Out on a Limb (7 page)

“Maybe she’s saying she’ll
never
forgive, and we’re
not
welcome. Who knows? And it doesn’t say ‘invitation’. Just ‘ation’. It could be, I don’t know, an explanation someday soon.
Inform
ation someday soon.
Communic
ation someday soon.”

“Maybe she means that letter you’re uncoding.” “Maybe.”

“What do you think that code letter says?” Tilley asked. “Like, what do you think it’s about?”

“Probably about the big split in the family. And probably about whatever is her big problem with us.”

“When’s it going to be all uncoded?”

“Well I’m trying, but you keep interrupting me.” “Cause I’m tired of watching that man nail boards.” “Spy on the ducks then,” I suggested.

“I am. They never do anything secret though.”

Tilley and I gave up spying for the day. We rustled out of the snowball bush, and waded upstream to visit Oscar.

Progress on the fence continued for the next couple of days. I tried not to let it bug me, but it did. The fence gave the Manor a new look of fairy-tale evil. Every time I glanced at it, my mind was taken over by the memory of Great-great-aunt Lydia’s expressionless, dried-apple face. The fence made me feel different about myself. I did not feel lovable-at-first-sight anymore. When I was crossing the stream or riding across the meadow or sitting up in one of the cherry trees, I could feel Great-great-aunt Lydia’s dislike touching every surface of my skin. Great-great-aunt Lydia hated us, without even knowing us.

It bothered me to think that someone could hate me without even knowing me. It was a scary idea, especially when I was going to be starting a new school in less than two weeks. It was already the second half of August, and the reddening maples brought waves of back-to-school dread. So did the early darkness at our campfires. But what really got me in the pit of my stomach was the dayold newspaper I used to wrap up our garbage.
BACK TO SCHOOL
, threatened a full-page ad.
GET READY NOW
!

I tried to slow down the summer. If I paid five times as much attention to every moment, I reasoned, the rest of August might seem five times as long. All attention, I’d sit by the edge of the stream, studying the electric-blue dragonflies hovering like helicopters, and the spidery striders walking on water. I might have managed to slow time a bit, but I couldn’t stop it.

One midnight August turned into September. A few nights later Dad doused our campfire early. “After all,” he said, as the logs hissed out steam, “it’s a school night.”

Summer was over, long before I was ready.

NOTEBOOK: #9

NAME: Rosamund McGrady

SUBJECT: Enemy Territory

I woke up to a pink sunrise
in the open porthole by my pillow. The backlit oak leaves were jewel green. The birds, who would slack off later in the day, were still singing their sunrise songs. I had a moment of perfect peace. Then I remembered. It was my first day at Windward Middle School.

I pulled back my curtain. “Your Mom and I are off,” Dad said, drinking his coffee dregs.

“Already?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’ve got to be at the university early to straighten out our timetables,” Dad said.

“Okay, then.”

“Okay. So good luck on your first day,” said Mom, turning in the arched doorway to blow a kiss to the top bunk. “Yup,” I said.

Something in my voice made Mom step back inside the treehouse. “You’re nervous,” she said.

I shrugged where I lay. Upbeat mothers don’t understand nerves.

“Oh, Rosie, it will be fine. Just be yourself. And be friendly. And just join in. That’s all there is to it. Really.” Mom climbed a few rungs of the bunk ladder to plant an actual kiss on top of my head. “Really.”

I nodded, and Mom and Dad descended through the trap door. I sat up in my bunk to get dressed for school. I had few choices for a back-to-school outfit. It was shorts weather and I had two pairs. The cargos were my favourite, and because they were my favourite I’d worn them every day. They were, when I stopped to examine them, a little grubby. My plaid shorts, on the other hand, were perfectly clean, but only because they were too ugly to wear. I wriggled into my cargos. I removed a clean T-shirt from my overstuffed drawer. It was crumpled and there was no way to press it. Since we had no electricity, we had no iron, and we had no room for an ironing board anyway.

I stood combing my hair before the locker mirror on the wall. When I combed out a twig and several pieces of bark, I started wishing I’d gone for a back-to-school hairwashing at the community centre. Too late now, I thought, peering at myself. The locker mirror was too small for me to behold my entire head at once, so I took it from its hook and moved it around to check out different portions. No individual portion looked too bad.

