Driftwood
Page 12
I asked if it was all right for me to go to Billy’s place and she said it was fine.
Billy had never answered my messages saying I was sorry for how I’d acted, so I was a bit nervous on the way there. But when I rounded the corner on his street, he was sitting out on his front step and when he saw me coming, his hand came up in greeting.
“Hi,” he said as I crossed the yard toward him.
“Hey, Billy.”
“When did you guys get back?”
“Just now. I came right over.”
He didn’t say anything to that, so I went ahead and plunged in. “I thought you might still be mad about the way I acted and everything.”
“No, I’m not mad.”
“I sent you a message to say I was sorry.”
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
“I thought you were still mad—and that’s why you never answered me.”
“I wasn’t mad. I just didn’t feel like sending any messages.”
“How come?”
Billy cleared his throat. Then he said, “Bailey died.”
It had never once occurred to me that Bailey was really that sick, or that he might not make it. Billy looked about as busted up as I’d ever seen him.
“Aw, gee, Billy. I’m real sorry.” It didn’t seem like that was enough to say, but I couldn’t think of anything else.
“I’m glad I was here to take care of him, and say goodbye to the old boy.”
“You did the right thing,” I said. “I shouldn’t have given you a hard time about it. I feel real bad about it, and about Bailey.”
Billy nodded. “I sure miss him,” he said.
“He was a real good dog,” I told him. Then I shut up and just listened while he talked about some of the things Bailey used to do.
“He was the best,” Billy said at the end. A tear ran down his cheek and he leaned forward and swiped it off with his hand. I pretended like I didn’t know he was crying.
After a bit, he said he wanted to get out of there. I went with him to visit Bailey’s grave, which he told me he’d dug himself. There wasn’t much to do there, but we stood and looked at the mound of earth for a few minutes.
“I’m going to make a marker for him,” Billy said.
“That’ll be good, Billy,” I said. “Bailey would like that. What are you going to make it out of?”
“My dad says I should paint a rock, but Bailey didn’t like rocks.” Billy said. “He liked fetching sticks, so I’m thinking I’ll get a couple of pieces of deck lumber.”
When we left Bailey’s grave, we took a walk over to my house.
“Hey! Good to see you, Billy,” Dad said. “How was your summer?”
“Bailey died,” Billy said.
I could tell the way his head kind of jolted that Dad had forgotten Bailey was the name of Billy’s dog.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dad said. The question, “Who is Bailey?” was behind his words almost as clear as if he’d come right out and asked it. He turned and called, “June?”
Mom’s head popped around the corner from where she’d been putting things away in the kitchen.
“Did you call me, dear?”
“Did you hear about Bailey passing away?” Dad asked.
Mom’s face switched right away from a bit impatient to sad. She hurried down the hall and gave Billy a hug. “Oh, dear,” she said. “That’s awfully sad, Billy. I knew he was old but I didn’t realize the end was that close for him. Did you have to have him put down?”
Dad finally got it. He told Billy he was sorry again. Then he leaned over a bit and ruffled Billy’s hair. Because nothing cheers you up more than getting your head mauled.
We got out of there and went to my room. I showed Billy my piece of driftwood and told him all about the oak tree. I could see he was impressed the way he held the wood and looked it over as he listened.
Theo had told me that piece of wood came to me for a reason, and that was the moment I understood what the reason was.
“You think that piece of plank would be good enough for Bailey’s grave?” I said.
Billy’s eyes widened and he looked right at me.
“For real?”
“It’s yours, Billy.”
“Thanks, Adam.” He held it against himself like it was the greatest piece of wood in the world. “This will be the best marker I could ever have hoped for.”
“Let’s drop it off at your place and take a walk,” I suggested.
We did that, and then we wandered around a bit aimlessly until Patty Florence’s place came into view, which was when Billy said, “We should see if Patty is home.”
You could have knocked me down with a good puff of air. Billy, wanting to go visit a girl? On the other hand, I didn’t mind the chance it gave me to bring up the twins. Especially Mackenzie. I’d had a friend request from her a few days after they left Schooner Point. Makayla, too, but Mackenzie’s was first so that meant she’d been thinking about me.
“Sure,” I said. “Patty’s okay, I guess. And actually, I hung around for a few weeks with a couple of girls at Schooner Point. Twins. They were pretty cool.”
Billy gave me a strange look.
“No reason a guy can’t be friends with a girl—if she’s okay I mean,” I told him. Patty wasn’t cool like the twins, that’s for sure. But, who was I to judge Billy? If he wanted to hang out with her, I wasn’t going to give him a hard time about it.
“Her dog had pups,” Billy said, never taking his eyes off me. “Mom said I can have one when they’re ready. What are you going on about?”
“Nothing. I was just saying.” I felt my face getting a
bit warm. “The summer sure went by fast, didn’t it?”
Billy gave me another strange look but he let it go and a minute or two later we turned on the path to the Florence house. I could hear yipping through an open window before we got halfway to the door. Billy gave it a couple of good bangs with his fist and Patty’s older sister opened it. She rolled her eyes.
