by Laura Best
I step through the doorway with caution. The dining room feels spooky in the quiet of night. When you’ve got bad eyes, things don’t always make sense in the daylight, let alone at night. Some things you can decipher in your head without giving it too much thought—everyday things like tables and chairs. I’m pretty good at putting two and two together, figuring out what those blurry images are in the distance. But when it’s something I’ve never seen before, that’s a whole other story.
Running my hands along the counter, I hope to find some food that hasn’t been put away. I root through the cupboards. Nothing. Not a speck. I reach above me, feeling all around, careful not to make a thump when I close the doors. Just as I’m chewing over the fact that an ant would starve to death in this place, I strike gold. A loaf of bread, an entire loaf, not a slice taken off! I hold it like a baby in my arms. Thinking that I’ll never find a lick of honey to spread on it, I catch of whiff of peanut butter in the air. Spinning around on my heels, I’m about ready to spring a leak when someone whispers, “Want something to put on that bread?”
Gasping and jumping at the same time, I manage to sputter out, “How did you? Where did you?” I didn’t even know I was being followed.
Nessa laughs. “I brought the peanut butter from home. When it comes to late-night snacking, you’re looking at a professional here. Now all we need is a knife.”
Thinking it’s mighty bold of her to assume I’ll share my bread, I start rooting through the drawers. It’s not like we’re the best of friends, ready to share fifty-fifty the way me and Evelyn always did. We’re not friends, period. To top it all off, she didn’t even ask in a nice way. Finders keepers, losers weepers I want to cry, but have a quick change of heart. Bread with nothing to spread on it will make a mighty dry lunch. It’s one of those cutting-off-your-nose-to-spite-your-face moments people talk about. Someone else, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. I’d be more than happy to share. But Nessa Maxwell—why is she always showing up in my space?
The next grumble my stomach makes is loud as the cannon fire from Citadel Hill—or at least enough to wake up the dead. Nessa giggles. The view might be pretty sweet up here on my high horse, but it isn’t going to fill the empty spot in my belly. Sometimes you’ve got to give in for your own good. I could tell Nessa this doesn’t mean a thing. She’s still a bigmouth and a show-off. Accepting that all that isn’t going to change any time soon, I hand her a table knife. Nessa grabs it like this is going to be her last meal on this earth.
“We haven’t got all night,” she says when I let a grunt out of me.
I send her a stinkeye for being all grabby and bossy before tearing into the loaf with both hands. Time’s a-wasting. I pull off two big hunks. A quick dip into peanut butter and Nessa brings up enough for two. She smears some on both pieces of bread. Like a couple of pigs smacking their way through a pail of slop, we don’t stop until the loaf is half gone.
With my stomach ready to burst at the seams, I hold up the loaf and ask Nessa if she wants the rest. She takes it from me.
“It might come in handy again,” she says, putting it back in the bag. In the dim light of the dining room I can barely make out her wide-mouthed grin. She hides what’s left of the bread at the back of the cupboard—the jar of peanut butter, too. Her statement about being a professional late-night snacker sure wasn’t an exaggeration.
Before we leave I try to set her straight. Let her know that just because we shared some grub it doesn’t mean this is the start of any friendship between us. Just a matter of being in the same place at the same time—me with a loaf of bread, her with a jar of peanut butter. Nothing else.
She whips around and I tap her on the shoulder. “Listen, Nessa, this doesn’t mean anything—”
She cuts me off with a, “Ssh! Someone’s coming.”
No one’s coming. This is just bait to shut me up. I can see through that. I still don’t trust her the length of my nose. She knows my deepest secret, the one I’ve been holding in my heart since I was old enough to remember. And it’s not as if I shared the information of my own free will. She snuck up and stole it out from under me when I wasn’t looking.
“This isn’t funny, Nessa,” I protest. Her hand clamps down across my mouth. For a moment the flames are burning in me. Seconds before I sink my teeth into her palm, I hear someone walk into the dining room.
