“I am getting a little twitchy,” Seb admitted.
“I bet.” Oliver shook his head. “Well, look, my point is that this is a great start to a story. I think you’re a writer, Seb.” He handed him back his notebook.
Seb was startled. “A writer?”
“A good one,” Oliver confirmed. “Now, you’d better get going.”
Seb gathered his books and left the classroom. “A writer,” he repeated to himself. Him. Was Oliver just being nice? He didn’t seem like the type to hand out random compliments.
“A writer.”
He liked the sound of that.
THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY morning, Seb tucked Mount Mystery under his arm and headed down to the student lounge. He chose a couch far away from the phone, where Banjo was talking to Theo and Lily back home, flopped down and got comfortable.
But no sooner had he cracked the novel’s spine than Frankie appeared, wearing slippers, flannel pajamas and what looked like three layers of sweaters. A long, woolen scarf was wrapped around her neck.
She sank down beside him on the couch.
“Cold?” He moved his feet to give her absurdly long legs some room.
“Freezing,” she replied, tightening her scarf. “Did they turn off the heat this weekend?”
Seb hummed without looking up from his book, hoping she’d take the hint.
“My hands are like ice.” She held one out as proof. He declined to test it. She huffed. “Do you think we can light a fire in the fireplace?”
“Doubt it,” Seb replied, trying to concentrate.
Frankie harrumphed and shifted on the couch. The springs bounced. Seb forced himself to take deep breaths.
“I’m getting restless,” she informed him.
“I couldn’t tell,” he replied.
“Next weekend is a long weekend here,” she continued, ignoring his sarcasm. “Thanksgiving or something. Oliver’s going to be our supervisor.”
“That’s nice,” he said, holding up his novel.
“We’ll be stuck inside for three days. And I am dying to do some parkour. Outside. I need to get out.”
“Hi, guys,” said Banjo, joining them. “What are you up to?”
“Reading,” Frankie replied. She moved over to make room for Banjo. He sat, and the springs bounced again.
Seb threw up his hands. “Seriously?”
“Am I interrupting?” Banjo asked anxiously. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t get mad at Banjo!” Frankie told him.
Seb gave her the stink-eye, but moved over to give the boy room. “Have a seat,” he grunted.
“How are things in Stumpville?” Frankie asked.
“Well,” said Banjo, eager to share the report. “All the tree planters have left for the winter now. So it’s just Theo and Lily in our cabin. And John and Yoko, of course.”
“John and Yoko,” Seb repeated.
Banjo nodded.
“Like, on the stereo?”
“Oh, I hope not,” said Banjo. “They’d probably break it.”
Seb looked at Frankie for help, but she was rewrapping her scarf and grumbling about the cold. “The musicians?” he asked Banjo.
“I wouldn’t call them musicians,” Banjo said. “But sometimes they howl when Theo plays his ukulele.”
“Are we talking about dogs?” said Seb.
“Border Collies,” Banjo specified.
“Ahhh.” Seb sat back, relieved. He’d concluded from Banjo’s stories that Theo and Lily were a little eccentric. But communing with a long-dead musician would have been out there, even for them.
“But not just any Border Collies,” Banjo went on. “John and Yoko are more than that. I think sometimes animals can be your friends. Even…even family.” He looked at Seb. “Does that sound silly?”
“Not at all,” said Seb, thinking about the Konstantinov animals. “Tell us about them.”
As usual, Banjo was happy to talk about home.
Since there was only a handful of other children in Stumpville—not nearly enough to fill a classroom—Theo and Lily had taught Banjo in their little cabin in the woods. And they’d decided early on that Banjo would be in charge of his own learning, deciding each day what he wanted to study. “They called it an ‘alternative education,’ ” Banjo had explained.
He’d chosen to study the forests and mountains surrounding him. So every day, he’d head out to explore, inspecting the towering cedars and observing the creatures living in and on them. Now and then he’d stop to set up his slackline, and practice under the watchful eyes of John and Yoko.
