Reaction

by Lesley Choyce

  Colin says, “Oh, no. Ria…” I feel the air go out of him.

  This isn’t fair. I shouldn’t make him miserable just because I am. That’s the type of thing my mother would do.

  What am I saying? That’s the type of thing my mother did do.

  This whole thing is all about her. Her life, her happiness, her whatever.

  It’s as if one morning she just decided she didn’t want to be married anymore, and that was that. No explanation. No apology. No nothing.

  Next thing we knew, she’d kicked Dad out. She’d fired the housekeeper, cut up our credit cards, took a pathetic little job at an office somewhere and jammed the freezer full of these Styrofoam disks that she insists on calling pizza.

  I don’t get it. If we’re suddenly so poor, why won’t she cash the checks Dad keeps leaving for her? He’s a big stockbroker. He’s got tons of money. He doesn’t mind giving it to us. He wants to.

  Mom’s trying to embarrass him. That’s what she’s doing. She knows it’s going to look bad for him to be wining and dining his clients at the best restaurants in town when his own kids can’t even “afford” take-out pizza anymore.

  I’m sure I sound mad and childish and spoiled—and I probably am—but I can’t help it. When this whole thing started, I tried to be supportive. I choked down the frozen pizza. I didn’t complain when Mom canceled our trip to Italy. I looked after my little brother Elliot. I even attempted to be sympathetic.

  I mean, I’m not totally blind. I can see Dad isn’t the easiest guy to be married to. He’s away on business too much. He’s involved in too many organizations. He’s got too many friends, clients, acquaintances, whatever—and they all want to go golfing with him. I can understand how that would get to Mom.

  I figured she just needed a break. After a couple of weeks—and maybe jewelry and a romantic dinner somewhere— she’d remember the good things about Dad, and then we could all just go back to being a family again. That’s what I thought.

  At least until this morning, when I found out Mom went and sold our house. Now, on top of everything, she’s making us move into some gross little condo, miles from all our friends and our schools and—oh, yeah, what a coincidence—our father.

  I can’t be sympathetic anymore. This is her midlife crisis. We shouldn’t all have to suffer from it.

  I’m not going to be like that.

  I open my eyes and smile at Colin. “I’m fine,” I say. “My contacts were just bothering me.”

  There’s no way Colin believes that, but by this point, he’s probably had enough of my honesty. He kisses me on the forehead and then starts manhandling me toward the cafeteria. I laugh as if it’s all fun and games, but I’m not sure how long I can keep up the act. The thought of having to do my Miss Congeniality thing for the entire lunch-eating population of Citadel High exhausts me.

  My phone rings just as we get to the burger lineup. Ms. Meade glares at me and says, “Cell phones. Outside.” Normally, I think that rule’s totally unfair, but today it strikes me as proof that God just might exist after all. I mumble “Sorry” and slip out the side door onto the parking lot. I can see Colin is torn between keeping an eye on me and placing his order, but he follows me out anyway.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone.

  “Hello, Princess.”

  “Dad!” I smile for real. I can’t remember the last time I did that. “Where are you?”

  “Guess.”

  I don’t have to. Colin has already spotted him and is dogging it across the parking lot toward the biggest, shiniest old convertible I’ve ever seen. It’s turquoise and white and has these giant Batmobile fins on the back. Dad’s leaning up against it. He’s got his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one shoulder as if he’s auditioning for Mad Men.

  I have to laugh. “Where did you get that thing?”

  “Thing?! I’ll have you know this vehicle once belonged to Elvis Presley.”

  “Dad.”

  “Seriously! And Elvis always had a gorgeous redhead in the passenger seat. So hurry up, darlin’. The King’s waiting.”

  By this time, a kid I recognize from my English class has wandered over to check out the car too. Dad gives us the guided tour—the whitewall tires, the original upholstery, the engine, even the ashtrays. I don’t know anything about cars, but I can see it’s impressing the hell out of the two boys.

  Dad basks in the glory for a while, then tosses Colin the keys. “Okay, big guy, let’s blow this pop stand.”

  Colin looks at the keys, looks back at Dad, then yelps like a cowboy. He jumps into the driver’s seat.

  The other kid starts walking away, but Dad goes, “Whoa. Stop. You too. Get in.”

  The kid kind of laughs and says, “No. Thanks. That’s okay.” He tries to slink away, but Dad’s not taking no for an answer.

  “Life’s too short to miss riding in a gen-u-ine mint-condition 1962 LeSabre ragtop.” Dad points at the car as if he’s sending the kid to the principal’s office. “Now hop in, boy! I mean it.”

  The kid looks at me for help. I shake my head. What can I do? When my father wants something, he gets it.

