feet as the silence stretches on. “Well, I better get going.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  I want nothing more than to soak in the feeling of being near her. I want to keep hearing her stories, keep making her laugh, but instead I let her go. I watch her walk away, and I can’t help thinking of a night three years ago—the night, the one whose weight presses down on us whenever we’re together now, the night that pulls us together at the same time it pushes us apart.

  It was August then, late enough in the month that the nights were getting colder. People were starting to talk about every summer activity like it was the ‘last time’: the ‘last’ swim, the ‘last’ barbeque, the ‘last’ happy hour on the patio. Maybe that’s why there was something bittersweet in the air, some hint of desperation on the breeze, the kind that makes ‘goodnight’ sound like ‘goodbye,’ the kind that makes people cough up their secrets and say things they’ve kept hidden for far too long.

  The slam season hadn’t officially started back up again, but we were hosting an open mic night to kick things off. Renee performed, of course. She did an old piece I’d heard before, but it still left me—and everyone else in the room—totally gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Overwhelmed. Whatever you want to call it, she stood up there and turned her words into warriors that took us all by storm.

  She talked about what it was like to grow up biracial, to get teased about her hair at school, to be met with the question of, ‘So, what are you?’ more times than she could count. She described the stares her family got when they all went out for dinner. She shared the nights she cried herself to sleep wishing she had a mother who really understood what it means to be black.

  She stood tall as she told us about the day she asked to get her hair relaxed. On the way to the salon, she asked her mom to stop the car and cancel the appointment.

  “I am more than a Frankenstein

  Of mismatched DNA.”

  I always remembered those words. I remembered looking at this girl and realizing all over again that her words had the power to tip people over and shake them up, and if spoken word has opened my eyes to anything, it’s just how badly this world needs shaking up. It needs people like her.

  That’s all I meant to tell her when I saw her checking her phone outside the metro station on my way home from the open mic. The light from the screen was casting a blue glow on her face.

  “You were awesome,” I remember telling her, “as usual.”

  She smiled at me as she slipped her phone away and murmured, “Thanks.”

  The natural thing to do would have been to head into the station together, but she settled her back against the wall, and I slid my hands into my pockets.

  “You ready for England?”

  She let out a laugh edged with nerves. “I don’t think I’m ever going to feel ready.”

  “Tally-ho, Renee!” I joked, putting on possibly the worst British accent ever. “Of course you’re ready, lassie! Pip pip!”

  She started cracking up for real. “Lassie? I think that’s Scottish, not English.”

  I waved my hand in dismissal. “It’s all the same.”

  “I’m pretty sure there are people who would consider that statement a criminal offence.”

  I tried not to flinch at the word criminal. Even now, it makes me jump every damn time.

  “I assume you’ll fly back for all the slams, right?”

  Her expression shifted, a heaviness setting in. “Maybe I can catch a show when I come back for Christmas.”

  She looked so small all of a sudden, like she was shrinking right in front of my eyes after standing tall as a giant on stage. That was the first moment I ever felt the urge to put my arms around her, to hold her close so she couldn’t sink straight through the ground and disappear.

  “Hey, slams are a thing in England too,” I tried to console her, even though it didn’t sound like the right thing to say. “That I do know I’ve got right, lassie.”

  Her lips quirked up, but only for a second.

  “It won’t be the same.” I had to step closer to hear her. “God, nothing is going to be the same.”

  I’d never seen her look so unsure of herself. As long as I’d known her, she’d been dead set on studying abroad. I knew she’d won scholarships, that she’d graduated in the top tier of her whole class. She was a go-getter. She never set a goal she didn’t meet, and yet standing in front of me in the near darkness, she was trembling, shaking under the weight of her own success, like having everything she wanted was the most terrifying thing in the world.

  “I just want to know I made the right choice,” she admitted. “How can I be sure this is what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  I was in no position to give her advice on life choices, not considering where I’d been when I was her age, but I gave it a shot anyway.

  “I don’t think you can. It sucks, and it’s hard, and it makes life really fucking difficult, but I don’t think you can ever be sure. Sometimes the only lens you get to see through is a rear-view mirror, and you can’t put the car in reverse. That’s why so many people crash. That’s why so many people never start their engines in the first place.”

  “Sounds like the safer option.” She made a weak attempt at a laugh.

  “Safer, sure,” I agree, “but what are you gonna do? Sit in the garage for the rest of your life?
Nuh-uh. Not you, Renee.”

  “I’m just so scared this is all one big fucking mistake.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  Her head jerked up so hard she almost hit it against the wall. She stared at me in shock, like no one had ever said those words to her before, like she didn’t quite know what to make of them.

  “Maybe it is,” I repeated, “but you’re not always going to make the right choice. No one always makes the right choice. You just have to let yourself figure that out and then make a new choice.”

  “Everyone would be so disappointed...”

  “Fuck everyone else.” I probably shouldn’t have been swearing so much, but I needed to make a point. “They’re not the ones driving.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and the pang in my chest was way deeper than it had any right to be when I realized she was trying not to cry.

  “Renee.”

  My hand found hers. Her breath caught. We both inhaled that heady ‘last time’ scent in the August air. The night was heavy with promises, with urgency, with rushed and stolen moments that refused to wait another year.

  “Dylan.”

  My name on her lips was all it took.

  I threw my arms around her, pulled her into my chest and felt her tremble against me. Her forearms were pinned against my chest, her cheek pressed just below my throat. Her head fit perfectly under my chin.

  “I’m so scared.” She let her weight sag against me, and I could tell from the hitch in her voice that she really was crying now.

  “It’s okay.” I ditched the analogies and repeated that phrase again and again, the one that’s often not enough and sometimes just what we need to hear. I hoped for the latter. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “I wake up some days and—” I didn’t think a hiccup could break my heart, but hers nearly did. “And I don’t even know who I am.”

  “Hey.” I let myself start rubbing circles into her back. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew it was wrong, but it felt like the right thing to do. It felt like what she needed. “You do know. You know who you are. You stood up on that stage tonight and you told us who you are. Whatever happens, I know you’ve got what it takes to get through it. You’re a fighter. You’re an artist. You’re a fucking poet, Renee. When you get up on that stage, you’re like...You’re like a fucking lioness.”