Mirror Image

by K. L. Denman

  Mirror Image

  K.L. Denman

  Orca Currents

  Copyright © K.L. Denman 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Denman, K. L., 1957-

  Mirror image / written by K.L. Denman.

  (Orca currents)

  ISBN 978-1-55143-667-8 (bound)

  ISBN 978-1-55143-665-4 (pbk.)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8607.E64M57 2007 jC813’.6 C2006-906392-3

  Summary: Inspired by a school art project and a new friend, Sable learns to look beneath the surface of an image.

  First published in the United States, 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006938224

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design: Doug McCaffry

  Cover photography: Jupiterimages

  Orca Book Publishers Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station BPO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  10 09 08 07 • 4 3 2 1

  For Hannah—May you find true beauty, always. KLD

  I’m ever grateful to Diane Tullson and Shelley Hrdlitschka for their wisdom. My thanks also to Tiffany Stark for her enthusiastic support, to Jasmine Kovac for sharing her Bosnian heritage, and to Melanie Jeffs, Orca Currents Editor, for her insightful questions.

  There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

  —Edith Wharton

  chapter one

  I feel that doom is near. This feeling makes me angry and nervous. I keep looking for the cause and can’t find it. It could be that aliens are finally going to attack and turn us into slaves. Or we’re all going to catch the flu and puke to death. Or the holes in the ozone layer will grow so big we’ll be fried by the sun. Or maybe the senior humans will do something really stupid, like start the third world war and kaboom. Game over.

  How’s a girl supposed to cope with this? I hate the big cloud of dread that hangs over me. I want to get rid of it, take control. So what do people do when they can’t stand the way things are?

  I’ve made lists:

  Become a politician (I doubt anyone would vote for me.)

  Join a secret underground group (How do you find secret underground groups?)

  Become a scientist and invent alien detectors. Or ozone menders. Or an auto-kill switch for nuclear weapons. (No way would I wear a white lab coat. I wear only black.)

  I decided to wear only black when I was thirteen and my mother bought me a frilly lime green dress. Who wants to be caught wearing lime green on the day the world ends?

  There’s this girl in my art class who would die wearing hot pink if our doom arrived today. She always wears pink. Of all the people on the planet, she annoys me more than anyone else. Her name is Lacey and she’s quite the experiment in Artificial Stupidity. For example, I heard her telling one of the other girls about her boyfriend.

  “Chad is so, like, perfect for me, right? Because he’s just soooo cute! He has an amazing six-pack and white teeth and such good hair. And he knows how to dress! I mean, when I’m with him, it’s like having the best purse or something, right? We just look so good together!”

  She actually thinks her boyfriend is some sort of fashion accessory.

  I’ve never talked to Lacey because, clearly, it would be a waste of breath. I don’t even know why people like her were born. What is she good for? Proof that evolution can go backward? Sure, she’s pretty, but that’s about it. Dolls are pretty too, and I got bored with them years ago. Meh. I hardly ever played with them even when I was little. Why would I bother with a brainless doll now?

  Sadly these things can be forced on us.

  chapter two

  I don’t especially like art, but I’m taking it anyway. My school says all grade nine students must take something artsy, and it was art, music or drama. Not exactly fair when I suck at all of them and would rather be in science. But here again, I have no power to change things. So I’m in art class and the teacher, Mr. Ripley, asks us to give him suggestions for our final project. He’s a good one, the sort of teacher who is honestly interested in what kids have to say.

  I do not raise my hand. But Lacey does.

  “Yes, Lacey?” he says.

  “This is the coolest idea, Mr. Ripley! I read about it in the paper. Okay, I didn’t read the paper, but my dad did, and he, like, told me about it. Some artists on Vancouver Island are making these old school mirrors, right? People used to make these mirrors, like, a few hundred years ago and now these artists are making them again.”

  “Why is that?” Mr. Ripley asks.

  “Okay. So. First of all, they make the frames really fancy, right? The original frames were carved out of wood. Now they’re using wood pulp to form them.”

  “Wood pulp?”

  “Yeah,” she says. Then she giggles and adds, “Believe it or not.”

  I can’t believe she said that. So lame. Mr. Ripley must have heard it about a thousand times by now. A few idiots in the class actually laugh at Lacey’s joke. She tosses her long blond hair and keeps yapping.

  “But I bet we could make the frame out of papier-mâché.”

  Mr. Ripley’s expression hasn’t changed. He still looks interested in what Lacey is saying. He strokes his chin and says, “Papiermâché sounds like a good substitute. So you want to make a unique mirror frame?”

  “Right!” Lacey is bouncing in her seat now, looking very excited. “But that’s not all. The really cool thing about the mirrors is that a piece of poetry goes on the back.”

  Mr. Ripley’s brows slant down. “I’m sorry. I don’t quite see the purpose of that. Why would you put poetry behind the mirror? No one would be able to see it.”

