by Natalie Hyde
For Sheldon, who appreciates a sweet ride.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
THE NAME’S DIRK STARK
Moose snot is a real thing, you know. So are bogs deep enough to swallow a man whole, and mosquitoes the size of bats. Okay, maybe not as big as bats, but bigger than any mosquito I’ve ever seen. And I’m not kidding about the moose snot. I should know, seeing as it was running down my arm.
If you had told me one week ago that I’d be stranded up a tree, covered in moose snot with onions stinking up my pockets, I’d have thought you were nuts. One week ago I was sitting in our living room trying to concentrate on my favourite TV show, where contestants get knocked into water by padded bars and oversized boxing gloves as they try to get through an obstacle course. But I could barely hear their umpfs and ows as they went flying, because someone was pounding on our apartment door.
Now, I had lived here long enough to know that nobody good ever pounded on the door. Friends who wanted to hang with you and church ladies bringing around Christmas food hampers always knocked. Cops coming to take your dad away for the latest “Failure to Appear” and landlords looking for the rent always pounded with their fists. So I did my best to ignore it, but the incessant pounding was now accompanied by a lady’s voice calling, “Mr. Dearing. Mr. Dearing! I need you to open the door right now.”
I winced at the name. You know, sometimes I really hated being a Dearing. As far as I could tell, no one named Dearing ever amounted to anything. They were all losers. And I didn’t want to be one of them. So I’d made a plan. When I turned eighteen, I was going to change my name. Did you know you could do that? Just pay some money and presto! chango! you had a new name. One that you picked — not one that your parents thought was cute or funny or unique.
I’ve decided on the name “Dirk Stark.” I like how tough the name Dirk sounds. Not like Chris. Chris sounds all soft and mushy with that “s” on the end. A “Chris” sounded like someone weak, who was deathly afraid of small spaces and cried in secret. Someone named “Dirk” could crush pop cans with one hand and would stand up to bullies. No one would pick on someone named Dirk. And Stark, because, well, my favourite superhero is Iron Man, a.k.a. Tony Stark. I had to wait another five years until I was old enough, but then I would be Dirk Stark and say goodbye to Chris Dearing forever.
“Mr. Dearing. MR. DEARING! You need to answer this door!” The voice was getting pretty loud now. I knew who it was anyway. It had to be Mrs. Critch, the wife of the landlord. He always sent her to do the dirty work of collecting rent payments that were late. And ours usually was. I couldn’t stand her. She was as thin as a stick and wore gobs of mascara, which made her look like an underfed zombie.
Best to get it over with because there is one truth about landlords — they never go away. Even if you stay really quiet and don’t watch TV or squeak the floorboards, they know you’re there and they’ll keep hounding you until you talk to them.
I hurried to the kitchen. I had a secret hiding spot where I kept any money I found in my dad’s wallet for rent. He needed help like that, otherwise there wouldn’t be any money left. The one hundred dollars in there so far was a start and would get Mrs. Critch to leave, at least for a while. But when I looked in the English Breakfast Tea tin, it was empty.
Not good. It meant Dad had found my latest spot and I’d have to find another. That also meant he hadn’t gone to work today like I’d hoped when I came home after school and he wasn’t there. Down on Ainslie Street, near the warehouses, there is a place where men can go and look for work. Dock managers and construction foremen come around in vans looking for day labourers. It doesn’t pay much but you can squeeze out enough for the rent if you work every day. Which he usually doesn’t.
I went to the door and unlocked it. I kept the chain on, though. That was something Shard taught me when we moved here. Always keep the chain on when you are talking to someone at the door.
I opened it as far as the chain would allow and looked through the crack. It wasn’t Mrs. Critch after all. It was someone I had never seen before. She was stuffed into a tan-coloured suit so tight it looked like it would burst at the seams the minute she moved. Her little piggy eyes were almost hidden by her puffy cheeks, and she was breathing hard.
“Are you Christopher Dearing?”
Five years from now I could say, “No, I’m not,” but for today, I still was. Then it hit me: How did she know my name? She wasn’t a tenant — I knew everyone who lived here. Other than Shard’s family, they were pretty much all old people. This wasn’t the best neighbourhood for raising a family. Maybe she was a distant relative of mine? I knew my dad’s family pretty well, but not my mom’s. They lived out west somewhere. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe this lady had a message from my mom.
I nodded, a lump in my throat.
“I’m from Family Services. The school board called me.”
Uh oh. That couldn’t be good. I shouldn’t have admitted who I was. Shard would lecture me about that later, for sure.
“Why did they call you?” I asked.
“You’ve missed sixteen days in the last six months.”
“Oh, my dad’s been sick. I’ve been taking care of him.” It was my usual answer when anyone asked me about missing school. And it wasn’t even really a lie. Truth was I did have to look after my dad a lot these days.
“Can I speak to him?”
I looked over my shoulder at my father’s empty bedroom.
