Baygirl

by Heather Smith

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nay, don’t be, lass. If they were still livin’ I wouldn’t see ’em any road.”

  “How come?”

  “Because we stopped talkin’ long, long ago.”

  “Why?”

  “They wanted me to stay and work on the farm.”

  “And you wanted to follow Elspeth to Sheffield?”

  “Aye. I loved the Yorkshire dales—still do. It’s the best place on earth. But sheep farmin’ wasn’t for me. My parents were disappointed that I left the family business. Angry, even. They said, If you go, don’t bother comin’ back. But I went anyway.”

  “Did you ever go back?”

  “Aye, lass, I did. A few years later. I wanted ’em to meet Elspeth. Properly, like. Really get to know her.”

  “Did they like her?”

  Mr. Adams sighed. “I was sure she’d win ’em over. But I was wrong. They were cold to her. They thought she were too grand—too big for her britches, they said. But they didn’t know her like I did. She were a sweet lass. So down to earth. Elspeth and me needed a new start. Her parents didn’t approve of me and my parents didn’t approve of her. So we came to Canada and forgot about everyone else. We made a nice life here. Just the two of us.”

  I thought about my family. I could leave. Make a new start. Wouldn’t bother me.

  “Why do you have pictures of them on your mantel then,” I asked, “if they were so mean to you?”

  “Because at the end of the day, they’re still family. There’s always a bond there, and it’s a hard one to break. I often wondered if we made a mistake by leavin’, if we didn’t try hard enough to make things work. Maybe time would ’ave healed the wounds and her family would ’ave accepted me and mine would ’ave accepted her. Who knows? Any road, it’s all in the past now.”

  As we sat quietly and sipped our tea, I wondered if Mr. Adams was as crazy as he made himself out to be.

  “Why do you sit like that?” he asked.

  “Like what?”

  “All twisted, like, in your chair.”

  I looked down. He was right. I was sitting directly across from him but twisted slightly to the left.

  “Hmm, weird,” I said, straightening up.

  “You sit like that every time,” he said.

  “I do?”

  “Yes, you do. It’s terrible posture, you know. Terrible.”

  Mr. Adams changed the subject and started talking about a book called All Creatures Great and Small, about a vet working on the Yorkshire Dales. He went on and on and on, but I stopped listening. The posture thing was bugging me. And then it dawned on me.

  “It’s because my dad always sat to my right at our kitchen table,” I said.

  “Eh? What are you on about, lass?”

  “My posture. I guess I’ve always sat that way, twisted to the left, so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Because if I looked at him, I counted. You know, one drink, two drinks…five, six. It was like an obsession. I drove myself crazy doing it. So I guess I turned away without even realizing it.” I drank my last drop of tea and shrugged. “Guess it’s just habit now. Weird.”

  Mr. Adams seemed to have become fascinated with picking up biscuit crumbs on the tip of his finger. He did it over and over again—picked up a crumb, put it on his plate, picked up a crumb, put it on his plate. Then he coughed and said, “You sit however you like, flower.”

  He poured me more tea and put six biscuits on my plate. Then he went to the cupboard and pulled a box of chocolates from the highest shelf.

  “My special stash,” he said, opening it up and tossing a handful on top of my biscuit pile.

  “Um, thanks,” I said.

  He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. “We all ’ave troubles, don’t we, love?” he said. “No one is immune.”

  I popped a chocolate in my mouth and nodded. He patted my shoulder once, twice, three times before telling me I was going to get as fat as a hippopotamus if I didn’t stop eating all his chocolates.

  Pelley’s Pharmacy was big and old-fashioned and reminded me of the kind of a store you’d find in Parsons Bay, only with better stuff. There was a small cooler section with essentials like bread, milk and butter; a confection area with loads of chocolate bars, chips and ice cream; a pharmacy section with medicine, shampoos and toiletries; and a giftware department with ornaments, knickknacks, jewelry and greeting cards. Every time I went out walking to let the fresh air blow the stink of cigarette smoke off my clothes, I’d stop in. Not that I had any money to spend there, but Pelley’s was a great place to browse.

  The jewelry counter was my favorite.

  “Whatcha getting?” said a voice behind me as I stared into the glass case.

  I hadn’t talked to him in weeks, not since that second day of school, but it only took me half a second to recognize Elliot’s voice. I could practically feel his breath on the back of my neck. I didn’t turn around.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just browsing.”

  But I knew exactly what I was looking for. My eyes scanned the display, looking for the special item I’d admired on every one of my visits to Pelley’s.

  “See anything you like?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s a bracelet I’ve kinda had my eye on.”

  Elliot moved in even closer. “Which one is it?” he asked.

  I could have described it in detail, because I had it memorized: the way the clasp worked, its seven gems all in a row, the colors of the gems and what order they were set in. Mr. Pelley, who didn’t seem to mind that I spent more time than money in his store, once asked if I wanted to try it on. I said no. What was the point? It was $49.99. The money I’d earned from what little Mr. Adams paid me was for Christmas presents, not gifts for myself. And there was no point asking my parents. With Mom losing her job, $49.99 might as well have been a million dollars.

