Plain Jane E-Book

Kim Hood

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

At nearly 16, Jane has lived in the shadow of her little sister Emma's cancer diagnosis for over three years. Not that she was ever in the limelight; it is her sister who is the talented one, a dancer who at ten had been outgrowing her small town teachers' skills. Jane had never resented her sister's talent; without any interests herself, it had always kept the pressure off her. Now though, with her parents struggling to cope financially and emotionally, Jane's life in her rural mining village seems to be a never ending monotony of skipping school, long bus rides to the hospital and hanging out with a boyfriend she doesn't even know why she is with. Nobody really cares that her life is stuck in neutral; she is finding it difficult to care herself ... Ultimately, Jane begins to understand the real parts of her life that are good; her sister Emma's chances of recovery begin to improve and the two sisters try to rebuild the relationship they shared before the illness took over.

Leseprobe

This book is for Karl – who helps me to see the beauty that is everywhere, and reminds me to look for it within. The world would be a colourless place without him.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to: my editor, Helen – who saw the kernel of what really mattered in this story far before I did; my agent, Svetlana – who I trust to never lie to me; Emma – for her beautiful design; my ever-patient family and friends (both close and far) – who put up with so much time stolen from them in the writing of this one; to Toby and Steve for allowing me a space to hide away in and write for days on end; and to Johnny Cash (the cat, not the singer) who kept me company there. And now that I know how much goes into a book both before and after it heads out into the world: thank you so much to everyone at The O’Brien Press for your enthusiasm and support.

Contents

Title PageDedicationAcknowledgementsGrave MorendoVivace GioiosoPresto PateticoPrestissimo Saltando—A TempoModerato TranquillamenteThe Story Behind Plain JaneAbout the AuthorCopyrightOther Books

Grave Morendo

I didn’t even knock on the basement window before sliding it open and tumbling through, to land on the sagging sofa beside Dell.

‘Jesus, Jane,’ Dell said. ‘Can’t you use the front door like someone normal?’

Dell hadn’t yet turned on the lamp beside him, and with the fading light trying in vain to find its way in through the ground level window, the basement room was dark already. Dell was sitting where he always was, video controller between his thumbs. He hadn’t even paused the game.

‘I don’t like to run into your dad upstairs. He’ll be up any minute. He is on nights, right?’

You might say that Dell’s dad and I have never warmed to each other. In a small village, you never ‘meet’ parents for the first time, because usually you have at least seen them around all of your life, but it was still different to meet Alan as Dell’s dad and not just Alan-who-drives-the-red-Chevy. Dell and I had walked into the kitchen while his dad was eating breakfast – at four o’clock in the afternoon. I’d grabbed my history textbook before following Dell up the stairs. I guess the text was a kind of ‘parent pleasing’ prop, like it would suggest that I was doing homework downstairs.

Alan had looked me up and down in a way that pretty much creeped me out. It wasn’t a ‘are you good enough for my son?’ look, put it that way. I didn’t seem to meet his approval in the other way either though, as he had turned his attention back to the television on the counter before even saying hello. Not that he greeted Dell either.

Dell hadn’t seemed phased by that though, walking around his dad to get to the fridge without a word to him. While he went about pouring us glasses of cola, and opening cupboards looking for anything to eat, I just stood there by the table, hugging my stupid 20th Century World History textbook. Alan just kept watching the TV, which made me feel awkward. When I get nervous I can’t stay still, so I had to start running my thumb across the page ends of my book, which made it slip out of my hand. My dive to catch it had only succeeded in knocking it further – right where Dell’s dad’s full cup of coffee was. So much for parent pleasing.

While I tried to mop up most of the coffee from the table and the textbook, Dell’s dad had just watched me.

‘So you’re a smart girl, are you?’ he said, and I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the textbook or the fact that I had just ruined it, and his cup of coffee to boot, until he went on. ‘You’re wasting your time with Dell, then. He may be pretty, but he isn’t too bright.’

What was I supposed to say to that? It wasn’t a joke either. No one laughed. Worse, Dell didn’t seem to even be embarrassed by the comment. There aren’t many things people can say that I don’t have a smart comeback for. In fact I have a tendency to open my mouth without thinking, even when I shouldn’t. That though, shut me up.

