Days That End in Y (8 page)

“What if we have a real cramp?” Benji asks.

“Then say ‘Can we stop? I have a cramp,’ or anything else! Just don’t yell out ‘Cramp’ as one word!”

“I was just asking. Calm down!”

“I can’t calm down! My
father
is in town!”

Turns out the code word was even more appropriate than we thought. I have cramps all over my stomach. These ones are from anxiety, not biking. All I want is to find out where he’s staying, so I can eventually do something about it. What if we ride by just as he’s getting out of the car and he waves and says hi? Then what will I do?

It turns out I don’t have to worry about it yet, because there are no cars in the driveway at 184 Mason Street. The cramps loosen a little.

“Maybe everyone’s at work,” Benji says.

“Why would Bill be at work if he’s just visiting?”

Instead of answering, Benji asks, “What’s the next address?”

If you don’t count the Lilac Motel, 439 Birch Street is the furthest address on our list. That’s where we head next.

I haven’t been able to convince Benji to bike to the motel yet, so it’s last on our list, followed by three question marks. We bike single file though town, taking the scenic route by the river because I thought it might be a bit cooler by the water, and because biking through major intersections makes Benji nervous. It adds five minutes to our travel time.

My stomach cramps up again as we slow to our leisurely pace on Birch Street. I spot a car, but it’s red, and sure enough, the licence plate number is wrong, too.

“Two more, then we check out the hotels,” Benji says.

Victoria Street and Grosvenor Park are also big fat failures. There are lots of cars at the Super Eight Motel, but after three rounds of the parking lot, none of them are right, either. By the time we get to the River’s Edge Bed and Breakfast, I’m hot, irritated and in need of a win.

No such luck.

“The River’s Edge is pretty fancy,” Benji points out. “More for tourists. Bill isn’t exactly a tourist.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel better. I savagely kick at the kickstand and rear my bike around in the opposite direction. “Let’s go home. I’m boiling.”

Benji hurries to catch up. “Can we stop and get freezies?”

“I didn’t bring any money.”

“I have some.”

I don’t say anything, but I let Benji lead the way. He takes us to a 7-Eleven and gets two giant freezies: red for him, blue for me. I perk up a little. Blue has always been my favourite. I’m not sure what flavour it is — raspberry, blueberry, some kind of berry — but it doesn’t matter, it’s pure delicious. Benji forgot to ask the cashier to snip the top, so I have to tear it with my teeth. I open Benji’s, too, since even his teeth are too delicate.

It feels good to tear into something ferociously when you’re in a bad mood.

“Let’s go to the river to eat them,” Benji says.

Right now, with my skin so hot and sweaty it’s prickling, the river sounds perfect. “Okay.”

***

A few summers ago we discovered our own secret part of the river. Well, not secret — none of the river is private. But every time we came to cool off, we were the only ones there. Less than a ten-minute bike ride from our houses, it has a small strip of beach (gravel, mostly), a willow tree that neither of us is brave enough to climb and a boulder that juts out from the water, perfect for sunning yourself after you cool off in the water.

As hoped, there is no one else around when we arrive. So far this is the luckiest thing to happen to me all day. I let my bike fall, whip off my backpack and helmet and step out of my shoes, heading for the water. The river isn’t deep, so the water isn’t very cool. But after all that biking, it’s still refreshing to feel it slosh against my ankles. I grab fistfuls of my shorts, yanking the hems up as high as they’ll go, and wade out a bit further.

Benji takes his shirt and shorts off, folds them neatly and places them on top of his helmet. He wades in up to his waist, wearing just his boxer shorts, and then sinks into the water, carefully keeping his hair from getting wet. At the back of his head a cowlick stands straight up. He looks like a duckling.

“It’s really nice!” Benji says, dogpaddling in circles around me.

“Don’t rub it in,” I say.

“It’s not that nice,” he says dutifully.

I wish I could take my clothes off as well. There was a time when I would have whipped off my shirt and shorts and dived in with only my underwear on, too. Benji is more like my brother than a friend. But back then I didn’t wear a bra. Everything changes when you start wearing a bra.

I scratch furiously at the clasp, as if it’s the source of all my problems.

