Record Breaker

by Robin Stevenson

  “I know me singing a song isn’t going to fix her,” I said, my words spilling out in a rush. “I just wanted…I don’t know, to do something for her. Something better than trying to break a record.”

  “Huh?”

  “I thought for a while that maybe breaking a record would be good, because it always used to make her laugh. Well, you both did. You used to think it was funny.”

  He nodded heavily. “Hasn’t been much laughter in this house lately, has there? Not much fun for you.”

  “I’m okay,” I said quickly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “You’re a good kid, Jack. If you really want to break a record, you’ll do it someday. For yourself, not just to make us laugh. Be sensible, though.”

  I nodded. “No more eggs.” I couldn’t help grinning. “Or sausages.”

  Dad’s eyes widened. “The other morning? Oh no, that’s disgusting.” He started to laugh. “I thought you looked a little off, come to think of it. How many did you eat?”

  “Six,” I admitted. “In one minute.”

  “What’s the record?” He was really laughing now.

  “Seventeen.”

  “Seventeen! Oh my. Oh my…” He chuckled and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Well. Well, well, well.”

  Dad’s face was turning red, his eyes watering, and I couldn’t hold back my own laughter. Finally he shook his head, sighed and gestured widely at the row of fenceposts, secure in the fast-setting cement. “Well, that’s a good job done, Jack. And about time I got that fence back up.”

  “Mom’s getting better, don’t you think?” My voice cracked embarrassingly.

  “I suspect it’ll be up and down. Good days and bad days. But…” He broke off. “I do think she’s getting better. I didn’t agree with her deciding to stop taking her medicine, but I think she was right after all. She seems more like herself again.”

  “I guess she must have loved Annie an awful lot,” I said.

  Dad cleared his throat. “We all loved Annie,” he said. “I was thinking about what you said earlier—about me going on with work and everything.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay. It’s true: I did carry on in a way your mother couldn’t.”

  “Me too,” I whispered. “I mean, I was upset and everything, but sometimes…” I glanced up at him and then looked away quickly. “Sometimes I felt kind of bad that I kept going to school and having fun with my friends and stuff.”

  “I know,” Dad said. “I know.”

  I snuck another peek at his face. He looked sad but not upset.

  “But if you hadn’t carried on,” I began hesitantly. “I mean, if you’d both gone to bed and stayed there…” I couldn’t imagine it, and I didn’t want to.

  He nodded. “I guess we all have to deal with this in our own ways.” He dusted his hands off on his work pants. “As best we can.”

  I didn’t say anything because of the huge lump in my throat.

  “Your mother loves you, Jack. Every bit as much as she loved Annie.” He rubbed his chin. “She wouldn’t want you to stay sad.”

  “I wish Annie hadn’t died,” I whispered. “And I wish Mom would get better.”

  Dad put his arm around me. “She will, Jack. She’ll be all right. We all will.”

  “I know,” I said. I leaned my head against his shoulder and breathed in the damp, woolly smell of his sweater. Despite the lump in my throat and the tears blurring my eyes, I felt better than I had in a long time

  Twenty

  On Sunday, the three of us—Kate, Allan and I—walked over to Tony’s to buy candy together. Kate still had the dime she’d found on the floor of the shop. Allan had dumped his piggy bank—an actual piggy bank, pink ceramic, with a red bow tie—and Dad had given me a quarter.

  “How much is that?” Kate asked Allan. He was jingling a fistful of coins.

  “A dollar,” he said. “I’m not spending it all on candy though.”

  “If I brought all my money, I’d end up spending it,” Kate said.

  “Me too,” I admitted.

  Allan put his money into his pocket. “I just want some Tootsie Rolls and maybe some licorice. And some Hot Tamales.”

  “Oh, that’s all?” I asked.

  My sarcasm went over his head. “Maybe some candy cigarettes too,” he said.

  The temperature had dropped and there were heavy banks of cloud hanging low in the sky, piling up along the horizon in layers the color of steel and smoke. “Think it’s going to snow?” I asked as we rounded the corner onto Wilson Street.

  “Hope so,” Kate said. “I can’t wait to go tobogganing. Where are the best hills, anyway?”

  “Golf course.” Allan and I spoke in unison. We looked at each other and laughed. “It’s pretty decent,” I said. “You have a toboggan?”

  “A new wooden one,” Kate said. “Got it last Christmas.”

  I pushed open the door to Tony’s. “Cool.”

  “Hi, kids.” Tony was drinking a can of cola, eating peanuts. A newspaper was spread out on the counter in front of him. “What’s cooking?”

  “We’ve all got some money for candy,” I said. “How are you, Tony?”

  “Never been better,” he said, winking at me.

  I gave Allan a sideways glance—see, told you there’s nothing wrong with him—but he was distracted by some plastic toy and didn’t notice.

  “Check this out,” he murmured.

  “What is it?” I looked closer and read the label on the box: Blow soap bubbles for fun! For big colorful bubbles use Wonder or U-Blow-It liquid! “A bubble pipe?” I shook my head. Sometimes he seemed like such a little kid. “Come on, Allan. Let’s pick out our candy.”

  “I’m getting this too,” he said.

  Kate laughed. “Told you you’d end up spending that dollar if you brought it all with you.”

  “Actually, you didn’t say that, Kate.” Allan pushed his glasses up farther on the bridge of his nose. “What you said was that if you brought all your money, you would spend it. Which is a different thing entirely.”

  “Oh, entirely.”

  Allan looked at her suspiciously, but Kate’s eyes were wide and innocent.

  “Hey, let’s see that bubble pipe,” she said.

  Allan handed it to her. Kate turned it in her hands, her lips moving as she read the package silently. Her forehead furrowed in concentration, and the tip of her tongue poked out between her teeth.

  “What is it?” I asked her.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “Jack, is there a record for the world’s biggest bubble?”

  “Don’t think so.” I shook my head. “No, I’m pretty sure there isn’t. Not in my book, anyway.”

  She grinned.

  I grinned back at her. “You know,” I said, “I bet we could do it. I bet if we added something to the soap, to thicken it, like glycerin, maybe…”

  “We’d have to experiment,” Kate said.

  “Oh no,” Allan said. “Oh no.”

  Kate laughed and handed the pipe back to him. “You’re in, right?” she said.

  “’Course he is,” I said. “We’re all in.”

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the BC Arts Council for their generous financial support during the writing of this novel.

  Robin Stevenson is the author of many books for teens and children. Her novels have been nominated for numerous awards, including the Governor General’s Literary Award and the Sheila A. Egoff Children’s Literature Prize. Robin was born in England, grew up in southern Ontario, and now lives on the west coast of Canada with her partner and son. For more information about Robin and her books, please visit www.robinstevenson.com.

&nbs
p;