Last Chance for Paris

by Sylvia McNicoll

  CHAPTER 7

  I BUMP and tumble through the water along sharp rocks, kicking my legs and waving my arms. I can’t grab on to anything to stop myself. Out of breath, out of control. Frozen, numb, bump, bump. I swallow more icy water, try to sputter it out; choke, cough, bump, bump, float.

  I can’t feel anything from the neck down. Bump, bump, the rapids flip me around the other way. The current is in control. I don’t even have enough feeling left to fight it. Am I up or down? Can’t reach the surface. Is this it? Bump, bump, snag.

  My neck snaps back. I’ve stopped tumbling but the water rushes over me. Something pulls my shirt away in the opposite direction. What’s happening? What is that? I feel a stronger tug than the water, upward. I suck in air. A hand grabs my arm. “You’re okay. Crawl back here, I’ve got you.”

  Tyler, wow, oh man. I gulp for more air. Thank you, thank you. He takes my hand and pulls me into the shallower water and onto the rocks.

  My throat and chest hurt. I cough violently as I crawl onto the bank.

  “Are you okay?” Martin asks.

  I double over and hack out the icy water as he pats my back. When I can breathe again, I start laughing uncontrollably. I’m cold and wet. My butt and legs are sore from where I bumped along the rocks, and I still can’t get enough air. I gulp as I laugh. I could have died back there. In just one instant, that bubbly white milk-water turned treacherous. I want to cry and never stop crying. But that would be embarrassing so I keep laughing instead.

  Tyler stares at me, breathing hard. “Do you have any idea how stupid that stunt was?”

  “Leave her alone,” Martin tells him. “Do you have a sweater or jacket in your bag?”

  My teeth start to clatter. Tears run down my cheeks.

  My wet T-shirt clings and I pull it from my body.

  Tyler rummages through his backpack and pulls out an orange sweatshirt.

  “Here, take this.” Tyler’s eyes are trained on my wet T-shirt. He coughs slightly: ahem.

  I snap the orange top out of his hands and hiccup my words. “How am I going to change out here?” He shrugs. “Martin and I will look the other way. There’s no one else for miles. Martin?” He points away, and they both turn.

  They stand together near the rock, Paris by their side, heads and snout all pointed in one direction, away from me. It would make a cute postcard but instead of making me laugh, the tears run down my cheeks faster.

  I peel off the clingy top and pull on the sweatshirt Tyler tossed me. Deep breaths now. In. Out.

  I’m getting warmer, calmer. My jeans weigh me down, stiff and heavy, plastered against my legs. I put my socks on and that helps, along with Tyler’s ugly boots.

  Tyler turns and checks out my dry top, blushing when he realizes I’ve noticed.

  I nearly killed myself in the water just horsing around, so I feel like the dumbest stump in the forest. I’m glad he feels embarrassed about something too. His blush is great. It makes him less superior, and puts me more in control again.

  “I better take you home so you can get out of all your wet things.”

  Home. I picture Zane’s pale face back at the house that used to be my home, watching a computer screen, and realize he never blushes. He never loses control to me either. I mostly feel immature and insignificant around him. Just as I usually do with Tyler. Is that why Tyler always reminds me of Zane? I blush now. I picture the place that is now home, a Heidi cabin with Dad and Martin. I sigh. “You know what—by the time we get back to the truck, these will be dry. Let’s just go back to the office.”

  Tyler turns and starts walking, faster than before. “Of course, you’re expecting an important message.” There’s that disapproving tone again.

  What happened this time to set him off? “C’mon,” he says. “We better get going.”

  I still feel pretty soggy by the time we arrive back at the Park Office, and I’m sneezing. We come up against the same problem as before: no pets or wolves allowed inside. That’s okay, because Tyler assigns us feeding duties for the lizard and bass in the tanks on either side of the Internet computers. First step is catching insects outside.

  “You go on ahead, bro,” I tell Martin. “I’ll join you as soon as I’ve checked my mail.”

  Paris happily trails after him. I head back to use the Internet. A minute later, Martin comes in again to borrow a rope because Paris is snapping up the insects before he can. He goes back outside to tie him to the bench.

