Leap (19 page)

Mom and Marine were waiting on a grassy slope close to Second Beach. When we zoomed up, they were unpacking bagels, cream cheese, nectarines, and grapes.

“I'm starved!” Paige said.

“Me too!” Dad and Vi chimed in unison.

“Me three,” I said.

“Me Tarzan!” Marine pounded her chest.

“No, you Jane!” Mom said.

Paige smacked her lips. “Let's eat.”

We divvied up the fruit. Mom said, “Is anyone going to vie with me for the last nectarine?”

Vi said, “I'll
vie
with you!” She convulsed with laughter, as if realizing for the first time that her name had a double meaning. She'd missed out on years of silliness, and she laughed long and hard to make up for it. It was contagious: Soon Dad, Paige, and I were clutching our ribs. Rollerblading had made us downright giddy.

Mom said, with mock exasperation, “You four!”

Marine opened her mouth to respond to Mom, and we realized that she, too, had been laughing, but silently, until then. “Eugh,” she sputtered. She laughed even harder.

“Wha-ha-hat?” It sounded like Mom was inhaling laughing gas. She pressed Marine's knee.

Marine said, “
Eu-phor-ia!”

Our bellies shook until they were sore.

“Do you feel outnumbered by all these hysterical women, Will?”

I stared at Mom. She never called Dad by his name. It was always, “your father” or “he.”

Dad was leaning back, hands planted on the grass. Ruddy cheeks made him look healthy. “I don't know.” He sunk his weight into his arms so that his shoulders nearly touched his ears and his chin sunk to his chest. “I sort of feel like one of the girls!”

We dug into the food. Mom sliced the last nectarine in two and passed half of it to Vi. A large bottle of water made the rounds. We'd forgotten drinking glasses and didn't want to trade spit, so we threw back our heads, tipped the bottle upside down, and held it inches above our gaping mouths. Water gushed into throats but also down necks and shirts. We shrieked and giggled some more.

A bit of cream cheese dotted the middle of Marine's cheek. When I caught her eye, I touched the same spot on my own face. She winked and dabbed herself with a napkin. She seemed to fit in with us. Had her family disowned her, like Lance's? Some day, I would ask.

“Thanks for bringing the food, Mom. You too, Marine.” The picnic more than made up for being stranded at the theater the night before.

“Yes!” Vi said. She had just bit into her half of the nectarine and had to slurp to catch the juice. “Thanks, you two. It's delicious.”

Monday, August 30th

Monique suggested that we make sushi and stay up late in honor of my departure. “It's going to be lonely without you,” she said. “It's not so easy making friends in a new city. I've enjoyed your company.”

“Me too,” I said. “You've been a great hostess. But, we don't live far apart. You should come and visit me in Victoria next!”

While we were rolling the sushi, Petra called to say she had found a black backpack in her apartment. I was about to say it wasn't mine when it hit me: Sasha had left her bag at Petra's, and I'd agreed to take it back to Victoria. Petra offered to bring it to Monique's. Ten minutes later, the bag containing the stolen, peacock-green-and-blue dress had joined my innocent luggage by the door of Monique's apartment.

Worrying about the dress made me short with Monique. She asked if I was dreading going home. I finally confessed my dilemma, and we considered our options:

1) Return the dress to the store.

My conscience liked this option best. The dress hadn't been paid for, and it belonged back in the store. But we would physically have to visit the store—one of those high-end Robson Street outlets with the snobby, picture-perfect clerks who make you feel like you just crawled out of a hovel and are infested with body lice even as they flash you a bleached-teeth grin. Worse, I would have to say, “Uh, my friend, uh, took this dress and now I'm returning it.” They would be like, “Oh, your
friend
took it, did she? Excuse me while I call security so they can talk to your
friend
.” Plus, they probably wouldn't take it back; they would make me pay for it. And I don't want to and can't afford it.

2) Slip into the store with the dress in a shopping bag, set it down, and skedaddle.

This seemed like a reasonable alternative, but abandoned packages scare people so much these days that the staff would call the bomb squad, the store would be evacuated, and we would be charged with impersonating terrorists. We crossed off Option 2.

3) Just return the bag to Sasha, no comment.

Pro: I wouldn't atone for Sasha's crime, which really wasn't my responsibility anyway.

Con: I would become an
accessory
by transporting stolen goods.

