“Yeah, I remember. Was that really the last time you went out for ice cream?”
“Yeah, but it’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. That was four years ago.”
I scooped up a spoonful of hot fudge. “Yeah, well, Mom’s busy and I wouldn’t be caught dead out in public with Dad anyway.”
“Do they ever take you anywhere? A restaurant? A movie?”
I didn’t answer. I just looked down at my sundae.
Uncle Iggy shook his head and stared out the window. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
I tried to change the subject. “This sundae is really good. How’s yours? I might try strawberry next time.”
“I mean, who doesn’t do stuff with their kids?” He didn’t direct the question at me. He seemed to be asking his reflection, or some invisible person on the other side of the window. “Isn’t it just second nature to take your kids out for ice cream or a hamburger or something?”
I rolled my eyes and flicked my hand in the air, as if I was swatting away Uncle Iggy’s ridiculous ideas. “I’m sixteen,” I said. “I’m not a little kid. I don’t care about stuff like that.”
Uncle Iggy looked at me. “I bet you do.”
“I bet I don’t.”
“I know you do,” he challenged.
“How?”
“Because you said next time.”
“Huh?”
“You said, I might try strawberry next time. So you do care. You’re enjoying this and would like to do it again. Right?”
I shrugged and sucked in my lips to keep from smiling.
He moved in closer and raised his eyebrows. “Right?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“How about we pick a night? Say, Wednesdays. And once a week we’ll go out for supper or dessert or something. Sound good?”
I smiled. “Sounds good.”
Satisfied, Uncle Iggy went back to his strawberry sundae.
“Hey,” I said, mixing hot fudge into my melting ice cream, “your hair is messy.”
Uncle Iggy frowned. “That’s not very nice, Kit.”
“No, I mean in a good way. Like, on purpose.”
He reached up and touched his hair. “Well, I did use a bit of product this morning.”
“It looks good.”
“Thanks.”
“Uncle Iggy?”
“Yeah?”
“You know that stuff about it being second nature to do stuff with your kids?”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“You’re going to make a great father someday.”
I didn’t think there was such a thing as a sad smile, but that’s what I saw on Uncle Iggy’s face. “Thanks, Kit. But that dream died when Margie did.”
“You might meet someone else someday. You never know.”
He looked doubtful.
“One day at a time, hey, Uncle Iggy?”
He smiled again, and this time it was less sad.
“Yep, one day at a time.”
After our sundaes we went home, but before going into the house I took the aardvark-patterned tie out of Mr. Adams’s free to a good home box.
As I went up the front path, I noticed the iron railing had a new coat of paint on it and the garden was cleared of all the garbage.
“You’ve been busy this morning, Uncle Iggy.”
“Go look in your den.”
The furniture was covered in plastic sheeting, and there were two gallons of paint on the floor. Uncle Iggy popped one of the lids off.
“I love it,” I said. “It’s almost identical to the yellow in Nan’s kitchen.”
“I was just getting started when the school called.”
“Why are you doing this, Uncle Iggy? Your hair, the front garden. Why the change?”
“You were right,” he said. “This place really is a shithole. Time to brighten things up a bit. And what better place to start than this dungeon? I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I just have one request.”
“What’s that?”
“The diplomas stay. They’re kinda, well, an…inspiration to me.”
Uncle Iggy smiled. “Then they stay.”
The sling was a big pain in the arse. Getting dressed was the worst. I hated having to ask for help, but I had no choice. I called for Mom, and she came in and shut the door behind her.
“I just need my, um, bra hooked up.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “I can do that. Sure. I’ll just do this right up for you.”
She lifted up the back of my shirt and, with freezing fingers, fastened my bra.
“Anything else?”
I needed my hair pulled back in a ponytail, but I shook my head.
She went out and shut the door behind her.
It was Dad’s fault that Mom and I avoided all that mother-daughter stuff—the bra shopping, the girly lunches, the chick flicks. Whenever it was the two of us, there was too much unsaid stuff hanging around, like a dark cloud. So we just didn’t bother.
I looked in the mirror and pulled a headband over my hair with one hand. It looked like crap. I grabbed my backpack and left my room, slamming the door behind me.
four
The Drunk-O-Meter
My second day of school was marginally better than the first. I got lost again trying to find my homeroom. Luckily, the girl who’d sat next to me the day before saw me wandering aimlessly and took pity on me.
She pointed at my sling. “Broken?”
“Yep.”
“Can you still write?”
“Yeah, why?” I asked.
She passed me a petition.
“It’s to have a carpentry class started at our school,” she said. “If the boys’ school down the road can have shop class, why can’t we?”
I thought of Anne-Marie and her paint-spattered overalls and immediately put my name down. I was the first one to sign it.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m Caroline, by the way.”
“Kit,” I said. “Kit Ryan.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I know.”
I looked at the clipboard. “Oh…right. I just wrote it down. Duh.”
