by Anne Eliot
I lean forward, pleading with him to understand.
“No. You can’t just flip a switch. You were unfairly ripped out of your life and your town, and you need to go back. This Ellen girl is very much connected to your next steps.” He hands me a sheet of paper. The first one’s got an image of the breakup text I’d sent to Ellen Foster from the social worker’s stolen phone.
I sigh. “I suppose I’m not surprised to see this as part of my file because of the circumstances. And it was a terrible way to break up with Ellen.”
“With any girl.”
I grimace. “But if you read this, sir, you will see what I’m talking about. I stated very clearly here for her to move on, and that I wasn’t coming back. I’m not about to break that promise.”
The judge frowns. “Wait. That’s not the paper I wanted to show you. What about this promise?” He reaches over with another sheet, and when I see it, I literally start to choke.
It’s a copy of the love letter I’d written to Ellen when my father had first forbidden me to see her. It had been sent with a gift of some beach glass I’d found for her. And it’s private and embarrassing, and I suddenly wonder just who else has read this letter. “I—um—sent this from my school. How did you get a copy of it?” My voice is shaking as hard as the hand that’s holding the letter, and I know I need to get—and then keep—myself under control.
Does this guy know he’s just shredded my heart into some sort of massive ball of pulp? Does he get that I wouldn’t be surprised if both blood and an ocean of salt water flooded out of my eyes after being forced to look at this damn letter? What is this dude trying to do? Kill me?
“Your mom contacted Mrs. Foster requesting she send anything that could prove to me you’d never hurt her daughter the way your father and the news media was accusing you of hurting her. This letter you wrote proves that. The way you obviously tried to protect her with that inane text message where you broke things off with her was also proof, but the phone call I had with Ellen Foster personally back in April that told me you and she and Patrick and Laura had won the Western Regional Arts Photography Contest—now that was one amazing phone call, indeed. And you’re right. I’ve seen the winning photos. The art is amazing.”
“We…won it?” My heart’s pounding.
“A full-ride scholarship that includes tuition, housing and food that I’m fully intending on forcing you to attend in a matter of days. It’s why your case was moved up to the fast track, son. You’re going back—you’re having a second chance at everything. And this time, your father’s not going to be there to muddy the water. Good that you’re already studying.” He nods approvingly to the book Tom had made me drag in here.
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say thank you.” The judge grins. “You also owe Mary and Tom for bending my ear more than once over your case. This interview has me understanding just why even Ellen’s own mother is pulling so hard for you. That’s the most amazing part of this case. Ellen, her mom, that PT fellow, Mr. Nash—all the people who were most hurt by this accident—spoke up for you and begged me to release you in time to attend the WOA Summer Scholar Program.”
“This is a lot to take in. Can’t I take a few days to decide if I even want to go?”
“No. This is all part of your parole. It’s been decided that you will go, you will excel, and you will reunite on some level with your old life and your old friends. You, thanks to your father, are now in dire need of future scholarship prospects. My job is to try to secure that future, and this is the best possible way. The program will have already been in progress about two weeks once you finally arrive. But we’ve got you a room, and we’ve convinced the director, with my blessing and the blessing of Ellen and Ellen’s mom, of course, and because you pose zero danger to any of the other students, you will be just fine. Do you think you can keep your temper in check?”
“Dorms? Me? In Ontario? With Ellen?”
“Can you handle this? I know it’s a shock, but sometimes the best way to right a wrong is to simply put everything back in its place. Your place is in Ontario, with your mom. Not here in British Columbia. Do you agree?”
I nod, but my mind’s screaming: No! No! No!
“Your mom thinks it will be good for you to be there while she sets up an apartment somewhere near your high school in Brights Grove so she can also restart her life and look for a job. This is going to take time, and when you return home, you can complete your senior year along with everyone else and be right on track for university planning.”
“And…my dad? How can you guarantee he’s going to be out of our lives? That he’s not going to show up with a bunch of footballs and very real threats?”