  “Well?” said Elliot. “Are you going to point it out or what?”

  “I’m looking,” I said. “Hold on. It must be on the other side.”

  The jewelry sat in rows on a device kind of like a Ferris wheel inside the glass case. When you pressed a little black button on top of the counter, the rows spun in a circle. I pushed the button, letting the jewelry that didn’t interest me spin by, passing the cheap rings that turned your fingers green and the earrings that turned your ears red.

  “It’s coming up,” I said as the wheel rotated.

  I had it timed perfectly. I lifted my finger off the old, worn button at just the right moment and it stopped in front of us—the treasure, my bracelet, Genuine Sterling Silver written on a paper tag tied to the clasp.

  “That’s it.”

  “Nice,” he said. “Which stone’s your favorite?”

  “The purple. It’s an amethyst.”

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “What are the other stones?”

  “That’s the only one I know,” I admitted. “And that’s just because back in Parsons Bay, Betty Mahoney had an amethyst necklace and at Nan’s seventieth birthday she came up to me, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, saying, Kit, my duck, come here, I shows ya something.” I mimicked Mrs. Mahoney, pretending to be drunk and pulling an imaginary necklace away from my neck and pushing it into Elliot’s face. “Amethyst,” I continued. “Comes from the Greek word meaning ‘sober.’ You can’t get drunk when you’re wearing this, no matter how much you drink.”

  Elliot laughed at my impersonation.

  “And what did you say?” he asked.

  “I said, Well, Mrs. Mahoney, if you ask me, your necklace is broken.”

  “That’s hysterical.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She was quite the character.”

  Elliot pointed to the bracelet. “Are you going to get it?”

 
I suddenly felt embarrassed. I didn’t want to say I couldn’t afford it.

  “I’m still thinking about,” I lied.

  “Cool. I’m going to get a bag of chips or something. Want anything? My treat.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll have a tin of drink.”

  “A what?”

  “A tin of drink. You know, like a can of Pepsi?”

  Elliot laughed. “Never heard it called that before.”

  “Oh, that’s just what we say at home,” I said, flustered. “It’s pretty dumb, actually.”

  “I think it’s cute.”

  “Really?”

  Elliot smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  He bought two cans of Pepsi, and we went behind the store to drink them. He jumped up onto a closed Dumpster and sat down.

  “Come on,” he said. “Climb up here and sit your bum down. Take a load off.”

  I raised my sling. “How am I supposed to get up there? And besides, it’s dirty and it’s gross.”

  Elliot laughed. “Don’t be such a girl!”

  “I have one arm, Moptop. I can’t climb.”

  He jumped down and clasped his hands together. “Put your foot in here and I’ll give you a boost. When you get up there, lean on your good arm and I’ll push your arse up and over.”

  “You’re not going anywhere near my arse.”

  Elliot made his voice go deadly serious. He looked me in the eye. “Our tins of drink are up there, Ms. Ryan. We have no choice but to continue with this mission.”

  “If I fracture my other arm…”

  “You won’t.” He put his clasped hands down by my leg. “Hop on.”

  He boosted me up, and once my good elbow was on the top of the Dumpster, he pushed me the rest of the way. Before I knew it he was at the top himself, with an arm around my waist and pulling me to sitting.

  “Success!” he beamed.

  “For you,” I said. “Seeing as you got to touch my arse.”

  He laughed and opened my Pepsi. “Cheers.” We clinked the cans together.

  “How did you know my last name was Ryan?”

  He blushed. “Oh, I, um…I…you see…”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I’m waiting.”

  He cringed. “I looked it up on your class list.”

  “How did you get my class list? You don’t even go to my school.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “There was a copy in Amanda’s binder. I knew she’d have one because she worked at registration.”

  Ugh. Amanda.

  “I don’t know what you see in her,” I blurted out.

  “It’s complicated,” he said. “We’re kind of the it couple. There’s pressure.”

  “Pressure,” I said. “Give me a break. No one has a gun to your head. And if you’re so into her, why are you sitting on a Dumpster drinking Pepsi with me?”

  He looked at me directly. “There’s something about you, Kit.”

  My heart was beating like mad. I knew where he was going, and part of me really wanted him to go there. But not with Amanda in the picture.

  He put his hand on my leg. “I’d really like to get to know you better. Maybe we could go out sometime.”

  I picked up his hand and moved it back to his own leg. “Not while you have girlfriend.”

  “I mean as a friend. I’m allowed to have friends, you know.”

  “Really? Amanda actually allows it? Wow, you lucky boy.”

  “You really don’t like her, do you?”

  “She’s mean.”

  “It’s all show. She’s really quite sensitive deep down.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So, what do you say? Do you want to get together sometime?”

  I drank the last of my Pepsi. “I gotta go.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Help me down.”

  Elliot hopped off the Dumpster, then reached up and eased me down, his hands around my waist. He didn’t let go when my feet had safely reached the ground. The rubber tips of our sneakers were kissing.

  “Well?” he said. “Can I see you again?”

  His face was so close to mine, I could smell his breath. It was sweet. I swallowed hard.

  “I think that would be a really bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to go.”

