Days That End in Y

by Vikki VanSickle

  It says, To my Queen, let’s run away and find another kingdom to rule. This place isn’t good enough for someone so beautiful and charmeing … me! Ha-ha, just kidding, you know I meant you. Everyone in this school looks at you and thinks, Damn, that Bill is lucky! But no one knows it more than me. Can’t wait for summer when we can spend every day together. The world is our oyster, babe, so let’s get shucking!”

  I blush reading it, not because of how cheesy it is or the bad pun or because he spelled charming wrong, but because it feels like I’ve snooped into someone’s diary or private love letters. And not just anyone’s, but my own parents’.

  In the Activity Photos section, I discover that Annie Delaney and Bill Davies were voted cutest couple that year. In the picture, they are posing under an arch wrapped in voluminous clouds of tulle. They must be at a big dance of some kind, like prom. They stand close to each other, almost cheek-to-cheek. Bill is wearing a bulky leather jacket over a suit with his collar open; his hair is messy and huge sunglasses are perched on his nose. He is staring down the camera like a rebel in an old movie.

  Mom is wearing a shiny blue dress with rhinestoned straps and a skirt that has about fifteen layers of satin ruffles. She is holding a pair of sunglasses on her head as if they are about to fall off, laughing at Bill mugging away for the camera.

  They look fun, like the kind of people who don’t take things like prom photos too seriously but manage to take an awesome picture anyway. I try to find traces of my own face in Bill’s features, but the picture is too small and half his face is obscured by sunglasses. I wish I had the original photograph. I wonder what’s happened to it after all these years?

  The phone rings, rudely interrupting my lovely afternoon. My only job during the summer is to answer the phone for my mother. We agreed I wouldn’t have to sit at the little desk in the salon all day, as long as I got up to answer the phone. She will most definitely kill me if I can’t keep up my end of the bargain, so I put down my iced lemon-tea and run for it before the voicemail kicks in.

  “Good afternoon, Hair Emporium.”

  “Clarissa? It’s me. Michael.”

  Michael still feels the need to introduce himself, even though I know perfectly well who is on the other end of the line.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you coming to the game tonight?”

  “Sure. If you want me to.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. I mean, if you want to.”

  Michael and I often have frustratingly polite conversations like this.

  “Of course! What time?”

  “Seven. We’re playing at the school again, on the north diamond.”

  He means our soon-to-be-old school, Ferndale, and the north diamond is the one furthest from the building.

  “Okay! See you there!”

  “See you.”

  Tonight feels very far away. I miss my friends. Alone time is seriously overrated.

  GAME DAY

  Baseball is pretty boring. No one ever seems to hit the ball, and when they do, it never goes far. If anyone gets two bases on a single hit it’s a miracle. Michael turns really red when he’s playing. I wonder if it’s nerves or me. I hope that a little bit of it is because of me.

  One thing that’s nice about coming to these games is I can watch Michael without anyone accusing me of staring at him. At a game you’re supposed to watch the player. Plus, behind my sunglasses, no one can tell that I watch Michael even when he’s not at bat. It’s the perfect set-up.

  Michael’s father comes to the games, but he sits with some other dads and they talk the whole time, explaining all the coach’s decisions and comparing their sons’ batting averages. They clap for each other’s sons and share food. Chips mostly, but sometimes mixed nuts.

  “Clarissa! Is that you?” Mrs. Greenblat doesn’t come very often, but when she does, she brings all three of Michael’s brothers and insists we sit together.

  I smile and wave as she makes her way up the bleachers, Theo in her arms and David and Solly stomping along behind. David is singing at the top of his lungs.

  “Be a dear and take Theo for a second? David’s laces are untied again. I don’t want him falling to his death.”

