by Jill MacLean
Tate says, “Oops…sorry.”
There’s a rip in the knee of my jeans.
I push myself up, shame just as bad as the pain in my knees because kids are staring at me. Joan Bidson snickers. Prinny looks uncomfortable. Laice is frowning.
Travis says, “Tate, lay off! Just because Sigrid had the guts to quit your group, you don’t have to pick on her.”
“I’ll do what I want,” Tate says.
Ain’t that the truth.
I shuffle toward the bus. Like Hud, I’m trying not to limp.
Climbing the steps hurts bad. Travis is already sitting down next to Laice. Eyes glued to the black mat that goes from front to back, I mumble, “Thanks, Travis.”
Mel gets off in Long Bight. Tate waits for me to hobble down the steps. “See you around,” she says, same words everyone’s saying, but hers are a threat.
I let myself in the house. In the kitchen, there’s a note on the table and a card propped against the salt shaker. I read the note first. Seal has to work a double shift today because two guys called in sick; but Lorne will be home for supper. The card says, Congratulations! in purple letters over a whirlpool of colors. Not a rose in sight. Tears prick my eyes. Seal loves me enough to choose a card he knows I’ll like rather than one he likes.
My real dad loved me…higher, higher…and he left anyway.
I find an old pair of jeans, throw the torn ones in the hamper, and daub antibiotic cream on my knees. After making myself a snack of Cheez Whiz and crackers, I walk out on the back deck. The mosquitoes are wicked. I go back inside. I eat the snack. I don’t turn the TV on. I pick up our assigned novel and put it down again. I was so busy looking forward to no school for two months that I forgot I don’t have anyone to hang with.
What am I going to do all summer?
I vacuum the floors in all the rooms except Lorne’s. I wipe the counters in the kitchen and bathroom. Seal already did the breakfast dishes. I’m finished and it’s only noon. I make lunch even though I’m not hungry. I wash and rinse my plate and glass. It’s 12:27.
I put a load through the washer and hang it on the line. 1:13.
I ride to St. Fabien, lock my bike to the rack outside the mall, and check out posters in a couple of stores. I don’t want graceful ballet dancers in frilly skirts, or cute little kittens that remind me of Prinny’s cats. I don’t want a sailboat tipped sideways on the waves like it has someplace real important to go and it’s getting there fast.
I bicycle home. In the cookbook there’s a recipe for chicken breasts baked in mushroom soup and parmesan cheese. I’ll make that for me and Lorne. I even boil rice, along with carrots and turnip.
It’s ready at five-thirty. Lorne’s not home. I call the garage where he works. He left half an hour ago. I call him on his cell and get voice mail. “Lorne, supper’s ready,” I say and push End. I text him with the same message.
No reply.
My own brother couldn’t even come home on the last day of school.
The chicken’s getting cold. I sit down at the table and chew my way through meat, rice, and veggies, listening to myself swallow, forcing food past the panic.
Two months and two weeks before school starts again. All those days, and what will I fill them with? Who will I talk to?
Hud sometimes speaks to me, but he’ll quit if I tell him about the tire.
Travis stuck up for me on the school steps, but he’d stick up for anyone if he thought wrong was being done.
Prinny looks at me like I’m a bad smell and Laice is too classy for the likes of me. Hector will grunt at me same as he grunts at most people. You can’t live on a diet of grunts.
I remember how lonely I was two years ago when Hanna left. That was the summer I hooked up with Tate and Mel, and right now I understand why.
I wash the dishes, put them away, and listen to the silence. I open Lorne’s door and look from the unmade bed to the greasy pizza box that’s bottom-up on the floor. I’m not gonna wash his sheets or clean his room. Why couldn’t he have come home for once?
I think about Mel, cornering me in the girls’ washroom, and Tate, tripping me in front of the whole school. Instead of lying around feeling sorry for myself, wimpy as Vi Dunston, why don’t I do something about all this?
Sigrid the Avenger hasn’t retired. Maybe she blew her first assignment, but she won’t blow the second one, or the third.
