Hemingway Tradition (2 page)

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the girl beside her.

So much for humor. I was obviously going to have to stop stepping on toes if I hoped to make any friends.

I'd had a tour of the school when I registered, so I found my homeroom without much trouble — not that it did me any good. All the seats were taken by the time I got there. Some guy snagged the last desk by the door just as I arrived. The only other empty chair was at the very front of the class. Great. Now I was not only the new kid; I was also a geek. The day just kept getting better and better.

“Locker 131 — Jai Dhillon and Shaw Se-bring.” The teacher glanced up from the paper in front of her and peered around the room.

I looked around too, just in time to see this little East Indian kid jump out of his seat like he'd been popped out of a toaster —flashing the biggest smile I'd ever seen outside a beauty pageant. Right away everyone else in the room grinned too.

“Go, Jai-i! Go, Jai-i!” someone chanted, and the other kids started to clap.

It was pretty clear my locker partner was either the class clown or a leader of the people. But at that moment all I cared about was that I wasn't going to have any competition for the top shelf of our locker.

“I don't remember you from Grade 10,” Jai said, as we taped our timetables to the inside of the door. “Were you here last year?”

I shook my head. “No. I just moved to Winnipeg a week ago.”

“Oh, yeah? From where?”

“Vancouver.”

“Vancouver!” Jai looked at me as if I
was crazy. “Why the heck would you trade Vancouver for Winnipeg? We get winter here you know, like nine months of the year!”

I shrugged. “My mom's company transferred her.”

“Ahhh,” Jai nodded knowingly, and then out of the blue he asked, “How tall are you?”

“Six-two.”

“You play volleyball?”

I did, but I wanted to know where Jai was going with all his questions before I committed myself. I frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

He flashed his huge grin. “Because we could use you on the team. Tryouts start tonight at eight o'clock.”

“
You
play volleyball?” I said in amazement. I tried to picture Jai smashing a ball. “No offense, but you're kind of short, aren't you?”

He flexed his fingers and, if possible, the grin got bigger. “Not for a setter.”

The bell rang and we both squinted at our timetables.

“English — second floor,” I mumbled,
pulling a map of the school out of my jeans.

“I got math,” Jai said, “and I'm on the second floor too. Come on. I'll show you the way.”

This time I got to the room before it completely filled up. Jai poked his head in and looked around. After a couple of seconds, he elbowed me in the ribs and started zigzagging around desks and people.

“Come on,” he called back. “I'll introduce you to a friend of mine.”

From the way he grinned at everyone he passed, I figured that could've been anybody in the school.

“Tess,” he said to a girl standing with her back to us. “I want you to meet a new friend of mine — Shaw Sebring. Shaw, this is Tess Petersen.”

The girl spun around. “Hi.” She looked up at me and smiled. Then the smile slid from her mouth and her glance shifted to my feet. She took a step back and turned to Jai. “We've met.”

I took the seat behind Tess. Despite the fact that the two of us had literally gotten off on the wrong foot, we were soon gabbing like old friends.

When her face wasn't screwed up in pain, Tess was actually kind of pretty. I think it was her eyes. They were icy blue, and they danced. I know that sounds corny, but it's true. I've never seen anyone with eyes like
that. They didn't sit still for a second, and when they looked at you, it was more like they were looking
into
you. In a way it was kind of creepy. I kept wondering if Tess was learning more about me than I wanted her to.

Of course, I was finding out stuff about her too — like how tall she was. Or maybe I should say, how short she was — five-foot-one and three-quarters according to her. Her dad was a mechanic and her mom managed a flower shop. She had two older brothers, a cat named Hercules, and a dog named Gertie. Tess said she was originally from Nova Scotia, but her family had moved to Winnipeg when she was ten. She didn't play sports, but she was a true-blue Dakota fan and hardly ever missed a game. Otherwise, she spent most of her time working on the school paper. From the way her face lit up when she told me that, I could tell it was important to her. She invited me to join too, but luckily the teacher started the class before Tess could corner me for an answer.

