Shadow

by Mere Joyce

  What I don’t expect is the bell. After Vi finds the master list, she logs in to Abbi’s account. But as she’s searching through Abbi’s files, the bell rings.

  “No, no, no! I’m not done yet,” Vi says, panicking. I stand by the door, but it’s useless to keep watch now. Swarms of students start filing out of the classrooms. Many of them are headed this way.

  “Vi, we’re out of time!” I tell her, turning away from the door. I can hear the rush of footsteps and the eager chatter of the approaching kids. “We’ll have to come back after school.”

  “No, I’ve found it!” Vi says. Her voice is tense. “I just have to email the file.”

  “Vi, we don’t have time!” I hear one specific set of heavy footsteps nearing the door. Someone is coming. That someone will be here soon.

  “Just a second,” Vi says. “Come on, come on, load!”

  My shoulders grow stiff as the footsteps come to a stop in the doorway.

  “Mr. Craft? What are you doing here?” I spin around and do my best to appear calm in the presence of the voice I think belongs to my civics teacher, Mr. Allix. I have no idea what to say. Students aren’t supposed to be in the computer lab unless they have permission from a teacher.

  “Oh, I’m just…”

  “Sorry, Mr. Allix,” Vi says. Suddenly she’s by my side, taking my elbow and leading me out of the lab. “I was working on a project for Ms. Fairhand’s class. I asked Preston to keep me company. I’m finished now.”

  She drags me out to the hall, not giving Mr. Allix a chance to respond. Luckily for us, Vi’s a good-enough student that he probably wasn’t even suspicious.

  “Did you get it?” I whisper as she pulls us around a corner.

  “I got it,” Vi whispers back.

  “Good,” I say with a grin. “Now there’s just one thing left to do. Mrs. Colander has the contact list for everyone involved with the film festival. That includes cellphone numbers, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Vi replies. “Why?”

  “Abbi needs to know what happened,” I explain. “I think she needs to have a talk with her cousin.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Even from up in the projection booth, I can hear the loud murmur of the crowd in the theater below us.

  “It’s a great turnout,” Mrs. Colander says, beaming. “The school will get a lot of support from this event.”

  “I can’t believe how much press is here,” Vi agrees. “Three papers and four bloggers. Plus the local TV news.”

  “Big event in a small town,” Nico says from his spot beside me.

  “And you will all have to make an appearance downstairs soon,” Mrs. Colander says. “The press wants to meet the team behind the event.”

  “We might as well just send Preston,” Nico says. “They’ll only want to interview him.”

  “That’s not true,” Mrs. Colander says. “They want to talk to everyone. Come down with me, and we’ll see.”

  Mrs. Colander is right. The TV news-people, the reporters from the papers and the bloggers all want to talk to us while they wait for their chance to interview the actors. But talking to a blind kid at a movie theater makes for a good story, so most of them have questions for me. I don’t really mind. I answer them, or I pretend not to know the answer so Nico and Vi have a chance to talk.

  But when they ask me why I’m interested in being in a film club when I can’t even see, I only offer them a smile and a casual shrug. Tonight’s not the night to explain how I think the cinema is so much more than just talking pictures. Tonight is not about me. It was never supposed to be. Tonight is for the kids who made the films.

  I’m listening to Nico talk one reporter’s ear off when someone taps me gently on the shoulder.

  “Hi, Preston,” a twinkling voice says. I smile and turn around slowly so I do not bump into anybody.

  “Hi, Abbi,” I say. “I’m so glad you came.” I wasn’t sure if Abbi’s parents would come back to town early and let her attend the screening even after I talked to her mother about what had happened with Constance. I had hoped they would understand that Constance stole Abbi’s film for the same misguided reason they were keeping their daughter away from the screening. I’m happy they made the right choice. I’m happy they did not let their fear keep Abbi from her dreams.

