Canary (30 page)

“The whistle's going to blow soon for rest period. I don't think we have time.”

“You're not going to let your sister show you up, are you?”

“What? No way,” he answered quickly in case anyone suspected this might be true.

A bee buzzed around our heads in lazy, dizzying circles. It flew past me, and I swatted it away. I missed, and Brett ducked, jumping back as the bee buzzed around for a second time.

“Then let's go,” Dad said.

At this point, he had an audience. Brett's friends had gathered around and everyone watched him.

“They're about to blow the whistle for a rest period,” he protested once more.

“We still have five minutes. It's more than enough time.”

The line for the high dive was long, and I hoped Brett could play out the clock and wait for the rest period whistle.

Brett's friends and a few of mine gathered around the fence separating the jumpers from the spectators.

The line moved fast, too fast, and we were now at the front of the line, climbing the wet metal steps. Dad went first, and as he jumped, I turned to Brett and said, “You don't have to do this, you know. Walk away. Explain it to Dad. He'll understand.”

“No, he won't,” Brett said bluntly. “I have to jump.”

I was at the top looking ahead at the long white diving board that jiggled slightly from Dad's jump. I turned, taking one last look at Brett's terrified face, ran, and plunged into the pool.

The cold water shocked me. I swam to the ladder where Dad was. The two of us clung to the side, watching Brett reach the top of the diving board.

Brett made eye contact with us, and Dad waved in a pushing motion, as if he could lead him onto the board from below. Brett's legs were shaking, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to know he was scared. I clenched my teeth and dug my fingers into my palms. Why did Dad have to make him do this?

Brett took a tentative step out. At first, he held onto the rails that rounded up from the step, but then had to let go to keep moving. He took another step, and he now stood at the edge of the board, staring down.

I heard a single whistle and then multiple whistles answering back. “Rest period,” yelled the lifeguards in unison. Around me, the pool erupted into the groans of unwilling kids who reluctantly pulled themselves out and raced toward the concession stand to be the first in a line that would soon wrap around the eating area.

“You need to jump and get out,” a voice called from the side of the pool. I spotted a red-suited lifeguard staring Brett down, her hair in two braided pigtails, the straps of her suit pulled down over her arms to avoid tan lines. She hollered the message again, making a funnel shape with her hands to increase her volume in case everyone else now watching didn't hear the first time. “You need to jump. It's rest period.”

“Come on, Brett,” Dad said quietly, staring at him, expressionless. “Jump.”

“You need to get off the diving board,” the guard bellowed a third time, and I wondered if she got in trouble if she left people in the pool too long after the rest period whistle was blown.

“Jump, jump, jump,” the boys along the fence started to chant, grabbing the lifeguard's word and shaking it over and over like my grandma's dog used to do when he had a stuffed animal in his mouth. “Jump, jump, jump.”

My heart seemed to speed with their beat, and I willed Brett to jump. I wanted him to prove to Dad he was strong.

I wanted him to jump.

But he didn't.

Brett slowly backed up, and once his foot touched the top of the ladder he grabbed the rails and pulled himself backward, tripping a little as he stepped down. His eyes shined with tears as the chant seamlessly shifted to, “Wimp, wimp, wimp.”

Brett burst out of the diving pool, flying past all the blurred faces, avoiding Dad.

As he ran and the chant picked up, I hated Dad for trying to force Brett to jump when he wasn't ready.

After all these years, I realized Dad hadn't changed. But Brett had. The Brett I knew was nothing like that boy Dad had taunted. Brett had found the courage to stand up to Dad, to all of those who doubted him, and the strength to change. Brett wasn't that boy on the high dive anymore, and suddenly I knew what I had to do. I knew how to make Dad listen.

I went to my bedroom and booted up my computer. I logged on to my blog. Dad's demands to stay quiet and his promise to punish Luke swirled in my head.

“No,” I said out loud. “No, Dad. I'm not staying quiet. I'm not keeping this inside.”

For only a second, I hovered the cursor over the button confirming my blog was private before I clicked it and went public.

I logged on to my Beacon account and selected everyone on the list server; the entire staff and all students in the school. I typed the address of my blog into an e-mail and hit Send. Now the entire school had a direct link to the real story.

I closed my eyes and prepared myself for what I hoped was the start of the end. I'd done it. With just a click, I jumped, sang, and told the world everything in a voice so loud there was no way Dad or anyone else could act as if they didn't hear me.

I heard from Julia less than an hour after I sent
the e-mail.

“What is this blog?” Julia asked when I answered the phone.

“My story. I started writing it shortly before I came to Beacon. I kept it private, but now . . .”

“Now you want to use it to show everyone what happened.”

“Exactly,” I told her. “Do you think it'll work?”

Julia paused before answering.

I picked at a hangnail and waited to see what she thought.

“It'll definitely get people's attention. Although I'm not sure it's the attention you want.”

“But you think people will read it?”

I heard Julia typing on her keyboard. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “People are going to read this.”

“Good. I sent it out to the entire school. I wanted to make sure everyone sees it.”

“To everyone? Do you know what you're getting yourself into?”

“I hope so.”

“What about your dad?”

“What about him?” I wondered how long it would take him to read the blog. He'd find out I sent the e-mail to everyone at school and freak out, but I didn't care. I wanted him to read all of it.

“How do you think he's going to react?”

“I tried to tell him, Julia. He wouldn't listen then, so I hope he listens now.”

“He'll hear you now, and so will the rest of the school. Prepare yourself.”

I walked to my computer. I opened my blog and scrolled through my entries. They all told a story: my story at Beacon, and I wanted everyone to know that story. “I've never been more ready in my life.”

“I hope so, because you're about to get yourself noticed.”