There was no water in our porcelain washing-up pitcher or wash basin, so I pumped some. The stream had cooled off a lot in the last weeks of August, and the water was cold on my face. I washed quickly, focussing on visible dirt. I brushed my teeth and spat over the porch banister.

Inside the treehouse, I made the lunches: a banana and jam sandwich for Tilley, and a smoked-oyster sandwich for me. I woke Tilley up for breakfast. Time proceeded. At quarter to eight, Tilley and I got our bikes from the shed and bumped across the meadow. Tilley was now riding without training wheels, and she could even ride the plank bridge across the stream. The only thing she needed me to do was push her bike up the plywood ramp to the top of Great-great-aunt Lydia’s stone wall. Tilley coasted down, and together we rode the long path to the world of sidewalks and streets.

Tilley was starting Grade One at Sir Combover Elementary. I brought her to her classroom and left when she showed no signs of freaking out. Back on my bike, I continued past all the big fancy houses toward Windward Middle School. In my head I renewed the wish I’d made when my birthday candles had disappeared around the bend of the stream. The wish had been that the people at Windward would be nice.

I reached the big brick schoolhouse and locked my bike to the stand. Watching the Windward kids arrive, I couldn’t tell if they were nice. All I could tell is that they definitely did not live in treehouses. I watched them getting out of Mercedes and BMWs and Range Rovers. They were well-groomed in the way of those who have hot and cold running water and full-sized mirrors. Over the summer, I had somehow forgotten that this kind of grooming was not only possible but normal. Expected even. These kids were well dressed too. Amazingly so. Every single article of clothing I saw looked like it had been bought at full price within the previous twenty-four hours by a personal shopper carrying out a wardrobe plan. In a flash of contrast, I realized that I was a mess.

I went inside to look for my classroom. The class lists were posted on the bulletin board outside the office. A bunch of kids stood around reading them. “Hey Devo, we’re in the same class, man,” one guy said, punching the shoulder of another guy. I guessed that Devo was
RADCLIFFE, Devon
.
MCGRADY, Rosamund
, was on the same class list.

“Rankle’s class two years in a row,” Devo rolled his eyes. “That really burns.” For a while I watched all the boys talking to this Devo. He barely said anything and he didn’t even look at them, but somehow he got their attention. Devo moved off down the hall and the other guys all moved with him, just like the fish in our stream. I followed them to my classroom and took a seat.

Other kids drifted in and sat down. When the afterclang of the nine o’clock bell was still in the air, Miss Rankle came in. She got all of us to say our names, and then she introduced herself. “My name is
Miss Rankle
,” she said, as if daring us to say that it wasn’t true. She was writing her name in block letters on the blackboard when the classroom door twirled open and a blonde girl twirled in. When Miss Rankle turned to glare, a bunch of other girls waved at the blonde and mouthed ‘Hi’. A couple of them moved books and stuff from the seat they had been saving for her.

“You are late, Kendra,” Miss Rankle said.

“Sorreeeeeeee!”

Miss Rankle started the morning with a lecture on social responsibility. I didn’t really listen to her advice on how not to be a racist and how not to be a vandal. I was watching the jerking hands of the overhead clock bringing me toward my own future. The recess bell rang, sounding a bit hysterical. I pulled myself upright and went to the classroom door.

A bunch of girls were walking downstairs with the late, blonde Kendra. I tailed them. Outside they walked really slowly. Sometimes they stopped altogether, to concentrate on exclaiming or laughing. I caught up to them before I was really ready. I stood almost as close to these girls as they stood to each other. It felt weird to just attach myself to their personal space as if they were a washroom lineup or something. But wasn’t that what I had to do? It was time to just join in.

“So, Kendra, was it just, like, too fun for words?” A girl named Sienna was saying this.

“I wish,” said Kendra. “I just wish acting was, like, one-sixteenth as glamorous as everybody thinks. You have
no
idea. My first day on the set, I’m thinking—this is
brutal
! Like, no wonder they have to pay actresses mega millions.”

“How’s it so brutal?” asked another girl called Twyla.

