by Pam Withers
I consider taking off and trying to find Hank instead — but what do I know about tracking an animal? And anyway, my parents can see me on the first part of my half-mile walk to Bella Coola High School.
I drag my feet as I enter the grey wood-clad building. Imagine attending a school without metal detectors at the entrance. One without an aeronautics club, violent gangs, or a shred of fashion sense. In a town with, like, three eating-out places, four stop signs, and no movie theatre or computer store. I so miss New York City! Arlo and Koa keep texting me what they’re up to, even sending me photos of the new drones they’re building. So jealous they have each other to fly with, consult with, party with.
I make my way to my locker and slump against it, face pressed against its cool metal, heavy heart stalling me there.
“It’s the new kid,” a tall, black-haired guy passing by whispers in a less-than-friendly tone. All I know is that his name’s Cole Thompson and he’s a bullying sort of guy. “City-boy dumbass.”
Gritting my teeth, I open my locker slowly, gather my books, and walk toward class, all too used to bullies in the big city. But there, city boy is not an insult. And after a full month here already, you’d think it would let up. Okay, so what am I doing wrong?
“Seriously?” a girl says in a mocking tone, pointing to the high-tech black jacket I’m wearing. It’s the thing in Manhattan right now. I wore it to make an impression. Note to self: wrong impression.
With Hank’s kidnapping commandeering my brain, I’m not sure I have the energy to deal with other crap. What is it with these daily insults? Maybe the girl’s looking at my black wool beret, tilted to keep my mop of red hair under control, but also to cover my left ear. (My hair used to cover my ear, but I just got a bad haircut.) Or is it the artfully twisted red pashmina scarf, also a thing in the city? I sigh. Maybe my prized silver running shoes? What am I supposed to wear — a flannel shirt, army trousers, and boots?
“Hey, are you gay or just a super nerd?”
“I’m not g—” I start as I swing around in the locker-jammed hallway, but the girl and some jocks scatter with guffaws.
Someone swipes my beret, and my hand flies to my head.
The second of silence that follows pains me more than the insults.
“What? Gross!” says Cole, twirling the cap on his index finger. “You’ve only got half a left ear!”
“Bike accident,” I lie, grabbing at but failing to retrieve the cap. He tosses it to Min-jun, who has just appeared. A group of students gathers.
“Oh. You a hard-core cyclist?” Cole looks almost impressed for a minute.
I shrug, not wanting to push an untruth too far.
“Did you know I’m president of the school Outdoors Club, Ray?” Min-jun asks. “And Cole here is vice-prez. We could use some new blood in the club. Interested in joining?”
I open my mouth to say no way, then remember I totally promised myself I’d try to fit in. Anyway, it’s not like there are any competing offers on the table. And Min-jun or his dad will tell Granddad I snubbed his invitation.
“Um, sure. Thanks.” Then it occurs to me to ask, “What does the Outdoors Club do?” Though I fear I already know.
“You know, we camp, hunt, fish, hike, cycle.” Cole squints like he’s analyzing every follicle of my reaction.
All the stuff I hate. All in the freakin’ scary woods. It’s bad enough attending a school whose sports field butts up against bear habitat.
“Excellent. I’d be into that,” I say. Maybe I can persuade them to fly drones instead. Min-jun showed some interest last night … er, early this morning. “Hey, if you’re into the outdoors, does that mean you know how to track?” I ask the two of them.
Min-jun cocks his head. Cole eyes a good-looking girl passing down the hallway, leaves my beret with Min-jun, and takes off after her. “Maybe. Track what?” Min-jun asks.
“A truck? A bear?” How lame does that sound?
Min-jun laughs. “A truck leaves tire tracks. A bear leaves scat.” The kids around us laugh, too.
“My pet grizzly bear, the orphan, got kidnapped this morning, after you left for school.” I sound like a total idiot. “Someone in a dented red pickup truck grabbed it. Maybe.”
Min-jun looks at me. “Hank? A dented red pickup truck would be the Logan brothers.”
“Oh. Where do they live?”
“A farm on the south ridge. I could give you a ride up there on my quad later.” He’s kind of smiling, like a hunt for a kidnapped bear is the best offer he’s had all year.