  “I’m glad I came too,” Abbi says. She does not sound overwhelmed or nervous. She just sounds happy. “I brought Constance with me.”

  Vi wondered if Constance might show up, but I didn’t honestly think she would come tonight. I hope she doesn’t plan to try and steal Abbi’s movie again. Not that Vi would let her. She’s got a thumb drive in her pocket with backups of all the films, just in case.

  I wait for Constance to speak so that I know where she is standing. But Abbi speaks again instead.

  “She’s getting popcorn,” she tells me. “She said she would buy me the biggest size because she is so sorry.”

  “Are things okay between you two?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Abbi says. “I was mad when she said she took my movie. I told her that I can take care of myself. She told me she was scared I would be hurt, but I told her I’m not scared of anything.”

  I laugh. Abbi always sees the best in everyone. I’m not surprised she has already forgiven Constance. “It’s good she came with you. She’ll like seeing your movie on the big screen.”

  “I will too,” Abbi says. “I am going to find us seats now. I want to get a good spot.” She touches my arm, and I hold it out so she can give me a hug. Then she leaves to find somewhere to sit.

  When Abbi is no longer talking to me, I pick up on the sound of another familiar voice. Even through the loud conversations of the crowd, I can hear Bradley telling the press all about the inspiration for his film. I can imagine a reporter holding a microphone to his face, captivated by his story.

  “You owe him an apology, you know,” Vi murmurs. She’s been talking to one of the bloggers about her family’s theater, but now she steps beside me and takes hold of my elbow. I have my white cane, but with so many people and so much noise, it’s nice to have her to lean on.

  “I know.” I nod. She must have noticed me listening. Sometimes my head tilts toward whatever sound I’m focusing on. Nico says I’d make a terrible spy. It’s always very obvious when I’m eavesdropping.

  Vi’s right about Bradley though. I do owe him an apology. I falsely accused him of stealing Abbi’s film. I also pushed him down (accidentally) less than eight hours ago. I will apologize, but it won’t be tonight. Wrongly accused or not, Bradley did punch me in the face. And he still made horrible comments about Abbi and her film. I can’t just totally forgive him. We’ll have to talk eventually. But not right now. Bradley’s soaking up the glamor of the festival. And I’m soaking up the thrill of knowing the festival’s going to be a success. Knowing it already is.

  We meet up with Janelle out in the lobby. She’s been manning the doors all night, welcoming people to the theater with Mrs. Colander. We talk for a few minutes. Then we head back up to the booth. It’s nice to escape from the chaos downstairs.

  “All right, Nico, dim the lights,” Vi says. She boots up the laptop. Down in the theater, Mrs. Colander is giving her welcome speech to the settling crowd. The rowdy noises fade away as everyone listens to her talk. When she’s finished, there’s a loud round of applause.

  “That’s our cue,” Nico says. “Let’s get this show on the road.” I hear the click of the dimmer switch as it’s lowered farther. The houselights are now completely out. The audience below us is sitting in total darkness.

  “Preston, do you want to do the honors?” Vi asks, gently touching my hand. I smile and let her guide me to the computer’s keyboard.

  “For the filmmakers. All the filmmakers,” I say, my finger gliding across the keys until Vi’s hand stops.

  “For all the filmmakers,” she agrees. I press the correct key, and the movie begins. We didn’t take any chances this time. Abbi’s fi
lm is the first one in the rotation.

  The music swells. I relax into Vi’s side, and she puts her head on my shoulder.

  “Ugh, do you two have to be so cuddly?” Nico asks from behind us.

  I laugh. And then I find Vi’s hand and squeeze it tightly in my own.

  “Shut up, Nico,” I say. “We’re watching the movie.”

  Mere Joyce is the author of Getting the Brush Off in the Orca Limelights series. As both a writer and a librarian, she understands the importance of reading and the impact the right story can have. She lives in Kitchener, Ontario, with her family. For more information, visit www.merejoyce.com.

