Liars and Fools (2 page)

“Thanks.” I took the card and put it in my jeans pocket without looking at it. I could almost see the waves crashing on the reef and the flares lighting up the darkness. I could feel my mother's fear, tight and urgent beneath my ribs.

As soon as we were outside, I turned to Abby and held up my hand. “I don't want to talk about it, okay?” I started to walk quickly down the sidewalk, the late afternoon air cool and damp against my face.

“Come on, Fiona.” Abby hurried to keep up. “You look totally freaked out.”

“I'm not,” I protested. Actually, I was, but I also felt closer to my mother than I had in months and I didn't want to ruin it by talking about what had just happened.

“Fiona? Don't get carried away here. I know I got excited back there when she said she had a message for you, but let's face it: the things she said were pretty vague.”

“Vague?” I stared at her. “An ocean? Flares?”

“She didn't say that. She just said waves. You were the one who said ocean.”

I frowned, trying to remember.

“Waves could be a standard opening line, you know? Someone else might not say anything, or they might look puzzled, and then she'd throw out another word. Trees or a road or whatever.”

I wrapped my arms about myself tightly and tried not to listen.

“Look, you can't take it seriously,” Abby said. “She was pretty good at her routine, but it's just acting and guesswork.”

“You were the one who wanted to go in there.”

“Yeah, for a laugh. Not because I believe in it. There is no way anyone can really bring messages from people who have died. You know that, right?”

“I don't want to talk about it, okay?”

Abby was quiet for a minute, walking along by my side, looking unhappy. “So. Ice cream?” she said at last.

Ice cream was the reason we had come downtown. There's this place at the mall that will mix any kind of topping right into whatever flavor ice cream you want. Mom used to get cherries and Oreo cookies in vanilla ice cream, but Abby and I always got gummy bears. “Yeah,” I said, trying to smile at her. “Ice cream.”

But I had a feeling that even gummy bears in chocolate ice cream weren't going to make me feel better today.

two

I was still thinking about the psychic woman on Monday morning as I crouched low over the handlebars of my bicycle, eyes watering and fingers half-frozen in my thin gloves. Gravel skidded under my tires as I coasted down the hill and into the boatyard. Across the parking lot, a forest of masts rose from the water. The sky was a hard cold blue, the sun a flat white disc. I jumped off my bike and leaned it against the chain-link fence. A stiff breeze blew steadily onto shore. I hugged myself and shivered. It had officially been spring for a week, but the air still held the damp chill of winter.

It wasn't quite eight, but already there were a few people around, working on their boats, carrying gear along the narrow docks, drinking coffee from travel mugs. I ignored them and they ignored me. I figured that everyone knew what had happened to Mom. I'd even overheard two women talking about her in the marina washroom once, gossiping while they washed their hands and fixed their hair.

Jennifer wrote her own ticket,
one of them said.
Not that I'm saying she had it coming, but there's gutsy
and then there's stupid.
Through the crack in the stall door I could see the backs of their heads, one blond and one gray. Mother and daughter, maybe. For a moment I thought about bursting out and shouting at them, and making them feel terrible. But underneath my anger was something like shame. Dad had known Mom was taking too many risks. He'd tried to get her to take safety precautions. And what had I done? I'd taken my mother's side.

So I didn't shout at the women. I stayed hidden in the stall, my cheeks burning, until they left.

Everyone down here at the marina stayed away from me now. It was like that at school too. Except for Abby, people seemed to avoid me. Maybe they thought disaster was contagious. Or maybe they didn't know what to say.

The tide was low, and the ramp down to the docks was steep and wet from the morning dew. I walked quickly, almost running, my feet finding the nonskid strips on the steel walkway. School started at
8
:
45
, so I only had a few minutes. I would have liked to have liars and fools more time, but Dad would wonder why I was leaving for school so early. He didn't know I still came here. At least, I didn't think he knew. We didn't talk about it.

