“Even the butterfly?” Mason asks. “I can’t do the butterfly. To be honest, I’m not the greatest swimmer.”
“The butterfly’s not that hard,” Nathaniel tells him, “once you get the kick.”
We are wearing our bathing suits under our regular clothes, so it doesn’t take long to change. I can smell the chlorine—even from inside the change room.
“I was hoping they’d have a saltwater pool,” Stacey says. “In its artificial form, chlorine depletes the ozone layer and contributes to global warming. I’m going to start a list of things the university could do to green this campus.”
Stacey and I are barefoot. Muriel’s flip-flops slap against the tile deck. The counselors are waiting outside the locker rooms. Lloyd has a whistle hanging from a rope around his neck. Samantha is carrying a clipboard. How did she tuck all that hair into a bathing cap?
Of course, Mason is the last one out. He is humming the way he sometimes does when he gets nervous. His Batman towel is wrapped loosely around his waist.
Lloyd squats down in front of us like he’s a football coach and we’re his team. “I bet you’ve heard that applicants to police academy have to be in top physical form. Well, the same goes for forensic scientists. That’s why exercise is an important part of this camp. Swimming is great for all-around conditioning. I don’t tell this to a lot of people,”—Lloyd lowers his voice like he is letting us in on a state secret—“but I used to be well…chubby. Okay, more than chubby. Swimming helped me slim down and get strong.”
Nathaniel nudges Mason. “Hey dude, maybe a little swimming’ll do the trick for you too.”
Mason blushes. Not just his face, but even his chest gets a little red.
Why does Nathaniel have to be such a jerk? I shoot him a look and mouth the words Shut up. I do not want Mason to know I’m standing up for him.
Nathaniel shrugs. Still, I think he got the message. Just in case, I narrow my eyes at him.
Nathaniel gives Mason another nudge. “I was just kidding,” he says.
Lloyd has not intervened. Probably because he wants to let us sort things out ourselves. Work as a team. “All right then,” Lloyd says, clapping his hands. “This afternoon, we’ll review some basics, then you’re going to do some laps so Samantha and I can assess your fitness levels.”
Nathaniel does a perfect racing dive into the deep end. Talk about showing off! The rest of us jump in. The water feels so fresh and cool that Muriel and I scream with pleasure. Mason is the last one in.
Lloyd and Samantha wave us over to the side. “We’ll start with a simple exercise. I want you each to take a deep breath”—Lloyd demonstrates by resting his hands on his belly as he inhales—“and now hold your breath and cross your legs. Watch what happens next.”
Because I’m expecting to sink, I scrunch up my eyes and pinch my nose. Except I don’t sink. I’m not even treading, just holding my breath and keeping my legs crossed the way Lloyd told us to. The others are not sinking either. Only Stacey is struggling. For a moment, all I see is the top of her head. Then even that disappears under the water until she comes up again, sputtering and shaking her head like a wet dog.
Lloyd squats down on the pool ledge. “Ninety-five percent of people are buoyant.” He looks over at Stacey. “Unfortunately,” he tells her, “it looks like you’re in the other five percent. What this exercise proves—for the rest of you anyhow—is you don’t have to work that hard to stay afloat. Why don’t you try treading now—slow and easy so you conserve energy.”
Nathaniel and Nico are starting to puff. Next to them, Mason is breathing comfortably. He is doing just what Lloyd said—treading water slow and easy.
“Most people don’t realize this,” Lloyd says, “but when you’re in water, a little extra weight can actually be an advantage. It makes you more buoyant. Skinny, muscular kids? They’re the first to sink.”
After we’ve treaded for five minutes, Lloyd asks us each to take a lane and demonstrate our front crawl. Samantha walks the length of the pool, jotting notes on her clipboard. I wonder what they are going to do with all the info, but I still try my best to beat Muriel and Nico.
