“It’s them!” I hiss.
Several sets of familiar parents frown and pace outside the office. Samantha and Sydney join them, their expressions remorseful.
I pull Charlotte’s arm and whisk her down another hall and outside. After all, the IGs might be our enemies, but there’s no use making it worse by gloating over it.
The following morning, I wait again for things to explode, but when I see the IGs, they act as though they don’t know us. As a matter of fact, they totally leave us alone for the whole day.
The week wears on, and by the time school ends on Friday, I’m exhausted from the suspense. I come home, throw myself on the couch, and let out a long, slow breath.
“Everything okay?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, so far,” I say. “Can you believe it? The IGs are totally leaving us alone. I just hope it lasts.”
“Why? What do you think will happen?” Mom asks as she empties the dishwasher.
“I’m scared they might retaliate when we aren’t expecting it.”
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Mom says. “Enjoy the peace and quiet and get on with your life. And whatever you do, don’t smear it in their faces, okay?”
“As if.” I let out a snort.
Mom puts the dishes away in the cupboard. When she’s done, she leans on the counter, looking like she’ll burst with excitement. “By the way, I have some good news to tell you two.”
Dylan’s head pops up from his homework. “What?” he asks.
Mom stands silent for a moment, an amused grin playing on her lips, and then announces, “We’re going to Vancouver on Saturday!”
“Vancouver?” Dylan and I shout at the same time.
“Yes!” Her smile is huge. “Since the Morins are going, I thought it might be fun if we went too.”
Dylan shoots up out of his chair like a rabbit. “Yay!” He grabs my hands, and we whirl around until we lose our balance, landing on the floor, laughing.
Catching my breath, I turn to Mom. “So what are we going to do?”
“Well, we could go to Granville Island, Canada Place, Gastown –” Mom begins.
“Granville Island!” shouts Dylan. “Then I can get some more buffalo pepperoni and one of those really old chocolates!”
“Really old chocolates?” I stick out my tongue. “Gross.”
“They’re not old.” Mom laughs. “The company’s really old. They’re actually pretty good. You’ve had them before, Kira. Remember? They’re wrapped in pink.”
Some long ago memory stirs in my mind of eating a sweet raspberry-flavoured chocolate while sitting on the quay surrounded by squawking seagulls. “Oh, yeah.”
“And we could visit Aunty Agnes since she lives really close to the market,” says Mom.
“Yes, Aunty Agnes!” Dylan jumps up again. “She’ll buy me a whole bunch of those really old chocolates.”
Aunty Agnes is one of those types of aunts who never had children of her own, so she makes up for lost time with us. Whenever we see her, it’s just like Christmas – toys, candies, a book, or maybe some kind of music she thinks we'll like.
“Aunty Agnes sounds great,” I say.
When Saturday arrives, the Morins pick us up at ten in their van. We squish in, giggling and talking a mile a minute.
We get there right before lunch. Herb and Sandra drop us off at Aunty Agnes’ apartment in False Creek, wave good-bye, and drive away to Chinatown where the adoption group’s supposed to meet.
Aunty Agnes meets us at the door of her apartment, her graying hair pushed back neatly with a hairband. All of four-foot-eleven and sixty, she’s still pretty spunky. She hugs and kisses us all, and fusses over Dylan and me, saying how much we’ve both grown. We go upstairs to her apartment where she opens the door to a spacious flat, with pale hardwood floors and granite countertops. I look around as though I’m seeing it for the first time. Asian furniture graces the room. The paintings and masks on the walls have been collected from her various trips abroad. I stare in wonder.
Maybe someday I’ll have a place like this.
After Dylan’s favourite lunch of honey-garlic chicken, we make our way along False Creek to Granville Island.
The wind plays in my hair, and I breathe deeply. “I love the sea air,” I say, spreading my arms out wide to take it all in.
“It makes my hair frizz,” says Mom combing her wild mop of ringlets with her fingers.
“It makes me feel free.” I twirl around. “None of those jerks from school – just us.”
“And soon you’ll be rid of them,” says Mom.
“I hope so,” I say.