“Where do I start? Okay, makeup,” Kendra said. “I’m trapped in this chair with people swarming all over me, like, so serious you’d figure they’re doing brain surgery, and every time I blink they’re like—
Don’t move
! And I’m like—
Okay ... will it be all right if I keep breathing
? Then after about five hours this makeup guy calls the director over and he’s like—
Oh my God! That hair! It’s celestial
! He actually used that word—celestial. Weird huh? And I’m like—
It’s my hair, okay, what’s the big deal
?”

“Wow, you were in a movie?” I asked. I know I said it out loud, but no one else seemed to hear.

“And then we start shooting,” Kendra continued, “and it’s like—
More stress on the‘and’
!
Slower on the‘if’
! And blah blah blah blah blah. I mean, the money is great and all, but fun? Uh, no.”

“How much did you get paid?” Twyla asked.

“Mom forbids me to discuss it,” Kendra said. “She says it’s rude to make people jealous. Anyway, she snatched my entire paycheque and stuck it in this fund thingy that I can’t touch ’til I’m nineteen. And I’m like—
Mom, just let me have a thousand to spend now. Just one thousand
. And she’s like—
No way! It’s invested in a mutual fund, leave it alone and you’ll be a wealthy woman someday
.”

“Wow,” said a girl named Nova. “I’d love to be in a movie.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t,” Kendra said.

“What’s it called again?” Twyla asked.

“
Clean Getaway
,” Kendra replied.

“Let’s all go see it,” said Nova.

“It might not get released here,” Kendra said. “Some copyright suing thingy.”

“
Clean Getaway
,” Twyla announced. “Starring Kendra Amelie Madeleine Smith!”

“Hardly,” Kendra said. “I’m barely a co-star. Like, I’m way down there in the credits.”

“Wow,” I said. “How did you get the part?” To make sure I was heard this time, I had raised my voice. More than I meant to. You could say that I shouted.

“Pardon?” said Kendra. Pardon sounds like a polite thing to say, but it was not. She looked surprised and disgusted, as if I’d just tossed her a leaking lunch bag or something.

“I said, wow, how did you get the part?”

“
How did I get the part
. No offence,” said Kendra, “but why are you talking to me?”

Why was I talking to her? Why would anybody talk to her? That is what I was tempted to say, but it was too risky for day one at a brand new school. Instead, I clenched my face into a smile. The smile hurt.

Sienna looked at Kendra, then at me. “Yeah,” Sienna said. “Why are you, like, following us around?”

“Just ...” I said. “Just.” Still smiling, I turned away.

“This is her,” Kendra whispered behind me. She was probably imitating my stupid, phony smile, but I didn’t turn around to see.

My face was hot as I walked away, but I was determined to have a better joining-in experience immediately, as an urgent antidote. A game of Capture the Flag was happening on the hill that sloped down from the school toward the basketball court. The hill was the perfect place for Capture the Flag. It was all landscaped with a million beautiful shrubs, so there were lots of good ambush spots, and lots of places to hide flags. I watched as kids ran between bushes, and ran around bushes, and got tagged, and sat on the ground in invisible jail. Then a guy came streaking out of the rhododendrons, a black hoodie flapping in his hand. He was being chased, but the chaser couldn’t catch him. The first guy ran and ran, then stopped and made victory arms. It was Devo. He had captured the flag, and the game was over.

As they headed to the bottom of the hill to start another game, I followed, prepared to join in. I intended to ask somebody about it. “Can I play,” I would say, but no—that sounded childish. “Can I join you?” would make me sound about forty-five years old. “What team should I be on,” sounded better. I was still examining this phrase for flaws, though, when everybody started running. The game was on. I was about to miss my chance. Should I just pick a team myself? Mom’s voice played in my mind, telling me to just join in. Her voice was sympathetic, but a bit impatient too. So I did just join in. I ran with Devo’s team into enemy territory.

I ran for all I was worth between and around and in and out of bushes. I sort of wanted to get tagged, because I thought I might meet kids in jail. Jail could be a bonding experience. No one tagged me though, so I kept on running. And then I saw the black hoodie, lying in the dust under a bright red bush. The enemy flag. It was a cool hoodie with a heart and crossbone logo and it looked more expensive than any piece of clothing I owned. I bent down and snatched it by the cuff. I had captured the flag: this would be even better than jail for my social advancement.