The Rise and Fall of Derek Cowell
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MORE STORIES FOR TEENS AND TWEENS BY VALERIE SHERRARD
Random Acts*
Rain Shadow
Driftwood
Counting Back from Nine
Testify
Accomplice
The Glory Wind
Tumbleweed Skies
Watcher
Three Million Acres of Flame
Speechless *
Sarah’s Legacy
Sam’s Light
KATE
The Shelby Belgarden Mysteries Vols 1–6
*If you enjoyed the humor in The Rise and Fall of Derek Cowell, you may also find these stories fun to read.
Copyright © 2020 Valerie Sherrard
This edition copyright © 2020 DCB, an imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.
This is a first edition.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through Ontario Creates, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The rise and fall of Derek Cowell / by Valerie Sherrard.
Names: Sherrard, Valerie, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190230762 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190230754 |
ISBN 9781770865747 (Softcover) | ISBN 9781770865754 (HTML)
Classification: LCC PS8587.H3867 R57 2020 | DDC jc813/.54—dc23
United States Library of Congress Control Number: 2019955756
Cover illustration and design: David Jardine
Interior text design: Tannice Goddard, tannicegdesigns.ca
Printed and bound in Canada.
Manufactured by Friesens in Altona, Manitoba, Canada in February 2020.
DCB
An Imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.
260 Spadina Avenue, Suite 502, Toronto, Ontario, M5T 2E4
www.dcbyoungreaders.com
www.cormorantbooks.com
For my granddaughter Veronika.
Let truth guide your way.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Landmarks
Cover
Frontmatter
Start of Content
Acknowledgments
Backmatter
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CHAPTER ONE
Nothing ever happens in a small town.
No, that’s not quite true. What I should have said is nothing new ever happens in a small town. Repetition is the relentless norm, and that leaves you completely unprepared for change, if it ever comes.
Here in Breval (population 4,300 according to the sign) life was so boring that some of my more memorable moments were actually non-happenings. Like last summer, when the family headed out on vacation and left me behind.
Yes, you heard me right.
And sure, they only got a couple of blocks before my parents realized I wasn’t in the van. They came back, but that’s not the point. My sisters were all there, buckled in safe and sound. You’d think the fact that the family’s only male offspring was missing would have stood out, but that somehow escaped everyone’s attention. (Mom gave me a weird excuse about the picnic cooler being in my spot. Because, who doesn’t mistake a big hunk of orange plastic for one of their kids every now and then?)
In an effort to salvage a scrap of dignity, I developed a theory. I decided I possessed secret powers of invisibility.
Under different circumstances, I’d have been all for that. Cool, superhero invisibility, for example, would have been excellent. Zipping around, performing sneaky feats to put villains in their place, and maybe doing a little eavesdropping.
But my brand of transparency was nothing like that. It was as if people actually did not see me, as though I somehow failed to register in the realm of human detection.
Sounds like an exaggeration, I know, but I could tell you a dozen stories to back it up. Like the day in science lab when a classmate asked if I knew whether or not Derek Cowell was there yet.
I’m Derek Cowell.
Or the time we were on a field trip and I had to make a quick dash to the bathroom just before the bus was leaving to go back to the school. Theoretically, there was no danger it would leave without me — we had a buddy system and a checklist.
Except somehow, my name got missed when they were going down the list, and my “buddy” never said a word. Asked about it later, he said he plain forgot who his buddy was. No one else forgot their buddies that day and if it hadn’t been for a delay at the stop sign on the corner, I might still be there, staring forlornly at the spot the bus used to be. As it was, I barely got to it and pounded on the door before it pulled away.
See what I mean? I’m Derek, the see-through teen.
For the most part I didn’t mind being overlooked. Now and then, usually when I did something moronic, it could even be a plus. Either way, I was used to it. After all, it’s been this way for as long as I can remember. (Or I should say, it was that way until a freak occurrence changed everything. I’ll get to that in a minute.) At home, a big factor was the amount of attention that’s left to dribble down when a guy lives in a house full of girls.
I have three sisters. If that doesn’t horrify you then you don’t have three sisters. Or you’re a girl yourself, and your only reason for reading this story is that you heard about the embarrassing parts.
Living with three sisters means I spend a lot of time listening to girl talk. Not that I don’t try to protect myself, but I can hardly ever find my earbuds when I need them. That’s because one of my sisters has “borrowed” them, which is known as stealing in parts of the civilized world that do not include the house I live in.