4) Tell my mom and let her deal with it.

With her adult authority, she could probably get away with returning the dress and saying she suspected her teenaged daughter's disturbed friend had stolen it. The downside: Sasha would get in trouble since Mom would feel obliged to tell Sasha's parents. And what if the store forced her to pay for the dress?

We were stumped. Monique said the easiest thing to do was take the bag to Sasha and just forget about the dress. But every time I thought about delivering the stolen goods, anger flared inside my ribcage, like heartburn. I didn't want to be implicated in what she'd done.

Finally, Monique came up with the idea of depositing the dress in a Salvation Army donation box. Relief washed through me and my mind cleared. Monique knew where to find a box and, though it was 11 p.m., wanted to do it right away. A wind had picked up and the streets were nearly abandoned. Rustling startled me: a rat, or bits of wrapper, or dried leaves, scuttled across the road. A gate slammed shut. Monique said, “Isn't this exciting? I love an adventure.” I huddled into my hoodie and buried my fists in the pockets.

A streetlight towered over the padlocked deposit box. I pulled out the dress and we both gasped at its beauty: now a midnight blue that blended into the night and poured like silky water over my hands. I had definite doubts about whether we were doing the right thing. But Monique said all the donations went to a good cause. So I folded up the dress, replaced it in its paper bag, and gently pushed it into the drop box. It was a bit like mailing a letter: Once the bag slid through the narrow opening in the metal container—the size of a garbage dumpster—it was final. No changing our minds.

The burden was lifted without involving any adults—well, in fact, Monique is an adult, but the more time I spent with her, the more it seemed like twenty-two is just fifteen plus freedom. She said she didn't feel the age gap either.

Tuesday, August 31st

Mom sat, I sprawled, and Paige darted around us on the outside deck of the ferry. We didn't talk much, just watched the islands and basked in the sun. Paige called out when she spotted a seal. I loved being homeward bound in our familiar trio.

Earlier, over a farewell breakfast, Dad teased me about staying out of trouble. “I don't want to be getting any more phone calls from the Victoria police!” I blushed—I'd practically forgotten about that. I suppose that's one reason he made the trip out at the last minute. People accuse delinquent kids of “seeking attention.” Well, apparently it works. Was Sasha so lucky, I wonder? I have to call her soon.

September

Wednesday, September 1st

Got hold of Sasha on her cell. She's just moved into an apartment with her dad. We're meeting up tomorrow so I can give her the backpack. We can't hang out long because tomorrow Mom's taking Paige and me back-to-school shopping.

Thursday, September 2nd

Sasha and I picked a park midway between my house and her new place as our meeting spot. When I arrived on my bike, the park was deserted except for a little girl twisting on the kiddie swing set. She was hanging her head so that her long, straight hair fell in a curtain over her face. Her hair shifted and swayed as she moved on the swing. I was wondering where her guardian was—little kids are never allowed out by themselves like that, at least not around here—when she flipped up her head and looked straight at me. It was Sasha, her legs bent up underneath her. It jolted me, as if she had just snuck up behind me and said, “Boo!” I managed to wave. I pedaled across the bumpy field, set the pack on the grass, and crammed my body into the neighboring swing.

She didn't look at me or the pack. I asked her how she liked her dad's new place and she shrugged. I fingered the swing's chains and waited for her to speak. She sat there in silence.

Finally, I gave her an opening. “You know the dress?” I nudged the bag. She winced. “Monique and I, uh …”

When I hesitated, Sasha jerked her head in alarm. “You
what
?”

“We, uh … got rid of it.” It sounded like we'd dumped a body in the river. I laughed nervously.

Her face relaxed for a second, then she frowned and hung her head. “Good.” She pushed the swing back as far as she could, kicked up her legs, and yanked on the chains. Her back tipped so that she faced the sky. On the return pass, she tucked her legs out of the way and just cleared the ground. She pumped hard till she reached maximum height. The whole set vibrated. But the swing hung so low that the instant she loosened the tuck, her knees scraped the ground. “Oww!” She howled and projected her legs, rocking back and forth in an L-shape until the momentum died down. “Fucking kiddie swing.” She inspected her knees. Dirty abrasions welled with blood.

“You should clean those up.”

She eyed her scrapes: raw red patches and tiny curls of white skin, smudged with dirt.

“Don't they sting?”