  Some of the more intelligent life forms in the class are shaking their heads and rolling their eyes.

  Lacey doesn’t notice. Her face is glowing as she goes on. “Right! But that’s the whole point. See, the person who owns the mirror knows the poem is there. They know what it says, even though it gets, like, sealed on the back of the mirror. What happens is, they look at themselves in the mirror and think about the poem, right?”

  Mr. Ripley is silent. He taps his long fingers on the desk. Finally he looks at her and smiles, just a little. “Tell me, Lacey. Why does this interest you?”

  “Because when you look in that mirror, your reflection is there with the poem behind, right? It would feel as if the poem is, like, inside you.”

  Now his smile is huge. “Or maybe it means there’s more to the image than meets the eye. I like this, Lacey. Very much. I’m going to add it to our list. Thank you for the suggestion. Anyone else have an idea they’d like to propose?”

  There are more suggestions. Someone wants us to design CD cover art for their friend’s band. Someone else wants us to paint a mural on the wall of the principal’s office. I don’t pay much attention because I’m thinking about what Mr. Ripley said. More to the image than meets the eye. Hah.

  I come back to the moment whe
n I hear my name being called. “Sable? Your vote?”

  I look around. Most of the class has their hands in the air. I put mine up too.

  “All right then,” says Mr. Riply. “It looks like our final project will be the mirror.”

  I voted for Lacey’s mirror? It figures.

  chapter three

  Mom is excited. This is not always a good thing. As I walk into the kitchen I hear her voice rising and falling, the Bosnian words flowing fast. She’s talking on the phone. She waves at me and then turns away and keeps talking. This is one of those little ironies about her. She’s upset that I don’t speak Bosnian as well as I should, yet when she wants to talk about something she doesn’t want me to hear, she forgets English real quick.

  She hasn’t figured out that although I don’t speak the language very well, I understand quite a lot. Like now, she’s talking about Dad. I listen more closely. Her voice drops to a whisper. Then she laughs like a maniac. Says she’ll call back later. Ciao.

  She turns to me with a huge smile, eyes dancing. “Sable! How was your day?”

  I give my usual answer. “Fine.”

  “Good. You can help make dinner. Wash vegetables.” She sticks her head into the fridge and starts hauling stuff out.

  “Who was on the phone?” I ask.

  She looks at me narrowly. “Why?”

  I shrug. “Just wondering. It sounded like you were laughing at Dad.”

  She flings her arm up like a kid in class with all the right answers—her favorite European gesture—and says, “Phht! It’s nothing. Women jokes.”

  “Whatever,” I say. And I start walking.

  “Sable! Vegetables. And what is this whatever you are always saying?”

  I fling my arm up and say, “Phht! It’s nothing.”

  “What about vegetables?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why don’t you ask the twins to help you? They’re old enough.”

  Mom folds her arms across her chest. “Boys are at soccer practice. And I asked you.”

  “I have a lot of homework,” I lie.

  Her expression softens. “Oh. You do homework then. Get good grades, is so important. You are so smart.”

  Now I feel guilty. I sigh and say, “Thanks, Mom.” And I make my escape.

  I don’t really have much homework. I’m supposed to start thinking about a quote for my mirror. Oh, and gather newspaper to bring to class for making papier-mâché. Not exactly a lot of work. I should help make dinner.

  But I don’t. I sit in my room and wonder if my mom could be having an affair. After all, Dad isn’t her first love. Her first love was my father who I don’t even remember. He was killed when we were trying to escape the war in Bosnia. Mom and I made it out, and then we came to Canada. She said she didn’t especially want to come here, but we had to go somewhere. The United States and some other countries were taking refugees too, and she just told the person sorting us out to pick a country for her. She didn’t care. I was only three years old and I didn’t care either.

  She says it worked out for the best. She loves Canada. She told me she used to think she should have asked to be sent to New York with her sister. But then she wouldn’t have met my new dad, and she says that would have been awful. They met about a year after we got here; they got married and he adopted me. A couple years later, she had the twins, my half-brothers, Todd and Tyler. For snotty little brothers, they’re okay. And Dad’s really nice. Mom thinks everything is great.

  So I wonder what quote describes me best? I look into the mirror and see me. Same old straight black hair. Same old brown eyes. New zit on the chin. I don’t see any poetry.

  chapter four

  Art class is crazy. Some of the kids are wadding up newspaper and throwing it around the room. Others are using the papier-mâché glop to paint their faces. They wait for it to dry, then peel it off, shrieking about how gross it looks. Is this grade six or grade nine? No one could tell by looking. There are a few kids discussing the quotes they’ve chosen for their mirror. I suppose this could be considered mature?

  There’s a girl saying, “That was my idea. I said it first.”

  The other girl replies, “So what? You think you own it? Get lost.”

  Girl number one: “You get lost!”

  Girl number two: “Now look who’s copying! You get lost!”