Kim is the oldest at fifteen, which also means she’s incredibly sophisticated — in her imagination. Kim and her friends have made an art of sighing, rolling their eyes, and raising their eyebrows at each other. It’s as if they belong to a secret society that’s only allowed to communicate through facial expressions.
Other than that, their favorite pastime seems to be holding thoughtful discussions on important world events. I’m kidding, of course. They mostly talk about romance, but they work in a few other things like clothes and hair products too. Probably so they won’t seem shallow.
Steffie Morton is the only one of Kim’s friends who isn’t like that. She’s friendly and funny and not one bit hard to look at. Of all the people who hang out at our house, she’s the one I’d most like some attention from. Which was a big part of how this all started — but that’s getting ahead of things. I was telling you about my sisters.
Next in line is Paige, who lives and breathes drama. We’re both thirteen at the moment, but I’m older by ten months. There is nothing that can’t be turned into a matter of life and death if Paige is in the room. As a result, her vocabulary has shrunk to the point that it includes a mere four adjectives. They are: worst, best and WORST, BEST. (Okay, that’s actually only two, at different decibels, but I didn’t want her to sound like a dunce.)
Paige claims to have a boyfriend. Mom says that is not happening at her age. According to Paige that makes her the WORST mother ever. The guy goes by Junior, but I never know if that’s a real name or not. He’s about as interesting as a blank page, so unless my sister is attracted to dull, I’d say she’s trying to get Mom going. Some form of weird female rebellion, maybe.
Either way, it’s not my problem except for the odd time when Mom and Dad are out and she sneaks Junior in. Then I feel obligated to give him menacing looks — you know, to make sure he knows I’m around. Watching. Not that there’s been anything to see. Paige hasn’t even tried the standard “We’re going to my room to listen to music” bit. And when they’re sitting in the living room he’s u
sually alone on the couch while she flops in her favorite chair. It’s obvious she has zero actual interest in the guy. I think of him as a sort of stuffed toy she’s bored with but drags around anyway because she likes the attention it gets her.
Anna is the youngest, at nine. She’s also the family extortionist. And let me just say, if you’ve never been blackmailed, chances are pretty good you’re an only child.
She’s little and cute and looks so innocent when she’s standing there with her hand out, leveling those cold eyes at you, it makes the chill traveling down your spine seem a bit surreal. But that kid is merciless.
Pleading with Anna gets you nowhere. You can tell her any sob story you like, it won’t do you a bit of good. Once you’re cornered, you’re as good as finished. I’ve learned not to bother wasting my breath. I just fork over the cash and watch her pocket it on her way out the door.
I always know exactly where she’s going with her ill-gotten gains. Anna is like some kind of animal shelter Robin Hood. Every cent she gets her hands on goes to help feed the cats and dogs and whatever else they house in that place. (Half of them would probably have starved to death long ago if it wasn’t for me.)
Not that she’s all bad. Anna fluctuates from being the worst of the lot to the only one with any redeeming qualities. She reminds me of a poem Mom used to recite — about a little girl who was either very, very good, or horrid.
Given that she lives to blackmail, I’m positive Anna would pick horrid. The good thing (if there can be anything good about being shaken down) is that Anna is too young to ask for much. She also never tries to double dip and she keeps her mouth shut once you’ve bought her silence.
Fortunately, there’s another, non-criminal side to Anna. That side would save you the last cookie even if she wanted it herself, or cover you with a blanket if you fell asleep on the couch. She’s a living, breathing contradiction, my youngest sister. The same girl who can take your last dollar with a heart of frozen stone will also sob her head off over a bird with a broken wing.
You’ll get to know more about all of us soon, but first, I need to go back to a day in April and the moment small-town life went from boring to bizarre.
CHAPTER TWO
Steve was at my place. (If Paige was telling this story, she’d describe Steve as my BFF and fabricate a heart-warming story about how we met, preferably one that included rescuing a kitten. Since I’m not Paige, I’ll just call him Steve and get on with it.)
We weren’t doing anything much — hanging out, talking about ways we could earn some extra cash, that kind of thing. Eventually, we got around to raiding the kitchen. Mom gets on health kicks now and then, but fortunately this wasn’t one of those nightmarish times. We found a bag of some sort of cheesy puffs and filled a bowl.