Because she’ll do her research.
I march right out to the garage and bike to Long Bight. Long Bight draws the tourists in droves, because of its old saltbox houses perched on granite, its weathered fish stages, and shrimp boats. Terns chirr overhead. Gulls shriek into the wind. Cameras click from June to October.
Mel’s place is tucked off by itself above a little cove. Lilies are growing tall against the front wall, a couple of orange flowers already out; pink and white roses are opening by the shed. The lawn needs a good mow. No truck in the driveway.
I bet Mel’s mother planted the flowers.
I hide my bike in the shrubbery and creep down the slope, coming at the house from behind the shed. After I sneak across the gap, I peer in one of the back windows. It’s the living room. Looks like it’s never used.
I crawl to the next window and edge my head up so I can just see through the screen. My pulse jolts. Mel’s bedroom. Nothing fancy in it except an antique dresser with a mirror in a carved frame, and a poster on the far wall of Carly Rae Jepsen in a big, orange hat and a slinky top.
The room’s empty.
Through the open window I hear dishes clattering, then a tap running—Mel’s in the kitchen. I slump below the sill.
The microwave beeps, then silence. Clump of footsteps, closer and closer. A door bangs shut. I wait a few seconds before I inch upright, poised to run like a rabbit if Mel catches sight of me.
On the bed is a plate with three hot dogs slathered in ketchup and relish. Mel’s standing beside the poster. With her pudgy finger she’s tracing Carly’s shiny dark hair, deep blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and high cheekbones.
Then Mel leans over the dresser and stares at her reflection, into pale, pink-rimmed eyes set too close together. With the same finger, she traces her cheek—not a cheekbone in sight, just a zit near the corner of her mouth. With the other hand she tugs some greasy strands of hair behind her ear and turns her head this way and that, stretching her neck as if she’s trying to get rid of her double chin.
Her head droops. She shuts her eyes. I watch, fascinated, horrified, as a tear slides down the bulge of her cheek and drips onto her XXL t-shirt.
I sink downward, hands flat to the shingles. If she sees me, she’ll kill me.
Ducking behind the shed, I scramble up the slope and haul my bike out of the shrubs. Leaves are caught in the spokes. In granny gear, I pump up the last of the hill, then I’m off, racing toward home as though Mel really is chasing me.
I never knew she cared how she looks. Or that she wanted to be different.
Mind you, it’s none too smart comparing yourself to the likes of Carly Rae, not unless you’re drop-dead gorgeous like Laice Hadden and how many of us are that lucky?
Smart never was Mel’s strong suit.
Now what does the Avenger do?
Revenge and retaliation don’t seem to be on the list.
Back home, I curl up on my new bedspread in my PJs and read a book about a bunch of high-school girls who do nothing but bicker about clothes and boys. For a break, I Google Carly Rae on my smartphone; her eyes are truly beautiful, and I could learn a thing or two from her about make-up.
When Seal comes home at ten-thirty, I thank him for the card and try not to show how pathetically grateful I am to talk to another human being. Afterward, I go to bed.
Mel’s face, so hopeless, so baffled…I was planning on spying on Tate the same way, but now I’m not so sure. Being an Avenger is complicated.
Eighteen
to apologize
Next day is the first full day of no school. L
ate last night, I heard my mother’s car pull in, heard her and Seal arguing in the living room. He slept on the couch again. She was gone by seven this morning.
She uses our place as a motel, that’s how I see it.
Seal tells me before he leaves for work that he won’t be back for supper, but that Lorne’s promised to be home all evening.
“Yeah?” I say.
“What are you planning to do today?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“There must be kids around here you can do stuff with,” he says, sounding impatient, like I’m a problem waiting to be fixed.
I shrug. “If there are, I’ll find them.”
“Have a good one,” he says, pats me like I’m a stray dog, and pushes his feet into his black shoes.