  Mrs. Greenblat hands me Theo, who is not quite two, as if he is nothing more than a purse. I don’t really know how to hold him, so I plunk him on my lap, facing the game, and cross my arms around his middle like a big human seatbelt. Mrs. Greenblat is under the mistaken impression that I am one of those girls who babysits and wants nothing more than to make faces at toddlers and ask them silly questions (Does baby like his tummy tickled? Who’s a silly boy?). No wonder it takes kids so long to learn to talk. No one ever asks them anything interesting.

  Luckily, Theo is a pretty calm baby, who doesn’t sense how uncomfortable I am, and is happy to sit on my lap and squeal at the baseball game.

  “There you go. Now you can run as much as you like. If you trip, it won’t be because of those laces.”

  With a war cry that seems too big for such a little kid (David is five, and a scrawny five at that), David jumps off the bleachers, falls, then gets up and runs for the trees that border the playground.

  “Be careful, David,” Mrs. Greenblat calls after him. “Stay where I can see you and don’t cross the street.” For someone who didn’t want her son to trip on his shoelaces, Mrs. Greenblat doesn’t seem all that concerned about David jumping off bleachers.

  “Clarissa, do you want to see my book?” Solly asks.

  “Sure!” I say. Anything is better than this baseball game, which is still 0–0 despite being in what feels like the eighteenth inning. Solly is almost nine and is my favourite of Michael’s brothers, mostly because he doesn’t wear a diaper (Theo) or run around yelling like a maniac (David). He can quote entire scenes from movies, and he memorizes whole pages out of his beloved fact books. You have to admire a kid like that.

  “Look, this is the intestinal system. Here’s where the food goes. Then it becomes bile, and then we poop it out. See how the poop is in the toilet there?” Solly points to an illustration of a gigantic turd, steaming in a toilet. Cripes.

  Mrs. Greenblat laughs and whisks the book away from Solly, stashing it in her gigantic purse. “Sorry, Clarissa. I should have warned you. This is Solly’s new favourite book. We think it means he’s going to grow up and be a doctor someday.”

  I try to laugh, but the illustration of food decomposing in a green stew of bile — and the suspicious smell that is coming from baby Theo — makes it extremely difficult.

  Michael’s mom talks through the whole baseball game, but she rarely mentions the game itself. She’s nice and everything, but sometimes I don’t know what to say. When I told my mom that sometimes Mrs. Greenblat comes, she said it was probably a real treat for her to get out of the house and talk to another woman.

  “You mean me?” I scoffed.

  “Yes, you.”

  “Shouldn’t she have friends her own age?”

  “I think it’s nice of you. Plus you might learn a thing or two.”

  “About what, baby talk?”

  “You never know when that will come in handy,” Denise threw in, slyly.

  “Not likely,” I mumbled, but then I caught myself. I’m fourteen. Mom was only eighteen when she had me, which means she was pregnant at seventeen. Even now, the thought sends monster shivers down my spine. It’s just one more reminder of how high school is a different beast and everything is about to change. Again.

  I keep thinking Mrs. Greenblat is going to take Theo from me. He’s getting heavy and my legs are starting to fall asleep. Do diapers leak? I shift him as well as I can, hoping she’ll notice, but no such luck. Instead, she goes into a marathon rant about how hyperactivity is a direct result of too much sugar and not enough physical activity. She’s saying something about alternate ways to channel excess energy when I see him: a man, watching the game and fooling around on a cell phone at the same time.

  I spend a lot of time
people watching during these games. It gives me something to do when Michael is on the bench. After a while you start to recognize people, or at least the people they’re sitting with. This man has never come before, but there is something familiar about him. His shoulders are hunched and bony and his long legs look funny and almost painful, the way they are bent to accommodate the bleachers, which are clearly not meant for long legs. He has a hat on, but his hair curls around the edges.

  I’m staring so hard that when he takes his hat off and rubs his head, I think it must be because he can feel me staring at him. Like I’m burning the back of his neck with my eyes. He looks over his shoulder and I can see him full on for the first time. My heart stops, or maybe it’s just my breathing. Whatever it is, I must have made a noise, because Mrs. Greenblat puts her hand on my shoulder and asks if I’m okay.