“Seriously? You mean after school?”
“Sure, why not? I know where you live,” my next-door neighbour says, standing like a general with his arms crossed. I’m unsure whether his grin is mocking or friendly.
“You’ll get mud-spattered head to toe the way Minjun drives, so ditch the three-piece suit,” some dude jabs.
Three-piece suit? I ignore the guy. “Thanks,” I say to Min-jun. I want to ask him why anyone would nab a half-grown bear, but the bell sends everyone scurrying.
“Later,” Min-jun says, handing the beret back. “And if you want to make friends here, get rid of the hat, scarf, and jacket, neighbour.”
At least he doesn’t rule out the designer jeans, shoes, and mesh tee. I sigh and head to class, books pressed tightly against my chest, beret riding on top of them. I stop as a Nuxalk girl, a member of the local First Nation, steps into view just before I reach the classroom. She has a lioness mane of shiny black hair, chestnut eyes, and a tight pink shirt with the words Drone Chick on it.
“Drone chick?” I ask, astonished.
“The new kid can read,” she says. “What happened to your ear, loser? Looks like someone took a bite out of it.”
I whip my beret back on. “A girl got carried away while kissing it.”
“Ha ha.” She whirls around to walk into class, but I touch her elbow. “I’m Ray McLellan. Do you fly drones? I’m totally into drones.”
“I heard. You’re the taxidermist’s grandson. How’s your grandfather?” Her voice is neutral.
“Doing okay, thanks.” I’m not about to say dying, since I guess everyone in town knows that already.
“Dorothy Dawson,” she says stiffly. “Yes, my father and I are into UASs. So if you need any parts or repairs, let us know.” This cute girl who knows about unmanned aerial systems then marches into class and takes a seat near the students who hassled me earlier.
Trying to shake off the sense that everyone is staring at me, measuring me, and finding me lacking in whatever traits allow one a free pass into Bella Coola cooldom, I look around for an empty desk. Min-jun is seated at the back of the room.
I slide into the seat beside him. “Hey.”
“Math.” He groans dramatically. “I prefer phys. ed.”
“I prefer math,” I inform him. Though if I want to fit in, I remind myself, I need to remember to do my best in gym and hide my smarts in other classes.
“Good morning, class,” says Mr. Mussett. “So, yesterday the assignment was to form a word problem that demonstrates the usefulness of math. Ray, please read yours first.”
I shrug, glad I found the homework easy.
“Ahem. After removing your cap, McLellan,” Mr. Mussett says.
I try to shift my scarf up to my left ear as I pull my beret off and plop it on my desk. A few intakes of breath behind me indicate my scarf hasn’t done the job.
“Oh,” said Mr. Mussett, reddening. “Sorry.”
Defiantly, I whip off my scarf.
“Gross,” someone says under her breath. Someone who apparently hasn’t heard about my damaged ear already.
“A mountain lion bit it off,” I lie, loudly enough for everyone to hear, an announcement rewarded by a low mumble of voices. “Here’s my word problem: A search-and-rescue officer is attempting to find lost hikers with his drone. His two-pound machine accelerates straight upwards — droners would say ‘throttles up’ — at two-point-two-five metres per seco
nd squared, until it’s above the trees. Determine how much time it will now take for the drone to travel forward one hundred and sixty-five metres to a clearing where the hikers are waiting, the drone continuing to travel forward at the same speed, of course.”
Most kids furrow their eyebrows like I’ve just spoken Chinese. A few eye me curiously. Dorothy raises her hand.
“Yes, Dorothy,” Mr. Mussett says.
“But as soon as the drone is above the trees, the wind will throw it off, so there’s no way it can maintain two-point-two-five metres per second squared,” she says in a confident tone.
“Ray?” Mr. Mussett asks, looking like he’s not sure how to tackle her objection himself.
“Most up-to-date drones — at least the one that I’m designing — have a strong stabilization system built in that won’t allow for significant drift to throw them off,” I respond, with what I hope is a friendly glance at my fellow droner. “So it’s just math.”
“Just math,” someone mimics.
“Smartass,” says someone else.
