Page 2 of Canadian Boyfriend

“Erik,” my Canadian Boyfriend said. “Language.” He winced in my direction. “Sorry.”

That was his secondsorryin the space of fifteen seconds. “You Canadians reallydoapologize a lot.”

His green eyes did the twinkly thing, but this time I noticed there were gold flecks in the green. “We’re up early for an emergency dental appointment.” He flashed me his broken smile, and my stomach flipped.

“Hmm. Canadian, missing tooth. Let me guess. You’re in town for hockey.” A lot of hockey teams came through the mall because they stayed at the attached hotels.

My Canadian Boyfriend looked momentarily surprised, then shot me yet another of those lethal smiles, a dart straightinto my squishy, vulnerable insides. “We are.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Mike.”

“Rory.” I gave him my hand, and he did this thing where he kind of held it without shaking it. He pressed his thumb against the web of skin between my thumb and index finger and stood there and smiled at me, all guileless and gap toothed, and in that moment I knew. I knew who he would become. I might as well have birthed him directly from my head, like Zeus spawning Athena. Except not, because he wasn’t my child; he was my boyfriend. My boyfriend who lived in Canada, which was close enough to Minnesota to be creditable but far enough away that he wasn’t ever going to have to make an appearance.

A woman behind him in line cleared her throat. It broke the spell between us, and he tugged, trying to get his hand back. I let go, painfully aware that the fact that he’dhadto tug meant I’d been holding on too long. Trying too hard. I was reverting to my real persona, the one I didn’t want to use at the mall, the one that felt comfortable but confining, like a straitjacket made of fleece.

He rubbed his newly freed hand across his jawline. I wondered how old he was. He’d referenced a hockey tournament, so that had to be high school, but that beard seemed lush for a teenager. Eighteen, I decided, and I had that power because he had now splintered into two people. There was Mike, corporeal entity standing in front of me, and there was my Canadian Boyfriend.

I thought about this past Friday’s biology class. Frog dissection. I’d had no idea what I was doing becauseNutcrackerdress rehearsals had kept me out of class the previous few days. So Mr. Sherman had told me to sit with a pair of girls whodidknow what they were doing when it came to frog innards.The talk turned to the upcoming homecoming dance. Each girl said who she was going with, and there was this moment when they both looked at me. There was a pause, and then they went back to their discussion as if it were a foregone conclusion that I wouldn’t be going. Iwasn’tgoing, but for once not because of ballet getting in the way, but because I did not have a date. I didn’t even have any girlfriends I could go with en masse.

“It was nice to meet you. I gotta go get my teeth fixed.”

I hoped he’d come back. I hung around after my shift, but he never reappeared. All I got for my trouble was a call from my mother. “Where are you?”

“I had to cover for someone who’s sick.” I never lied to my mother. I was a little surprised at how easy it was. “I left you a message.”

She made a noncommittal noise. Mom fancied herself a modern single mother/career woman who was Doing It All with No Help from a Man, and she didn’t like it when she was caught dropping a ball. “I thought you were going to work on your en dedans this evening.”

“I did that for an hour in class yesterday.”

“But did you hit eighteen?”

I didn’t answer. Because the answer was that my mother had converted the basement of our house into a studio for me. Therefore I would be spending the evening pirouetting.

“Do you have homework?”

“Just trig.”

“You didn’t finish it on your lunch break?”

“No.” At lunch I’d been doing laps of the mall, hoping to catch a glimpse of my Canadian Boyfriend.

“Well, I guess you have a long night ahead of you, then. I have an open house in Plymouth, so I’ll be late.”

I should have done my homework at lunch. But I couldn’t regret those laps. Because as I’d been on the lookout for Mike, I’d solidified my theory that when you are a person who has a Canadian Boyfriend, you are somebody. If your Canadian Boyfriend cannot make it to homecoming because he knocked out a tooth? Totally understandable.

And if you are lonely at school, where you have no friends, in part because of your ballet schedule and in part because of… you, your Canadian Boyfriend makes it matter less. If someone sees you sitting alone at lunch, it can be because you need some time to write your Canadian Boyfriend a letter.

And if you 100 percent made up your Canadian Boyfriend? If he is perfect but also super-duper not real?

Who cared? It wasn’t like it hurt anyone.

Until it did.

Thirteen Years Later

1—OVER THE TOP

RORY

The first time Olivia Kowalski came back to class at Miss Miller’s of Minnetonka after her mom died was the night everything changed. Nobody but Miss Miller, aka my best friend Gretchen, and I knew that Olivia was returning.

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