“I can’t lie to you. There’s still some work that needs to be done with that man. The WOA arrangement is actually a perfect interim solution, because it keeps you safe, as he and your mom are required to stay here within the province of British Columbia until all of this is settled and final. Instead of having you wait that out at the academy, you can be working toward a tangible goal in Ontario. A goal you earned, son. Though it is on a university campus, the WOA program is all high-school-aged kids, and it will get you re-acclimated to a more normal high school environment after living in lockdown for six months.”
“This all sounds good, but again…I want to tell you I’m afraid of my dad. Also, I’m afraid for my mom. She will need me to be with her.”
“She’s an adult. And she needs to know you are happy.” The judge nods knowingly. “Your father’s being amazingly stubborn, but he also loves his money and I can threaten to take it all away. Whether he likes it or not, your dad will finally understand that you are almost an adult and he’s not to approach you or your mother again until you come to the age of eighteen, after you graduate high school. That’s only one year, son, but it should be enough time for that man to get his head on straight and get over the fact that you aren’t going to be a professional football player like he wanted. So…are you in? Can you handle this?”
“And Ellen—my friends—she knows I’m attending?”
“Ellen and her mom knew it was a possibility, but since the program’s long begun, I would expect your appearance next week will be somewhat of a surprise. Maybe this girl won’t return to being your girlfriend, but according to what all of the parents and Mrs. Brown have told me, you were all very close friends. Even if she’s moved on, and even if you are too afraid to approach her again, you should at the very least try to restore that friendship. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.” I swallow.
But again, my mind’s screaming: No! No! No!
Ellen
I duck my head under the water and swim six strokes without taking a breath, making it all the way to the wall before surfacing to take a break. I can’t believe I’ve survived my first two weeks at the Western Ontario Arts Program. Even better, I feel like I’m finally getting stronger thanks to Nash’s workout plan for me. I’ve even managed to get back into Professor Perry’s good graces by showing up early and leaving late to every class. Despite that chewing gum incident that caused me to lose two full nights of sleep, I’ve turned in my first assignment—Close-ups of Inanimate Man-made Objects—on time.
When I was the only one to receive an A+, Harrison sort of hurt my feelings by accusing me of brown-nosing because I’d chosen to photograph the photography classroom. I’d fallen in love with the beams inside the room. They’re these modern metal girders all held together by giant nuts and bolts. I had no idea Professor Perry had actually designed the room, and the skylight and beam placements he created himself. Who would know that?
Although Harrison and half of the class seemed to know it.
I tried to explain to Harrison that it wasn’t brown-nosing that made me choose that topic. It was simply my CP and my love of photography that led me to it. Because I’m always going into the classroom early so I can get settled, I’d had all this extra time and no one to talk to. So
I’d been staring up at the skylights and the beams every single day. Because I’m a compulsive photographer, of course I was pointing my iPhone and then my Nikon at those things.
How was I supposed to know Professor Perry would also be in there early as much as I was? He’d noticed what I was photographing because that’s his job. To notice what his students are photographing. And before anyone else had a chance to ask for it, he offered to lend me the school’s brand-spanking-new hyper-focus telephoto lens so I could really zoom in to the highest areas of the room and set up way better still-life shots.
Using that lens was the closest thing to being able to fly that I’d ever felt. And fine, Professor Perry and I did bond over learning how to tweak it and use it for a few mornings. The lens was so new that even he hadn’t had the chance to work with it yet. So he was as curious and excited as I was about how the shots with that lens would turn out. I could be tiny and near the ground, unable to move very fast or far, but with a simple lift of a camera, that lens let me go places I couldn’t even imagine.
It rocked everything I knew or thought I was capable of shooting. I can’t wait to do telephoto outdoors.