  You can tell the kid’s worried there’s a hidden camera somewhere, but he shrugs and climbs in the backseat with Dad anyway. I slide in beside Colin. We take off with a screech.

  Dad doesn’t tell Colin to slow down and doesn’t freak out when he comes a tad too close to a parked car. He just reaches over the front seat and cranks up the radio. The wind whips my hair over my mouth and eyes. Colin’s hat flies off. People on the sidewalk turn to watch us. We’re all hooting and laughing. It’s so perfect. It’s almost like we’re in a commercial.

  This whole thing is Classic Dad. The surprise visit at the exact right time. The amazing car that may or may not have belonged to Elvis Presley. Letting Colin drive. Dragging a stranger along. Turning an ordinary Friday lunch period into something pretty close to a “life moment.”

  So maybe it’s a bit on the flashy side. What’s wrong with that? Dad’s right. Life is too short not to enjoy it. I’m only seventeen, and I get that. Why doesn’t Mom?

  I turn around and look at Dad. He’s making Tim or Tom—I don’t remember the guy’s name—sing the doo-wop part of some old rock-and-roll song. The fact that neither of them knows the tune doesn’t bother him at all. They’re hollering at the top of their lungs like two kids at a campfire.

  It’s right then that I realize something.

  I know how I can fix this thing.

  I suddenly know how we can all be happy again.

  Orca Soundings

  The following is an excerpt from

  another exciting Orca Soundings novel,

  Rock Star by Adrian Chamberlain.

  978-1-55469-235-4 $9.95 pb

  978-1-55469-236-1 $16.95 lib

  STRUGGLING AT HOME AND AT SCHOOL,

  Duncan decides to try out for a local rock band. He plays the bass guitar in the school orchestra, but it is a long way from band camp to rock star. Joining a heavy-metal band, he tries to fit in, dumping his old friends and trying to walk the walk. When his dad’s new girlfriend starts to teach him about real rock music and introduces him to her musician brother, Duncan discovers that there is more to being a guitar hero than playing in a heavy-metal band.

  Chapter One

  After school I walk up the front steps of our house and head straight for the kitchen. I’m starving. There’s a peanut butter jar on the counter. But sure enough, someone’s used it all up. Empty. That puts me in a bad mood.

  There’s almost nothing in the fridge. Some stuff that looks like dog food in a Tupperware container. Milk. Old celery. I grab the celery and take a bite. Ugh. All wilty and squishy. So I bend over and gob it into the garbage bin. This is disgusting and weirdly satisfying at the same time.

  I’m still bent over the garbage when Dad calls me into the living room. “Duncan!” he yells. “Duncan!”

  You’d think I was twelve or some-thing, not fifteen.
I’m in grade ten.

  School’s not my favorite thing, to tell you the truth. Mostly it’s boring. Some days I even hate it.

  But one thing I do like is the school band. I play bass guitar. Sure, the songs are pretty lame. What do you expect from a big orchestra, with clarinets and French horns and all that stuff? But playing bass guitar is pretty cool.

  It’s just me and Dad now. I don’t have brothers and sisters or anything. Mom died two years ago. She had cancer. It was quick. One day she sat down with me to tell me. She’d been sick for a while, and the doctors thought it was something else at first. I forget what. But then they figured out it was cancer. Six weeks later, she was dead.

  “Duncan McCann! Can you come in here for a second?”

  I stop gagging and stand there, motionless, like a video on pause. I thought the house was empty. Something in Dad’s voice sounds different. I remain still. I’ve got a pretty good imagination. If I pretend something, I can even forget what I was doing before. Five seconds go by. Then I walk into the living room. There’s this blond lady sitting on the couch with Dad. Weird. Unbelievable. And Dad looks kind of nervous or something. Even though he’s smiling.

  “Duncan, I’d like to introduce you to Terry. She’s a friend of mine,” says Dad.

  “Hey, Duncan,” the lady says. She’s smiling. She’s taller than Mom was. And sort of all-right-looking for an older lady. Dad’s fifty. And Terry’s probably forty or something. She’s wearing a leather jacket. Mom would never have worn a leather jacket. Not in a million years.

  “Hi,” I say. I’m still holding my backpack. I drop it on the wood floor. It weighs a ton and makes a loud noise, like a kick drum.

  “Yes. So anyway, Duncan. You’ll be seeing a bit of Terry around the house. I mean, we’re…well, seeing each other. She and I.”

  I was getting it now. Dad has a girlfriend. This lady. She smiles and holds out her hand.

  “Okay,” I say, shaking her hand. Then I pick up my pack and run upstairs to my room. I slam the door. I fall on my bed, face into my pillow, which sort of smells like corn chips. I’m not crying. I mean, I’m fifteen years old now. I’m not crying, but I feel like it.