Dorothy is absorbed in pressing the lead tip of her pencil into her desktop with such force it breaks. “What’s really with your ear?” she demands under her breath.
“Signifies membership in a prestigious New York City gang,” I lie.
She raises her eyebrows. I hope it means she might sit next to me at lunchtime.
Four classes later — plus one lonely lunch hour, seven more ear comments, and a chilly trudge home — I collapse into an easy chair in the living room across from my blanket-wrapped granddad. He’s snoring by the wood stove under the cold, glassy stares of one deer, one elk, one mountain goat, and one black bear head, all mounted on the walls. It’s way weird living in a taxidermist’s house. And it definitely doesn’t feel like home yet.
I hear my parents arguing in the house’s spacious former verandah, long ago converted to a bright room and now outfitted as the town’s new animal clinic. The previous vet retired a year ago from some decrepit digs up the street. At first my parents were going to rent a place they could use as a clinic, but soon after we moved, I overheard Mom tell Dad, “We may not be here long, depending on how your father does, so let’s not get too committed and settled in this town.”
“‘This town’ is our new home, dear,” Dad replied stiffly. “It’s where I grew up, where I’ve always dreamed of returning someday. You agreed to give it a try. And having the outdoors so close at hand is perfect for a boy of Ray’s age.”
“A boy of his age, maybe, but not Ray himself,” she said coldly before walking away from his attempted hug.
Sighing, I glance out at the backyard patio, where Hank’s dirty pawprints are still visible. My throat catches as I gaze at the empty feeding bowl I set on the kitchen counter that morning.
“Where are you, Hank?” I whisper. Closing my eyes, I imagine letting the bear into the living room and allowing him to climb clumsily into my lap. The image melts the humiliations of the school day and makes my parents’ raised voices go away. My left ear vibrates only slightly when I imagine Hank lifting a paw to it, as if he’s just noticed his master is disfigured. Something the whole school discovered today.
“Bejesus. When did you get home?” Granddad asks, eyelids lifting as he stirs in his chair.
“Just now. Hear anything about the cub?”
“Yearling, not cub. No, the smelly thing’s wandered back to the woods, I s’pose. I take no stock in yer conspiracy theory o’ kidnapping, by the way. Some hooligans probably cut the chain just for fun in the night.”
I grit my teeth, not in the mood to argue. “How are you?”
“Still this side of the green grass. How was school?”
“Great. Made lots of new friends and joined the Outdoors Club.” Reclosing my eyes, I try to hang onto the imagined sensation of Hank on my lap, his heart beating right through my tee.
“About time.”
“Min-jun invited me to join. He’s president.”
“’Course he is. He’s athletic and knows his outdoors.”
Pretending I don’t get the hint, I say, “Fetch you some tea, Granddad?”
“With a dollop o’ whiskey if yer mum ain’t around.”
“Does Mr. Kim’s tea help you?”
“Nope. Doctor’s pills do better. But don’t say it, ’cause I like his visits.”
“Of course. I’ll get you tea. Mom and Dad are in the clinic.” Even a half-deaf senior citizen can surely hear the heated arguing and the dog yelping in the clinic.
“Did Mom and Dad look more for Hank?” I ask Granddad. “Notify police and stuff?”
“Who’s Hank?” Granddad replies with a snort.
A sharp rap sounds at the back door, and Mr. Kim walks in with a tray holding a steaming cup. Awesome timing. Now I don’t have to get up to make Granddad tea.
“Is healthy,” says the jowled man with sprinkles of grey in his black hair. He puts the tray down beside Granddad and helps himself to a seat on the dusty sofa.
I examine leafy bits floating at the top of the mug and lean closer to sniff the bitter-smelling drink. But I stop myself from wrinkling my nose as I hand it to Granddad.
“Did you see the yearling while I was at school, Mr. Kim? Or talk to anyone who has?”
Mr. Kim shoots me a look. “No, Ray. Wild animal no belong in town, anyway.”
“You tell ’im,” Granddad says, lifting his teacup like he’s making a toast. “How’s life, Jae-bum?”
Mr. Kim’s real first name is Jae-beom.
