Come back, Jack.
Come back.
THREE
JACK
I headed straight to the bus after school so I could grab an empty seat before it filled up. I settled in with some tunes (the armor of awkward new kids). My knee drummed along with We Are Wolves, but I wasn’t really listening. I was trying to think about what had happened in math class. Problem was, who knows how to think about a thing like that?
A body dropped into the seat beside me, and I glanced up with a neutral smile, then relaxed as I recognized a guy from drama class—Ryan? Rick?
“Jack, right?”
I nodded and slipped out the earbuds. “I’m gapping out on your name, man, but I do remember you like lynxes.” Only in drama class would this be one of the first things you learned about a seventeen-year-old guy—but then, only in drama would you feel like you knew anything about a person after only two classes.
“Rafe. And honestly, I pretty much just pulled a lynx out of the air.”
“I wasn’t too thrilled with my own choice.” I should have anticipated that after the easy icebreaker of name an animal you’d like to be, the next step would be to act it out. And there I was, a croaking, flapping raven. It could have been worse though; one poor girl had said armadillo.
“It’ll be a good class though, I think.”
I thought so too. I discovered a love of acting in tenth grade, when a timetable conflict landed me with a choice of drama, Spanish or creative writing. I figured drama would be the easiest—and maybe it was—but it also turned out to be fun. It’s a different kind of challenge, you know? After my first play—in which I had a bit part and built sets—I was hooked.
“So where’re you from?”
And suddenly my social life was looking a whole lot brighter. By the time my stop came up, I’d thumbed through Rafe’s mind-bogglingly massive music collection, and he’d invited me to come along to a show at a local club on Friday night.
And I hadn’t thought once about the weird little Match Girl.
The house was empty when I got home; I get off school a bit earlier than my brother, who’s in his last year of elementary. I headed for the kitchen. I hadn’t felt much like eating at lunchtime—between the awkwardness of having no one to eat with and the weirdness of my math class episode, my stomach had been a little tense—but I was starving now.
I was most of the way through a bowl of mac and cheese when Noah got home.
“Mac and cheese on the stove if you want it,” I said.
“Sweet.” Noah loaded up a bowl and sprawled at the table. “I thought Mom said she wasn’t going to buy this crap anymore.”
I grinned. “Dad and I did the shopping last time, remember?”
I let Noah eat for a while before asking, “So how are things going at school so far?”
Noah hunched his shoulders in annoyance. “Fine, Mom.”
“C’mon.”
The move, my parents had admitted, was badly timed for both of us. It sucked that after graduating (high school ends with eleventh grade in Quebec), I now had to go back to high school for twelfth grade in Ontario. Going from an alternative school to a regular school just added insult to injury. But at least for me, it would only be one year, and then I’d be done. Noah was in eighth grade; he was going to spend his whole teenagerhood here.
Noah shoveled in a large mouthful of mac and cheese and chewed down the bulk of it before replying. “Nobody’s tried to beat me up. And nobody’s asked me to be their best friend either. It’s day two—what do you expect?”
“Fair point,” I said. “That’s about where I’m at too. I met a cute girl though.”
Cute wasn’t at all the right word for Lucy. But she was…something. I hoped I could talk to her again soon, more than just a few words in the hallway.
I intended to tell my parents about what had happened that morning, I really did. When you’re diabetic from the age of twelve, you get used to your parents knowing more about your life than most teenagers would prefer. We had a pact that I would tell my parents if I was drinking and come home rather than stay at a friend’s, so they could test me in the night and help me stay safe. And I actually did, though every instinct in my body told me to stay under the radar and keep my first beers a secret.
I thought I could tell my dad about my weird vision without him freaking out. Mom would drag me into the hospital emergency room and demand a CAT scan right away. Dad would be more likely to say something like, Probably just a really vivid daydream. Still, maybe we should check it out with the doctor, just to be sure. That’s what I wanted to hear.
So I waited through dinner, only half hearing my parents’ conversation. Of course, when I tested before eating, I was high from the mac and cheese. When I keyed in the correction dose on my pump, I could almost see my mom clamp her lips together to keep herself from asking about my meter reading. She’s supposed to be backing off, letting me deal with it on my own—given that I’ll probably be living away from home next year—but it’s hard for her.
“Hey, I think I found a good space to hold my prenatal classes,” she announced brightly, determinedly not watching while I piled food on my plate, figured out the carb count and added that to my already hefty dose of insulin. “There’s a sort of community center with nice comfy rooms they rent out, very reasonable.”
“That’s great,” Dad said. “Do you think you’ll get enough people?”
Mom sighed. “Remains to be seen. People think they can learn everything from the Internet now.” Mom had worked in Montreal as a doula and prenatal teacher, helping women give birth, so she was starting over just like us.
Dad started talking about this provincial park he had learned about from some guy at work. “Only an hour’s drive away! And no motorboats at all allowed—can you imagine how quiet?” This is what we came here for, I guess. Dad’s a fish biologist, and this new job with the Ministry of Natural Resources is better than his old one. But also, as my mom pointed out, he became a fish biologist because he loves being on lakes and rivers and in the bush—he’s not really a city guy. So, unlike my brother and me, he loved the idea of moving to a smaller city surrounded by waterways.