‘It isn’t like he doesn’t know you’re here,’ Dell said now. His shoulder bumped mine, but it wasn’t a greeting; his car on the screen just happened to be taking a sharp turn to the right, and he followed it with a lean in that direction. He was right of course. There were not many nights I wasn’t here. Dell’s dad might not have cared, but there was a time when my parents would have given me serious grief for even thinking about being in the house with a guy with no adults around.

‘Yes, but if we don’t see one another, we can pretend I’m not here.’ I gave Dell a shove and reached over for the bag of chips in front of him. ‘It’s an agreement we have.’ I thought it might be an agreement that Dell had with his dad as well. I’d seen Dell and his father in the same room of their two-floor duplex only a handful of times in all the while we had been going out, with no more talk between them than that first day. And that was not many times, given that it felt like Dell and I had been together forever.

Dell kept up his furious driving through the streets of Sin City. I waited to see whether he would ask me about my day; I knew he wouldn’t. I was glad he wouldn’t really, but I wasn’t going to let him off so easily either.

‘I had a smashing day; thanks for asking, Dell. And how about you? Any scintillating news from the gas station? Did you put enough money into the pockets of the multinationals?’ I had to nudge him again before he registered that I had asked him a question.

‘Huh? It was alright.’ He paused the game and looked at me with that wide-open smile he has, the one that would disarm any girl. ‘Susan is going to give me full-time hours when Linda goes off to have her baby.’

I wanted to make some wisecrack about being glad that he had climbed to such dizzying heights on the ladder to success, but I didn’t. I could see he was genuinely proud of himself. Dell doesn’t have a lot of confidence at the best of times, though most people don’t know that. I didn’t know that until we got together.

He’d been two years ahead of me in school, and by the time I started high school in town he had established himself as cool. He was good at every sport, and that matters a lot around here. Plus he is that sort of good looking that makes every girl want to be near him, but without any of the bad-boy look to him. I think me and my friend Tracey spent all of eighth grade secretly swooning over him.

That was before he quit school. Not that quitting school was earthshattering or anything – lots of guys here do it because they can get a job in the mine without graduating. But with Dell, he just didn’t go back after grade 10. He doesn’t talk about it, and his dad never questioned it at all. I’m sure Alan thinks Dell was just too stupid to do grade 11 – and so even Dell doesn’t really believe his dyslexia had anything to do with his bad grades. I guess it was easier to just quit.

Maybe it was that the only light now was the blue glow from the screen, but looking at him, I could see what he would look like at forty – still little-boy cute, only with a bit of a gut and a v of forehead reaching back from each temple. Would he be sitting on this same sofa? Would I be sitting beside him? Would he be just home from his full-time job at the gas station?

I pushed the image away and took the video-game-free-moment to give him a hug. Someone had to congratulate him, and nobody else in this house was going to do it. His dad was too busy living the dream – working shifts at the mine and filling his shed with empty Budweiser cans. Just like half the town.

‘How’s Emma?’ He didn’t always ask; Dell wasn’t one to go looking for bad news.

‘Maintaining that fighting spirit that everyone is so fond of talking about.’ In truth, when I’d left her two hours ago, she’d been sucking on ice, because it was the only thing that wasn’t coming back up. The room had reeked of puke.

Dell definitely didn’t want to hear about that though. Nobody did. Everyone held fast to the image of ten-year-old Emma-Rose, dressed in a frilly pink tutu, dark brown curls framing her pixie face. Never mind that the photo on the dog-eared poster, appealing for donations for ‘our angel’, was three years out of date.

My little sister wasn’t always a living angel. Once she was a normal, sometimes annoying, always there (the way a chair in the sitting room has always been there and you don’t even think about whether it should be or not) part of the family. To tell you the truth, I never thought much about her before ‘The Diagnosis’, and ever since, I have been trying my best to think even less about her. That is rather difficult though, as the world tends to love a Living Angel. At least, that is my experience.

Not that my experience is that broad, mind you. The official population of my village, Verwood, is 423 – give or take the few who swear they’re leaving for good and never coming back, and then do within six months.

Anyway, maybe it’s because we live in such a small place that ‘The Diagnosis’ focused so much attention on one child. I mean, if we lived in a big city like New York or Paris or probably even Kamloops, nobody would have noticed as much. There must be millions of sick kids. Well, maybe not millions, but thousands at least.