  Sixteen-year-old Kat and her mom haven’t seen much of each other since Kat’s father died last year. Her mom has taken over the family trucking business and has been away a lot. She promised that Kat could join her on her next run, a journey across the frozen Manitoba lake known as the “winter road.” But at the last minute she changes her mind. Kat, who has recently been diagnosed with diabetes, stows away in the back of the semi instead. By the time her mother discovers her, it’s too late to turn back

  Winter Road

  (an excerpt)

  I have diabetes. I didn’t have it when Dad died—or if I did, I didn’t know it—but I definitely have it now. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s a major pain in the butt. Not literally. I could take the injections there, but mostly I stab myself in my thigh, hip or belly with an insulin pen. It really does look like a pen, except there’s a needle where the nib should be. Since I take insulin twice a day every single day, I have to keep changing the injection site, so my skin doesn’t close up against the needle. Sadly, injections are now as much a part of my morning as breakfast.

  Then there’s the glucose meter. In a way, I hate that even more than the insulin pen, because I have to check my blood sugar four times a day! That means four times every day, I have to prick my finger and stick a blood sample into a machine to be analyzed. The reading shouldn’t be too high or too low, or I could be in trouble—with my health and with Mom.

  But the absolute worst part of having diabetes is that now I’m stuck on a strict diet. Not to shed pounds—my weight is fine. But sugar is my enemy. Fat too. Even carbs. That means no more cakes, cookies or chocolate bars. No French fries or potato chips either. In fact, pretty much all the things I like to eat are out.

  You’d think I could have a treat once in a while, but no. My mother watches me like a hawk. There’s a chart in the kitchen where I have to record when I take my insulin, and another one where I record my sugar levels. As for food, Mom writes up menus a month at a time, and there’s no wavering from them. Even my grandmother—who does most of the cooking—won’t cut me any slack. If I go out with my friends, my mother reminds me not to have pop or donuts or candy, and when I get home, she makes me test my blood sugar, to make sure I haven’t.

  So, of course, the first thing she wants to know when I show up in her truck is if I have my insulin with me. If she had her way, she’d probably make me carry it in a keg around my neck like a St. Bernard.

  I roll my eyes at her. “Yes,” I say. “I have my insulin and my glucose meter.

  And no, I didn’t stash any chocolate bars in my backpack.” I push it toward her. “Go ahead and check it if you want.”

  “Why do you have to be like that, Kat?” she says. “This is your health we’re talking about. And it’s my job to look out for you.”

  “I’m sixteen, Mom! I can look out for myself!”

  “Can you?” She sighs heavily. “I’m not so sure. I don’t think you realize the seriousness of your condition.”

  “The doctor said it can be controlled.”

  She nods. “Yes, but not by magic. You have to follow the rules.”

  “Why? You follow them enough for both of us—in fact, you could be the health police for every diabetic in the world!”

  Mom looks at me like she wants to argue the point but then just shakes her head, checks her mirrors for traffic and puts the truck in gear.

  Chapter One

  “The homeless man claimed he had been sleeping in the school furnace room for over three months. ‘The weekends were the best,’ he said. ‘There weren’t no one in the school—not even janitors. I even took myself a shower in the boys’ change room a time or two. Slept like a top those nights.’ ”

  Tara popped a grape into her mouth and continued reading.

  “The man had used a ground-level vent to get into the building. Every night after dark, he removed the covering, lowered himself into the school basement and then pulled the vent back into place behind him. His hiding spot was discovered by accident. The vent cover fell off last week, attracting a curious skunk that decided to take a stroll through the school. When students and teachers started screaming and running for cover, the skunk took off back the way it had come. It was the custodian following behind who discovered the homeless man’s makeshift bed behind the furnace. Police were called in, and the man was apprehended when he entered the building later that night. The skunk made a clean getaway.”