I get it, I really do. I actually like outdoor stuff a lot too. But I was missing my friends and the action and Montreal itself—the bagel shop on the corner with the big wood oven, the sound of French everywhere, the pretty people strutting their stuff down St. Denis, the grittiness of the Metro. I even missed the slight tension of summoning up my French to order lunch or whatever.
Now it was our turn, and of course my mom asked how we were doing with school, and Noah and I both served up the automatic “fine.” Mom looked pained, so I volunteered that my drama class seemed good and I had met a cool guy on the bus, and that earned a relieved smile. But it also put more pressure on Noah to come up with something, so he retaliated with “Jack also met a cute girl.”
A masterful deflection.
Noah needed a bunch of things for school, so after dinner Mom took him out shopping. This was my chance to talk to Dad, but before I could say anything he rubbed his hand over his face and said, “Would you mind doing the dishes tonight, Jack? I didn’t sleep for shit last night and could really use a lie-down.”
So I did, and then Mom and Noah were back and everyone was downstairs watching TV, and the longer I waited, the harder it was to even remember what exactly had happened in math class.
The next morning I walked into the kitchen in time to witness a spectacular kitchen malfunction involving my dad, a stubbed toe and a full pot of coffee. We were all delayed, and I had to scramble for the bus. By the time I got home, the weird little Match Girl didn’t seem nearly so real, and I managed to convince myself that I’d just nodded off and had a dream or something. Anyway, I had more important things to think about—like getting a life in this new town.
LUCY
The day after I saw the floating girl, I finally got a guidance appointment to fix my timetable. Some
body must have miscopied the course code or something; in any case, I’d ended up in data management instead of drama. That, for me, is a very bad substitution. I was afraid that drama would already be filled or that it would take too much rearranging to make it work, but in the end I only had to switch English classes to make it all fit.
Another nice surprise: I walked into drama with my transfer slip, and who should I see there but Jack. His face lit up like he was really glad to see me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. He does have a very nice smile.
We ended up in the same group, reading and blocking out a scene from Twelfth Night. Jack’s a good reader, managing to get the sense of the dialogue and not just spit out the words. I’m more interested in set and costume design than acting, but I like to think I held my own.
On Friday Ali and I went to the Ruby Room for an all-ages concert, and there was Jack, paying his cover charge and getting the hand stamp that proclaimed him underage. He was there with Rafe and some of his friends. That’s good—Rafe’s a sweet guy, and he hangs with nice people. Jack and I danced a bit and hung out on the sidewalk between sets to cool off, and by the time Ali’s parents came to pick us up, he had suggested we partner up on our math homework this year.
“I’m so in,” I agreed. I’m okay at math but not at all interested in it, so from both an efficiency and a diversionary perspective, it was a no-brainer.
We started our math club that week. I rode home with him on the bus, ignoring the incredulous look Becky Silverman shot my way and trying not to read the thought bubble over her head: Ugh, what’s he doing with her? Obviously I failed, but I’ve learned not to care—much. The Becky Silverman Seal of Approval is not high on my wish list.
Jack lived in one of the tall old two-and-a-half-story houses common in Kershaw, with a bay window, an overgrown front garden and a big porch with vines screening the west side. He took one look at the cars parked out front and hauled me around to the back door.
“My mom’s a La Leche League leader,” he explained as he fiddled with the lock. “This many cars out front means there are probably six women inside all nursing their babies and talking about latching and milk supply and plugged ducts.”
He flashed me a grin. “It would likely be less embarrassing for you than it was for my ninth-grade buddies, but still. My mom used to collar us and make me introduce them. She thinks it’s good for kids to be exposed to the Wholesome Goodness of Breastfeeding. Isaac Boseley wouldn’t go in my house for three years unless I went ahead and gave the all-clear.”
A hoot of laughter escaped me, and I stifled it quickly—we were in the kitchen by then, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to call attention to my presence. Jack was in the fridge, rooting around. “You hungry? Let’s see…ham sandwich?” He opened a pantry cupboard. “Granola bars? Oh—yes—brownies!”
“Brownies sound good,” I said.
“What do you want to drink? Tea, juice? Or I can make you an espresso.”
Oh my. I liked Jack’s house already.
I sipped at the strong, rich coffee and watched Jack demolish a sandwich, a glass of milk and a brownie.
“Didn’t you have lunch?” I teased.
“I’m a growing boy,” he said. “This is second lunch.”
Before he ate, he pulled out the gadgets I had seen him use in math class. One was a little bigger than a USB stick. He pressed it against his fingertip and brought out a drop of blood. Then he held his finger against a strip inserted into the second gadget. There was a beep, he checked the readout, and then he pushed some buttons on what looked like a pager clipped at his waistband.
“So what is all that stuff?” I asked. Then I regretted it. Wasn’t our very first conversation about how he shouldn’t have to explain it to people? But he didn’t seem to mind.
“This meter,” he said, showing me the little thingy he’d put the strip into, “measures my blood sugar. I need to know that to figure out the right amount of insulin to take. The pump gives it to me.” Somehow half the sandwich disappeared during those sentences.