Afterward, Lloyd and Samantha have comments for everyone, even Nathaniel. Lloyd tells Muriel and me that we should not be scooping water with our hands. “Your hands should be sliding through the water—palms flat and turned sideways.”
“You’re lifting your head every time you breathe,” Samantha tells Mason. “That creates unnecessary drag. Once we get that fixed, you’ll pick up speed.”
We get the last fifteen minutes to practice or just fool around in the water. Lloyd throws a striped beach ball into the pool, and the boys toss it around.
Stacey treads water. Muriel and I go to the shallow end to practice moving our hands through the water without cupping them.
When camp is over at four o’clock and Mason and I are on our way home, we notice that Nathaniel is headed in our direction. It turns out he lives in the same neighborhood we do, and so the three of us walk home together.
“How come we never saw you around before?” I ask Nathaniel.
“We only moved here two years ago. After Grandpa got sick, we needed a bigger place—so my grandparents could move in with us.”
“Does your grandmother still live with you?” Mason asks.
“Yup—and now he does too.” He must be his grandma’s fiancé.
I’d like to know more, but Mason changes the subject. “What school do you go to?”
“Trudeau Academy,” Nathaniel answers. Trudeau Academy is a private all-boys school with a reputation for being super strict.
“I guess that explains why we never met before,” Mason says. “I’m glad your parents signed you up for forensics camp.”
Nathaniel whacks Mason with his backpack. “I’m glad you’re glad.” To my surprise, there is nothing sarcastic in Nathaniel’s tone.
Unfortunately, the sidewalk is not very wide, and I end up having to walk behind the two of them. They are talking about the Unabomber and the butterfly stroke.
“I’m not bad at the butterfly,” I say, but they don’t hear me over the sound of the rush-hour traffic. When I turn to look into the street, I see a row of cars and two city buses full of passengers. No one is paying any attention to a small gray hatchback stalled at the side of the road. Right now I feel a little like that hatchback.
That is the moment when I realize that after thirteen years of being stuck with Mason, he is finally making a new friend—just like I told him he should. So why do I feel like an abandoned vehicle? And how come I’m not happy for Mason?
We come to Nathaniel’s house first. It is brick with a copper roof that has turned green. A pink rosebush in full bloom climbs the front railing. An elegant-looking woman with shoulder-length gray hair stands in the front window. She is holding a small dog who is wagging his tail. When the woman waves at us, the dog jumps out of her arms, and I can see the woman laugh. She laughs with her whole face—her eyes, her cheeks, not just her mouth.
“Is that your grandmother?” I ask Nathaniel.
“Yup, that’s her. At least he’s not there too.”
“Is that your dog?” Mason asks.
“Actually, it’s my grandpa’s—” Nathaniel stops himself. “I mean, my grandma’s dog. Willy’s a Pomeranian. He used to dance a circle around my grandpa every day when he got back from work. And after Grandpa got sick, Willy hardly ever left his side.” Nathaniel’s voice softens; he doesn’t sound as if he is trying to be a big shot when he remembers his grandpa.
An older man with a bald head and wire glasses comes to join Nathaniel’s grandmother in the window. He looks okay to me.
“That’s him.”
There is nothing soft about the way Nathaniel says it.
&nb
sp; ELEVEN
That night, as I am putting away the cutlery in the cutlery drawer and Dad is inspecting the floor for crumbs, Mom says, “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to do another hour or so of paperwork.”
Dad strokes her arm. “No problem.”
“Working is good for her,” I say to Dad when Mom leaves the room. It seems like an obvious observation, but somehow I never thought of it before. “It’s the relaxing she has trouble with.”
Dad sighs. “I think it’s when she’s relaxing—or trying to relax—that the anxious thoughts come back. That’s why I’m hoping the meditation will help. Are you sure you don’t want to try it with us, Tab?”
“I’ve already got my own way to relax.”
Dad drops the crumbs he has scooped up into the garbage. He points a finger at me. “Let me guess. It has something to do with reading up about forensics, right?”