“Who’s in here?” We jump at the sound of Miss Turner’s voice. That fire of anger quickly snuffs itself out as Nessa loosens her hand from my face. Like cornered snakes twisted into a little ball in the corner, there’s no place for us to slither away to. My mind buzzes. What will our punishment be?
“Close your eyes,” whispers Nessa.
“But—”
“Just do what I say.” She nudges me with her elbow. I have no choice.
“It’s Cammie, Miss Turner! She was sleepwalking. I tried to stop her.”
My arms shoot out in front of me. Not that I’m an authority when it comes to sleepwalking, but I’ve heard a thing or two. My heart’s drumming like partridge wings as I wait to see what Miss Turner will say. I pull in a quick breath. The footsteps are close. The light comes on.
Disbelief skids across her tongue as she croaks out, “Sleepwalking?” I have my ideas that she’s sharp enough to see right through that excuse—not like the music teacher, Mrs. Fenwick, who’d believe you if you said you’d been to Mars and back—but she doesn’t let on. Then again, Miss Turner has the reputation of being a pushover when it comes to enforcing the rules. The girls don’t seem too concerned when she’s on duty.
“I followed Cammie down. I’m sure glad you showed up, Miss Turner. I didn’t know what to do,” says Nessa pulling off the performance of a lifetime. “You’re not supposed to wake someone who’s sleepwalking. They’ll die from fright if you do. And I didn’t want to be responsible for that. I get in enough trouble as it is.”
“Die from fright? I don’t know that I’ve ever heard that before,” says Miss Turner, doubt now step-dancing all around the dining room. It slides right over to where we’re standing, trying to catch us in a big whopper of a lie. Miss Turner clomps toward us and stops directly in front of me. My heart works overtime as I wait to see if she’ll buy Nessa’s story.
“Let’s get her back to bed,” she says, taking me by the arm. Grabbing the opportunity, I spring my eyelids open and flutter them a few times.
“Where am I?” I ask, looking around as if in a stupor. When you’re running the rig on someone you’ve got to add all those little details to make yourself be believed. Nessa isn’t the only one who can act.
“You’re in the dining room,” answers Miss Turner with a queer little sound in her voice.
“The dining room? How did I get here?” I twist my head around from side to side real quick so as to show my surprise at discovering where I am.
“You walked here, silly—in your sleep,” Nessa slaps me on the back as she laughs. Her acting abilities are almost better than Aunt Millie’s. Even I would believe her.
“Off to bed with you both,” says Miss Turner, sounding about as stern as a mewing kitten. As Nessa grasps my hand, pure relief blows through me like a whistling wind.
We don’t even trade whispers on our way back to the dormitory. We got ourselves out of one scrape; next time I might not be so lucky. One thing I know, if I’m going to find a way to fly the coop, I’ll have to make it a foolproof plan, one that won’t backfire on me the way this did. I’ll only get one chance to make a break for it—after that they’ll be watching me like a hawk.
“I smell peanut butter,” comes a murmur in the dark just as I’m about to snuggle down under the covers. Sitting up in bed, I whisper a quick thank you into the air. If it reaches as far as Nessa’s bed, then so be it. Let the dust settle where it may, as Aunt Millie likes to say.
“You’re welcome,” comes a muffled reply.
Chapter Nine
Like blackflies in the springtime, the smell of fresh lilacs swarms the air. I look up from the checkerboard at the pretty blue dress coming toward us.
“Don’t look now, but here comes Miss Turner,” I whisper to Nessa, whose back is to the doorway. It’s not hard to recognize Miss Turner from a distance. I’ve already figured out her walk and the smell of her perfume. She also wears blue a lot—my favourite colour. Everyone’s got their own style, their own way of carrying themselves in the world. It’s not hard to figure out if you pay attention.
While Nessa slides her red checker to the next square, Miss Turner zeroes in on us. I brace myself for what might be coming—a reminder of our antics from the other night being first and foremost. I’m pretty sure Miss Turner smelled the peanut butter on us. I’ve been a little skittish of her the last couple of days, wondering if she’s going to bring the whole matter up. It might not be too late for her to report the incident to Mr. Allen.