When we get to Granville Island, we pass a giant toy store. Before we can say anything, Dylan slips in, and we have no choice but to follow. There are toys of every type and size, things we normally only find on-line. Dylan runs about begging Mom to buy him this and that.
“Aw, come on. Just this alligator head picker-upper. Please?”
“No,” Mom says.
“Or how about this Bobble-Head of Mr. Bean?”
“No.”
But Aunty Agnes caves in and buys him a large chocolate chip cookie and a stuffed animal that makes weird warbling sounds.
Just as I’m thinking we’ll never get out alive, Mom suggests we go to the market. “I want to see what kind of fruit we can get for dessert tonight.”
As we approach the bright red building, tantalizing aromas of fresh-baked goods draw us in. We push our way through crowds of people, admiring stained glass and jewellery, past booths selling pungent curries and succulent pies, and to the fruit and vegetable stands where fresh produce is piled up in perfect pyramids.
Mom gets busy ordering a mix of fruit, the kind we get all shrivelled up in Hope.
The vendor is just handing her the bag of produce when she swings around, her eyes wide and starts calling, “Dylan? Dylan?”
I turn in circles too searching the crowd.
Aunty Agnes joins in. “Dylan!”
Dylan’s head bobs up over the crowd. “Over here,” he shouts. “I found the buffalo pepperoni guy!”
“Oh, Dylan,” scolds Mom. “You shouldn’t leave us like that. I thought you had been kidnapped.”
“Sorry, Mom, but I just couldn’t help it. Buffalo pepperoni’s way too good. Besides, the buffalo pepperoni guy’s in the same place I remember from last time. It’s not like I was far away or anything.”
Aunty Agnes hurries forward, pulling money out of her red, leather purse.
“No, Aunty Agnes.” Mom grabs her arm. “I’ll get this. You’ve already bought him a lot today.”
“Well, okay.” Aunty Agnes tucks the money back into her wallet.
I’m watching the workers behind the counter hurrying to fill orders, when I notice something odd. I turn to Mom in disbelief.
“They’re speaking French – like us.”
Mom fumbles with her purse, digs down, and pulls out a ten-dollar bill.
“Yes, they’re from France,” she says, moving to the front of the line. “I remember them from before.”
The butcher is tall, dark, and foreign-looking. He leans over. “What may I get for you,” he asks, rolling the r in the word for.
Mom breaks into her best Quebecois. “J’vais prendre quatre bâtons d’pepperoni de bison, s’il vous plaît.”
“Ah, un francophone!” He acts like Mom is a rare specimen because she speaks French.
“Oui. J’viens du Québec.” She looks delighted.
The butcher grabs not four, but five buffalo pepperoni sticks.
“Un petit cadeau pour de vrais francophones.” He grins.
“A gift for speaking French!” I exclaim.
Dylan makes a grab for the pepperoni, but I snatch it before he can get his paws on it.
“We’ll split the fifth one,” I say, breaking it in two. I bite into the pepperoni and savour the spicy, smoky flavour. “I can’t believe there are actually French people here. This is so different than Hope.”
<
br /> “Oh, that it is.” Mom nods. “Vancouver’s a pretty multicultural place. I figured it would be good for you to see that our town is only one tiny corner on the face of the earth. You’ll be coming to all this in a few years.”
“I could learn to like that,” I say, beaming.
As we walk toward the food fair, I stare in awe at the bakeries lining the way, with baguettes standing tall amid the rows of fresh buns. How fun it would be to come here on my own.
“They have good cappuccinos here,” says Aunty Agnes. “And hot chocolates too. Come on, I’ll buy you one.”
“No, no, no, Aunty,” Mom says.
“There’s a table,” cries Dylan, pointing.
“Let’s go grab it,” I say before Mom changes Aunty Agnes’ mind.
Dylan and I slide into the wooden chairs at the table made from a slice of tree that’s been varnished. We wait for Mom and Aunty Agnes to come with the steaming drinks. Crowds of people mill around us. Someone’s playing the fiddle.