In most subjects, the only thing you do
on the first day is get textbooks and course outlines. But in English, there's almost always that
What I did on my Summer Vacation
essay. Miss Boswell put a slightly different spin on it, but it amounted to the same thing, and the truth is I didn't want to think about the summer, never mind write about it.

The entire class groaned at the prospect of doing work. But because it was the first day and we were still on our best behavior, we settled down pretty quick. Soon the room was quiet. The only sound was thirty pens scratching on paper. Okay, I lied. Twenty-nine pens. Mine was twirling on my fingers.

“Welcome to Dakota,” a voice whispered in my ear. My pen suddenly jumped out of my hand and clattered to the floor.

“Thanks,” I mumbled self-consciously, leaning over to pick it up. Then I frowned at the empty paper in front of me. It didn't contain so much as a doodle. I braced myself for teacher lecture #107 on wasting time. But it didn't come. In fact, Miss Boswell didn't even seem to notice my paper.

And as soon as the next sentence left her mouth, I knew why.

“So you're Dylan Sebring's son.”

I didn't say anything. I didn't even nod. But that didn't stop Miss Boswell.

“I'm a big fan of your father's work,” she said. “I've read every book he's ever written — many times. He's one of the best suspense writers this country has ever produced. You must be very proud.”

I stared at her in disbelief.
Proud?
That wasn't exactly the word that came to mind. Hurt, humiliated, angry and confused maybe. But certainly not proud.

A couple of the kids nearby had stopped writing. I could feel their eyes drilling into me. Any second now, Miss Boswell was going to say something about my dad's suicide, and then I'd be a freak all over again. I willed her to stop talking but the vibes didn't reach her. She kept on going.

“From your school records, it would seem you've inherited your father's gift. According to your last English teacher, you're
extremely talented.” Miss Boswell put a hand on my shoulder. “I look forward to reading your work.”

Then she smiled and continued her tour of the classroom. And that was that.

At least it was until Tess swiveled around in her seat.

“Your dad's a famous writer?” she croaked, barely able to keep her voice to a whisper. Then without waiting for me to answer, she demanded, “Why didn't you tell me? This is great! Now for sure you've got to join the newspaper club. We could interview your dad and do a super fantastic article. Maybe even a series. Hey, wait a minute! I've got a better idea. Your dad could come and talk to us — you know, explain the ins and outs of the publishing industry. That would get everybody so inspired. Do you think he would do it?”

“No,” I said bluntly, avoiding Tess's eyes and focusing instead on dating my paper. I was pressing so hard it was more like an engraving than writing.

“How can you say that?” Tess sounded offended. “You haven't even asked him.”

Miss Boswell shot us a
get-to-work
glance, and Tess reluctantly turned around. But as soon as Miss Boswell looked away, she was back again.

“How do you know he wouldn't do it?” she pressed.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

I blurted the first thing that popped into my head. “Because he's not writing anymore.” It was the truth — as far as it went.

Tess's gasp made me look up, and right away I felt myself being cross-examined by her eyes.

“He
quit
?” she squeaked.

“You could say that.” I frowned and tried to look away. All I wanted was a little privacy. Why couldn't Tess turn around and mind her own business?

“Why would he do that?” she said.

“Could we talk about this some other time?” I turned back to my paper, hoping
she'd take the hint, but the journalist in her was too strong. She started firing questions at me, and with each one I felt more and more cornered.

“Why would your dad stop doing something he's good at? Did he get another job? Did he run out of ideas? Did he get terminal writer's block? Did he get so rich that he just decided to retire? Did he … ”

Something inside me exploded.

“
He died!
Okay?” I growled into her face. “He put a gun into his mouth, and he pulled the trigger. That's why he isn't writing anymore, and that's why he's not going to come and talk to your newspaper club. So could we please drop the subject?”