The shots I turned in to be graded were mostly of the skylights. I’d figured out a way to capture sun or clouds or raindrops on the skylights while showing actual shadows of reflections off the brushed metal beams. The effect was not easy. I’d even pulled my neck muscle doing it, which meant for half of the shots, I’d had to act like a dork and lie on the floor of that empty classroom to find my shots. Oh, but what shots they were!
That lens ensured that even the giant industrial-looking bolts, bolts bigger than my fist, photographed as if they were beautiful fine art. Harrison even seemed doubly miffed when my A+ grade gave me first choice of the school’s lenses for our second project. Of course, because I wasn’t finished learning and loving that thing, I checked it out again. The guy was actually pouting until I promised I’d let him try it for some of his second project, too. He liked it so much he went off and bought himself a similar one.
As I peel off the webbed-finger swim glove Nash gave me to use on my bad hand, my lungs, both of my legs, and my bad arm are screaming with fire-filled muscle exhaustion. Testing my legs, I wonder if I’ve overdone it, because I pushed past what Nash had assigned me and tried to add an extra half-mile to my swim. I pull my bad hand forward and try to flex my fingers, but my arm’s so tired they refuse to respond. Worse, they’re curving toward my wrist. Yep. I overdid it.
*Orders hand to rest now but to act exactly like a real hand instead of a dead fish for the party tonight. OR ELSE.*
Because Nash can’t be here all summer to supervise my workouts, he decided swimming would be the safest way for me to do the cardio portion of my physical therapy. Unfortunately—or fortunately, because I do love the company—Nash enlisted Patrick and Laura in my summer PT needs as well. I actually think the guy took Patrick aside and told him some nonsense about how, because of my Cerebral Palsy, I could have some sort of spastic attack in the water, to the point where it would be so dangerous for me that I’d drown if not supervised carefully. He’d also left off the part where I’m a great swimmer, so the chances of that happening would be zero.
The only time my CP wins and ruins me when I’m in water is if there’s a huge temperature change. Like if I’m in a super-hot, hot tub I might need help getting out of it. I simply make sure I’m going in with people I trust, because I can’t really move well until I cool off. But again, that’s only on my left side—not on my right side at all. So worst case, if I couldn’t get help, I’d I simply flop myself out somehow.
Even though I told Patrick and Laura that I didn’t need them to come with me every day, they’ve sworn to suddenly love lap swimming. I glance over at them. To be honest, they aren’t really swimming laps at all, nor are they even attempting to supervise what I’m doing, which makes me happy, but it would really make Nash upset if he could see their daily ridiculousness.
Right now, Patrick’s diving off the low diving board. He’s wearing these goofy pink kids’ goggles that he pilfered from a box marked Swim Lessons Lost and Found right when we got here. Laura’s in the shallow end, doing enthusiastic dolphin dives in between these crooked-legged, underwater hand-stands. I’ve watched her do it every single day, and she never gets better at it. Patrick swears he grabbed the goggles so he could watch me to make sure I’m okay while swimming, but we both know it’s because he wants to ogle Laura in her swimsuit while she’s underwater.
I’d call him out on it, but in typical Laura style, her bathing suit is something insane, and even I want to watch her in that swimsuit when she’s underwater. That’s because it’s some sort of vintage 1920s swimsuit. When she first put it on two weeks ago, she told me it was a “real live bathing costume” and, “isn’t it neat-o-beauty?” She’s matched the archaic swimsuit with a full snorkel set. So, she informed me, she can be breathe underwater as long as she wants, just like a real dolphin. This week this bizarre plastic-flower-topped bathing cap arrived in the mail. Laura swears was part of the Canadian gold medal synchronized swimming team from some Olympics long past.
The suit and the cap were sent in by Auntie Judith, who loves vintage stuff. Laura told me she wanted a real “beach ensemble” because as part of the program, we get to take a week-long mini vacation to Grand Bend, a beach town with a real old-fashioned boardwalk. The trip is supposed to be for us to take photographs for our final projects. Despite the part where I can’t go out to the water easily like everyone else, I do like views and boardwalks, so I am a little excited about it. I’ve never had a vacation to a hotel with just a bunch of kids my own age and without my mom. Should be…interesting and fun! Especially if Laura London is my roommate.