Caroline laughed. “Actually, I knew your name from yesterday. Mr. Byrne introduced you, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot. Yesterday was kind of a blur.”
“Maybe you hit your head when you fell and got a concussion or something,” Caroline said.
I laughed. “Maybe.”
Caroline tugged on my good arm. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”
We wound our way through a series of long corridors and stairways and finally arrived at our classroom. Mr. Byrne frowned and glanced at the clock as we entered.
We put our heads down and walked quickly to our seats.
“Nice pants,” Amanda Shea whispered as we passed her desk. “Corduroy is so…different. You’re making quite the statement.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “I have a statement for you, Amanda.” Then she said something I can’t repeat. I almost choked laughing.
“Something funny you’d like to share, Kit?” asked Mr. Byrne.
I shook my head.
“Then let’s get started.” He pointed to a map of Newfoundland. “Today I’d like to talk about the rural parts of our province. Many of you would be surprised to know how differently people live on other parts of the island. Take a community like Cape St. George—many people there speak French. Accents and language vary from place to place.”
Oh God, don’t point me out, I thought. Please don’t point me out.
Mr. Byrne wrote the letter H on the board. “How would you pronounce this, Kit?”
/>
It was obvious. “Haitch.”
The class roared with laughter. Amanda was practically doubled over. When she got control of herself, she raised her hand. “I guess fashion sense varies from place to place as well. Take Kit’s pants, for example.”
“That’s quite enough, Ms. Shea,” said Mr. Byrne. The sniggering died down and he moved on to unusual place names. Once he started listing towns from around the bay called Come By Chance, Spread Eagle, and Blow Me Down, everyone seemed to forget about my pants.
I was still fuming at lunchtime.
Caroline grabbed her lunch from her locker. “Don’t let her get to you, Kit. She’s not worth it.”
I looked down at my pants. “I mean, are they really that bad?”
“She’ll get bored, trust me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Last year she started calling me Grunge-oline. I completely ignored her and eventually she stopped. She’ll always be a bitch though. She can’t help it. Must be in her DNA.”
I looked at Caroline’s ripped jeans and combat boots. Everyone in St. John’s seemed to have a thing. Except me. I was just boring old mousy-haired, badly dressed Kit Ryan.
Caroline grabbed her leather jacket from her locker. “Wanna eat in the courtyard?”
“Sure, whatever.”
“I can’t stay long. Floor hockey starts in twenty minutes.”
“Floor hockey? Really?”
Caroline laughed. “Surprised?”
I shrugged. “Kind of.”
Caroline slammed her locker shut. “Don’t worry, I don’t play in my Doc Martens.”
She looked at my empty hands. “Where’s your lunch?”
The breadbox had been empty that morning, and the only thing in the fridge was leftover fishcakes, which I didn’t dare take to school.
“I forgot it.”
“You can share mine,” said Caroline. “My mother packs me enough to feed an army.”
We went outside and found an empty picnic table. Caroline gave me half of her turkey and Swiss sandwich.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a bite.
The courtyard was packed with kids sitting in groups. I was glad I wasn’t sitting on my own.
“I met a cute guy out here yesterday,” I said, hoping to start a conversation that would make Caroline want to have lunch with me the next day and the day after that.
“Really?”
“Yeah. He was kind of charming but obnoxious at the same time.”
Caroline’s eyes lit up. “Charming and obnoxious? I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
So I told her the whole story—the French, the banana peel, the dimples, the fall, the embrace—and she enjoyed every minute of it. I was just getting to the Moptop part when Amanda burst into the courtyard.
“Aw, geez,” I said. “Her again? I can’t seem to get away from that girl.”
“Hurry up,” Amanda barked to some poor fool behind her.
“She’s such a witch,” said Caroline.
Amanda looked around the courtyard for a free table. The person she’d barked at came through the door and joined her.
“Oh God, that’s him,” I said.
The poor fool was Moptop.
“Oh, Kit.” Caroline groaned. “That’s Elliot Harris. Amanda’s boyfriend!”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I kid you not.”
“Ugh.”
“Ugh is right,” said Caroline.
“I have the worst luck,” I said.
Amanda pointed at me and whispered something in Elliot’s ear. He looked at me and winked. I looked away.
Amanda spoke loudly, obviously for my benefit. “And then I said, Take Kit’s pants, for example. Isn’t that hysterical, Elliot?”
I felt my face turn red.
“Not really,” he said, looking my way. “I think cords are cool. They’re retro.”
Amanda pouted.
Elliot called out to me. “How’s le bras—the arm?”
I pointed at my sling. “Sore.”
Amanda grabbed him roughly and started to pull him away.
“So’s mine,” he said, pointing at Amanda’s tight grip.
Caroline and I giggled.
Amanda looked confused. “Do you know her or something?” Elliot shook his head. “Nope.” And then he winked at me again. Like we had our own little secret.