“I want to go in, just for a minute. Can you turn around?”

“Sure. I’m going to dry off, anyway.” Benji hauls himself onto the sunning rock. Not only does he face the other way, but he closes his eyes and covers them with his hands. As quickly as I can, I wiggle out of my shorts and sweaty t-shirt, tossing them at the edge of the water. Then I wade back in, plug my nose and plunge into the river. It feels wonderful.

Underwater, I turn my head slowly, loving the feeling of my hair floating around me. When my nose starts to burn, I emerge, shaking the water from my ears.

Benji is still sitting with his back to me, eyes covered. I slip my t-shirt back on and haul myself onto the rock beside him. I leave my shorts on the bank. My shirt is long enough, plus it will dry in about five minutes. Wet shorts take forever to dry out.

I’m surprised to find that there’s barely enough room for the two of us on the sunning rock. The last time we were here, we comfortably sat side by side. Benji scooches over without ever opening his eyes.

“You can look now.”

Benji takes away his hands and blinks at me in the sunlight. “Better?”

“Better. I feel like I can think now.”

“So what do we do next?” I like how Benji says “we.” It makes me feel less alone.

It’s strange, but tracking down my father has made me feel lonely. Shouldn’t I feel like I’ve found something?

“Maybe he went somewhere on a day trip,” I suggest.

“Or he’s visiting someone.”

“Or he just happened to be out driving when we went by.”

There are lots of perfectly good reasons why Bill’s black car was not in any of the driveways we saw, but this doesn’t make me feel any better. It makes me feel stupid and at a loss for what to do next. Being a detective is hard. Especially on a bike.

“Maybe we should try again, early in the morning before people go out for the day,” I say.

“But still late enough that the sun is up, right?” Benji really hates the dark.

“We still haven’t checked out the Lilac Motel,” I point out.

Benji has a handful of pebbles that he is tossing one by one at the water, attempting (but failing) to make them skip across the top. “I know.”

“I can go by myself, if you’re that scared.”

“I’m not scared; I just think it’s far. We’d have to bike on the highway.”

I resist rolling my eyes. Benji can be such a scaredy-cat sometimes.

“Really, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I can make it there in less than half an hour, especially without you slowing me down.”

“Don’t go by yourself,” Benji pleads, and he looks so pitiful I have to relent.

“I won’t,” I say, but I don’t mean it.

“We should probably go back now.”

Benji and I bike all the way home without a word. We’re both too busy thinking. But before he goes inside, Benji turns to me and says, “That was nice, today. It felt like one of our old missions. Remember those?”

I smile for the first time that day. “Yeah, I remember.”

I’m glad I’m not the only one.

It’s been raining for days. As happy as I am to not be melting into a puddle of human stink, I’m ready for the sun again.

Business has slowed at the Hair Emporium, and I spend most of my days doing crosswords and stuffing wedding favours into gauzy gift bags.

Originally the plan was to make donations to the Breast Cancer Society in each guest’s name, but Mom decided that they needed to have a take-away, too. So she is giving everyone a little sample bottle of her favourite moisturizer and a scented candle, along with a hand-lettered card that reads
A Donation Was Made to the Breast Cancer Society on Your Behalf
. My job is supposed to be writing the cards, but my handwriting is functional at best. Fancy lettering is really more of a Benji task, but he’s not around to do it, which leaves me.

Needless to say, it’s a dull way to spend a day, so when the bell jingles at the top of the stairs, I practically leap out of my seat to greet the person who will save me from dying of boredom.

“Is that Clarissa Louise Delaney or a starlet I see down there?”

At first I don’t recognize the woman making her way down the stairs, shaking the rain from her jacket and smoothing her long, dark hair. I can tell by the way it’s puffing out that she has been flat-ironing her natural wave into submission. Someone needs to tell her you can’t win
when rain is involved. Then I get a better look at her, and despite the rain my whole day brightens.

“Tina!”

Tina Cooper is probably the coolest of my mom’s friends. “Hey, girl! You’re looking better than ever.” She raises her hand for a high-five. She is the only adult I know who can get away with this without looking hopelessly lame. She is also the only white person I know who can call people “girl.” Unfortunately, she moved away years ago and only drops by a few times a year when she’s in town visiting family.