I flinch, thinking it might be Kate McDonough, but when I turn, I see, instead a tall, young man with a half-grown beard holding an old fiddle against his turtle-neck sweater. His army boot pounds the ground to the beat of the jig he expertly plays. Relieved it’s not her, I lean back and relax, sipping my drink while Mom and Aunty Agnes make idle conversation.
After a few minutes, Aunty Agnes tips her head toward Dylan and whispers, “Look.”
His eyes are fixed on the fiddler, mesmerised, his chin nodding to the beat.
“I know,” Mom says in a hushed voice. “You should hear him play. He’s gotten so good.”
The busker jumps into a strathspey. People throw loons and toons into his box. Dylan gets up and fishes a coin from his pocket. It clinks as he drops it in the box. The busker nods to him, but Dylan doesn’t leave. He stays and listens right to the end of the man’s set. They speak for several minutes while the musician packs up his instrument. Then Dylan waves to him with a smile and returns to our table.
“What was that all about?” Mom asks, laying down her empty cup.
“I wanna do that,” Dylan says.
“Do what?” asks Mom, crumpling the cup in her hand.
“Play.”
“Here? On Granville Island?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Why not?” says Aunty Agnes. “There are quite a few children who perform here.”
“Seriously?” Mom gives Aunty Agnes an incredulous look.
“Yeah. I see them all the time. And some of them are really good.”
Dylan babbles on. “His name’s Jeff, and he says we have to buy a busker’s license by the toy store. He says that kids can make a lot of money here.”
“Well,” Mom says, gathering up the other cups and putting them on the tray. “Are you sure you can handle this?”
Dylan nods with certainty. “Yeah. I’m tired of my Dead-Eye Dart Guns. I wanna buy an iPad, and this is how I’m going to make the money.”
Mom exchanges looks with Aunty Agnes. “Okay, then.” She wipes the table with a napkin and places the recyclables in the blue bin.
An hour later, Dylan holds the orange pass in his hand. It’s official. He’s going to be a busker – my little brother! I have to admit I’m a little jealous, but kind of proud of him too. Who would have ever thought he would have the guts to do such a thing? But I can’t help but hear a small, nagging voice inside my head saying it should be me.
We walk back to Aunty Agnes’ place, stopping along the way to buy Dylan’s really old chocolates. Dylan orders a peanut butter cream, and I order a raspberry. I give him a nod when I bite into it. “Mmm, these are really good. They’re not old at all.”
“Told you,” Dylan says.
At Aunty Agnes’ place, Mom cleans and cuts the fruit to make a large fruit salad while Aunty Agnes orders pizza. We’re finishing up when the buzzer rings at seven o’clock.
Mom lets the Morins in, and we say our good-byes to Aunty Agnes.
“You’ll come back soon, right?” Aunty Agnes says as she hugs me. “You belong here, you know that.”
I nod. “I love Vancouver, Aunty. I want to go to university here.”
“Well you’re welcome here anytime.” Her eyes are moist, and I know Mom’s told her about the bullying.
“Thanks.”
As we hop into the van, I ask Charlotte, “So how was the reunion?”
“It was pretty cool,” she says.
“Oh, really? What happened?” I say, strapping on my seatbelt.
“It was all families just like us – white families with Asian girls. There wasn’t a single boy in the group. Can you imagine that? Like what’s wrong with girls? Why do they always have to give away girls?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “So what did you guys do?”
“We all met for dim sum at some fancy restaurant in Chinatown.”
“Dim sum? What’s that?”
“It’s all sorts of dumplings. It’s really good.”
“Did you eat anything weird?” I ask while Herb starts the van.
“You mean like chicken’s feet and jellyfish?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew! You didn’t, did you?”
“What? I like jellyfish. It’s kind of like eating hard, slimy noodles. It’s good. But no, I didn’t try the chicken’s feet, but Dad did and said they were delicious.”
The van rolls through the streets. It’s clouded over and is starting to rain. The windshield wipers thump in rhythm.
“And we saw lots of neat people,” Charlotte continues. “Some of them I even remembered from a couple of years ago.”