“I knew that if anything bad happened, they’d run for Theo or Lily,” Banjo told his friends. “John and Yoko have great internal compasses too, so they can always find home. Although I’m not sure they’d work here in Montreal.” He frowned. “Maybe internal compasses only work in the forest?”
“Maybe,” Seb said, but he wasn’t sure. “We’d need a forest to test that theory.”
“We’ve got a forest,” said Frankie.
“Where?” asked Seb.
“In the middle of the city, remember? The one on the mountain Banjo tried to find that first day.”
“I still think about that place,” Banjo sighed. “But the directrice will never let me go.”
Seb agreed—there was no way she’d ever let the bêtes noires out for a field trip.
But someone else might, he realized. Someone who really loved Montreal…
“Leave it to me,” he told his friends. “I have another idea.”
“THIS IS MY favorite neighborhood in Montreal!” Oliver declared as he led Seb, Frankie and Banjo out of a subway station called Mont-Royal the following weekend. “It’s called the Plateau. Isn’t it great?” He turned in a slow circle, arms open to the shops and cafés and the sidewalks bustling with Sunday shoppers. “I still can’t believe you guys haven’t toured the city yet.”
“I still can’t believe you busted us out!” said Frankie, who’d been keeping herself warm by leaping over random objects, like parking meters and small children. “How did you convince the directrice?”
“I live by the principle of ‘act now, apologize later,’ ” Oliver told her.
“So you didn’t ask?” Frankie gaped.
“She’s in New York City for the long weekend. Who was I to ask?” Oliver smiled innocently. “I did tell the Scout, though. He approved.”
Frankie looked at him with new respect. Then she vaulted off a lamppost.
Seb blinked in the afternoon light, still reeling from the subway ride. It had been a long time since he’d been on a subway (which in Montreal was called the “metro”), and Banjo had never ridden one in his life. But Frankie knew them well; she’d shown them both how to read the map of the different underground lines and stops, and she’d made sure Banjo didn’t get lost in the dark, brick-lined tunnels. Frankie seemed right at home amongst the city crowds.
Banjo less so. He stuck close to Seb’s side, taking in the Plateau with wide eyes. But he was also smiling—in fact, he hadn’t stopped since Seb had triumphantly told him that on the long weekend, Oliver was going take them to Mont Royal, the famous mountain surrounded by a forest in the middle of the city.
“This way.” Oliver steered them down a street called rue Saint-Denis. His old green sneakers bounced as he walked, which told Seb that he’d needed the outing as much as anyone. He felt quite proud of himself.
The Plateau was very different from Old Montreal—there were no cobblestones or old, ornate buildings, and the streets were straight and wide and crammed with cafés serving delicious-smelling things like fresh-baked bagels and eggs Benedict. And there were people everywhere—waiting in line for Sunday brunch, peering into bookstores and clothing shops, clutching bags of groceries, zipping down the street on bicycles. On one street corner there was even a piano, just standing there, waiting to be played. As they watched, a teenaged girl sat down and began to play a slow, sweet melody.
“I’ve neve
r seen a city like Montreal,” Seb remarked.
“It’s one of a kind,” Oliver agreed. “Now, who wants some chocolat chaud?”
“I’m really more of an espresso drinker,” said Frankie. “But I’ll make an exception.”
“You won’t regret it.” Oliver steered them into a café, and they emerged minutes later with paper cups filled with thick, dark chocolate topped with whipped cream.
“This is amazing,” Seb said between slurps.
“As good as espresso?” Oliver asked Frankie.
“Nope,” she said, slurping at her whipped cream. “But still good.”
“So, where’s the mountain?” asked Banjo.
“We’re almost there,” Oliver promised. “Next stop, Mont Royal!”
The city was spangled in red and gold, like Dragan Konstantinov’s favorite tasseled epaulettes. Leaves drifted like paper flames down from gnarled maples, blanketing the alleyways and little street-corner parks. Seb watched Banjo skip along, nearly spilling his chocolat chaud, and hoped this trip would restore the boy’s internal compass.
“I haven’t seen it yet,” Banjo said about ten minutes later.
