by Jill MacLean
Mel tugs. I yelp.
“I guess that means yes,” Tate says. She shoves her face at mine. “I’ve had time to come up with a few questions. On Friday, why did you run home? Rotten hamburger, Sigrid? Or did you warn Prinny’s father that she was out in the dory? And that’s why he went back to the wharf?”
“He must’ve forgotten something—that’s why he went back. The hamburger was rotten.”
Tate nods at Mel. Mel tugs. Tears spring to my eyes, and Tate smiles again. “Enough for now, Mel—we’re holding up the bus. But if you ratted on us, Sigrid, this is just a taste of what’s to come.”
Mel lets go. I breathe shallow-like and follow them onto the bus.
To my huge relief, Mel gets off in Long Bight. Tate, Buck, Cole, and me get off at the first stop in Fiddlers Cove. Cole and Buck hit the ground on the run, bashing their hockey sticks on the road, and disappear up Cole’s driveway. Tate does her chain-routine in reverse, slipping them into her backpack, then scrubbing off her lipstick and dropping the Kleenex on the ground. “See you this evening,” she says.
Mel is two miles west of us, and what have I got to lose? “Prinny’s father goes back and forth to the wharf all the time. Don’t you get it, Tate? If he hadn’t shown up, Prinny could’ve drowned.”
Tate shrugs. “If she did, no one would’ve been any the wiser.”
My jaw drops. “What d’you mean?”
“Who knew we were at the wharf? No witnesses.”
“Did you want her to drown?”
“I wouldn’t have cared one way or the other.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“That’s your problem,” she says, and saunters away.
She was joking. Of course she was.
If she wasn’t…if she really didn’t care…is that where I’m headed if I keep on being a Shrike?
I run for the house, lock the front door and the sliding-glass doors off the kitchen-slash-dining room, and stare out at the barrens. Rock, scrub, and bog for miles and no place to hide.
Five
to accuse
My mother drives into the yard in her flashy Chevy Camaro at six on the nose, and flounces into the house in a rhinestone-studded sweater, an embroidered denim vest, and jeans decorated with swirls of black beads. Fake-alligator boots on her feet.
“You still live here?” I say.
“Don’t you sass me!”
Let’s get this over with. My mother, Lissie Sugden, and her friend Ady Melanson are eBay sellers. Big time. At Ady’s place, they glue themselves to the computer to keep track of prices. They do the rounds of thrift shops, yard sales, and auctions, their noses keener for bargains than a bloodhound’s for clues. And since the spring, they’ve started going on buying trips to Corner Brook and Grand Falls, staying away two and three days at a time. The thrill of the chase—that’s what my mother loves.
I never call her Mom. Mom is for apple-pie mothers, for white-shirts-pegged-to-the-clothesline mothers. If I call her anything, it’s Ma.
She sits down at the table. She’s pretty, did I say that? Very pretty.
Supper is KD and a salad from FoodMart that Seal brought home. The three of us eating together…how often does that happen?
Jabbing her fork at me, she says, “What’s this all about? Dragging me away from a sale on linens and bathware.”
“You’ll find out.”
“Why wouldn’t the principal tell me what’s going on? Did he tell you, Seal?”
“No.”
Her knife clatters against the side of her plate. “How long will it take?”
“I dunno,” I say.
“What is going on, Sigrid?” Seal says.
His voice is level, but I can tell he’s upset. “Your marks are good,” he says, “and your attendance. Has something happened on the bus? Are kids picking on you?”
“No,” I say, “no one’s picking on me.”
“Were you rude to your teacher? Mrs. Dooks can be tough, but only because she wants you to learn.”
“No.”
“You haven’t been skipping classes?”
“Not really.”
“Either you have or you haven’t,” he says, sharp for him.
“I skipped Friday—quit bugging me, Seal! You’ll find out soon enough.”
“It had better be for a good reason, that’s all I can say,” my mother announces, tossing her blonde curls like she’s a teenager on her way to the prom.