“I better than you,” Mr. Kim says, putting down his tea before leaning over his neighbour to pull up the blanket that has slipped from around the old man’s neck. Then he stands to stoke up the wood stove.
“Yeah, well, I’m still better looking,” Granddad shoots back.
“Have it your way.” Mr. Kim smiles. “My wife make you kimchee for vitamin. Min-jun bring later. He do homework because Ray impress him today.”
“At school work or sports?” Granddad asks. As if he cares about the first.
“Math. Min-jun very good at sports,” Mr. Kim asserts in his deep voice.
“Ray, you’ve been here a month already,” Granddad says, face creased in disapproval. “Which sports teams have you joined?”
“The drone-flying team,” I deadpan.
“Stop yer pussyfooting,” the old man says. “At least he’s joined the Outdoors Club,” he boasts to Mr. Kim.
“Min-jun tell me. Have outdoor club in New York?”
“Ha!” I respond. “The outdoors in New York City is where the drug sellers, gangs, and muggers hang out. Dodging them is a world-class sport. But some drone pilots and I would take over a corner of Central Park on Saturdays.” Inside my school back there, the only thing that ever interested me was drone-building in shop class. Sports? Give me a break.
“I met a girl today who flies drones,” I inform Granddad while checking my watch and reminding myself that Min-jun will arrive soon for the quad ride.
“Stay clear o’ Dorothy Dawson,” Granddad replies.
How’d he know her name? Can he read my mind? “Huh? Why?”
“Her father was in the military, and he’s off his rocker a wee bit.”
“What does that mean?”
A crash, scream, and howl make all three of us look toward the door leading to the former porch.
“Begorrah!” my granddad says.
“Ray!” comes my mother’s voice. “Help! Now!”
CHAPTER FIVE
WITH MR. KIM on my heels, I fling open the clinic door to see a large golden retriever hanging half off the operating table and an intravenous pole teetering above it. My mother is on her back on the white-tiled floor, surrounded by glass shards and blood. My father is squatting on the floor beside her, one arm pressing a wad of blood-soaked gauze against her arm, another raised to prevent the half-conscious dog from falling on them.
“I’ve got him!” I shout, dragging the dog back onto the table, hands we
ll away from its snapping mouth.
“He came to too early,” Mom says. “He tried to bite me.”
“Your mother backed up and knocked a beaker off the counter, then slipped and fell on the shards,” Dad says. “Son, if the patient is stabilized, please hand me the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.” Dad likes to call every creature we work on a patient rather than an animal.
I grab the bottle that will disinfect my mother’s cut and hand it to Dad, wincing at the sight of blood stains on Mom’s white lab coat.
“I can drive you to hospital,” Mr. Kim offers, taking a muzzle he spots hanging from a wall hook and slapping it on the retriever’s mouth. I wince. The guy seems totally unfazed by the half-awake growling, drooling, jerking retriever, I think, as he pulls the straps of the plastic-cup-like device tight. Very tight.
“Never mind, Sean,” Mom protests. “I’m fine. And thanks for the offer, Jae, but I don’t need a hospital. I need to get that drip going again.”
“Ray can do it, honey,” Dad says, continuing to dab the hydrogen peroxide on her wounds.
“I’ve got it,” I declare, not wanting the dog to feel pain or cause more chaos.
I check the medication bag hanging from the pole, making sure the point of the fluid chamber tube goes into the large port and the flow tap wheel is in the stop position. I step over to the sink to wash my hands with antibacterial soap and then position myself to gently turn the muzzled patient back onto his stomach.
Next, I apply a tight wrap, extend the dog’s foreleg, and identify its cephalic vein. My parents, of course, have already clipped away fur from the site and sterilized it. The vein is in clear view under the skin. Removing the IV’s cap and loosening the catheter, I expose the needle, recap it, and press my thumb down beside the vein so it won’t move while I insert the needle. Perfect. From the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Kim staring at me in astonishment as I take the catheter out of the cap, face the needle hole up, and insert it at a forty-five-degree angle into the vein.
As blood enters the hub, I smile, apply thumb pressure, secure the IV, and adjust the flow.
The dog sighs as if in relief, slipping back into sleep, ready now for his surgery.