“How often do you have to prick your finger like that?”
“A lot. When I get up, when I go to bed, when I eat. Then, let’s see, when I drive, when I exercise, when I’m sick, when I party, when the moon aligns with Mars…it adds up.”
I remember getting my thumb stabbed to get my blood typed before I had my adenoids out. Granted, I was little, but it hurt like crazy. Jack didn’t seem to even notice it. “Does it hurt?” I blurted out. God, probably every bozo he met asked him that.
“Hardly at all. Want to try it?” The challenge in his voice was not obvious, but it was there. I bet nobody ever tried it.
I had a tattoo, for God’s sake. I could do a finger prick. “Sure, okay. I mean…is it safe?” Jack looked healthy enough, but shared needles and all that.
“Yeah, totally. I just have to put in a new lancet—it’s sterile.”
I held out my finger, and there was a fleeting prick. Then Jack held my finger against a little strip on his meter. When it beeped, he checked the screen.
“What’s it say?”
“Four point nine. You’re good.” That grin again. “So now…time for some math?”
JACK
I was a bit relieved to find out Lucy’s decent at math. I mean, she seems cool, and I did suggest we buddy up partly so I could hang out with her. But it occurred to me when I was walking home on Friday night that I could have unwittingly volunteered to be a math tutor—not exactly what I had in mind.
We were working at the kitchen table when Noah got home. He grunted hello, grabbed a brownie and headed down to the rec room.
“What’s down there?” Lucy asked.
“TV, video games, computer—all the bad stuff.” A volley of delighted, high-pitched yips floated up the stairs. “Oh, and our puppy, Snowball. Mom crates him when she’s having meetings if there’s no one home to keep an eye on him.”
Lucy perked up. “Can we go down and meet him when we’re done?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Snowball is the wiggly little armful of black fuzz my parents got as a moving bribe for Noah. We’d begged periodically for a dog in Montreal, but my dad didn’t believe city life was good for dogs, and my mom didn’t like the thought of having to bundle up for a walk every time the dog had to pee. Our new house has a fenced backyard that made it possible to have Snowball.
Noah had given Lucy a wide berth in the kitchen, but when she plopped down beside him on the floor, Snowball barreled into her arms. He licked her face maniacally, and she just giggled and let him. Then she rolled him on his back and rubbed his belly until he melted into an ecstatic puddle.
“So who named him Snowball?”
“I did,” Noah admitted.
“It’s perfect.” Noah flashed her a grateful smile, and I could see him relax. He’s intimidated by older girls, understandably, and Lucy—well, with the boots and hair, she looks intimidating at first. But she put him right at ease.
“So you like animals?” Noah asked.
“Love them,” she replied. “All kinds.”
Another smile, evil this time. “Jack has pets too.”
“Show!” she demanded. Then she caught the look I shot Noah. “Wait, what are they—tarantulas or something?”
“Go show her, Jack.”
We stepped into my room, and Lucy’s eyes fastened on the big cage on the dresser. I made a chirpy noise, and suddenly the bedding rustled and two little heads popped up. Then the girls climbed up the cage bars and clung there staring at me, hoping for a treat or some action.
Lucy took in the beady black eyes, the long scaly tales hanging down. “Are those rats?” she squealed.
Disappointing—I wouldn’t have pegged her for a squealer. I launched into my spiel. “Yeah, but honestly they’re really—”
“I’ve always wanted a rat!”
End of spiel. I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard anyone say that before.
“Really?�
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“I campaigned hard for one when I was nine or ten. I had this book from the library that talked about what great pets they were, but my mom just couldn’t get her head around it. She wasn’t trying to be mean, she just… they give her the creeps.”
“Her and a lot of other people.”
I opened the door of the cage and the rats jostled through, each trying to run out first.
I turned to Lucy with my hands full of rat. She was grinning from ear to ear. “The black-and-white one is Popcorn, and the gray one is Pip. Hold out your hands.”
They went right to her, curious as always. Pip climbed up her sleeve to perch on her shoulder. Popcorn found Lucy’s front hoodie pocket, dove in and then poked her head out.
“Should I rescue you?” I asked.
Lucy giggled as Pip began checking out her earrings. “No way.”
I had a good feeling about this girl.
FOUR
KLARA
I haven’t seen that boy Jack in a long time. I think about him though. I think about him a good deal.
I can’t recall what I thought about before he came. I don’t believe I thought anything at all. It’s as though he woke me up, and now I want to stay awake.
I try to remember exactly what he looked like. I start at his head and move down. If I can imagine him perfectly, in every detail, it will be like he’s standing here before me.
His hair is outlandishly short—close to his head all over—and dark brown. He wears no hat. You would think he must be terribly poor, not to have a hat, but he doesn’t look poor. He’s tall and straight, with wide shoulders and clear eyes and those lovely teeth. I’ll wager he never had a toothache in his life.
Another odd thing: his skin has turned brown from the sun, like a farmer’s, but his hands are smooth, the nails clean and even. A gentleman’s hands. But I’ve run ahead. I’m not even at his neck yet!
Drawn Away Page 2