She pushes her plate aside and disappears into their bedroom to change her clothes, leaving me and Seal to put away the leftovers. As I reach for a plastic container, the tension is as thick as the KD.
My mother decides that a very short dress and stiletto heels are appropriate attire when your daughter’s being hauled in front of the principal. Seal changes his shirt.
She takes the Camaro. Seal and I follow in the truck.
We’re the second ones to arrive, at two minutes to seven. Prinny’s mom looks right pretty now she’s laid off the booze, although it’s a different kind of prettiness from my mother’s. My mother has don’t touch written all over her. Prinny’s mom—she’d be nice to hug. She’s clinging to her husband’s arm, him towering over her in his overalls and a white t-shirt.
Mr. MacInney is doodling on his notepad. He looks up when we walk in. “Let’s get started.”
“But the rest aren’t here,” I blurt.
“They’re coming later.”
I gape at him. What’s going on?
He goes through his spiel, detailing the rumors he’s heard about me, Tate, and Mel, then briefly describing the events of Friday afternoon. He finishes by saying, “Although none of them will admit it, I believe Tate is the ringleader of the group.”
Seal says slowly, “Have I got this right, Sigrid? You and these other two girls have been bullying kids? Not just last Friday. All along.”
He sounds so disbelieving that I want to sink through the tiled floor.
My mother says, “There was a show on TV about the children of divorce. Because they’re unhappy, they pick on other kids. Sigrid’s father abandoned her. It’s his fault.”
I’m not sure Seal hears one word of this. He’s still staring at me, as though I’ve sprouted bright red horns.
Mr. MacInney says, “Luckily Sigrid had the good sense to phone Prinny’s parents right away on Friday and warn them that their daughter was in danger. Which, of course, is why I know Sigrid wasn’t the ringleader.”
Prinny’s father squints at me. “I thank you, Sigrid, for at least making that phone call. Likely you need to sit down and think things through. Decide if you’re gonna be part of the problem or part of the solution.”
Mr. MacInney waits for me to say something. I stare at the floor. The silence stretches out until Prinny’s da says, “I’m not laying charges, even though there’s plenty of evidence. But one more whiff of trouble from you, Sigrid, and I’ll put the cops onto you.”
Seal’s breath hisses between his teeth.
The principal folds his hands on his desk. “I think that’s all we need to say for now. I’m having two more meetings this evening—one with Tate’s parents and one with Mel’s father .There’s no need for them to know about the phone call.” He gives me his I’ve-seen-it-all look. “Although you’ve gotten in with some bad company, Sigrid, you’re being given the chance to change that situation. I strongly suggest you end your association with Tate and Mel.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. And how am I supposed to do that?
Seal says, “Thank you, Mr. MacInney. We’ll be watching Sigrid very closely from now on.”
The three of us leave the office. When we’re outside, my mother says, “I’m going to Ady’s. A feather bed with a three-year guarantee is scheduled for this evening.”
Seal looks like a mackerel hook is stuck in his arm and someone’s yanking on it. “You should stay home for once!”
“Like I said, everything’s Randy’s fault. He’s the one who left us in the lurch
by going out west and never coming back. Divorce is extremely high on the stress list—it’s been scientifically proved.”
“You’re just like Randy, Lissie, except you take off to Ady’s and leave the rest of us in the lurch.”
“Don’t be so foolish,” she says, gets in her car, flicks on her signal lights, and turns up the street toward Ady’s.
Seal jams his seat belt into the slot. Then he surges out of the schoolyard.
I have the sense to keep my mouth shut.
Six
to hack
After we get home, Seal says, “Sit down a minute. I need to get to the bottom of this. Are you unhappy because of your dad?”
I’m way beyond unhappy and it’s nothing to do with Randy Sugden. Terror is what’s churning in my gut, terror weighted with despair because I don’t see how I’ll ever be free of this mess. “I won’t be hanging with Tate and Mel anymore,” I say.
“Do you still miss your real dad?”
“He’s been gone since I was five.”
“I asked you a question!”
Seal almost never gets riled and this is twice in one evening. “I dunno,” I say sulkily.
