From Watermark. Published by House of Anansi Press in 2019. Reproduced with permission.

The boat rocks gently all night long. I listen to Bob snore and pull the dirty sheets closer to me—there is a vague comfort in the smell of his stale sweat, the way he farts when he sleeps. He’s very consistent in this way. I lie there all night, just in case the boat breaks free and starts floating down the river. I’ll be able to get Bob up in time and rescue us. The perils of sailing are real, even when moored to a dock.

I lie there breathing in the mildew and thinking about the letter from Tara shoved in my backpack. Even though I haven’t opened it, the familiar guilt gropes at me when I think about burning it with a lighter. Even when I think about putting it in the garbage I feel guilty. But that letter waits for me in the bottom of my sporty backpack like an envelope full of travelling manipulation and insecurity. Tara’s probably bought a non-refundable ticket and is planning on moving to Vancouver and wants to stay with me. It’s like she can’t leave high school behind.

Then I think about when I was seventeen with pink cheeks standing there in a strapless bra and curled hair. Tara was helping me dress before Samuel came to get me in his father’s car. I’d put on hot-pink lipstick to go with the big taffeta Cinderella prom dress and black patent-leather heels. I loved that dress. I remember thinking what a hot babe I was. Until Tara started talking.

“Back fat.”

“What?”

“You’ve got back fat.”

“What do you mean, back fat?”

“Fat.”

“Where?”

“Idiot. On your back. You’ve got fat on your back.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. Everyone in my family has it. All the girls. But we’ve got perky tits. Yours sag.”

Tara hauled her sweatshirt up and they might as well have been growing off her collarbone. And she was covered in back fat. Like a walrus on a rock. But I didn’t have back fat and I said, “I don’t have back fat.”

She smirked.

“Sure you do. And saggy tits.”

I was seventeen, and even if they didn’t grow out of my collarbone I know they weren’t sagging because I was only seventeen.

Maidenform Sweet Nothings, Denim Red Bandana Black Lace Padded Push Up, Warner’s Pure Electricity Underwire, Warner’s The Real McCoy Sissy Fiberfill Pointy, Bustier by Lady Marlene, Bestform Satin Underwire, Wonderbra Hello Boys. She reeled them off like we were at a square dance. Something else I grew up doing—not that Tara would have ever been caught dead square dancing. Her father was an accountant. He had a formal education, she liked to tell me, not like my parents, who had vocational training. He would never let her go to the prom with someone like Samuel, someone who was a black guy. She wanted to know if he smelled different than a white guy. I knew she had never even kissed a boy before and she knew I knew her secret.

So then Tara added: “And get the girdle pants. For the back fat.”

“Girdle pants?”

“Yeah. Slim and trim. Holds in back fat. No one will know unless they grab you really hard. My grandmother gave me her girdles. No one knows I wear them. Isn’t that great?”

I hated her guts, but I didn’t pout that time. She could keep waiting. This is the thing about a bully—you never know how long they’ll keep waiting and plotting, when they’ll reappear and trip you just when you think you’ve found your balance.

I grinned like I was in agreement about back fat and saggy tits and continued to smile and hate her guts all the way to the prom in the car with Samuel who asked what was bothering me. When I told him, he said I shouldn’t waste even a minute of my life with anyone who didn’t lift me up. Then he kissed me. He smelled like aftershave—vanilla and cedar. His skin was warm. I still think about that kiss. And my back fat.