by Jill MacLean
I pour the last bucket down the sink. It’s 10:04. Lorne got off work at nine, so he must be with Sally. Quickly I run to my bedroom to change my clothes, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt in case Mel left marks on my arms.
When Seal comes in the door, shucking off the black shoes with arch support that he wears to work, I’m in the kitchen, making myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich because there isn’t any jam. “Hi,” I say, natural as can be. “Want something to eat?”
He rubs his chin. He looks tired. “Yeah…tea and raisin toast?”
He disappears into the bathroom. I use Red Rose tea, two bags because he likes it strong, and toast the bread just the way he likes it, not a trace of burnt. He comes back in, wearing a clean t-shirt. “What happened to the soap dish?”
“I broke it. Knocked it to the floor by accident.”
“Too bad,” he says and eases into the chair.
I pass him the milk. There’s something about his blue eyes—I hate lying to him. “Seal, I found out today that Tate stole my front door key and made a copy of it. Can you buy a new lock tomorrow?”
“She did? Why?”
“Wants to keep me on edge, I guess.”
“Stealing our house key—that’s a matter for the cops.”
“No sense bringing the cops in! A new lock, that’s all we need.”
He stares at me. “You look wiped. She giving you grief?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“If she’s pushing you around, you tell me, and I’ll go straight to the principal.”
He doesn’t look nearly as tired as he did two minutes ago. I manage—just—to keep my voice steady. “No, it’s okay.”
“I’m on the late shift again tomorrow,” he says, calming down. “So I’ll buy the locks in the morning and install them before I go to work. I’ll drop your new key off at school.”
I have the weird feeling he knows I’ve been lying to him ever since he walked into the kitchen.
Mel gets off in Long Bight the next afternoon, and Tate marches straight to her place once she’s off the bottom step of the bus, dropping her chain link earrings in her pack as she goes. She didn’t say a word about the photo of Seal and Davina all day.
Her hair’s still a wreck; she’s made no attempt to trim the jagged ends, as if she’s sticking them in your face and daring you to react. I wore the same long-sleeved shirt to school because I do have bruises. Big ones.
I unlock the door with my new key. House is clean and tidy, although you can still catch a whiff of Pine Sol.
I bet Seal smelled it last night. Along with acetone and ammonia.
It’s a decent day, a few dust-bunny clouds hanging in the sky. After checking through the living-room windows that there’s no sign of Tate, I wheel my bike out of the garage and race down the road past her place. Blinds drawn, front door shut, lawn with a buzz cut.
I’ll go to Gulley Cove. I like it there. Maybe I’ll detour to Abe’s barn on the way.
As I approach Hud’s place, he’s walking from their tarpaper shed to the house. No lawn at Hud’s, with or without a buzz cut. Dandelions galore, but even their happy faces can’t make his house look anything but droop-shouldered.
Doyle Quinn, Hud’s dad, slams out the side door. As he strides past Hud, he flashes out a fist and belts Hud on the side of the head.
Hud reels sideways. My front tire hits the shoulder and the bike veers toward the ditch. I pull it straight, one foot to the ground.
Doyle keeps going, casual as if he swatted a moose fly. Hud’s still standing there, his head down.
Are you okay?
Of course he’s not.
I start pedaling, praying he doesn’t look up and see me. How can a father do that to his son? Hit him. Hit him hard enough to knock him off-balance.
My most vivid memory of my real dad is him pushing me on the swing in the backyard, me squealing in that delicious mixture of fear and delight, him calling, “Higher, Sigrid? Do you want to go higher?”
And I always did.
After he shaved—first thing in the morning—he rubbed stuff on his face that smelled of cinnamon.
He never once lifted a hand to me. As for Seal, I can’t imagine him hitting anything.
How dare Doyle hit Hud? Hud, who came to my rescue.
Into my mind drop the different times I’ve seen Hud come to school with bruises and scrapes. I’ve heard him say to Mr. Murphy, My snowmobile tipped, and to Mr. Marsden, I tripped on the stairs. The day he rescued me, he told me he’d fallen off his bike.
Lies. All of them lies.