I high-five Dad. “You know what? For a numbers guy, you’re pretty smart about people.”
Dad grins. Then he grabs a dishcloth from the counter. He has noticed a smudge on the refrigerator door. “Sometimes I wonder…” Dad leaves the words dangling in midair.
“What do you wonder sometimes?” I prompt him.
“Nah, nothing,” he says, wiping away the smudge.
Now I’m curious. “C’mon, Dad, tell me.”
He folds the dishcloth into two and hangs it over the faucet. “Well, sometimes I wonder how much you remember about the break-and-enter. I know you didn’t see anything. But maybe it had more of an effect on you than we realized.” His voice is quieter than usual. Probably because he does not want Mom to overhear us. Or he’s worried about upsetting me.
“All I remember are bits and pieces,” I tell him. Without planning to, I have lowered my voice too. “How I went upstairs to color. It’s weird, but I even remember the smell of the crayons. When I heard noises from downstairs, I thought Mom had turned on the TV, though I remember thinking she didn’t usually like noisy shows. I covered my ears when the noises got louder. Then nothing else until the policeman came to get me…” Only now, something else is coming back to me. Something I never remembered before. Another smell. Something sour. Pee. Why pee? “Dad…did I pee myself during the break-in?”
“Uh-huh,” Dad says gently. “The police officer found you standing in a puddle of pee—with your hands over your ears.”
“How come we never talk about it?” I ask.
“Your mom and I always thought you’d talk about it if you wanted to. We didn’t want to push you. And to be honest, your mom was such a mess after the whole thing happened, well, the focus was mostly on her. You seemed to be able to move right past it.”
Dad strokes my cheek. I don’t even realize I am crying until he wipes the tears away. “I’m so sorry we didn’t handle it better…”
“It’s okay, Dad.” When I reach to touch his cheek, I realize it’s damp too.
We don’t say anything else as we put away the dishes and shut off the kitchen lights, but it’s a good kind of quiet.
Afterward I go to the den to read the Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science. I could read in my room, but I’m not in the mood to be alone right now, and I figure Dad will probably end up in the den too. Besides, I feel like hanging out with him some more—even if we don’t end up talking.
The den still smells like incense, but there is no sign of the candle. I am reading about methods for detecting poison in corpses when Dad comes in with his laptop. “Tab, I was hoping you’d want to help me to do some research”—his voice is flat, so I am not expecting much, until he adds—“about where a person might buy a German shepherd. I hear they make excellent guard dogs.”
“Dad!” I pop up from the couch. When the Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science, my favorite book in all the world, falls to the carpet, I leave it lying there. I throw my arms around my dad and then we sit on the couch next to each other.
“I promise I’ll clean up every single strand of dog hair,” I tell Dad. “And every pile of poop.”
Dad strokes my elbow. “You know, Tabitha, over the years your mom’s talked about getting a dog or a cat. She thought that after everything you’d been through, and since you were an only child, a pet would be good for you. I’m the one who always said no, mostly because I didn’t want to deal with the mess. Maybe it’s time I loosened up a little.”
“Let me guess,” I tell him. “You figured that out when you were meditating.”
I can tell Dad is trying not to smile. “Maybe.”
Dad’s laptop is open, and I can see he has googled German shepherds + breeders + Montreal area. I am almost too excited to think straight!
“It looks like most of the breeders are outside of the city,” Dad says as he scans the screen. “We might be able to go on the weekend.”
“What about this one?” I point to a listing that says Kijiji—amazing deals on purebred dogs of all kinds, Montreal.
A lot of people use Kijiji, a free online classified-ads service. Maybe the purebreds the site is advertising include German shepherds.
Dad moves the cursor so it hovers over the listing, but he doesn’t click on it. “I don’t like the idea of buying a dog on Kijiji,” he says. “Winter tires or a washing machine maybe. But not a dog. I’m more comfortable dealing with a breeder. Even if it ends up costing more.”