“You again,” she said. “Well, come on in, I guess.”
She called for Patty, who came right along and led us to the room where the mother and pups were gathered on a big braided rug. There were five of them—chubby and cute and noisy as all get-out.
Billy didn’t approach them. He dropped down onto his haunches and let his hands fall to his sides. “There’s one of them that comes to me first almost every time,” he said. His eyes burned with a kind of longing and I hoped whichever one he was talking about wouldn’t disappoint him.
“Have you picked out which one you want yet?” Patty asked.
“Almost,” Billy said.
I watched as three of the pups decided to head Billy’s way, their tiny, pointed tails going a mile a minute as they made a dash in his direction. I felt a bit bad for him because they all got there at the same time.
But Billy’s eyes must have been operating some kind of internal stop watch because he looked at me and said, “Did you see? He did it again—this guy almost always gets to me first.” As he spoke, he scooped up a wriggling furball the colour of pulled toffee and pressed his face into it.
“Looks like he picked you, Billy,” I said.
“I guess so,” Billy said. “I’ll just have to take the little rascal home.”
His face was radiant.
You never have to guess what kind of mood Billy is in.
AN INTERVIEW WITH
VALERIE SHERRARD
Theo tells several folk tales that seem to be drawn from all around the world. Where did these stories come from?
The folk tales Theo tells are my inventions. In fact, that aspect of the story was the key factor that got me interested in writing Driftwood. I thought it would be wonderful to be able to create folk stories within the main story, and I loved the challenge of trying to give each of the tales a unique and authentic voice.
You have written picture books and teen novels as well as novels for younger readers. What do yo
u like best about writing for middle-grade readers?
It was a lovely surprise to find how naturally my characters developed when I began writing for middle grade readers. I’ve felt connected to those characters in a deeper and different way than has been the case when writing for teens. No doubt this relates to the vulnerability of this age group.
Do you have a daily writing routine or do you just write when you feel particularly inspired?
Early in the morning and late at night are my best writing times – probably because they tend to offer the fewest distractions. I write pretty much every day. Sometimes it feels effortless, sometimes I work hard to get a few paragraphs on the page.
What are some of the greatest obstacles that a writer has to face? How do you overcome them?
There comes a point in almost every book I’ve written where I lose faith in the story – or rather, in my execution of the story. I’ve heard many writers speak of this experience as well, so I would encourage new writers to keep that in mind if that happens to them. The remedy is usually as simple as going back and reading what you’ve written right from the start.
Like Driftwood, your previous middle-grade novel, The Glory Wind, was also told from the perspective of a young boy. Where do you get your “young boy” voice? How are you able to identify with young boys so well?
I’m not entirely sure. I grew up with two brothers, and I raised a son, and fostered many adolescent boys, but I don’t think that fully explains where the young boy voices come from. All I know for sure is that some of my favourite projects have been from the male perspective, and it’s felt perfectly natural to write in those voices.
Have you ever stayed in a campsite like the one in Driftwood?
No I haven’t. But Schooner Point and its cabins are real—and just a few minutes drive from my home. When I was considering a setting for this story, it seemed a good fit.
In Driftwood, Theo is visually impaired but then regains his sight. Is there a moral in that event that you hope readers will see?
Yes, definitely. Most of the time Theo leaves it to his audience to find meaning (friendship, loyalty, trust) in what he tells them – but he makes an exception and speaks openly about the lesson to be found in what he’s lost and what he’s gained.
ALSO BY VALERIE SHERRARD
Tumbleweed Skies
“Sherrard writes with compassion and understanding about some tough issues, and her characters show remarkable depth. A realistic, moving story of how a broken family copes with loneliness and anger as they search for healing in their lives.”
—School Library Journalstarred review
Finalist for the Ann Connor Brimer Award for Children’s Literature
The Glory Wind
“Luke’s first-person narration is fresh and emotionally true, charting his growing awareness of his own human failure to live up to Gracie’s tender yet believable goodness. This haunting depiction of small-mindedness will leave readers wondering, as Luke comes to, about Gracie’s true nature: heavenly child–or angel?”
—Kirkus starred review
Finalist for the TD Canadian Children’s Literature Award and the CLA Children’s Book of the Year for Children; winner of the Ann Connor Brimer Award for Children’s Literature and the Geoffrey Bilson Award for Historical Fiction.
Text copyright © 2013 Valerie Sherrard
Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside,
195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8
Published in the United States in 2013 by Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles.
All inquiries should be addressed to Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8.
www.fitzhenry.ca godwit@fitzhenry.ca
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Driftwood
ISBN 978-1-55455-305-1 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-854-4 (epub)
Data available on file
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)
Driftwood
ISBN 978-1-55455-305-1 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-854-4 (epub)
Data available on file
Fitzhenry & Whiteside acknowledges with thanks the
Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council
for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge
the financial support of the Government of Canada through
the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.
Cover and interior design by Tanya Montini
Cover image © Fancy Images / www.fotosearch.com