“Guys! Watch!” Laura calls out.
Even though we’ve seen them thousands of times, Patrick and I pause to watch Laura’s dolphin moves. She does them feet closed, making a perfect dolphin tail every time she launches herself out of the water, no less. Her moves make me sigh with longing. The girl is so coordinated it’s unfair. I have no idea how she’s moving in the water at all with that two-hundred-pound bathing costume on, yet, as usual, she’s making it look easy. It must be fun to be so comfortable in your own body and outfits.
When she surfaces at the far side of the pool after executing three connected dolphin splash moves, I call out teasingly, “Are you guys finished…working out?”
Because the pool is completely empty besides us, Patrick, who’s been dog-paddling in his own lane, suddenly executes three pretty amazingly athletic man-dolphin jumps over the ropes. And makes it effortlessly into my lane. “Are you suggesting swimming like a dolphin is not a workout?”
“Oh, Patrick! That was absolutely brilliant!” Laura beams at him.
While Laura’s still splashing around the stairs where the kids go in, Patrick shakes his head, adding in a small eye roll. “I lay my heart at that girl’s feet, but the only time she calls me brilliant or pays me any real attention is when we’re playing mermaids and dolphins.”
I crack up. “You played mermaids?”
He stops trying to shake water out of his ear, and straightens his shoulders. “I was the merman, actually. And a damn good one. Only, she wanted us to be brother and sister. Girl kills me. Kills me, every damn day. Do you think if I suggest a late-night movie marathon for both of the Dolphin Tale movies she’ll finally make out with me again? Look at her. She’s so cute.”
He jerks his head at Laura, who’s emerging on the steps now in a way that has the flower-encrusted bathing cap capturing gallons of water, which is now flowing down around her very slowly.
“Wow…isn’t this amazing? I’m like a living flower fountain,” she calls out while spinning around and around.
“Don’t drown yourself, nut.” Patrick gives me this pained look and whispers, “I love her. Love.”
“Don’t. Patrick. Just…don’t love her. Be her friend. It’s what she says she wants.”
Patrick sighs. “I’m pretty sure you know the heart wants what the heart wants…right? And I don’t want to be her stupid friend. Anyone who’s willing to play merman-dolphin crap for a whole hour every single day doesn’t want to be friends. Can’t she see how hard I’m working for her? God help me.” He shakes his head, laughing a little as he darts me a glare. “I drew the line when she asked if I wanted to do underwater dolphin and whale calls, though. You know? I’ve got my limits.”
I don’t answer, just laugh. No point in encouraging him in any direction toward or away from her. He, like me, will just have to decide when enough is enough. When he does, he will eventually move on. Just like doing. And hopefully I’ll be doing more of that tonight, considering it’s Friday and we’ve all been invited to go to a party.
As he dog-paddles around me in a circle, I admire his beautiful raven wings tattoo—the tips of it are visible going shoulder to shoulder—wondering again how Laura can resist him. He’s so gone for her, and to me he’s so handsome and kind, and heck, he’s completely right. Who else is going to do what this guy does for Laura London? How can she not see that?
“Oi! Guys.” Laura’s all the way out of the pool now, and she’s doing this dance-jump-shivering thing. Her swimming costume is sagging in all the right places. As she shakes off her crazy floral cap, her wet, curling blond hair frames her face in this way that makes her stunningly beautiful despite her outfit. I shake my head, extra sad for Patrick because I get then and there what he gets—Laura London could make any boy she wanted to play any game she asked for, in any pool or out.
“Oh…” Patrick groans under his breath as if he’s in extreme pain. “God. Kills. Kills. Kills me,” Patrick mutters. “I’d hate her so much for torturing me like this if I hadn’t sworn to eventually be with her forever…you know?”