  After a while, I turn over. My face is still hot, but I feel better. I look around and—this may sound dumb—but I pretend I’m all alone on a desert island. Like I’m washed up on the beach, waking up with the tropical sun beating on my back. Then I look up. The walls of my room are mostly covered with posters of bands. I’m crazy about music. There’s one of Death Cab for Cutie. An old Beastie Boys poster.

  There’s also a painting on the wall that my mom made. It’s of a cabin by Shawnigan Lake. We once rented it for two weeks one summer. I was ten. That was my best summer. We swam in the lake almost every day. When I dived down, I could see green shafts of sunlight underwater. After swimming, me and my friend Jason would go to the corner store to buy candy. We walked in the dirt beside the road. Brown powdery dust squished up between my toes. Sounds dumb now, but back then I thought that was the greatest.

  I’ve got Mom’s beat-up old record player on my desk. I’ve got all her records too. She liked the Beatles a lot. I put on her favorite song. It’s called “Here, There and Everywhere.” It’s a sappy ballad, but I like it. I think about Dad and this Terry lady, then about Mom. And then—I’m embarrassed to admit it—I start crying. For real. Blubbering all over the place. What a loser.

  My cell phone buzzes. It’s Jason’s number. I don’t answer. I don’t feel like talking. Instead, I go back to pretending I’m on that desert island. I’m facedown on the bed, pretending my ship has gone down. It’s late morning, and the sun’s killing my back. Pretty soon I’ve gotta get up and build my shelter. Maybe find some food. Like turtle eggs. I read once how some guy on a desert island had to eat turtle eggs. Would that be like chicken eggs? Probably not.

  I roll over, kind of slip-sliding off my bed onto the floor. Then I get my bass guitar out of the closet. Put the record-player needle back to the beginning of “Here, There and Everywhere” and start to play along. It sounds all right. I got my bass about a year ago. Actually, Dad bought it for me. But for a long time I didn’t feel like learning to play it. I was pretty depressed. I even had to go to a psychiatrist for a while. Dad was worried about me because I got real sad after Mom died. For a while, I didn’t want to get out of bed. Maybe for, like, two weeks. After that, Dad made me go to that stupid shrink.

  After “Here, There and Everywhere,” I try to play along with some other songs on the Beatles record. But it doesn’t sound as good. Then I hear Dad yelling from downstairs for me to set the table. That’s one of my jobs. Also, I clean one of the bathrooms every weekend, take out the garbage and sometimes help Dad make dinner.

  Terry has gone home, so it’s just me and Dad at dinner.

  “Duncan,” he says, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Did you know Terry is a bank teller?”

  “Nope,” I say.

  “Yes. She’s quite an interesting lady. We were, you know, talking about films. Movies. And her favorites are…let me remember. Oh yes. When Harry Met Sally. And that other one, you know, about that large ship that hits an iceberg.”

  “Titanic,” I say. I cram some peas into my mouth. How can Dad not know that?

  He goes on to tell me that Terry lives in Esquimalt, which is part of Victoria, where we live. I don’t ask Dad one thing about Terry. I’m kind of mad or confused or something, which is actually how I feel a lot of the time. It’s like my emotions boil up and it’s hard to control them. Weird, I know.

  I help do the dishes after supper. Dad talks a lot about some guys at his work, and who said what to who and what so-and-so thought about so-and-so. It sounds mean, but I wish he’d shut up, because it’s incredibly boring. But I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I just dry the dishes and say nothing.

  I go back up to my room, leaving Dad to watch some dumb tv show. Something about monkeys. Dad is crazy about nature shows. If there’s a monkey or a giraffe or a lion or a koala bear on tv, he has to watch it. I like action movies—like James Bond movies or Collateral—or shows about police detectives trying to solve old murders. Cold cases, they’re called. I like it best when they dig up an old skull or hold up the rusty, crappy old hammer some maniac used to kill some poor guy, or when they look at a bloodstained pillowcase under a microscope. I guess that’s sort of weird. But I make no apologies.

  I put the Beatles record back on and play along to “Here, There and Everywhere” again. Then I get under my covers, not even taking my clothes off. I shut my eyes, sniff my smelly old corn-chip pillow and pretend I’m on that desert island again, thinking about those turtle eggs. They’d be all mushy inside, right? But, hey, you gotta eat to survive.

  After a while my thoughts get all confused. You know how it is just before you fall asleep, and your mind starts to go into free fall, where anything goes? From the desert island I go back to that summer at Shawnigan Lake, swimming in the green water with sunlight shafting into the deeper brown-black water. Some big dark fish are down below— it’s scary for some reason. And then I’m dreaming…dreaming that I’m sinking deeper and deeper, and that I can still see the sunlight. But it’s far, far above. And then I’m asleep.