“He’s not well enough for visitors.”
“It will only take a moment.” The woman moved her pointy shoe forward like she was going to jam it between the door and the frame and stop me from closing it. A wave of panic washed over me, so I slammed the door shut and clicked the lock.
The banging started again.
“Christopher? Christopher, open the door. I need to speak to your father.”
I just stood there, staring at the closed door and willing her to leave.
“Have it your way, Christopher. I’m coming back with the police.”
CHAPTER 2
A JAGGED PIECE OF GLASS
Could she do that, I wondered? Could the police come and arrest me? Or my dad? I knew who would know the answer to that — Shard.
I listened to Mrs. Family Service’s pointy shoes click down the hallway. I carefully cracked the door open again, terrified that she had tricked me and was still standing there. The hallway was empty. I ran down to Shard’s apartment.
Now there was someone who got a cool name. I mean, really, Shard? Like a jagged piece of glass? No one is going to think you’re a pushover with a name that means jagged piece of glass. No one. And her last name, Kent? Come on! Superman’s name? You are invincible with the name Shard Kent, and this Shard is. Life just isn’t fair.
Shard’s younger sisters didn’t luck out as much. Merle sounded like an old horse’s name and Reese was almost as bad as Chris. They came to the door
to gawk while I waited.
“Are you going to jail?” Merle asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard that lady shouting that she was coming back with the police. Are they going to arrest you?” She had a look of excitement all over her face.
“No.”
“Oh.” The edges of her mouth drooped.
“They gonna toss the place?” Reese joined in, obviously wanting to cheer her sister up.
“You two watch too much TV. No one’s getting arrested and no one’s tossing anybody’s place.”
The two girls left me standing there, shooting me dirty looks as they walked away, for spoiling what would have been an exciting afternoon for them.
“Sorry,” Shard said, coming to the door finally. “Cork needed changing.”
There were times when I was glad to be an only child, and the thought of changing dirty diapers on a two-year-old brother made this one of those times.
“I need to talk to you,” I told her.
“Come on, let’s go to your place. Too crowded here.”
When we were back in my apartment, I told her what happened.
“Can she really do that? Come back with the police, I mean. Am I really in trouble for skipping a few classes?”
“You don’t want to mess with Family Services,” Shard said. “They can stick you in foster care faster than you can blink.”
“Foster care?” I couldn’t believe they could do that because of a few missed days at school. “You’re lying,” I said.
That was the wrong thing to say. Shard’s eyes narrowed and her hands balled into fists. She stomped over to me and only stopped when we were almost nose to nose.
“I. Don’t. Lie.”
I couldn’t help it; I took a step back. Shard has a reputation, and it’s not for being honest. It’s for having a lightning-quick right hook. Rob Deegan knows exactly how quick it is — she broke his nose in grade five. If I remember correctly, it was for calling her a liar.
I took another step back.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that,” I said, forcing myself not to protect my nose with my hands. “I just meant it seems like an overreaction for skipping school.”
Shard relaxed her face and hands. “There’s probably more to it than just skipping school,” she said. “Did your dad ever hit you?”
“No.”
“He ever hit your mom?”
“No!”
Shard paused. “Has anyone at school been asking you questions?”
“Like what?”
“’Bout your mom?”
The French teacher at school asked a lot of questions when my mom disappeared. Questions I couldn’t answer. “Yeah. Madame LaFarge.”
“Did she ever comment on your clothes? Or your lunch? Or how tired or sick you looked?”
My heart started to speed up. She asked things like that all the time — about why I had a hole in my shirt, or where my lunch was, or why I had black circles under my eyes.
I nodded.
“That’s it then. She’s one of those do-gooders who thinks they’re saving the world.”
“Madame LaFarge called Family Services on us?”
Shard nodded. “Guaranteed. And now you’ve got trouble, ’cause once they start sniffing around, you’re never safe.”
Shard sounded like she knew what she was talking about. I remember a couple of years ago, her family had people in suits always coming and going from their place and Shard had been really stressed out. More than usual. Maybe someone had phoned Family Services on them too.
“So what do I do?”
“Well, for one, don’t open the door to them. And how could you be so stupid as to admit who you are? Haven’t I taught you anything?”
“I thought she had news from my mom,” I mumbled.
“She still in the loony bin?”
“She’s not in a loony bin!”
“Whatever. All you can do now is keep a low profile. Watch what you wear these last couple of days of the school year. Bring something to eat for lunch. And for Pete’s sake, look healthy.”
“Do you think she’s coming back like she said? With the police?”
Shard nodded. “You’d better find your dad. And fast.”
Great. Now I had to track down my dad and drag him out of some bar and get him back here before Mrs. Family Services returned with the cops. And then hope he was sober enough to convince them not to take me to a foster home. If the Dearings didn’t have bad luck, they’d have no luck at all.