  Tara lowered the newspaper. “Well, good for the skunk. I feel bad for the guy though. He wasn’t hurting anybody. He just wanted a place to sleep.”

  I waved my fingers at the newspaper. “Keep reading.”

  “The school board hasn’t pressed charges. In fact, school trustee Norma Swanson took the story to a city council meeting. She urged members to look into the matter. ‘If there aren’t sufficient shelters and soup kitchens to address the needs of this community’s less fortunate, something needs to be done,’ she told councilors.”

  “Let’s hope Ms. Swanson’s voice was heard.” Tara put down the paper, ate another grape and looked at me wide-eyed. “Good story, Laurel!”

  “You seem surprised,” I said. I wasn’t ready for The New York Times, but I was capable of stringing a few sentences together.

  “I am.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Well, not that you can write a good story,” she backtracked. “It’s just that this is way different from your usual stuff.”

  I sighed. “I know. Compared to reports on school dances and who’s getting cosy with who, this story is definitely more meaningful.”

  “Exactly,” Tara agreed. “It’s important. It’s news!”

  “Right,” I smiled. “Thanks, Tara.”

  “You’re welcome, but—” She frowned. “Where did you get it? I mean how’d you find out about it? I knew about the skunk, but not the homeless guy.”

  I clucked my tongue and tried to look shocked. “Surely you don’t expect me to reveal my sources?”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Tara. “I do.”

  I shrugged. “It was a combination of luck and eavesdropping. The day after the skunk incident, Miss Benson sent me to the office to get paper clips. The secretary wasn’t there. While I was waiting for her to come back, I heard Mr. Wiens talking to some woman in his office. The door was wide-open, so the conversation was hard to miss.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  “The homeless man. Mr. Wiens was telling the woman how he felt bad about kicking the guy out, because he had nowhere else to go.”

  “Who was the woman?” Tara asked.

  “I’m getting there,” I said. “Just listen. The woman said she would raise the issue at the next city council meeting.”

  Tara chewed on her lip.

  “Ah…,” she said. “I bet she’s a trustee.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “So anyway, after that I found out when the next city council meeting was, and I went. I had to sit for over an hour listening to half the city complain about streetlights and speed bumps before it was Ms. Swanson’s turn. Talk about boring.”

  “Wow. You really did chase down this story. But how did you know about the guy showering in the boys’ change room?” she asked. “Laurel Quinn, you didn’t make that stuff up, did you?”

  This time I was shocked for real. “Of course I didn’t! A
fter school I just hung around for a couple of hours. I thought maybe the guy would come back.”

  “And did he?”

  I nodded. “He didn’t try to get in, but he did come back. At first I wasn’t sure it was him. But how many scruffy-looking guys stand outside a school for ten minutes staring at a vent? It had to be the squatter. So I went to talk to him.”

  “Weren’t you scared?” Tara said. “I mean he could have attacked you or something.”

  “Ooh, I never even thought of that. Nothing happened though. The guy was actually pretty nice. He answered all my questions. All I had with me was five dollars, but I gave it to him. Hopefully he got something hot to eat. He sure needed it. He looked cold, and he was skinny as anything.”

  Tara straightened in her chair. “I guess you are a reporter. But isn’t it going to kill to go back to writing about volleyball games and school debates?”

  The bell rang, so I didn’t have a chance to answer. I was definitely thinking about what Tara had said though. Reporting on normal school activities would be pretty tame now that I’d had a taste of real journalism.

  Titles in the Series

  121 Express

  Monique Polak

  Ace’s Basement

  Ted Staunton

  Agent Angus

  K.L. Denman

  Alibi

  Kristin Butcher

  Bad Business

  Diane Dakers

  Bear Market

  Michele Martin Bossley

  Benched

  Cristy Watson

  Beyond Repair

  Lois Peterson

  The Big Apple Effect

  Christy Goerzen

  The Big Dip

  Melanie Jackson

  Bio-pirate