“No more sleepwalking, Cammie?” she asks, stopping beside our table. First moving my checker, I look up and start off with a cheery, “Nice to see you, Miss Turner,” before adding an, “If I have been out roaming around, I’d be the last to know.” I finish it all off with a big smile. You’ve got to hand out the pleasantries when you’re trying to keep on someone’s good side. The last thing I need is to land myself in trouble. I haven’t been around here long enough to have grown on anyone. They might send me packing without ever knowing who I really am as a person. I’ve got some good ways about me (back home, Miss Muise liked to say I was the model student), but no one’s had time to see me in action.
“I can vouch for her,” chirps Nessa. “She’s been sleeping like a log.” Not that things are all hunky-dory between me and Nessa, but being sociable with her might be in my best interest. Nessa’s got connections. You never know when those connections could work in my favour. Then there’s that other business she’s got hanging over me.
“I have a feeling you’d be the one to know, Vanessa. Cammie’s lucky to have you for a shadow—especially a nighttime shadow. When I was a girl I’d go open the front door in my sleep. Mum would catch me staring at the night sky and take me back to bed.” We chuckle along with Miss Turner. People like to think their stories are something to be tittered about.
Nessa studies the board for a few seconds and jumps my checker, scooping up my last king like an expert. I’ve been skunked again.
“Are you looking to take Nessa on?” I say.
Miss Turner is standing over us, scrutinizing the board. The quicker I get her off the subject of sleepwalking, the better. Plus, I can’t be guaranteed that Nessa won’t sing like a canary if she gets caught off guard.
“I’m not sure, Cammie. I hear Vanessa’s the champ—nearly unbeatable.”
Nessa must be on top of the world with all that praise coming her way. Hands down, she’s the best player in the dormitory, and she’s been on a roll this past while. The checkers line up in her favour, like they know what her next move is going to be before she makes it. Having just learned to play a few days ago, I’m not looking to beat Nessa any time soon. Maybe Miss Turner will have better luck.
“I’ve won a few games,” says Nessa. I can’t imagine her saying that without exploding inside, but Nessa doesn’t even crack a grin.
“She is good, but eventually everyone gets tossed to the crows. This might be your lucky day, Miss Turner.” Jumping out of my seat, I take Miss Turner’s hand, warm as toast, and pull her down into the chair. When she giggles, the loose blonde curls on top of her head bounce. A few weeks back she got a home permanent put in. I overheard the maids raving about it one day, how it was just as good as you’d get at the hairdresser’s. I’ve got to admit it does look quite spiffy. A twinge of envy strikes me. The hair I arrived with now looks like it was gnawed off by a mouse thanks to the scissor-happy barber who’s only ever cut hair in the army. They say he comes back every few months, so I guess growing long hair is out of the question.
“Far be it from me to toss anyone to the crows,” says Miss Turner, already lining her checkers up. She shakes out her hands, getting herself ready. “I’ll warn you, though. Growing up I played a lot of checkers. Of course, it’s been ages ago now,” she says, taking the first move. Nessa quickly counters. A few smooth moves on the board and Miss Turner skips over two of Nessa’s checkers all in one smash, stacking them up beside her right elbow.
“I did warn you,” she says apologetically.
That seems to have knocked the confidence out of Nessa. She inspects the board, getting in closer than she needs to. I let out a sigh as Nessa dances her checker back and forth between two squares, trying to anticipate Miss Turner’s next move. I tell Nessa to take it easy. It’s just a silly game.
The moment Nessa jumps one of Miss Turner’s checkers, her smile looks about ready to split her face in half. When she makes another jump right afterward I become suspicious. Maybe Miss Turner is taking pity on her, letting her get the upper hand for a time. Three jumps later and that theory gets shot down. Miss Turner is cleaning up, closing in on her—getting ready for the kill. She takes off her glasses, wipes them with a hanky before putting them back on her face. She’s unstoppable.