CHAPTER 3
THE TALE IS TOLD
Shard said she’d help me get my dad. I was glad. Sometimes I had trouble convincing him to leave a bar.
He hadn’t always been like this. He used to be a master marine mechanic working on the ships down at the docks. He was the one they called when the tugboats blew an engine or even when the freighters had problems their own mechanics couldn’t diagnose. He was that good.
Until he got fired.
“The fix is in” was what my mom said when I asked her why he lost his job. I didn’t know what that meant. She said that it meant things were rigged behind the scenes.
I asked why they would do that to my dad. She said it was “because there is no room for an honest man down at the docks.” She didn’t think I saw, because she turned her head, but she was crying.
When I told her I was sure he’d get another job, she said, “Not if those thugs have anything to do with it.”
That’s all she would tell me. But she was right. After that, my dad couldn’t find a job anywhere. He even applied to jobs in other cities all up and down both coasts. Shard filled me in on the rest. Her dad worked the cranes that unloaded the shipping containers. He said my dad reported that he saw some of the dockworkers unloading containers directly to trucks without them going through customs first. Her dad said that meant smuggling: drugs or even people. Something illegal. He also said that even the police must have been in on it, because not only was no one charged, there wasn’t even an investigation. The only one who was punished was my dad, for squealing.
That’s when the drinking started.
“Where do you think he is?” Shard asked, snapping me back to the present.
I thought for a moment. “With a hundred dollars in his pocket, he’ll head to his favourite.”
“The Bull?”
“Yup.”
The Bull and Brambles liked to pretend it was an English pub. The trim outside was black and the frosted window on the door had gold-coloured curlicues all over it. Inside it was decorated with old horseshoes and British flags. My dad didn’t go there because of the decorations, though. He went there because it was the only place that served his favourite beer, called Deadman’s Creek. It was brewed in the Yukon, where my dad grew up, so I guess it reminded him of home.
Shard and I stopped inside the door of the Bull. It took a second or two for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. I don’t know why bars are so dark even when the sun is shining. Maybe because the people inside like to feel like they’re hidden away.
“What do you want?” a voice asked.
Fiona was standing behind the bar, scowling. As usual. She wasn’t exactly the warm-and-fuzzy motherly type. Maybe you have to be tougher than most people when you are a bar owner. Or at least look tough. Fiona had that covered with her muscular frame and tattoos on both arms. Sure they were butterflies — but one had razor-sharp wings and the other had fangs. I shivered even though the air was warm and heavy inside.
“I’m looking for my dad,” I said.
“You know you’re not allowed to be in here, right?” Fiona said, then sighed. “He’s holding court in the back.” She tipped her head in the direction of a few tables that were in an area behind the bar. “Sounds like your dad’s had quite the life — a stint in the French Foreign Legion, finding gold in the Yukon, his family’s escape from Communist Europe …”
“He gets a little carried away when he’s been dri
nking.”
Fiona gave a little snort and kept wiping glasses with a ratty dishtowel.
Shard and I walked to the back.
“French Foreign Legion? What’s that?” Shard asked.
“Soldiers who were paid to fight with the French army.”
“Cool!” she said.
“Would be, if he had really joined.”
“Oh.”
“And for the record, my grandfather didn’t strike it rich with a gold mine; he died penniless. And my ancestors aren’t even from Europe. They came from Winnipeg.”
Shard thought this was hilarious. I thought it was embarrassing. The Dearings led such lame lives that they had to make up histories to sound exciting and adventurous.
As we got closer, I heard my dad’s unmistakably deep voice.
“Fifty … no a hunnert tousand dollars wort of gold, easy,” he slurred.
We rounded the corner. My dad was sitting with two other guys at a table littered with dirty glasses.
“Man, you … you gotta go up der,” one of the men said, pointing a finger at my dad. The other guy was trying to grab it and kept missing.
“I know, right?” my dad said. “Soon as I get my pension from the Legion, I’m outta here.” My dad added a wave of his arm to show them how fast he would take off once that money arrived. What a joke. We were Dearings. We weren’t going anywhere.
“Uh, Dad?” I plucked at his sleeve. My dad turned to me and made a face while he tried to focus his eyes.
“Dad, it’s Chris. We’ve got to go home now.”
Dad pulled his arm away. “I’m not finish here.”
Fiona came over and stood behind me. “Yeah, prospector, you are. You’ve had enough for today.”
She yanked my dad to his feet and pushed him toward the door. “Go on, kid. Take him home.”
I got on one side of him and Shard took the other. “Let’s hope we can get him home without him kissing the sidewalk,” she said.
That was the least of my troubles. I just wanted to get him back before Mrs. Family Services arrived with the cops. It was slow going. But I was relieved to see the coast was clear as we approached the front steps of our building, which is called Sunnyview Terrace — another name that was a joke. The old factories all around blocked out most of the sun, our view was of a Dumpster in an alley and the only “terrace” was the parking lot with weeds pushing their way through the cracked pavement.