Dad scrolls down the page.
“Hey, what about that one?” I say. I’ve spotted a listing for German shepherd puppies. “Can you imagine how cute a German shepherd puppy would be?”
“Cute, yes, but I don’t think a puppy is the way to go,” Dad says. “For one thing, puppies are a ton of work. We’d have to paper-train him—”
“Or her.”
“Or her. I think I’m ready to deal with dog hair. But poop and pee in the house? I’d need to meditate a lot more before I could handle that. Besides, if we really want to go ahead and train him—or her—to be a guard dog, that’d be even more work, not to mention time.”
I have an idea. “What if we search for an already-trained German shepherd guard dog and see what happens? It’s worth a try.”
Because Dad knows I am even faster on the keyboard than he is, he passes the laptop over to me.
The first listing is for what someone is calling a senior German shepherd. Apparently the dog has a great personality, but he is having some trouble with his hind legs.
Dad clicks on the dog’s picture. “Poor fellow,” he says. “But I guess full range of movement is a must for a guard dog.”
There’s another listing for a German shepherd guard dog that someone wants to give away for free. Only this one isn’t good around kids. “I bet that’s code for he bites,” Dad says.
“Can you imagine Mom around a dog who bites? She’d have a heart attack every time he opened his mouth.”
Dad is already reading the next listing. “Hey, have a look at this one,” he says
I am already having a look. Montreal dog trainer looking to sell recently retired guard dog. Price is negotiable. What matters most is finding the right home. I click on the link for more details. It takes us to the dog trainer’s website. He specializes in training guard dogs. He has a seven-year-old German shepherd who recently retired from the guard-dog business but is in good shape. “We need to make sure he’s still capable of guarding a house,” Dad says. “And that he’s healthy…and only bites bad guys, not kids.”
“Seven is forty-nine in dog years,” I tell Dad. “That isn’t old.”
Dad chuckles—he is forty-nine too.
I click on the Contact me bar, and together Dad and I compose a message. We are interested in the guard dog you have for sale. Is he still in good enough shape to guard a house? If so, we’re wondering if we could meet him.
&nb
sp; I hit Send.
“You never know,” Dad is saying when the computer pings a few minutes later.
Roxie is in excellent shape and would make a fine family guard dog. I really wish I could keep her, but my place isn’t big, and I’ve already got two dogs. What matters most to me is that she goes to the right home. You can meet Roxie pretty much any time. Let me know when would work for you. I’m on Sherbrooke Street West.
Sherbrooke Street West? That’s not far from where we live. Dad must be thinking the same thing. I catch him checking the time at the top of the computer screen—4:45 PM. “Why don’t we write back and ask if we can go meet Roxie now?” he says.
After we set things up with the trainer—his name is Larry—Dad calls out to Mom, “Lila, Tabitha and I are going to go for a little drive. D’you want us to pick up anything while we’re out?”
“No, but thanks for asking,” Mom calls back. She must still be hard at work. Otherwise, she’d come to the door to say goodbye. Just as we are in the hallway putting on our shoes, she calls, “Don’t forget to reset the alarm when you go!”
The barking starts before Dad and I are out of the car. When Larry comes to the door, there are three German shepherds at his heels. One of them is muzzled and making a low growl. I hope that isn’t Roxie.
“Everything’s good,” Larry says, and as if on cue, the dogs settle down, even the one wearing the muzzle. I wonder if the dogs have been trained to respond to the words Everything’s good.
Another dog is wagging his—or is it her?—tail. The dog has one ear that sticks up and another that flops over. I hope that’s Roxie.
“Come right in.” I can feel Larry studying us. We are here to see if we like Roxie, but now I realize Larry is deciding whether he likes us.
“I’m Rob Letour,” my dad says. “And this is my daughter, Tabitha. If you don’t mind my asking, why is that dog muzzled?”
Forensics Squad Unleashed Page 6