As always, setting foot on the docks calmed me down. I didn't really understand it, but whenever I was around the boats, it was as if something changed inside me: slowed down, settled. Softened and lifted me up. It felt like magic of some kind. It was the one place I could still see my mother's face clearly when I closed my eyes. The one place that I could think about her without getting sucked into the whirlpool of memory and guilt.

Which was why I had to keep coming, no matter what my dad said.

And if the psychic was right, if my mother was out there somewhere, thinking about me, then where was she more likely to be than here?

Our boat,
Eliza J
, was at the end of E-dock. I could see her sitting there, heavy and solid in the water, her white hull stained with greenish streaks, the blue canvas of her dodger and sail cover faded from the sun. I wished I could spend the day scrubbing her deck and polishing the surface rust from her stainless steel stanchions and rails. I looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention to me; then I stepped on board. The boat rocked slightly under my weight.

The cockpit floor was dirty, and thick green algae grew in rings of slime where water pooled around the drains. The companionway boards were locked in place. They'd been locked in place for a year: the padlock was probably rusted shut by now. I pressed my nose against a porthole, trying to get a glimpse of the dark cabin down below. I could see the table folded against the wall, and the edge of the portside berth. My berth, the one I used to sleep on. I remembered the scratchy-soft feel of the beige fabric against my cheek and the faint smell of it: mildew mixed with the citrus tang of laundry soap and something else, something almost sweet.

“Hi, Mom,” I whispered. That was all I ever said. I didn't try to have conversations with her or anything; I'm not crazy. It was just that I could remember her most vividly here. I could picture her standing at the tiller, laughing as
Eliza J
sailed into the wind, adjusting the sails, talking to me.
Fiona, tighten up
that jib sheet, would you? Isn't this absolutely gorgeous
sailing? Be a love and grab those cookies from down
below. I'm starving.

There was a sharp stabbing feeling in my throat, and my eyes were suddenly wet. It was a relief to feel something. Lately it felt as if even my memories of my mom were slipping away. No one talked about her anymore. Not Dad, not my Aunt Joni, not Tom. It seemed like they were all starting to forget her. I wouldn't let that happen. Not ever.

I pedaled hard, flew down the streets to school and managed to slip into my seat seconds before the bell rang. Just as well. I'd been late way too many times this year. For the first few months after the accident, the teachers all treated me like I was made of glass. They gave me tentative smiles, asked if I was okay, told me they were there if I wanted to talk—that kind of thing. Even if I was late or skipped homework, they never gave me a hard time about it.

Lately though, it seemed like there was some kind of time limit on grieving. The first anniversary of Mom's death was March
1
, which was three weeks ago. Maybe they had it on their calendars. Maybe they'd talked about me at a staff meeting and agreed that it was time I got my act together. All I knew for sure was that the sympathetic nods had recently been replaced with lunch-hour detentions. My free pass had expired.

I looked around the room, only half-listening to the announcements over the
PA
system. Abby was grinning at me from the next row. I grinned back, but stopped smiling abruptly when I saw what Mrs. Moskin was handing out. Last week's math quiz. Ugh. The teacher gave me a funny look when she put my paper on my desk: almost a smile, but not quite. So maybe I'd done okay?

I lifted the corner and peeked at the grade. Nope, not okay. Not even close to okay. A fail. Dad was going to flip. For a moment, I considered dropping the paper in the garbage and not telling him, but I'd be bringing a report card home in a month. He'd find out anyway. After last term's grades, it wouldn't exactly come as a shock.

I folded the paper in half and started to stick it in my binder. The back of my math test was covered with scribbles and notes. I paused and ran a finger along the first line. It read:
20
°
52
.
45
'
N;
156
°
40
.
77
'
W.
Lahaina Harbor, Maui
.

I'd been daydreaming, imagining sailing to Hawaii. It was a trip Mom and I had planned to do together someday. Dad used to say he'd meet us there: he got too seasick to want to spend much time offshore. I picked up my pen and drew a little sailboat on the edge of the page, its sails set for a downwind course across
2
,
300
nautical miles of blue-green ocean. I closed my eyes for a moment. Dolphins, sunsets, Pacific Ocean trade winds… Mrs. Moskin cleared her throat.