“I thought you were a good kid. And now I find out you’ve been bullying other kids—and not just once or twice. You disappoint me, Sigrid.”
It’s like he’s hauled my arm behind my back and he’s tugging on it. “Tate’s the planner and Mel’s the one who does the heavy-duty stuff!”
“And where are you? Standing around watching?”
“Well, not exactly. But—”
“I don’t want to see you near Tate and Mel ever again. And I want you to make some new friends.”
I pick at the seam of my jeans.
Seal has lots of friends, for all that he’s not from here. He was born on Fogo Island, where he used to fish, and I know he misses his old home and his boat. His problem is, he fell in love with my mother. Her blonde curls and big brown eyes, the way she has of looking helpless.
When I was seven and eight, he took the trouble to teach me how to row, how to read the tides in the cove and watch the sky for changes in the weather. I should tell him that he’s always been a good stepdad, better than good, but the words catch in my throat.
He says, talking slow, like he’s searching out the words. “I guess I don’t understand…I never thought you had a mean bone in you, and now I find out you scared Prinny Murphy so bad she rowed a dory into the fog. Seems I haven’t been paying enough attention.” He sits down heavily on the arm of the couch, his shoulders rounded as if ten Sigrids are perched on them. “You know what this means? I’ll have to keep a close watch on you from now on. Like you’re seven years old, not twelve.”
I was seven when he moved in with my mother and he sure knows how to twist the knife. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“I work full-time and we can’t count on your mother. So I’ll be trusting you to behave when I’m not home. Can I trust you?”
I nod, rubbing an old stain on the cushion with one finger. “Are you gonna tell Lorne?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Please don’t!”
He gives a heavy sigh. “You load the dishwasher, and I’ll clean up the pots.”
I stick a couple of plates in the bottom rack. So he thinks I should quit seeing Tate and Mel and make some new friends.
When Hanna moved away two years ago, I decided right then and there that I’d never have another best friend. Not long after, Tate started inviting me places, and I opted for mean instead, for pushing my anger into everyone else’s face because if I was hurting so bad, why shouldn’t they?
Six months of being mean was more than enough. But by then I was in too deep, and way too scared of Tate and Mel, to be able to quit being a Shrike.
Seal never noticed that I’d changed from nice to mean. Even though I did my best to make sure he didn’t notice, I’m still mad at him for not noticing.
When I get up the next morning, the Camaro’s already gone from the driveway. I take my time in the shower, in the hopes that hot water will loosen the tightness between my shoulders. After wrapping my wet hair in a towel, I get dressed, and wipe the steam off the mirror.
I’m not pretty like my mother. I’m ordinary. Tidy-like, all my features in the right place. Brown hair, brown eyebrows, brown eyes. Straight nose, mouth that’s not too big and not too small, teeth in even rows. You’d never pick me out from those line-ups they have in police stations when they want to nail the suspect.
Mind you, a bit of make-up—mascara and eye shadow, blusher—can do wonders. I have to go easy, though. Seal’s none too keen on not-yet-thirteen-year-olds wearing mascara.
I watch through the living-room window until I see the bus coming down the road from Ratchet before I go outdoors. Tate’s already there.
Something about her is different.
When I walk closer, I see what it is. Her hair, her long, shiny black hair, has been chopped off in short, jagged clumps that stick out every which way. Like a prison haircut. Like the person who did it hated her.
She’s not wearing her chain earrings or her lipstick.
She says in a brittle voice, “If you say one word, I’ll rip you to shreds.”
I want to say I’m sorry, and how bizarre is that?
The bus stops beside us. I climb on last, after Tate, Cole, and Buck. Even Mr. Murphy looks shocked when he sees the ruination of Tate’s hair.
Every kid on the bus is staring at her: Travis, who rescues anyone or anything that needs rescuing; Prinny, who has plenty of reasons to hate the Shrikes; Hector Baldwin, whose ears stick out and who hardly ever opens his gob; snooty Laice Hadden, from the big city of Halifax; the Herbey girls, Taylor and Brianna, who never have a sensible word to say between them; and last of all, Hud, with his gray eyes that reveal absolutely nothing.