She shrugged again. “So what?”

More silence.

Finally, I spilled. “I saw you running down the street that day with a pair of jeans flapping behind you. Then later we heard that your dad came and got you. You got caught, didn't you?”

“So?”

I wasn't expecting that. It took me a second to come up with something else to say. “So … I bet your dad was pissed off.”

She tsked. “He treats me like a fucking criminal!” She spat on the ground and rifled in the pocket of her windbreaker. She pulled out a package of cigarettes and a clear plastic lighter.

I couldn't hold back. “I guess bad habits run in families, huh?”

She flicked the lighter and scowled at me over the flame. “What's it to you?”

I shook my head and waved the smoke away.

She inhaled and exhaled a couple of times. “You really saw me that day?” She sounded kind of proud.

“Yeah. What happened after that?”

The corners of her mouth twitched, and she took another drag. “The store called the cops, and the cops are just crawling through that neighborhood, right? I was running and that caught their attention. If I'd been smarter I would have, like, changed my appearance right away—pulled my hair down out of the ponytail, taken my jacket off, put my sunglasses on—anything so that I didn't match the description they sent out. But at the time all I thought about was running. When I saw the first cop car, I just panicked. I dropped the jeans and took off. If I'd known the neighborhood better, I would have made it for sure. But they must have called another cruiser. I was just coming around a corner when a cop stepped out. He blocked my way and grabbed me in, like, a big bear hug, but he wasn't hugging me, he was busting me. It was all downhill from there.” Sasha had perked up during the story, but now she slumped in the swing again. “I gave them a fake name at first—Daisy Miller popped into my head for some reason—but they somehow knew it was fake.”

“That's the title of a book. My mom has it. Didn't you get roped into watching the video with us one night?”

Sasha smirked. “Yeah, probably. That figures. I totally should have had my alias ready. They convinced me they would find out my real name sooner or later and that it would all go much better for me if I just told them. So I did, and then of course they called Dad. Pigs! They took me back to the park to get the jeans and then back to the store. They made me apologize to those bitchy clerks! I could have slapped them. All of them!” She lifted one leg and slammed her heel into the dirt over and over. Chunks of dry, pale earth scattered and flew. An underlying strip emerged, dark and moist. Ash built up on the end of her cigarette; she seemed to forget to smoke.

“Do you have to go to court, or what?”

She expelled her breath. “No, the store supposedly has a policy where they don't press charges if it's a first-time offense and you're under eighteen. But they make you pay for the shit even if you don't want it. I left the jeans there. They were in perfectly good condition, and there's no way I was going to pay for them. But they made Dad give them his credit card number and now I have to pay him back. It's so fucked up.”

I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. I don't know if Sasha has changed a lot in the past few months, or if I never really knew her as well as I thought.

Pretty soon after that I had to leave. To go
clothes shopping
, how ironic. All afternoon, I noticed
Shoplifters Will be Prosecuted
signs, surveillance cameras, security tags, posters with mug shots. All the people in the “wanted” posters were men. Anytime a girl's photo was taped to a lamppost or a window or stuck on a bulletin board, the heading read:
Missing
.

I suppose I should be glad Sasha's a shoplifter, not a runaway: better to be “Wanted” than “Missing.” After all, she was
trying
to run away when I found her on the ferry that day. Maybe I saved her once. But now what?

Tuesday, September 7th—first day of school

Sasha showed up at school during morning assembly. From our old spot in the bleachers, I saw her slip into the auditorium and take a seat on the floor. She wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, and a choker. During the announcements, she bent forward and picked at her nail polish.

The new principal—a middle-aged transplant from Langford—introduced herself with a pep talk. Otherwise, the assembly echoed a million assemblies past, right down to the way they called out students' names in closing. But unlike the award winners in June, these students had to report to the office. I tensed when I heard
Sasha Varkosky
and found her again in the crowd. She must have been searching for me, too, because our eyes met.

I mouthed, “Wait,” and pointed to myself, then to her.

I jostled my way to where she was leaning against the auditorium wall, her arms crossed. “I'm not going to the fucking office.”

“Nice to see you too.”

She simpered.

“Come on, I'll go with you. They'll find you sooner or later.”

Ms. Pucker-Face from the June ceremony, still second-in-command in the principal's office, was sorting students into lines. Her reading glasses hung around her neck. “Hello, Natalie,” she said. The power of her memory was truly alarming. “Shouldn't you be in class?”