“Would you care to join us, Fiona?”

My cheeks flushed hot. “Sorry?”

Mrs. Moskin fluffed her hair. She's always doing that. She's a small, skinny woman with thin white hair and a pink scalp that shows through in places. Her eyebrows are penciled on, two brown lines arching above pale blue eyes. She's twitchy, and everyone calls her the Mouse. Though not to her face, of course.

“Unless you have something more important you'd rather be doing?” she asked me.

“Well…”

The Mouse read my mind. “It was a rhetorical question. I think I'd rather you didn't answer it.” She took her beady eyes off me and addressed the class. “As you'll know if you were paying attention, I was talking about the science fair,” she said. “This will be a chance to explore any topic that interests you. You can pose any question you want, provided you can come up with a hypothesis and devise an experiment to put it to the test.”

“Can we do our project with a partner?” I asked.

Mrs. Moskin nodded. “Yes.” She looked at me and then at Abby. “If you do your project with a partner, you will share the grade. So be sure you pair up with someone who will do their share of the work.”

As if I'd ever let Abby down. I glanced across the aisle, trying to catch her eye, but she quickly looked down at her desk. My stomach started to hurt.

Ayla Neilson put up her hand. “Mrs. Moskin?”

“Yes, Ayla.” Mrs. Moskin sounded tired. Whoever said there is no such thing as a stupid question had never met Ayla.

Ayla twisted a red-blond curl around her finger. “Well, what kind of topic? Like, what is a science topic? Do we have to dissect anything? Because I don't believe in killing animals or, like, plants or anything.”

The Mouse sat down on the edge of her desk. “Any topic, as I said, can be suitable for scientific exploration. You do not have to dissect anything. I don't usually feel a need to spell this out, but let me be clear: please do not kill anything. If you have a topic in mind and have questions about it, please see me after class.”

I looked over at Abby again, but she didn't look up. “
Pssst
. Abby.”

Mrs. Moskin frowned at me. “Fiona. Please save your private conversations for lunch hour.”

As the morning went on, I felt worse and worse. I couldn't believe Abby would actually think I wouldn't do my share of the work. We'd done practically every project together since we started hanging out in the fourth grade. We were always partners. Always.

By the time the lunch bell finally rang, I wanted to go home. I dragged my feet to the cafeteria and sat liars and fools down beside Abby in my usual spot. Mrs. Moskin's words were stuck in my head, and I couldn't decide whether to bring up the subject or not. I crumpled my paper lunch bag in my fist and sighed. I didn't think I could stand to hear Abby admit she didn't want to work with me.

Beside me, Abby pulled out a set of matching plastic containers. She took the lids off and stacked them neatly, uncovering a sandwich, some applesauce, and sliced carrots and celery. She brought the same thing every day. “How did you do on the math test?” she asked.

I wondered if my answer was going to make a difference to whether she'd want to work with me. “Not too well.”

Abby waited, eyebrows raised.

“Okay, okay. It was bad. A fail.” I really wanted to ask her about being partners for the science project, but I was scared to push for an answer. As long as we didn't talk about it, I wouldn't have to hear her say no.

“Can I see?”

I pulled the page out of my binder and held it out to her. Abby took it, biting her lip when she saw the grade. “Fiona! I told you how to do these problems. They're exactly the same as the ones we studied.” She turned the paper over and studied the scribbles on the back for a few minutes before handing it back to me. “I don't understand how you can do this stuff but flunk an easy math test.”

I didn't answer right away. I did okay in math last year, but after Mom died, I missed a lot of school— most of the last couple of months of sixth grade. Dad had stopped going to work. He stayed awake all night and slept on the couch in the afternoon. He didn't care if I went to school. I don't think he even noticed. There was never any food in the house unless Joni brought dinner over, and in the end I went to stay with her and Tom for a while. Eventually Dad got better, and I moved home and went back to school for grade seven, but I got a lot of bad stomach aches, and I had a hard time concentrating.