  Before I even sit down at the computer, Tyler’s dad leaves with Quincy. Super Rescue Dog appears to have trouble walking. He can’t even drag his hindquarters into position to stand up right.

  “The vet’s in town. Dad’s taking Quincy to see him,” Tyler explains after the Park truck leaves. Then he steps outside and hollers that Martin and Paris can come inside any time, at least until his father returns. “See, a while back, Dad got in trouble over Quincy,” he says to me. “Only service dogs are allowed in the office. He argued that rescuing was a service, but since the dog’s retired, they still made an issue of it. Dad feels he has to be extra strict about other animals to make up for Quincy’s exemption.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to find Paris’s real owner and it won’t be a problem anymore.” I sit down at the computer, dial up, and go to the mailer site.

  Martin steps around me to throw a grasshopper in to the lizard. Paris watches the aquarium intently, ears and tail up. I look over but turn away when I notice the grasshopper frantically leaping at the glass.

  “It’s the food chain, Zanna. It’s not like the lizard can order tofu,” Martin tells me.

  “Yeah, well, careful. Paris might decide lizard’s on the bottom of his food chain in a second.” Tyler raises an eyebrow arrow aimed in the dog’s direction but I ignore them all and focus on the screen in front of me. Contact with the outside world: my body itches with anticipation, I need it so desperately.

  Mail, mail, nothing. Nothing from Zane, that is. There’s a couple more from Mom: More Exciting News, and Call Me. I move the cursor down to one of her messages and my finger hovers over the Enter button. I frown. I can see her and Zane so clearly sitting at the round table in my dream. They’re both in civilization, where there’s tofu and takeout, art canvases and unchewed designer footwear. I’m here with garbage picks and bear poop, a destructive dog, and killer white water.

  I open a new e-mail message to Zane instead. It’s not his fault if the Internet provider he uses can’t connect. It’s far too early to expect snail mail from him yet.

  Hi Zane. Weather’s been great here and I just finished a six-kilometer hike with Tyler, the park ranger

  I write that in, thinking that maybe making Zane a little jealous will give me some control again.

  No stores at all, but not as boring as you might think. We saw a snake and some bear dung. Also, I fell in the white water and nearly drowned.

  I remember the stinging needles in my mouth and all over my body, and the way Tyler pulled me out. The way it was hard to catch my breath. The way Tyler looked at my wet T-shirt.

  I’m okay though, as you may have guessed by the fact that I am e-mailing you. And I am still very bored. Believe it or not, there’s only one restaurant in town: the Charcoal Pit, which I’m guessing barbecues hunks of animal flesh, since the only vegetarian food available is peanut butter and artificial peanut butter. Do you have any idea how much I miss you? I love you Zane XXXOOOO P.S. Please write soon as I am dying to hear from you. Mom bet me that we would never last and we can’t let her win!!!

  I press Send and once again double-check for more e-mail. Another note drops down from Mom: Last Chance. I hesitate. No, no, I must be strong. I will not communicate with that woman; she has to pay for banishing me to Last Chance.

  Still, how does she like Paris? Is it everything we ever dreamed about? Is she painting tons? Do they like her art over there? Does she want to send for me? Would she want to send for me if she knew I had just nearly drowned?
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  I quickly exit from the Internet before I give in to curiosity. Martin feeds the large bass on the other side of me now, and Paris, well, he’s gnawing at one of my feet again, enjoying the flavor of Tyler’s work boots. “Stop that! Tyler, can I use this computer to make my “Found” poster for the dog?”

  “No, that one’s not connected to the printer. Come around here.”

  “You can’t do that, Zanna. Paris is my dog!” Martin complains.

  “If he doesn’t have another owner, you have nothing to worry about, do you?” I walk over to the office side of the counter, “And if he does, then he was never your dog to begin with.” Tyler pulls out a chair for me and I sit down, opening up a paint program on the computer. I think for a moment.

  “You wouldn’t have a digital camera to take a picture of him, would you? I could use it in the poster.” “Nope. Just download a picture of a wolf for the description,” Tyler suggests.

  “C’mon, stop, Zanna. I won’t let Paris eat any of your clothes anymore,” Martin begs.