I shower, wash my hair, and blow it dry, moving slow. The slower I move, the slower the clock moves. Then I pack sandwiches and take off for Gulley Cove. Doyle’s truck is parked in the yard, not a glimpse of Hud. I’m approaching Abe’s place when Abe comes out his side door, his dog Lucy on his heels.
After leaning my bike against his fence, I push the gate open. Barking, Lucy gallops toward me. When I hold out my hand, she licks it, so I tell her she’s a good dog. Lifting his old ball cap to scratch his head, Abe watches me walk up the path.
I take a deep breath. “I’m Sigrid Sugden, Mr. Murphy, and I don’t have any friends because I used to be a bully so I’ve got a bad rep. But I’m doing my best to change and can I sit in your barn sometimes in the hopes the white cat will come down from the loft and keep me company?”
He slaps at a mosquito with his cap. Even though he’s gnarled-up, his movements are jerky as a squirrel’s. “I don’t got much truck with change, meself,” he says. “Though I do have to say Travis Keating has a way of pushin’ me into doin’ stuff I wasn’t cogitatin’ on doin’. Here’s me with two cats in the house scarce stirrin’ off the couch, another in the barn, and me buyin’ prime cat food.”
“If I don’t change, no one will ever speak to me.”
“How d’you know a cat lives in the loft?”
“I went into your barn one day when you weren’t here.”
“Did you now? And what if the cat does come down? You gonna throw rocks at it same way Hud Quinn throws rocks at my dog?”
“He does?”
“I seen him with me own eyes.”
“Hud’s not as bad as you might think. He—”
“Tell that to Lucy,” Abe says. “If he’s a buddy o’ yours, I’m not so sure about lettin’ you in the barn.”
“I promise I won’t harm the cat! Any of your cats. Or the dog.”
“Promises are cheap as blackflies in June.”
I say desperately, “The streak of mean in me—I want it gone.”
“We all got mean in us, girl, and you’re skittery as that white cat…you won’t bother me hens none? Not high on brains, hens, but I has a fondness for ’em.”
“I won’t. Truly I won’t.”
He rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin, his faded blue eyes crafty. “What’s in this for me?”
“I could do some chores for you.”
“You’d look right good shovelin’ manure.”
I gulp. “Okay.”
“Prinny and Travis know about this?”
I shake my head. “Prinny doesn’t like me. I don’t know how Travis feels.”
He cackles. “You’ll sort it, when all three o’ you turns up at once. C’mon in the barn and I’ll show you where I keeps the shovel and the cat treats.”
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until it escapes in a small whoosh. I follow him through the old wooden door into the barn.
The pig rustles in his fresh straw. The hens scratch in the feed. Ghost, the white cat, eyes us from the rafters as Abe shows me where the cow is tied at night. “Manure pile is out back—use the wheelbarrow in the corner. Then spread a little fresh straw from them bales.”
The plastic bottle of treats is on a shelf near the door. “Not too many,” he says. “Regular food’s in that bucket. You be after puttin’ the lid on tight. Cold water tap’s over there—don’t leave it drippin’. And make sure you latches the barn door tight shut.”
He tosses some pellets into the pig’s trough. “Goin’ to town. You be okay?”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”
“Abe’s me name, girl. And I’m trustin’ you.”
“You can,” I say fervently, and watch him leave.
Ghost throws back his head. Eeeeeooowww…
For the first time in three days, I’m smiling. The pig’s table manners aren’t the best. As the hens strut in and out, Ghost starts to wash himself. I lean back against the straw, watching him. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world.
Wishing Hud hadn’t thrown rocks at Lucy, wishing I’d told Abe about Doyle Quinn, I doze off…
Straw is prickling the back of my neck. Then the rooster crows outside and my eyes jerk open. Ghost is crouched over his food bowl, his table manners on a par with the pig’s. I don’t move a muscle.
My neck’s aching by the time he lifts his head, stretches, saunters over to a little hole in the wall, and slips outside. I’m smiling again. Lorne will be home for supper and now I’ve got myself a summer project. Would Seal let Ghost move in with me?