  I’m unable to answer. How can I, when barely three metres away from me, after all this time, is my father?

  UNBELIEVABLE DAY

  Time doesn’t stop, exactly: it feels more like I have laser focus, and everything that’s not him goes blurry. I take my sunglasses off with one hand, still holding onto Theo with the other, so I can get a better look. My heart feels like it’s pumping in my throat, and I have to swallow a few times before I can speak.

  “I wonder who that is,” I say as casually as possible, nodding at him. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  Mrs. Greenblat squints at the man who may be my father. “No idea. But I don’t think he’s one of the fathers. Maybe he has a son on the other team.”

  Michael’s parents did not grow up here, so Mrs. Greenblat doesn’t have any reason to recognize Bill. This is both relieving and irritating.

  “Does he remind you of anyone?” I ask.

  “Not really. Why, who do you think he looks like?”

  It’s ridiculous to think she would say me, but my hopes droop a little, like old flowers. “No one.”

  Forget Michael, all I can see now is Maybe-Bill. He is sitting with two other men, laughing and eating, and yelling at the umpire like everyone else. Except everyone else has a reason to be here — what’s his? Denise said my dad moved out West right after high school, and that was the last anyone heard of him, so why is he back now? And why is he at a local minor baseball game?

  Part of me wonders if this has something to do with the wedding. Mom said it was no big deal, but maybe she had tracked him down to let him know about it. What if I had come up?

  Benji and I sometimes play the what-if game: “What if you won a million dollars?” “What if you lived forever?” “What if you could time travel?”

  This game of what-ifs is not as much fun:

  What if Mom called Bill because Doug wanted to adopt me?

  What if Bill said no?

  What if Bill decided he wanted me to live with him?

  The what-ifs are so consuming, I don’t even notice when Mrs. Greenblat takes Theo from me.

  ***

  Finally, the game ends. I have no idea who won.

  “Here he comes, our star player!”

  Our star player? Sometimes I wonder what Michael tells his mom about me. Does she think we’re dating, or just friends? It’s something I would like to know the answer to myself.

  Michael jogs over to say hi to his brothers and accepts a kiss on his cheek from his mom.

  “Off to the Dairy Bar, I suppose,” she says.

  After every game, the team goes to the Dairy Bar for ice cream. Sometimes I come along, although Michael’s teammates never know how to act with me around. Sometimes it’s like I’m not there at all, and other times they act so stupid I wish I wasn’t there.

  “Have fun and remember not to eat too much. A full stomach before bed always gives you nightmares.”

  Michael blushes but doesn’t say anything.

  “And make sure you walk Clarissa home.”

  I’ve been scanning the crowds for Bill, and now I spot him, heading for the school parking lot.

  “Actually, I can’t come tonight.”

  Michael shrugs. “Okay. See you later?”

  “Later,” I agree. “Bye, Mrs. Greenblat!”

  I rush away, trying not to look too eager and hoping they don’t notice that I’m heading toward the parking lot, which is in the opposite direction from my house. I force myself to walk, but what I really want to do is run. The man who might be my dad is not that far ahead of me. He has sort of a bouncy walk. It makes him seem friendly. I watch as he takes his keys from his pocket and presses a button. The lights on a little black car flicker as the doors unlock automatically. I start to jog a little, not caring how I look. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I catch up to him — I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not ready to let him disappear out of my life.

  “Hey, Bill! Wait up!”

  My breath catches in my throat as someone behind me calls out and Bill turns around. It has to be him. What are the chances that a man who looks just like my father would just happen to have the same name? I sidestep toward a tree at the edge of the parking lot and linger there. The man jogs past me and catches up with Bill, and the two stop to talk next to the car. As they do, I take the time to study everything about him and the car.

  Now I know two things for sure: My dad is back in town, and I have his licence plate number.