“Like who?”
“Well, like Ainsley, Ashley, and Maddison. Two of them are identical twins, and the other one comes from a different part of China.”
“Let me guess. The twins are Ainsley and Ashley, right?” I giggle.
“Yeah.” Charlotte joins in my laughter. “And their mom’s a principal who’s always fund-raising for the orphanage.”
“Cool.”
The lights of Vancouver sweep past us, and we’re driving up the ramp to catch Highway One.
“I really liked them. We exchanged e-mail addresses so we can keep in touch. They even invited me to spend a weekend with them.”
A twinge of jealousy pricks my heart.
“So are you going to?” I desperately want her to say no.
“Well, some time, I imagine.”
I’m hoping it’s not in the near future, I so need my BFF right now.
“So did you talk about what it was like to be adopted?” I ask as the van passes over the Port Mann Bridge.
“At first I didn’t want to, but after hearing about their lives, I couldn’t help but talk about mine and about Travis’ gang.” Charlotte’s face drops.
“What did they say when you told them?”
“They totally took my side. They say they don’t have those kinds of problems in Vancouver because there’re so many Asians here.”
I tell her all about Dylan’s busking license. Charlotte lets out a loud laugh. Turning to Dylan, her smile wide, she exclaims, “Way to go!”
The journey seems quicker than it did on the way to Vancouver, and we pass Abbotsford and Chilliwack. As we come to the sign that reads ‘Welcome to Hope’, a feeling of dread comes over me. My stomach tightens, and I clench my fists. How I loathe the thought of returning to Hope after spending time in Vancouver and seeing what the world is really like outside our small town. I want to shout at the IGs, tell them they’re the losers, not me. Going to Vancouver has proven that, but I know I have to hold it all in just to keep the peace.
Then a diabolical idea comes to me, an idea that’s so outrageous, I can’t believe it’s me thinking it. I try to force it out of my mind, but the more I try, the bigger and better it gets. It’s a way to get revenge on Hope. It’s so perfect, and the best part is, no one will ever know it’s me who did it. Wringing my hands together, I smile as the
plan takes shape – I’m going to change the name of our town!
Chapter 20
The Old Violin
Something strange is going on. Charlotte’s had an air of secrecy about her all day that bothers me. I wonder if she’s mad at me. My eyes search the empty halls for signs of her. She’s definitely left without me. Where did she go? Hurrying through the hall, I leap down the front steps of the school.
Brisk, chill winds thrash my hair in every direction like the wild branches of a tree. I pull at my coat, forcing the buttons into their holes while black clouds overhead threaten to burst. As I near Dylan’s school, I scan the playground for him, but it’s deserted. My pace quickens as I search the road ahead to see if maybe he’s already started home, but the dark streets lay abandoned.
“Dylan!” I shout. “Where are you?”
The sky lights up, and a bright lightning bolt throws itself in my path. A second later, a clap of thunder jolts me. I scream and break into a run, hurrying the rest of the way home. Dashing up the walk, I burst through the door of our house, panting.
Quiet mumblings echo in the living room.
“Mom,” I call. “I couldn’t find Dylan.”
The mumbling continues like a soft secret.
“Mom?”
I peel off my coat and shoes and walk into the living room where I find Charlotte and Dylan, and the Bachinskys too.
Mr. Bachinsky swings around. “Kira, you’re back!”
Monica nearly jumps, a phony smile creeping across her face. “Hi Kira.”
Dylan and Charlotte are nestled in the corner of the sofa, their eyes darting back and forth to the stairs.
“Where were you, Dylan? You were supposed to wait for me.”
Dylan’s lips are clamped shut, his eyes still skittering.
“And Charlotte, what happened? You left school without me.”
She shrugs and looks away with the same mysterious air she’s had about her all day.
Mom backs out of the kitchen with a tray full of cookies and tea. She lays the food down on the coffee table. “Here are some treats for everyone,” she says, watching me out of the corner of her eye.
Dylan and Charlotte dig in while the Bachinskys lift their teacups so Mom can fill them.
A Town Bewitched Page 10