“Must be a small mountain,” Frankie commented, pulling her scarf up over her nose.
Banjo gulped down the last of his chocolat chaud and tucked the cup into his backpack. “I can’t wait,” he whispered to Seb. “Mountains and forests just make me feel right, you know? Do you have a place that makes you feel right?”
Seb had never thought about it before. The theater made him feel good. And so did the library—any place with books, really. But he wasn’t sure he’d found a place that made him feel the way forests and mountains made Banjo feel. In fact, he’d—
Oliver stopped. Before them, cars and buses zipped by on a big, noisy street. “There it is!” he declared. “Mont Royal!”
“Where?” Banjo asked, looking around.
“Right there.” Frankie pointed beyond the busy street to the red and gold trees rising up to greet the blue sky. “That’s it—right, Oliver?”
“That’s Mont Royal,” Oliver confirmed.
Seb looked up at the Mont. In all his years crisscrossing Eastern Europe, he’d seen many mountains. And this was definitely more of a hill.
Looking down at Banjo’s face, he could tell the boy agreed. Banjo’s mouth wobbled open, then he bit his lip.
“You okay?” Seb whispered.
Banjo swallowed and squared his shoulders. “Yes,” he said. And he turned to Oliver and smiled. “Let’s go explore.”
Seb had to hand it to Banjo—he put on a very brave face. He’d expected towering cedars and quiet, spongy paths; what he got was a gravel track as wide as a road and teeming with joggers, cyclists and children playing tag.
But Banjo led the way to the very top, where they stopped to look out over the rooftops of Montreal and the great shining river beyond, which Oliver informed them was called the Saint Lawrence River, or le fleuve Saint-Laurent, in French.
“It’s great,” said Banjo, and though Seb could tell it wasn’t what he’d been looking for, he could also tell he meant it.
“Isn’t it?” Oliver sighed happily.
“Let’s not go back,” said Frankie, loosening her scarves and tilting her face up to the sun.
They lingered there in the sunshine for as long as they could before starting the long journey back to Bonaventure.
“WHAT DO YOU mean, nothing?” asked Dragan. “Nothing at all?”
“Not really,” Seb admitted, sitting down on the carpet with the telephone. It was the morning after the trip to Mont Royal, and since it was a holiday, he’d decided to phone home. “But it’s only October.”
“It’s already October,” Dragan corrected him. “You should have learned something by now that can help us.”
“Dad, come on. I just got here,” Seb protested. “I’ve got almost four years left.”
“Well, the Konstantinov Family Circus might not,” Dragan snapped. “Winter is always our hardest season. You know that.”
“Right, but—”
“And this one is particularly bad.”
Seb sat up straight. “What’s going on?”
“Maxime has a bad case of bronchitis,” Dragan grumbled. “He can’t even swallow solid food, let alone medieval weapons. We’re down one performer.”
“Oh no.” Seb’s stomach pitched. “But I thought it was just a cold.”
“It was,” said Dragan. “And now it’s not.”
“Okay.” Seb drew a breath. “But he’ll get better. Just tell him to eat Aunt Tatiana’s garlic.”
Dragan said nothing.
“And in the meantime,” Seb hurried on, not liking the silence. “Hire a new act, just for now. Maybe another fire breather? No, don’t do that,” he said on second thought. “How about a snake charmer? It’s been ages since we had one of those.”
“There’s no money,” Dragan said simply.
“But we’re Konstantinovs,” Seb said, forcing a laugh. “We’ll fake it ’til we make it!”
“Seb,” Dragan said, slowly and seriously. “I think I have to let Maxime go.”
“What?” Seb gasped. “No! No, Dad, you can’t! He’ll get better, I know he will.”
“Seb—”
“Just try feeding him the garlic, Dad! Feed him the garlic!” He was yelling now, possibly loud enough to wake Frankie and Banjo upstairs. But he couldn’t help it.
“It’s more than that,” said Dragan. “Sword swallowers have gone out—”
“No, they haven’t!” Seb yelled. “They’re getting big again. I…I heard about it here at school,” he added. “They’re making a comeback. It’s going to be huge.” It was a lie and they both knew it, but he had to try.