Julia was right. People were reading my blog. Shortly after I hung up with her, my phone started vibrating. I ignored it until the screen notified me that I had twenty text messages and I knew I had to see what people were saying . . . good or bad.

I held my breath as I read the first message. I slowly let it out as I clicked through each text. The messages were full of hate and contempt. They kept coming: ugly, messy words from people I once thought were my friends:

“WTF? WHY WOULD YOU SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?”

“YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A SLUT.”

“JACK NEVER LIKED YOU. HE WAS USING YOU BECAUSE OF WHO YOUR FATHER IS.”

“HOW PATHETIC CAN U B?”

“DON'T COME BACK.”

“FIRST U SHOW UR TITS, NOW THIS BULLSHIT. GET REAL.”

“YOU R FINISHED.”

“WATCH YOUR BACK, TRAITOR.”

I imagined my e-mail box would be filled with the same. I vowed not to open any more messages. I closed my phone and got a bag of ice from the freezer. I curled up on my bed and placed the ice over my bruise. It was cold and stinging at first, but it wasn't an ache caused by destruction. Instead, I imagined the cold could heal. I pretended I could erase the words from everyone that slammed over and over me that day, sharp biting bullets and prickly burrs leaving me bruised and wounded. I let their words and actions slip off me. I had spoken out to Beacon. I had told the truth. Now I let go of everything until I held onto nothing but the words I wanted to say between Dad and me. The words that needed to be said.

I woke hours later to darkness outside. Dad would be home soon. I forced myself to go downstairs and confront him. I wouldn't hide in my room any longer. I waited for him in the living room, sitting in the ugly, worn, gold chair. He didn't come back until after midnight, the start of a new day, the day after.

The beams of his headlights swept across the front lawn. It reminded me of all the times I'd waited for Jack in the mornings before school, watching. Unlike Jack's visits, though, this time I wasn't full of anticipation and giddiness. This time my body shook with fear as the lights made shadows on the wall, warped and menacing tree branches reaching out to snatch me with gnarled fingers.

I forced myself to stay in the chair even though I wanted to run and hide and delay talking to Dad. But
I knew it couldn't wait any longer. I needed to face him. I heard him pull in to the driveway and enter the house.

I sat straight up.

He saw me. He looked right into my eyes and said, “You need to take your blog down.”

“No, Dad—”

“Take the blog down. I don't want to see it.” He turned away from me and started to walk out.

“Have you even read it?”

“Quiet,” he said in a voice I had to strain to hear.

There was no blowup, no shouting. There was just one word
.

I watched Dad and realized he didn't even look like my dad. He was stooped over and haggard. His shirt was untucked, his pants wrinkled.

I opened my mouth, and he shook his head. “I need you to be quiet. For tonight, be quiet.”

He walked past me and into his office. His words evaporated in the air. I spoke out loud, loud enough for him to hear, but the only one who seemed to listen was me. “I've been quiet, Dad. Don't you
understand? And I can't be quiet anymore.”

I looked at my phone and saw the mailbox was full.

I cried out, wishing I could toss it out the window. Instead, I ignored the fact that it was 1:00 a.m. and dialed Julia's number.

She picked up before the second ring and didn't sound sleepy at all. “What's going on? I've been trying to call you for hours.”

“I haven't checked my phone.”

“Why not?”

“I made a mistake,” I told her.

“What are you talking about?”

“The blog. It didn't work. My phone is full of messages about how much people hate me, and my dad can't even stand to be in the same room with me now.”

“Have you checked your blog lately?”

“Not since I went public with it. I should sign on and delete it. I thought I could handle this, but—”

“I think you need to look at it first.”

I fell back onto my bed, letting my pillows cushion my fall. “I know what everyone's saying. They've been calling my phone all night.”

“Sign on.”

I sighed and walked to my computer. “I can't take much more of this.”

“Go to your blog,” she said, her tone growing
impatient.

I typed in my address and stared at the familiar words, the letters I started to write to myself less than a year ago. Letters I thought would chronicle a happy new start, not the story they now told. “Okay,” I told her. “I'm there.”

“Click on November 19.”

I went to the entry. It was the one I'd written about Brett enlisting and how scared I was.

“Click on the comments.”

There were twenty-three. My hands shook as I opened them.

“I really don't need to read how much everyone hates me. The messages on my phone are already telling me that.”

“Read them, Kate. I promise it'll be okay.”

I was prepared for words of hate, but the messages from my classmates weren't anything like the reaction I received when I walked through the hallways. These were full of hope, prayers, and well wishes:

Brett is sooo brave.

My prayers R W/ U, Brett.

Hang in there, Kate. It'll be OKAY!

Brett is doing an amazing thing. He's a hero.

Be STRONG. Have FAITH.

“Oh my gosh,” I said. “Brett wrote something.”

“I told him to read your blog. I hope you don't mind.”

My eyes raced over his words:

“Kate, don't be afraid of me going into the Army. This is what I need to do. This is what's right to me.”

“I can't believe Brett read this.”

“Of course he did. He's your brother. He cares about you,” Julia said. “That isn't his only message. He wrote under some of your other entries too. People are listening. People hear you.”

“I can't believe this.”

“There's other dates you probably want to go to,” Julia said. “Find October 29.”

I scrolled back and went to the entry. It was the day Jack took my homework from me and I wrote about cheating. I read the comments. There were some expected ones that told me how wrong I was and that the team didn't cheat:

I've had classes for years with members on the team, and I know they don't cheat. Stop spreading lies.

UR the stupid 1. Stop trying 2 make other
people look bad.

But there were others too. Messages different from the ones above:

I saw Danny complete a multiple choice test in less than a minute, then put his head down and sleep. When he got the test back, there was an A across the top.

I get paid $50 to write papers for players on the team.