I sit across from Tate. She ignores me. A few minutes later, we pick up Mel and the rest of the Long Bight kids. Mel looks awful, hair in greasy strands, eyes still red like she spent the night crying.
Tate clears her throat. Then she says, loud enough for the whole bus to hear, “Sigrid, did you know your stepdad’s dating Davina Murphy?”
Stepdad…dating? What’s she talking about?
“Guess that’s news to you,” she says. “Davina lives in Ratchet. Her husband died three years ago.”
I’ve seen Davina Murphy at Baldwin’s store in Ratchet. She’s like me, ordinary. Not pretty or glamorous like my mother. I clamp my jaws shut so I won’t ask any of the questions twanging in my brain.
Tate sneers at me. “My cousin Melissa told me Seal’s truck has been parked outside Davina’s place lots of evenings the last while.”
A hard lump settles in my belly. Seal wouldn’t tell me where he was going Saturday night. He didn’t show up for Sunday dinner even though he’d said he likely would. And the reason he’s been keeping it a secret is because he’s still living with my mother even though she’s hardly ever home to be lived with.
If Seal moves out on me…that only leaves Lorne.
From kindergarten up, I’ve never been the most popular girl in school, nowhere close. But today it seems like everyone takes extra big steps around me. Text messages flying, girls giggling, guys eyeing me like I’m some kind of monster.
I ignore them all, my face like those guys Lorne watches playing poker on TV.
As we leave the classroom for recess, Travis says to me, and he’s kind enough to keep his voice low, “Prinny could’ve drowned last Friday. Yeah, you made the phone call. But you also helped scare her into the dory. Bad move, Sigrid.”
He’s as tall as me now because he grew a lot this spring. I blink back tears, wondering why he can hurt me when a gaggle of girls can’t.
I don’t take any chances at recess. I park myself against the wall near Mr. Marsden and I don’t budge. Tate and Mel watch me for the entire fifteen minutes, Tate’s ugly hanks of hair lifting in the wind, Mel fidgeting because she can’t wait to ge
t her hands on me.
No one, but no one, says anything to Tate about the new haircut.
Lunchtime in the cafeteria, I sit at the table beside the cashier. I’m doing okay. After school, all I have to do is run for the house and lock the doors.
Mel doesn’t get off in Long Bight. I chew the inside of my lip until it bleeds. When the bus pulls up at my stop in Fiddlers Cove, I whisper to Mr. Murphy, “Would you wait until I’m in the house before you drive away? Please?”
“Sure,” he says, and smiles at me.
I stumble down the steps, run up the path and in the front door. Lock it, race for the glass doors in the kitchen, bang the white plastic latch down, and fit the shaft of Lorne’s old hockey stick into the groove so no one can open the door. Then I look up.
Tate and Mel are standing outside, Mel’s pug nose squashed against the glass, her face a hideous mask. Tate smiles. Teeth only. I rattle the curtains across their metal rod, then run from room to room, checking that every window in the place is closed.
A few minutes later, the phone rings. Tate’s cell. I don’t pick up.
Her voice leaps into the room because the phone’s on Speaker. “I’ve remembered something, Sigrid—last Friday, I noticed you shoving the phone book back in the drawer when I walked in the kitchen in my wet socks. Didn’t realize it meant anything at the time. So you did phone Prinny’s dad…that’s why Mr. MacInney had separate meetings with our parents. Because he didn’t want the rest of us to know. And that’s how he figured out I was the ringleader.”
When she laughs, my heart almost stops beating. “You’d have been better off letting us in today. The longer we has to wait, the worse it’ll be.”
The phone clicks off. I’m shivering.
It’s 4:10. I can’t go out on my bike. I can’t sit on the patio. I don’t want to do my homework. I hardly ever watch TV, in case the Shopping Channel turns me into a bargain-hunting maniac.
Mrs. Dooks told us about some activist in Burma who was under house arrest for years and years. At the time, I thought, no big deal.