  “Don’t worry, Martin. No one will claim him,” Tyler says.

  I roll my eyes and type: “Found near Skylon property.” The moment I see the word Skylon, I feel disloyal. Dad would never work for developers. He’s always being called away to speak about fossil-fuel emissions, and their effects on the ice caps. Building condos might not directly contribute to melting glaciers, but cutting down the trees or using up tons of hydro or water for the development would. How could Dad possibly work for Skylon? And why? But that’s what the people around here call the cabins where we live. What can I do? Dad probably has no choice but to rent from them.

  I continue typing. “Large puppy, gray, brown, and black, with white markings around the face and distinctive yellow eyes.”

  I hit another snag. We don’t have a phone. How will the owner ever get in touch with us?

  “Problem printing?” Tyler says when he sees me frowning, and comes over.

  “We’re so out of touch with the world. We don’t even have a telephone in the cabin,” I tell him.

  “Just use the Park’s. Trust me, it won’t be an issue.”

  “And why not? You think you know everyone and everything?”

  “Joyce told me the surveyors bought dog food but they never left with a dog. They can’t take a wolf back to the city. I also know your dad met with one of the guys yesterday at the store.”

  “So?”

  “Bet a Skylon surveyor went up to the glacier with your father today. They’re both measuring out a nice spot for the ski resort parking lot.”

  “Dad goes up there to measure ice density, not spaces for parking lots,” Martin tells him. “His regular crew hasn’t arrived yet, that’s all.”

  “Yes, and Dad shouldn’t go up there alone. It’s like swimming. You never go up a mountain without a buddy. Anyway, I’m typing Call the Park Office If This Is Your Dog. Can you just print it for me?”

  “Sure thing. But if your dad gets use of the Skylon helicopter, we’ll all know for sure.”

  The printer takes a minute, during which my arms are folded across my chest and no one’s saying anything. When the poster rolls out, I snatch it up.

  “Did you want a few more to post all around the town, or do you just want to put it up at Food Village?”

  “All around the town. Wait, let me just think about that. I think Food Village is enough. Your stepmother will spread the word.” I rustle the paper. “Be back in ten.”

  Martin chases after me. “Do you think it’s true? Is Dad really working for the bad guys?”

  “Absolutely not. And nothing Ranger Boy says will ever convince me.” At that moment, I spot something hovering in the air near the mountains. I squint and make out a helicopter with a machine hanging from a rope attached to it. It looks like the drill Dad uses to bore through the ice. I squint harder and read the letters on the side of the helicopter: SKYLON.

  CHAPTER 8

  IN THE evening, the rest of Dad’s crew arrives in two trucks packed with equipment and a couple of quad-type ATVs: Drew, Jason, and Cassandra, all three his graduate students. I remember Drew and Jason from last September’s visit with Dad while he was doing his teaching thing in Waterloo, and they still look the same. Drew is tall, thin, bald, and slightly geeky-looking with black-rimmed glasses. Jason’s shorter and broader with curly black hair and a mustache. They both wear the standard student jeans and T-shirt. Drew accentuates his look with a vest that has a million pockets. Cassandra I don’t remember meeting, and I would remember her. Girl students worship Dad more obviously than guys, so they stick out in my memory. Quiet as a snake, Cassandra’s the tallest of the crew, with giraffe-long legs and tiny khaki shorts, and firm brown arms poking out of a camouflage-splotched tank top. She doesn’t wear mascara, so her long eyelashes look like albino spiders. Her hair’s fine and almost white too.

  Paris goes crazy over her. Cassandra pitches a stick for him along the shore and he brings it back to her over and over, like a devoted servant, till she goes into the other cabin to unpack. Then Paris finally returns to us, skulking and disappointed-looking.

  That’s when Dad heads over to the other cabin to talk to his crew, Cassandra included. She’s younger and prettier than Mom, taller and probably smarter about the stuff that’s important to Dad. Here’s someone who likes to live and work with ice, for sure; someone he spends more time with than Mom or me. Cassandra really annoys me.