I looked up, expecting to see the entire class staring at me. Everyone was still hard at work. I was sure I'd been yelling, but the only one who seemed to have heard me was Tess.

I looked back at her. Her eyes had stopped dancing.

“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled and turned around in her seat.

I dug the ball up, then tore around the net and dove to retrieve my own bump. My hip bones cracked as they collided with the hardwood. I knew my bruise count had risen again.

“Where the heck does Mr. Hudson get these killer drills?” I asked Jai as we gulped water from the fountain during a timeout.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand and shrugged. “A million years of coaching volleyball would be my guess. But you can't argue with success.” He pointed to the banners hung high around the gym wall. “Dakota's volleyball team has a habit of winning. In the last ten or twelve provincial tournaments, we've gone all the way to the final four —
or farther
. It doesn't seem to matter who's on the team. Once Mr. Hudson gets hold of them, they turn into volleyball players.”

“Or they die trying,” I grumbled. I examined a welt on my forearm.

“You're just out of shape, you wimp,” Jai teased. “You should be happy you made the team.”

I
was
happy. During the two weeks of tryouts I'd become totally wrapped up in the sport. Not only did it push me physically; it was also a good way to meet people. But most important of all, it kept my mind occupied.

After practice, a bunch of us leaned against the bleachers while Mr. Hudson gave us pointers on how
not
to shank the ball.

“It'll come. It just takes practice.” The
comment was harmless, but the gleeful little half-smile that went with it wasn't. I instantly had visions of more torturous drills. Mr. Hudson headed across the gym to his office. “See you fellas Wednesday.”

“Yeah. See ya,” we replied, pushing ourselves away from the bleachers and starting for the exit. Then the guy in front of me stopped.

“Darn! I forgot my hat,” he groaned, doing a quick about-face and jogging back to the change room.

I reached into my jacket pocket for my car keys.

“Hey, Brian,” I yelled after him, “while you're in there, tell Jai to hurry up. I want to get going.” Jai's house was between my apartment and the school, so I usually gave him a ride to practice.

Brian pushed open the change-room door. As he disappeared inside, I heard him holler, “Hey, Dhillon, you homo. Hustle your ass or your date is going to leave without you.”

It was the sort of smart-ass comment guys
are always making to one another. It didn't mean anything. I knew that. But it bugged me just the same. As I headed to the parking lot, the adrenaline that had been racing through my veins from two hours of physical activity began to evaporate. By the time I got home, it had disappeared altogether. When my mom spoke to me, I realized I was in a lousy mood.

“How was practice?”

I dropped my sports bag onto the floor and shrugged off my jacket. “It was okay.” Then I headed for the kitchen.

“Don't leave that there, Shaw.” Mom pointed to my bag. “One of us will trip over it. Put it away.”

“Can I get in the door first?” I snapped back. Even I could hear the attitude in my voice, but surprisingly, my mom didn't get on my case. She just gave me a dirty look and turned back to the television.

I opened the fridge and peered inside. I wasn't really hungry, but checking out the contents of the fridge was something I had
to do. Call it force of habit. And since I was there, I figured I might as well make it worth my while. I took a swig of milk from the carton and grabbed an apple. Then I picked up my gear and started for my room.

My intention was to hole up in there for the rest of the night, but Mom stopped me before I could escape. She gestured to my schoolbooks spread out on the dining-room table. I figured she was trying to tell me to put them away too.

She wasn't.

“I see you got an English essay back,” she said. “The mark's not too impressive.”

I instantly saw fire. “What are you doing poking through my stuff?” I demanded.

Mom raised an eyebrow. “Well, aren't you Mr. Congeniality? I wasn't snooping through your things. It was sitting on the table in full view. If you didn't want me to see it, maybe you should have put it away. The point is, it's not very good. You were lucky to get a C.”

“What's the matter with a C? There are a
lot of kids who would give their eyeteeth to get a C on an essay.”

“I'm sure there are, but you're not one of them. You wrote better than that when you were in Grade 4. So what's the big idea?”