“The boys must fall all over themselves when they’re around you. Have you got a boyfriend yet?”

Before I can say anything, Mom emerges from the storeroom, her arms full of shampoo bottles. “Tina?” The bottles almost hit the floor, but Mom recovers, dumping them in the nearest styling chair, and rushes over to give Tina a hug.

“Did I know you were coming?” she asks.

Tina shakes her head. “Nope. I’m in town visiting my sister and thought I’d pop by and see if you could fit in a trim.”

Mom gestures to a styling chair. “At your service!”

“The word is you’re getting married, Annie.”

Mom shows off her ring. “Guilty as charged.”

Tina claps and bounces a little before wrapping my mom in yet another hug. Maybe constant hugging is something that friends do when they get older. Although when I try to picture Benji and me falling all over each other, it doesn’t stick. Mattie, of course, is already an experienced hugger.

“Congratulations! I want to hear everything!” Tina shrugs off her purse and blazer and sinks into a recliner.

Normally I’d find myself a magazine to read, but it occurs
to me that since Tina knew Mom in high school, she must have also known Bill. I need to find a way to bring him up in the conversation.

“Clarissa, can you get Tina a drink?”

Shoot! The one time I want to stick around and eavesdrop and my mother is sending me out of the room.

“You don’t want to miss out on Clarissa’s iced lemon-tea,” Mom says. “She makes it herself. Her secret ingredient is mint.”

“How can I say no to that?” Tina says with a wink.

I run up the stairs two at a time, while Mom fluffs out Tina’s hair to assess the job ahead of her. I’m in such a rush to get back downstairs that I miss the glass while I’m pouring. Lemon-tea sloshes down the side and onto the counter. I don’t have time for this! I can’t miss any of their conversation. What if they’re going to reminisce about the Good Old Days? I need to be there for every little detail.

I am careful on the way back down, having already lost time wiping up my first spill.

“Here you are; I hope you like it. I can add more lemonade or mint if you want,” I say, putting on my most professional and helpful daughter face.

Tina takes a delicate sip. “This is delicious!” she says, smiling at me. “Clarissa, you’re a girl of many talents!”

“Thanks,” I say, as I sit down and get comfortable.

“Now, Annie, tell me about this man of yours.”

“What do you want to know?” Mom says demurely. “His name is Doug Armstrong, and he owns a fitness centre here in town. We met almost a year ago, when I started training at the gym. Then we started dating a few months back, and things just went from there.”

“Look at you — you’re positively glowing!” Tina says.
Then to me, “Isn’t your mother beautiful?”

“She is,” I say. “The most beautiful woman in town.”

Mom raises her eyebrows at me, and I decide to tone down the perfect daughter routine. I may be laying it on a bit thick.

Tina leans in, all conspiratorial. “What do you think of Doug, Clarissa? Is he good enough for our girl?”

“He’s great! Really friendly. And tall. And nice to dogs …” I am struggling with things to come up with, but Tina seems to think this is enough.

“Dog lovers are good people,” she says. “When’s the wedding?”

“Two weeks, if you can believe it. We’re just having a small party in the backyard with a few friends.”

“Sounds perfect,” Tina says.

“So what’s new with you? How’s work?”

Tina starts talking about her son and her job as a speech therapist, and I zone out for a little bit, trying to come up with things to say to direct the conversation toward high school.

I have a pen and paper ready, so when they start talking, I can jot down names and anything else worth investigating later. As it turns out, I don’t have to say anything, because eventually Tina launches into it all on her own.

“Have you seen any of the old gang lately? TJ? Alison? Stookey?”

Mom shakes her head. “Not really. I lost touch with a lot of people once Bill and I called things off. Stookey wouldn’t look me in the eye, and Tyler Kellerman never spoke to me again.”

I can’t believe my luck. Mom never talks about Bill so candidly. At least not in front of me. My heart is beating so hard, I can feel it throbbing in my fingers. I can barely hold
the pen as I write down
Stookey
and
Tyler Kellerman
.

“Those guys were always tight,” Tina says. “And you know what Alison was like: if Stookey said jump, she said how high.”