  I bang the dishes around as I clean up after supper. Paris watches. There’s bean salad leftovers— Martin and Dad didn’t like it much—and a few pork chops, the ones Dad made for me because he forgot I was vegetarian. And apple crisp that Martin made. He promised to show me how next time. Mom and I never cook together.

  “Tell you what, dog, I’ll give you all this meat on the condition that you leave the shoes alone.”

  Paris perks up his ears and watches my lips, or rather the frying pan in my hands. I wince as I cut up the chops. Touching dead flesh is becoming a habit for me. Quickly, I mix the pieces in with the dry dog food. Paris wolfs it down in about five seconds. Did I say wolf ? He dogs it all down. He’s just a normal canine enjoying some tasty table scraps. “Don’t worry, your real owner will claim you.”

  Paris doesn’t look worried, just hungry.

  That night I sleep well: I hear Martin and Paris snoring in stereo, and find that comforting. No bad dreams: it’s like I have a double charm to ward them off. And next morning, all our footwear looks intact.

  “Paris, Paris?”

  I head down the stairs and find some cereal. With my bowl and a glass of milk, I head to the deck in the front. The door is already open, and by the lake Martin throws a stick for Paris.

  Paris bounds after it, the only movement in view. It’s so peaceful. No moose in the lake, just ghostly wisps of mist drifting up from it.

  Paris snaps up the stick, but instead of returning it to my brother, runs from rock to rock, wagging his tail, bowing, inviting Martin to chase him. And Martin does, laughing. I want to run with them too, but somebody honks in the back. I turn. It’s the Park truck. Tyler gets out and Paris runs toward him. I dash back in the house to chuck my bowl in the dishwasher.

  Martin drifts in more slowly.

  “Get a move on, Martin. We’re keeping Ranger Boy waiting.”

  He holds a finger to his mouth. “Shhh! I’m not volunteering today. I’m going out with Dad,” he whispers.

  “Whatever.” I dig my fists into my hips, annoyed.

  I hate being shushed. As I head for the truck, another feeling tingles just below my skin. Something’s up. I should stay with my brother today. Go with him.

  “Martin!” I call back.

  He ignores me. Not like him at all. I should tell Tyler to go on ahead without me. I should hang back with Martin and see what’s up. Instead I head out to the truck where Tyler stands rubbing Paris’s ears.

  “Hey Zanna. How’d you like to take a little detour before we do our trail to
day? Where’s Martin anyway?” Tyler looks around and over my shoulder, as if I could hide my giant, lanky brother.

  “He’s going out with my dad.”

  Tyler suddenly straightens. “Who is that?” Pure admiration shines in his voice. He waves at someone. I turn and sigh. “Cassandra, one of my father’s assistants.”

  Cassandra grins, a big white-toothed smile, and waves back at Tyler.

  I turn back. “She’s got to be at least ten years older than you. Stop drooling.”

  “I was just being friendly.”

  “C’mon, you were saying something before, Tyler. Where did you want to go?”

  “The wolf center; we can bring Paris along. You can see how they operate. If you like it, we can leave him there.”

  I hesitate. Paris hasn’t destroyed anything in almost twenty-four hours, and it seems unfair to brand him a wolf again.

  “Nobody’s going to force you. It’s just an option. I don’t think your brother wants to part with Paris at all, so you’ll have to be the mature one about it.”

  I picture Martin crashing into the bush after Paris to look for bears. Martin and that animal have a tight connection; he’d never agree to a separation. “You’re right. Better to go today when he’s busy.” I whistle a creaky note at Paris to get his attention, and he jumps into the truck.

  He sits between Tyler and me. He’s big and sloppy, with his mouth hanging open in a happy pant. I scratch between his ears guiltily. We don’t have to give him to anyone. Am I going soft? Paris licks at my fingers.

  “The reserve is about a half an hour away. It’s about fifteen acres. But the area is fenced off, so Paris wouldn’t be able to run back home.”

  In two days, would Paris already consider the cabin his home? I try to picture the apartment building we lived in back in Toronto and have a hard time. All I can see in my mind is our Heidi cabin here in Last Chance, and it’s only been two days for me too. I fold my arms across my chest and stare out at the scenery ahead of us.