“I'm here with my friend, Sasha.”

“I would think Sasha is quite old enough to look after herself.”

Sasha sucked air through her teeth. “Actually, Nat is the only thing standing between you and a black eye,” she muttered.

“Take it easy.” I touched her elbow. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Ms. Pucker-Face herded us into the line for students whose registrations showed some “irregularity.” We waited our turn. Some kids bit their nails; others stared at the floor. Sasha crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

When we finally reached the desk, the office secretary, a soft-spoken young man, typed in Sasha's name. “The records show that you phoned in an address change last week.”

“So?”

I raised my eyebrows at Sasha. Sure, she was living with her dad, but it wasn't like her to volunteer personal information to the authorities. Besides, their arrangement could change.

She registered my surprise. “What? I want her
out
of my life.”

At Sasha's tone of voice, Ms. P-F drifted over. She hovered beside the young man, raised her eyeglasses, and read the computer screen. “Is there a problem?”

I tried to help. “Sasha's family has two households.”

Ms. P-F spouted the rules: Sasha was entitled to attend Oakridge
only
if she was living
at least
part-time with a parent or guardian in the school district. Nobody from outside the catchment area could be accommodated this year.

“Should we call the parent in the school district?” Judging by the mildness of the secretary's voice, he meant well.

“No!” Sasha shouted.

“Excellent idea,” Ms. P-F said. She must have heard Sasha threatening to give her a black eye. She fixed a vengeful gaze on her and dialed, putting the call on speaker phone. I glanced around at the other students still waiting to have their registration problems sorted out.

“Could we please have some privacy?” I said.

No one paid me any attention.

Sasha's mom picked up on the third ring.

“Mrs. Varkosky, this is Ms. Butterwell from the principal's office at Oakridge High.”

“What do you want?”

Ms. Pucker-Face/Butterwell half-laughed, half-coughed.
Like mother, like daughter
, she must have thought. “Mrs. Varkosky, we're trying to determine the residence of your daughter, Sasha.”

It was Mrs. V's turn to snort. “I haven't laid eyes on her in two weeks. Why? Is she in trouble again?”

“Not exactly.” The principal's assistant bared her teeth at Sasha.

“I can't believe you're doing this,” Sasha said.

“Sasha? Is that you?” Mrs. V.'s voice trembled up from the speaker.

“For God's sake, stop this!” I gestured behind me to the waiting students. Some of them were enjoying the diversion; others looked worried that theirs might be the next family drama to be broadcast. “This is a private matter.”

Ms. Butterwell spoke again. “Mrs. Varkosky, we just need to know. Will Sasha be living at your residence during the coming school year?”

“You'd better ask
her
that. I've told her she's welcome—”

“Welcome? Welcome to be ragged on nightly by a drunk?”

“Sasha.” I whispered and squeezed her arm. “Not here.”

“—but she informs me she's living full-time with her father.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Varkosky. That's all we need to know.” Ms. Butterwell terminated the call before Mrs. V. could reply and turned to Sasha. “I'm referring you to Victoria High.”

“You can't do this!”

“I have to do this. This school is full. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a line of students waiting behind you.”

Sasha scowled and flushed red. I offered to walk home with her.

“No. I'll get a ride.”

She took off before I could say anything more. I checked my timetable and then the hall clock. First period was almost over, so I used the washroom and then snuck outside to wait for the buzzer. In the pick-up and drop-off zone across the field, Sasha approached a car I didn't recognize, yanked open the passenger door, and got in. The mystery car pulled out and sped away.

Wednesday, September 8th

The PE teacher took us outside for the first class. Somehow, it felt cruel. The sunshine made it that much harder to accept being imprisoned in school. Hobbled horses must feel like this: surrounded by green pastures but unable to run free.

Last spring, Sasha and I planned our schedules together. In almost every class this week, I've had to listen to the teacher call her name. The first time, I turned my head to the right where Sasha used to sit. The teacher called her name a second time, louder. When I said, “Sasha doesn't go here anymore,” the pit of my stomach ached. But as much as I miss her, I don't know if I can hang out with her anymore. She's so angry, and I'm worried she'll keep getting into trouble. My stomach aches worse to think of it.

A pair of hands clamped over my eyes from behind.

“Sasha?”