The old wooden latch on the outside of the barn door is stiff. I wrestle with it because Abe’s trusting me to do everything right. When the door’s proper shut, I turn around.
Prinny Murphy is striding up the path. She yells, “What are you doing here?”
She plants herself in front of me. She’s taller than me.
I say, “I fell asleep in the barn.”
“What were you doing in the barn? You’re trespassing!”
“Abe told me I could go in.”
“And the milk from his cow makes green cheese.”
“He did tell me! He trusted me, he said so. Too bad you wouldn’t do the same.”
“Me? Trust you? After what you and the other Shrikes did to my cats? I found Tansy under the shed, no problem, but Rogue was lost overnight and into the next day, me searching for him that night in the rain and the wind. Just lucky I found him, way out on the barrens, before a fox got him. I love my cats—why would I ever trust you?”
“I’m sorry, Prinny...real sorry.”
“Like that fixes it?”
“I am sorry. I’m doing my best to change my ways—but no one will listen!”
“I can see you’re trying,” she says grudgingly. “But you were a Shrike for two years—two years, Sigrid—and I’m not ready to trust you.”
“Then you’re just as mean as me.” I push past her on the narrow path. “Ghost went outside.”
The path is blurry because I’m near to crying. It was so peaceful in the barn. But now whenever I come here, I’ll be worrying that Prinny will show up. Her and her friends, too-good-to-be-true Travis Keating and beautiful, stuck-up Laice Hadden.
I heat up leftover chicken for supper with fresh veggies. Lorne doesn’t come home. I don’t bother phoning or texting him. What’s the use?
I wash the dishes.
I don’t want to ride my bike. I don’t want to read about those silly high-school girls. I don’t want to vacuum or dust or tidy.
Mel sits heavy on me, like I’m flat on the kitchen floor with her on my back. Hud sits even heavier.
I’m that desperate, I almost wish my mother would walk in the door.
I wake to darkness, my heart bouncing in my chest and all I can see is Mel’s eyes, her lashes light as the pig’s, as she walks slowly toward me on Knucklebones.
The rest of the dream, gone.
The wind billows my curtains because I forgot to close the window. The venetian blind snicks the glass. I lie still, and slowly the feeling creeps over me, then hardens into certainty. I’m alone in the house.
After a while, I climb out of bed. Lorne’s door is wide open, Seal’s partway, both beds empty. L
orne’s souped-up Honda, Seal’s truck, my mother’s Camaro—none of them parked in the driveway.
Up until tonight, it’s been my mother gone, and occasionally Lorne. Sooner or later, I suppose, it had to happen that all three didn’t come home. My mother on a buying trip. Lorne at Sally’s. And Seal—I try to ignore the stab of fear—Seal at Davina’s?
If he’d had an accident, I’d have heard.
Back in bed, I crawl under the covers. My feet are cold and sleep’s like the fog—I can’t take ahold of it. Lost is how I feel, lost as a cat on the barrens in a nor’easter.
After a while, I get up again, mix some instant oatmeal in the kitchen, and eat it at the table, sitting in the dark, listening to the distant sigh of waves on the rocks.
Little by little, the sky starts to lighten. Blackness slides off the spruce trees until they’re dark green, full of shadows. The brightest stars are stubborn, as if they don’t want to be invisible.
At 4:55, Seal’s truck pulls into the driveway. I go to the window. For several long minutes, he just sits there behind the wheel, me watching him, him not knowing I’m watching him. Then he climbs out, shuts the door real quiet, and walks toward the house.
Click of his key in the lock. He shuts the front door the same way, so quiet I’d never have woken. As he walks into the living room, I’m standing at the kitchen door in my pale blue pajamas. He gives a strangled snort.
“Sigrid? You scared me out of a month of Sundays.”
“Who else would it be? Seeing as I’m the only one home.”
He winces. “I saw Lorne’s car was gone.”
“He didn’t come home for supper, either.”
Seal’s shoulders slump. “Your mother told me she’d be home last night.”
“She comes and goes as she pleases, we all know that.”