“Seb,” Dragan said softly.
“Not Maxime, Dad,” he pleaded. “Not yet. Just…just wait until he’s better. You can’t fire him when he can’t swallow solid food.”
“I can’t wait much longer, Seb,” his father told him. Now he didn’t sound angry, or even irritated. Just…defeated.
Which was far, far worse.
FOR DAYS, SEB could think of little else but his conversation with his father. He searched online for bronchitis remedies and emailed Maxime recipes for homemade throat soothers. But Maxime didn’t respond, which only made him more anxious.
It didn’t help when he woke on Thursday morning to find a note slipped under his dorm room door. A note written on heavy cardstock, smooth to the touch.
“What’s that?” asked Sylvain. He was sitting on the top bunk, swinging his legs over the edge while eating his first breakfast of chocolate-covered marshmallows.
“Not sure,” Seb said, unfolding it. But he knew it wasn’t good.
Dear Sebastian, the note read. I can’t help but notice that you have not yet contributed to the school as we agreed you would. Would you be so kind as to send me an update? I am too busy to speak with you directly, so please leave a note with my assistant, Bruno.
Angélique Saint-Germain
Definitely not good.
“What’s up?” asked Sylvain. “Is that from her?” He jumped down from the top bunk.
“Yeah.” Seb quickly pocketed the note. “Just…a reminder that I’m on probation.”
Sylvain shook his head. “Wow, that’s rough. Here, have breakfast.” He offered Seb some marshmallows, which Seb declined. Between Maxime’s illness and the directrice’s surprise note, he was in no mood to eat.
He wasn’t the only one out of sorts that morning. Overnight, the hot water heater had broken, leaving all the students stuck with cold showers, just as the temperature outside dipped further.
“I am freezing,” Frankie grumped on their way to Basic Acrobatics. She’d wrapped herself in scarves, like a woolen mummy. Seb wasn’t sure how she was going to do acrobatics like that, but he didn’t ask.
When they entered the gymnasium, they found the Scout waiting, dressed as usual in a spotless suit, hair perfectly coiffe
d.
“Good morning,” he greeted them. “I’m standing in for Monsieur Gerard for a bit. All the teachers are in an emergency meeting this morning.”
“About what?” asked Sylvain.
“Hopefully it’s about who’s going to fix the hot water heater,” Frankie grumbled.
“Totally,” Sylvain agreed, holding up his hand for a high five. But Frankie refused to take her hands out of her pockets, and left him hanging again.
“I’ll get on that right away,” the Scout promised. “But the teachers have other things to talk about—teacher things, you know.”
The students did not know. But it didn’t sound terribly interesting, so they let it go and started on their warm-ups.
“Hey, where’s Banjo?” Frankie asked as she and Seb stretched their hamstrings side by side.
Seb had been pondering what on earth he would tell the directrice in his update, but now he straightened and looked around. “He’s not here?”
“Nope,” said Frankie. “Did you see him at breakfast?”
“I skipped breakfast today,” Seb said, now very much wishing he hadn’t.
Frankie shook her head grimly. “Lost again. I guess that means the field trip didn’t work either.”
Seb sighed. He’d had high hopes for Mont Royal.
“Well, hopefully he makes it before—”
The door banged open and Monsieur Gerard stomped in. Without a word to the students, he stalked over to the Scout, mustache twitching. The Scout leaned over to listen, then nodded and patted the teacher on the shoulder. Frankie and Seb exchanged eyebrow raises.
“What do you think that’s about?” Seb whispered.
“Don’t know,” murmured Frankie. “But this is a bad day for Banjo to be late.”
Moments later, the Scout slipped out, and Monsieur Gerard turned to the students.
“Handstands!” he bellowed, making everyone jump. “Pair up and start practicing! I want to see perfection today!”
The students scattered, and Frankie and Seb headed for the wall.
“Maybe one of us should go find him,” Seb whispered when they reached it. “We could tell him to fake sick so he wouldn’t get in—”
The Bonaventure Adventures Page 12