Even if I’d thought of my smartphone, I couldn’t have taken a photo of that punch—it happened too fast.
I’ve reached the edge of the cliffs. Bike in the grass, butt on the rock where Hud was sitting the day I tried to talk to him. The horizon shimmers. The waves aren’t putting any muscle into their punches at the rocks.
Doyle’s skinny, but he’s tall and wiry. He scarce looked at Hud when he belted him, as though hitting his son was a habit he’d gotten into, like grinding his cigarette butts under his heel.
Anger still churning away inside me.
About time somebody did something.
Sixteen
to avenge
I sit there quite a while. Soft slosh of the sea, sunlight sparking the waves. Wild strawberries in bloom, creamy-white. A shiny brown beetle climbs up a blade of grass, falls off the end, climbs up the next one. Sorta like cleaning house. Hasn’t taken me long to realize that new curtains don’t put an end to dust bunnies.
Voices drift up the hill, and the rattle of stones. Prinny and Laice bicycle over the crest, talking away like there’s no tomorrow. They see me.
“Hi,” I say.
Laice tilts her pretty little nose. Prinny nods. They pump harder until they’re past me.
Up until now, I didn’t feel lonesome.
I ride straight home, where—after organizing the stuff I’ll need—I try to nap. It doesn’t work. So I’m still wide awake when Seal comes home. Lorne’s back soon after. Neither one stays up long. Once the lights are off and Lorne’s snoring, I climb out of bed and dress in the clothes I laid out on my chair: black tights, black sweater, black socks.
I’m no Shrike. Not any more.
I’m Sigrid the Avenger.
I creep out my door, pad across the living-room floor, pick up my sneaks, and softly unsnib the lock. The new key on a string around my neck.
Keeping to the shoulder of the road, ready to duck into the trees if I hear a truck or a car coming, I walk east. Past Tate’s house. Past Our Lady of the Reefs church. There’s a light shining on the statue of Mary in her blue robe, the baby sleeping in her arms, her head bent so she won’t miss one move he makes.
Past the burned-out shell of the chandler’s store, the Herbey place, and Joe Rideout’s. A gap in the houses, then Hud’s place. The back door light is on, shining on the yard with its tarpaper shed. Doyle’s truck is parked in the driveway. The house is in darkness.
I tiptoe to the side of the truck that faces away from the house, kneel down, unzip my pack, and take out the roofing nails I stole from Seal’s tool chest. Carefully I sprinkle a few behind the rear tire, making sure the sharp ends are pointing up.
A while ago, Seal told me Doyle takes off for Tim Hortons early every morning for his caffeine fix. I’m hoping at least one of the nails will puncture the tire, giving him a slow leak that will be flat by the time he’s drunk his coffee. Then he’ll have to change to the spare and fix the flat.
Lousy beginning to his day. And no way he can blame Hud.
Joe Rideout’s dog barks. Once. Twice.
I scramble to my feet, edge away from the truck, and sprint down the road, my palms damp, my pulse racing.
Is it breaking the law to puncture someone’s tire?
Is it breaking the law to punch your son?
Lights on at Joe’s. I slide into the trees, going slow, stumbling over roots and rocks. The
dog barks harder, then falls quiet as Joe calls its name. His front door pulls shut.
As I barrel past the church, it seems like Mary’s frowning at me. “Avengers don’t sit home eating peanut butter sandwiches,” I say to her, panting.
No lights on at our house, so no one’s missed me. Worst part is unlocking the door and slinking inside, then locking it again. Lorne’s still snoring. He’s a champion snorer. He’d better not wake Seal.
Even though it’s dark, I can pick out the pattern on the new cushions. I’m across the floor and into my room, easing the door shut. Then I’m sitting on the bed, trembling all over. Being an Avenger is hard on the nerves. Imagine being a full-time criminal.
I get undressed, hide my black clothes in the closet, and climb into bed.
I try to settle to sleep. I count imaginary dandelions, flocks of seagulls, piles of tires.
My heart gives an almighty thump. Sitting up straight, staring into the darkness, I remember how Doyle slammed his way out of the house, strode toward Hud, and whacked him for no reason, then kept going as though Hud wasn’t made of flesh and blood, as though he was no more important than a stick of furniture.