Nessa lets out a sigh and leans her head against her elbow, not looking the least bit interested in the game now that Miss Turner’s winning.
“Take that sour look off your face, Nessa,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You remind me of Cyrus Wilkes back home in Tanner, playing checkers down at Mae Cushion’s store on Saturday afternoon.” Unfortunately, my idea backfires and no one laughs.
“I used to know someone from Tanner,” Miss Turner says, her eyes glued on Nessa’s next move.
“Hey! Maybe it’s someone I know.” Imagine running across someone who’s heard of that little dot on the map. I’m curious and just happy to hear that someone from the city actually has something in common with me, Cammie Turple.
“Never kick a horse turd, it might be your uncle,” Ed likes to say whenever some coincidence brings you face to face with some long-lost cousin a hundred times removed. His point being, you just never know if you’ll come across some stranger who is either related to or else knows someone you do.
“Oh, I doubt that. All she talked about was getting as far away from Tanner as possible. She had some pretty big plans.” Miss Turner’s voice flows like maple syrup. She looks up from the board and smiles like she’s thinking about something—like maybe that person she once knew from Tanner.
“What was her name?” If Miss Turner doesn’t soon tell I’ll bust open with curiosity. It’s not like I know everyone who ever lived in Tanner, but wouldn’t it be the oddest coincidence if it was someone I’ve heard tell of.
“Millie—her name was Millie.”
“My aunt’s name is Millie!” I say as loud as any hallelujah has ever been shouted. Good old Ed was right. Imagine finding a horse turd here in my brand-new life, miles and miles away from home. I’m feeling pretty pleased until common sense pokes my shoulder: if Miss Turner knows Aunt Millie from all those years ago, she’d know about her business dealings. I quickly rethink my earlier enthusiasm. Even someone as nice as Miss Turner would have a hard time accepting me once she found out who my aunt is.
I have no plans to decipher whether or not this is a possibility. If the word gets out that my aunt was a bootlegger, my name will be toast. I’ll be a laughingstock here just like back home in Tanner. Only I won’t be Blind-Eyed Cammie, I’ll be Bootleg Cammie Turple. Who will care that Aunt Millie’s a reformed bootlegger?
Miss Turner’s voice sounds strained as she squeezes out, “Margaret.” She give
s a strange little laugh. “Oh, listen to me—her name wasn’t Millie at all. It was Margaret…Margaret something or other.” She gives another queer laugh. “And here I’ve always prided myself with having a good memory…Have you ever heard tell of any Margarets in Tanner?”
“Nope. No Margarets in Tanner.” What a relief! Glad that got straightened out. Besides, it doesn’t make sense that someone like Miss Turner would be friends with Aunt Millie. One thing’s for certain, I’ve got to watch myself. This is a lesson for me. I can’t be saying things without using my brain first.
Miss Turner cleans the last of Nessa’s checkers up off the board. She smiles and says it was fun but now she’s got to get going. Her seat doesn’t have time to cool off before I plunk myself down. I line up the checkers for another game, quickly taking the first move. In true Nessa style, she counters my move.
“What’s her problem?” Nessa asks as soon as we hear Miss Turner’s shoes scuffing down the hallway. Two quick moves later, she’s made her first jump. She makes it look so easy.
“Problem?” I say, scooping a checker off the board. Satisfaction marches through me. I might just win this time.
“She was acting all strange when you told her your aunt’s name. Did you see the look on her face?” Nessa starts to move her checker, then slides it back.
“I didn’t see anything.” Nessa heard me in the bathroom. She knows Aunt Millie’s a bootlegger. I’m willing to bet she hasn’t forgotten that tidbit. “Maybe she was embarrassed,” I add. “She probably felt dumb mixing up Millie and Margaret like that.” I wait for Nessa to make another move, hoping she’ll get off the subject of Aunt Millie. Pronto.