  PLANNING DAY

  After Bill’s car pulls away, I run all the way home. I don’t think I’ve ever run so far before, but I’m so full of adrenalin I do it easily. As I charge up the steps, I hear Mom and Doug doing dishes, and my heart constricts. Partially because of all the running, but also because I don’t know what I’ll say to Mom when she asks how the game was. Instead of facing her, I yell, “I’m going to Benji’s!” through the screen door and run next door before either of them can say anything.

  I ring the doorbell, but no one answers. In the semi-darkness, I grope around under the doormat for the key to Benji’s house. I find it and jam it into the lock, my fingers shaking. All my stomping and fumbling must have drawn Benji’s attention, because he is waiting for me when I stumble in. He looks stricken and is gripping the phone in one hand. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Didn’t you hear the doorbell? I rang it like six times!” I don’t mean to sound so angry, but I’m so mixed up it just comes out that way.

  “I was on the phone,” Benji says.

  “At this hour? With who?”

  “Clarissa, are you okay? It looks like you’re having trouble breathing.”

  After a few ragged breaths, I’m able to say, “I think I saw my dad.”

  “Who?” Benji asks.

  I don’t blame him. I can hardly believe it myself. “My dad. Bill Davies, father at large?”

  Benji looks woozy. “I think I need to sit down.”

  “You need to sit down? What about me?”

  I follow Benji to the living room. He sits on the couch, and I collapse on the floor, leaning my back against the cool leather of the couch, trying to steady my breathing.

  “Tell me from the beginning,” Benji says.

  So I tell him about finding the yearbooks and the Google search and seeing Bill at the baseball game. When I’m finished, Benji says, “And you’re sure it’s him?”

  “It looked just like him.”

  “But those yearbook pictures were old.”

  “He looks exactly the same. Older, obviously, but the same.”

  Benji pauses. “So you saw pictures of him, and then you saw a man who looked like him.”

  “It isn’t someone who looks like him, it IS him. That guy called him Bill.”

  “Bill’s a pretty common name.”

  “It was him, Benji! Why won’t you believe me?”

  “The whole thing is kind of unbelievable.”

  I sigh. “I know.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have to see him again.”

  “Are you going to talk to him?”

  “I don’t know yet. What woul
d I say? ‘Hi, Dad?’” I laugh even though it isn’t funny. “I think I need to see him and then maybe I’ll know what to do.”

  “Are you going to tell your mom?”

  “Do you think I’m stupid? Of course not! She’d probably mess everything up.”

  Part of me wonders if she already knows he’s here, which means she deliberately didn’t tell me.

  “So what’s next?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I need your help. I got his licence plate number at the ball game.”

  “What good is that?”

  “It was the only thing I could think of at the time.”

  ***

  Brainstorming calls for snacks. You can’t think well on an empty stomach. The Dentonator doesn’t like to cook, so Benji’s house is always full of delicious, ready-to-eat things — unlike my house, which is stocked with carrot sticks and flax crackers and things that need peeling. First, Benji finds us some root beer and a super-size bag of ketchup chips to fuel our brainstorming session. Next, he appoints himself secretary and begins taking notes. After a few minutes I ask him to read me the list from the top.

  “Things we know,” says Benji, pausing dramatically. “Suspect looks like Bill Davies; suspect responds to the name Bill; suspect’s licence plate number is BKJR 199; suspect drives a black car.”

  “Stop calling him ‘suspect.’ He isn’t a criminal.”

  “Sorry.” Benji sucks his can of root beer dry, then chews on the end of his straw. “If he was a criminal we could get the police to run his licence plate number and they could track him down.”

  “You watch too much TV. Anyway, if we walked into the police station looking for a car, they’d call our parents in about ten seconds.”

  Benji pales a little, probably at the thought of telling the Dentonator that the police want to talk to him. “Okay, so no police.”

  “No anybody,” I say sternly. “Promise me Benji: this is just between us.”

  Benji nods. “I promise.”