I’ve just done something guaranteed to put Doyle Quinn in a bad mood. Doesn’t matter that he can’t blame Hud for the flat. He’ll take it out on him anyway. Of course he will.
Any hope of sleep has gone. I have to sneak back to Doyle’s and scrabble in the dirt until I’ve found every single nail I dropped. But just as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, a car pulls in our driveway. The front door opens and closes. The TV switches on.
My mother. Home a day early. What if she’d been here when I was sneaking in the door?
She’s a light sleeper.
I can’t go back to Hud’s place now.
No amount of cold water splashed on my face can make it look anything but puffy-eyed. When I walk outside to wait for the bus, Tate is already standing there, the breeze playing with the black clumps of her hair, the usual mess of chains dangling. She gives me the once-over. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Nice earrings if you’re a metalhead. Seal changed the locks on the doors.”
“Don’t get too big for them Nikes of yours.”
The bus pulls up. Good timing. When she uses that quiet voice, it sets my nerves rattling like her chains.
I follow her up the steps. Prinny, Laice, Travis, and Hector are sitting in their usual seats. Hud isn’t on the bus.
My nails dig into my palms. “Where’s Hud, Mr. Murphy?”
“His mother said he was sick. Sit down, Sigrid, I’m running late.”
Sick…
It’s sports day. No one wants me on their team even though I can run fast. I’ll never be forgiven for being a Shrike.
I win a couple of events because all the way around the track I can feel Hud on my heels, Hud with his scraped face and bruised jaw.
Hud, who isn’t in school today.
On Saturday morning, I go into town with Seal. Wincing, I notice Doyle’s truck parked outside the tavern. Seal says casually, “Doyle Quinn had a flat yesterday morning…I stopped to give him a hand. Sour-faced guy, barely bothered to thank me.”
My stomach clenches. I stare out the window.
Once we’re at the mall, I show him the bedspread and curtains, with their purple and green swirls. They’re reduced to $49.95. “You wouldn’t rather have the ones with the pink roses?” he says dubiously.
“I like these. If you put them on your card, I’ll go to the machine and pay you back.”
We both know this means my real dad will be buying me the new bedspread. “Okay,” he says, and I can’t read his face.
While he’s at the barber’s, I run up the street to the animal shelter. The receptionist, who has a ginger kitten draped over her shoulder, says, “Fifty dollars? That’s very generous of you—we need cat food and litter, so it’ll be put to good use.”
The kitten reminds me of Prinny’s ginger cat, purring in my arms.
She pats the kitten, writes me a receipt, smiles at me like she means it, and I walk out. Making amends doesn’t always leave you feeling good; I thought when I finally got rid of the fifty bucks, I’d be dancing on the street.
How can I dance on the street when I feel so guilty about Prinny’s cats?
How can I dance anywhere when I don’t know what’s happened to Hud?
At the mall, in an effort to cheer myself up, I buy a classy blue shirt with long sleeves. Then I run to the bank machine, meet Seal at FoodMart, and pay him cash for the bedspread and curtains.
Back home, I take them out of the plastic package; Seal helps me hang the curtains. When my dad sends this month’s fifty dollars, I might buy a poster for the wall.
Will a poster cheer me up any more than the shirt or the curtains?
Keeping an eye out for Tate, I bike up the road. No sign of Hud, not around his place, near the cliffs, or at Gulley Cove. Doyle’s truck is still gone when I get back. Trying to act like I just caught sight of something valuable in the driveway, I scrabble around in the dirt and find two of the nails. Quickly I pocket them, then race home.
It’s like Hud’s vanished off the face of the earth.
Seal stays out late both nights on the weekend. Avoiding my mother, I figure.
Monday morning, second last day of school, is also report card day. We have to take them home to be signed, then bring them back Tuesday morning so Mrs. Dooks can check them off. Once that’s done, they release us for the summer.
I wear my new blue shirt over a white tank top, with a dusting of blue eye shadow and a flick of mascara for courage.