  He took a step backward, giving me room to leave, but when I started to walk away he grabbed my arm. “Kit, wait, what if I—”

  I pulled away. “Bye, Moptop.”

  Not until I’d turned the corner did I let my shoulders slump and my head hang. Then I dragged myself home, wishing Amanda Shea never existed.

  I’d made the right decision, to nip things in the bud with Elliot. Amanda was making my life a living hell; the last thing she needed was more ammunition. Caroline usually had my back, but she wasn’t there every hour of every day. She wasn’t there when Amanda and her friends blocked me from leaving the bathroom to tell me I was a loser who should either move back to Joe Blow’s Hole or kill myself. She wasn’t there when a single word, written in sky-blue ink, appeared on my locker: baygirl.

  The cold October weather was my excuse to avoid the courtyard at lunchtime. Caroline and I would have a quick bite in the cafeteria before she headed off to floor hockey. Then, not wanting to look like a loser sitting alone, I’d hide in the small cloakroom at the back of my homeroom for the rest of lunch. I sat there, surrounded by expensive Nikes and Keds, in a pair of Mom’s old boots. I’d outgrown my own and didn’t feel like asking for new ones.

  Nights were spent in my den, either writing letters to Anne-Marie that never got answered or making my way through the mountain of Sweet Valley High books that Iggy had picked up at a garage sale. The highlight of my week was cleaning day at Mr. Adams.

  Iggy was getting worried. Our Wednesday nights out were full of questions. How’s school? Do you have any friends? What about this Caroline? Why don’t you invite her over? Is there anything you’d like to talk about? But I’d just say everything was fine. Iggy had enough problems.

  He wouldn’t give up though. He didn’t know why I was unhappy, but he did everything in his power to cheer me up. When he saw that my winter coat was an ugly old army-green parka, he took me out to choose a new one. When he saw me trying, and failing, to put a decent school lunch together from the meager offerings in the fridge, he stocked up on healthy food. He even started getting up early to make my lunch—a thermos of soup or a sandwich with all the fixings. The best thing of all, though, was when he passed me the phone one evening. “Call your Nan,” he said. “Don’t worry about the charges. Talk as long as you like.”

  We were on the phone for two and a half hours. I lied and said St. John’s was great. Then I changed the subject and asked about Parsons Bay. Nan told me she’d just finished harvesting all her vegetables and was putting the garden to bed. She said she’d hired a couple of young boys to help, seeing as how they had lost their part-time jobs when the fish plant shut down. She said it was quiet in Parsons Bay. She’d missed the putt-putt of the boats all summer, and the empty wharves made her sad. Then she told me the weirdest news of all. Ms. Bartlett had gotten married…to Fisty Hinks. Well, she didn’t say Fisty—she used his real name, Frank. I could hardly believe it. Nan didn’t know the details. She just said they were in love. I couldn’t picture it, but if Ms. Bartlett was happy, I was happy too.

  Before we hung up Nan gave me her Christmas pudding recipe. “Your father’s favorite,” she said. “Practice now so you’ll have it down by December. It’ll mean the world to him.”

  I told Nan I loved her and said goodbye. Then I crumpled up the recipe and threw it in the garbage.

  When Mr. Byrne announced that our class would be having a public-speaking co
ntest, the whole class was buzzing with topic ideas. Caroline suggested Amanda write a speech called “My Life as the School Bitch” and Amanda suggested Caroline write one called “My Life as a Grungy Loser Tomboy.” I had loads of topics to choose from too; I just didn’t share them with the class. The titles included:

  • “Shopping at Bartlett’s—My Personal Agony”

  • “My Father, The Idiot”

  • “Living in A Dead Person’s Room”

  • “How Foreign Overfishing Ruined My Life”

  and, simply,

  • “Why My Life Sucks.”

  It was hard to choose. But that night, a topic came quickly. Because for the first time in my life, my father hit my mother. Mom and I were watching Dirty Dancing when Dad came home early from the pub.

  “They cut me off,” he said, falling into his recliner. “Said I’d had enough. The bastards.”

  I pretended he was invisible and turned up the volume.

  “What’s this crap?” he asked.

  “A movie,” I said, my eyes glued to the screen.

  “What movie?”

  Mom answered because she knew I wouldn’t. “Dirty Dancing.”

  “Dirty Dancing?” said my father. “Sounds like a load of filthy porn.”

  Mom and I couldn’t help it—we looked at each other and smirked.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Dad.

  “Nothing,” I muttered.

  “We were just laughing at the movie, Phonse,” said Mom.

  He wasn’t buying it. “You were laughing at me, weren’t you?”

  “Don’t be so paranoid,” I said.

  We turned our attention back to the movie, but I could feel him staring at us, full of suspicion.

  Then he leapt out of his chair and snatched the remote.

  “Couple of bitches,” he yelled.

  I felt sick to my stomach.

  “You watch whatever you like,” Mom said, her voice shaky.

  My father settled into his chair. “I certainly will,” he said. “I don’t need your friggin’ permission.”

  He put on wrestling. Mom and I didn’t budge. Half an hour later he passed out in his chair. “Mom, he’s asleep,” I whispered. “Put the movie back on.”