Elliot’s voice was in my head all the way home from school. I think cords are cool. They’re retro. He said that. About me. Well, about my cords. But it was my decision to wear the cords, so that makes not only the cords cool but me as well. That’s what I figured anyway. What did Elliot see in Amanda Shea? Maybe he was attracted to girls with big boobs. If that was the case, I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Still, he seemed to like me. He did ask me how I was. And winked at me. Twice. That must count for something. But going out with someone like Amanda? That got me worried. He must have really bad judgment. Then again, nobody’s perfect.
I pictured Elliot in my head—the green eyes, the long lashes, the mop of curly hair and the dimples. I took a mental photograph so I could call it up anytime I wanted. But as soon as I walked through the front door and heard my parents fighting, the image was erased. Just like that.
“Do you know what you’ve cost us, Phonse? Do you? How will we live now?”
“I just needed a few bucks, that’s all,” said Dad. “It wasn’t a firing offense. Unlawful dismissal, that’s what it is.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“It doesn’t concern you,” said Dad.
“Oh, it certainly does concern her,” said Mom. “It will concern her when she’s going to school on an empty stomach. It will concern her when she’s going to school dressed in rags.”
“Will someone tell me what’s going on here?”
“Your father here ran out of booze, and of course he needed money to buy some because God knows he doesn’t have any money of his own, so he decided to come to my work, loaded drunk, to ask me for some.”
Wow. That was the first time Mom had ever said it out loud. Loaded drunk.
“And then,” she continued, “he started turning on the charm with the girls on the front cash, telling them what a fine store it was and what did they think of his wife, wasn’t she grand, and would they excuse him while he had a word with that fine wife of his. All of which would have been fine and dandy if he wasn’t as drunk as a skunk, slurring every word and stumbling all over the place. I just thought I’d pop in and see if you had a few dollars, he says. I’ve lost my wallet and we’ve run out of milk. Milk—if only that were the case. I said, You’ll not be getting any money from me to buy milk—I think you’ve had enough milk already today. Then he starts bawling and roaring, saying, Me missus doesn’t love me anymore—she can’t even spare me a couple of dollars for milk.”
Mom was red as a beet and looked as if she had just tasted something bitter and was trying to spit the taste away with her words.
“And then,” she continued, “Edward Bartlett—Mr. bloody Bartlett’s himself—came in and said, Is there a problem? and I said, No, my husband here is just leaving and then your father looks at Mr. Bartlett and says, Who’s he, the cat’s father? And then I said, Phonse, go home out of it for the love of God. You’re not making any sense. And then after some more foolishness Mr. Bartlett said, Perhaps you should take your husband home and perhaps it would be best if you went with him.”
“That’s not fair!” I yelled.
“That’s what I said,” piped in Dad. “Unlawful dismissal, that’s what it is.”
They started in again. I wanted to go to Nan’s. I wanted to sit in her kitchen. I wanted to have a nice cup of tea and listen to her old transistor. I wan
ted to be anywhere but here.
I knocked on Mr. Adams’s door.
“I’m here to clean,” I said.
Mr. Adams did his harrumph, tsk-tsk, tut-tut combo. “You’re not due here till tomorrow, lass.”
“I know. I just, um, had some free time.”
“What about that arm?” he said, pointing to my sling. “You’ll be as useless as a one-legged man in an arse-kickin’ competition.”
I laughed. “I’ll manage.”
“You’re a bloody-minded lass.” He handed me a duster. “You can start in the front room.”
It was weird being in Mr. Adams’s living room. We always had tea in the kitchen. I dusted the framed pictures on the mantel. So many faces. I’d never seen any visitors come to Mr. Adams’s house. So who were all these people?
Mr. Adams came in to check on me. He ran his finger along a side table that I hadn’t had a chance to get to. “Dust!” he exclaimed. “You, young lady, couldn’t clean a house to save your bloody life. You’re cack-handed and feckless. Just leave it. You might as well just sit down out of the way.”
So I sat down on the couch. Mr. Adams went to the kitchen, and a few minutes later he popped into the living room and said, “Ee, you’re lazy. If you’re going to just sit there like a lemon doin’ nought you might as well come ’ave some tea and bickies.”
I joined him in the kitchen.
“Why do you say ee?” I asked.
“What? Ee? What are you on about, lass?”
“Ee by gum. Ee, you’re lazy. Ee, that’s a crackin’ knife.”
Mr. Adams poured the tea.
“It’s an expression. An exclamation, like. From the homeland.” He took a big slurp of tea. “Ee, that’s good tea. Get it?”
I took a sip. “Aah, that’s good tea.”
Mr. Adams shook his head. “Ee sounds better.”
“I disagree. It just sounds like some random letter rather than an exclamation.” I took another sip. “W, that’s good tea.”
“Don’t make fun of my Yorkshire dialect, you cheeky little madam!”
“So who are all the people in those photos?” I asked.
Mr. Adams looked taken aback. “Oh, well, um, they’re family. All dead and buried now.”
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