Hud is on the bus, sitting near the back like usual. When I near to faint with relief, I realize way down I was terrified that he was dead. Crazy, I know, major crazy, but fears are fears because they grasp you by the throat, not by the brain cells.
He’s wearing shades, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt even though it’s warm. Why would he do that unless it’s to hide bruises, like I’ve had to hide mine?
Once we get to school, he disappears into his classroom.
Mrs. Dooks has given up trying to teach us anything, so she reads to us all morning. At recess, I run to the washroom. While I’m washing my hands, Mel clomps in, her hair hanging straight and greasy on either side of her face.
“Thought I saw you come in here,” she says.
Nicole Greene waltzes into the washroom. “Out,” Mel says. Nicole smirks at me and leaves without a backward look.
Mel says, “Won’t be seeing much of you after school’s out, Sigrid.”
“I’ll buy Kleenex.”
Mel’s brow furrows.
“To mop up my tears,” I say.
“Smart-ass!”
I remember how she made me say stuff I didn’t want to say by wiping my face in caramel sauce on the kitchen floor. “I won’t miss your ugly mug, not for one minute.”
She heads for me, pure mean gleaming in her eyes. I fill my palm with pink foam from the soap dispenser and smear it over her mouth so she looks like a rabid pink poodle. No chance to laugh because she’s shoving me against the wall. I say, so normal I amaze myself, “Oh, Mrs. Dooks, were you looking for me?”
Mel jerks, her grip loosening as she glances over her shoulder. I pull free and haul on the door. When it’s halfway open, she rips my new blue shirt out of my waistband. I twist frantically, leaving the shirt in her hands. That’s when I see Hud, standing outside the guys’ washroom, staring at me.
“Hi,” I say.
Mel sees Hud and gives him an evil look. She drops the shirt on the floor, and before she marches down the corridor, she wipes her feet on it.
She forgot to wipe her mouth.
“You sure attract trouble,” Hud says, pushing his shades up into his hair.
There’s a nasty scrape on his knuckle. One eye is swollen almost shut, the bruises like a rainbow if you leave out green and orange.
A sick lump slithers, ice-cold, down my throa
t to my gut. I whisper, “What happened?”
“Walked into a door.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You could be right.”
“Your dad did it.”
“Nah,” he drawls, “what would he do that for?”
Nails on a dirt driveway…“Because he was in a bad mood?”
“He’s never in a good mood.”
“A while ago, I saw him hit you.”
Something lethal chills Hud’s eyes. “You oughta cool that imagination of yours, Sigrid.”
“You oughta ice that eye of yours, Hud.”
Lethal vanishes, replaced by—yeah, it’s laughter. Then it vanishes, too. He turns on his heel and walks away. He’s doing his best to hide a limp.
I should’ve confessed. Told him straight out that I put nails behind his dad’s tire, so I’m to blame for his multi-colored eye and his sore leg. And what about his scraped knuckle? Did he fight back?
Where was his mother? He has a little sister, too, who you hardly ever see.
The scrambled eggs I had for breakfast curdle in my stomach.
My career as an Avenger is over. I did less damage as a Shrike.
Seventeen
to spy
Seal comes home at six and so does Lorne. Lorne’s still dating Sally Parsons, and looks like he’s not getting enough sleep. Doesn’t hurt his appetite for supper, which is lasagna with Caesar salad. At least in the kitchen I don’t do any damage.
We got our report cards that afternoon. After we eat, Seal gives mine his full attention. “You did good, Sigrid,” he says, and signs on the dotted line.
Neither of us suggests getting my mother to sign on the other dotted line.
The last day of school is mercifully short—just an hour in the morning. Mr. MacInney gives his usual pep talk over the intercom. Have a safe summer, respect your parents, and don’t litter.
So I won’t litter.
Mrs. Dooks goes through our report cards, checks each of us off on her list, tells us not to forget to read our assigned novel over the summer, and smiles in relief as we troop out the door. I’m going down the front steps wondering if I’ll have the chance to talk to Hud when a foot comes from nowhere and I’m on my knees on the pavement, hitting so hard I give a choked cry.