  No. This is definitely not mature.

  I catch another conversation. A guy is telling Lacey, “I’ve got my quote. I’m gonna use that line from the U2 song. I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”

  I think that’s pretty funny. Clever.

  Lacey frowns. “What do you mean by that, Rav? Didn’t you just say you, like, know what your quote will be?”

  Is she slow, or what?

  Rav raises his eyebrows and stares at her for a second.

  I can’t help myself. I speak without thinking. “Duh, Lacey. If he puts that line behind the mirror, he’s saying he’s still searching for himself. Or...,” I hesitate before adding, “he’s saying that he isn’t happy with what he sees.”

  Rav stares at me now. He looks like he just noticed my existence. Like maybe I was invisible until this moment. He says, “Yeah. Yeah, um, what’s your name again?”

  “Sable.”

  “Right. Sable. You got it.”

  Lacey tosses her blond hair. “Okay, I get it too, Rav. But isn’t that, like, negative?”

  Rav shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.”

  I don’t say anything else because a wayward wad of newspaper nails me right between the eyes. Mr. Ripley chooses that moment to return to class. The girls arguing about their quote don’t notice him right away and one of them screeches, “You’re such a stupid cow.”

  Mr. Ripley is not impressed. He roars, “That’s enough!”

  Everyone freezes. I don’t think any of us knew he had that kind of volume. We wait, some of us watching him, some of us looking at the tabletops. I figure we’re in for a class detention and I hate that. I don’t know how many times I’ve sat in detention after school because my classmates are morons.

  He takes his time. He looks around at each one of us and makes eye contact. For those who are staring at the tabletop, he waits. They can feel his gaze and sooner or later, they all look up. I’ve never seen Mr. Ripley so angry.

  At last, he speaks. “What is art?” he asks.

  This must be a trick question. Nobody answers.

  “Never thought about it before?” He pauses, rubs his jaw. “There are many definitions of art.” He touches the rose in the vase on his desk. “Some say it’s intended to create beauty.”

  He taps his forehead. “Some say it’s meant to communicate a thought or an idea that is best shared visually.”

  Mr. Ripley strolls across the room, takes an art history book off a shelf and flips through the pages. “Some say it makes a record of time and place, or that it’s a measure of culture.”

  He puts the book down and opens his arms wide. “Others say art is none of these things; it simply exists for its own sake.”

  He makes his way back to his desk, leans against it and looks at us. “I will not tell you what art is. That’s for you to decide. With this final project, I hoped that each of you would find a way to understand art at a personal level. However...”

  Long pause.

  “However, I do not see you taking this opportunity for introspection. Do you know what that means? It means looking inside yourself. I hoped each of you would look inside and try to find a bit of yourself to put into a piece of art.”

  Wow. Who knew he expected that from us? Even I missed it.

  He starts rubbing his jaw again. Then he smiles. This is not the normal Mr. Ripley smile. I’d say the smile is tinged with evil. He claps his hands together and says, “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to assign partners. You will spend time with this partner and try to get to know something vital about that person.”

  I have a very bad feeling about this. />
  He goes on. “Then, you will find a quote that you believe describes your partner. You will present your partner with this quote, and you will explain why you chose it.”

  My mouth is dry. Lacey’s mirror has morphed into a nightmare.

  He’s not done yet. “Your partner does not have to use the quote you provide, but he or she will benefit from your input.”

  One of the “get lost” girls puts her hand up.

  “Yes?” Mr. Ripley says.

  “Can we choose our partner?”

  “Oh no,” he replies. And that evil smile is back. “I will select the partners. And be prepared. I’ve had the entire term to observe this class. I know who hangs out with whom. None of you will be partnered with a friend. I will announce the list tomorrow.”

  A moan escapes from nearly everybody in the room. Not from me. I feel too ill to moan. A class detention is looking real good right now.

  chapter five

  There’s quite the reaction when Mr. Ripley reads out the partners. Some people smirk. Others swear under their breath. One girl actually bursts into tears.

  My partner is Lacey. I should have known. Really, I should have. Cruel doom. She looks at me with startled blue eyes. Her mouth forms a small circle. Then she says, “Wow. Too random.”

  What is that supposed to mean? It turns out that I’ve said this out loud.

  Lacey giggles and says, “Nothing. Really. So I guess we’re going to have to get together and, like, chill, huh?”

  I say, “Yeah, like, I guess so.”

  She blinks a few times. She actually noticed me mocking her use of like? Maybe not, because she’s smiling again when she says, “Okay. We’ll go to your house after school.”

  What? She thinks I’m going to take her home with me? I figure I could learn all I need to know about her in less than ten minutes. I shake my head and say, “I don’t think so.”

  Of course Mr. Ripley chooses that moment to get even nastier. “If possible, try to visit one another at home. People are often more comfortable in familiar places. It might make it easier for you to get to know your partner.”