Here, Emma-Rose (and by the way, nobody called her that until ‘The Diagnosis’ – it was just plain Emma before that) is something of a phenomenon. People talk about her being an Inspiration, an Example of Hope, an Angel (thus the Living Angel theme I started with). But I know what they really wish for. They want her to die, so that she can be representative of something.

I’m not sure what. I’m only fifteen and not exactly a genius. I’m not even a driven, full-of-potential kind of fifteen-year-old. I’m a class-skipping, pot-smoking (well not really, but no one in my town would care if I was), hang-out-in-my-boyfriend’s-basement-playing-video-games kind of fifteen-year-old.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some jealous, left out sister, who is on the way to ruining her life. I actually really love my sister. I used to really love my whole family – when there was a ‘whole’ to love. Now there’s just me, and there’s Dad, and if there’s any unit at all in the four of us, then it’s Mom and Ems. But that is only because they’re the only ones who spend any time together these days. I guess they have to. It’s not like you can leave a sick kid by herself in the hospital day after day.

So I get it. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it has been for nearly three years. I’m kind of done crying about it.

But when I looked over at Dell, I couldn’t help feeling like I was drowning a little. Drowning in this … waiting. This nothingness that had become my life.

So no, I was definitely not on the way to ruining my life. That would have been a whole lot more exciting.

When I turned onto our street, our house stood out like a missing tooth; it was the only one in complete darkness, even though it wasn’t quite 9.00pm, even though Dad’s truck was parked in the driveway. At least in darkness you couldn’t see the pale blue paint peeling to reveal the ugly green that Mom had insisted on painting over before she would even move in.

Poor house. It wasn’t getting much attention these days. Mom had been mumbling for weeks, every time she navigated her way through the overgrown shrubs at the front and had to wade through the grass bending over the cement walkway, that she was going to cut the grass this weekend. Well, this weekend wasn’t going to be until next year now; the ground was frozen solid. At least this year there weren’t still Halloween decorations hanging in the front windows weeks after the event. We hadn’t even bothered to put any up. There hadn’t seemed to be much point since we’d known that Emma would be back in the hospital by Halloween.

Dad was exactly where I thought he would be, on the sofa, stinking wool socked feet resting on the coffee table in front of him, mouth open, asleep. He’d obviously worked a double shift again. I felt a finger of guilt spread from my gut, seeing him so worn out like that. I should have come straight home from the hospital and made some dinner for us. That was it. From now on I was going to get it together and start making meals; at least on some of the nights Mom wasn’t coming home.

How many times had I thought this? I meant to be more of a help. I mean, there wasn’t too much reason why I couldn’t have mowed the freaking lawn for my mother. Or done a bit of laundry, or done anything at all to help. I just couldn’t seem to organise myself to actually follow through.

And the ironic thing? Nobody ever gave me a hard time about doing nothing. Nobody said anything at all about it. ‘Before the Diagnosis’ there is no way I would have gotten away with how little I do. Both Mom and Dad have this ridiculously strong work ethic and it has been their mission in life to drill it into their daughters as well. I’d always hated how Emma gave into it. She’d always made me look twice as bad when I had refused to submit to slave labour easily. She had left me to fight the battle for both of us, while she remained the good one.

‘Give it a rest, Mom, will you?’ I remember saying when she came into my room to complain about the mess, and to order me to clean it up immediately. ‘It’s not like I don’t know how to clean it. I’ll do it; just not on your timetable.’

‘If you know so much about how to clean, why is it absolutely never done?’

‘Like I said – my timetable. Summer 2017.’

Who knew that all it would take was a dose of cancer for my protest against chores to end successfully?

Only, now I could do with a little of that conflict. It turns out I can’t seem to get it together without nagging.

Soup. I could heat up some soup for Dad.

I almost lost hope of doing even that though when I walked into the kitchen. The counter all around the sink was cluttered with dirty dishes. With Emma spewing her guts the last few days, Mom hadn’t made it home at all, and well, I just told you how much I have been doing lately in the housekeeping department. And Dad was practically not here at all.

I lifted the fry pan, still covered with congealed bacon grease from Sunday’s breakfast and found a pot that didn’t need too much of a scrub. I tried not to look at the bits of food at the bottom of the sink. It reminded me of this afternoon.

It had been my job to hold the cardboard vomit-catcher today, while Mom took a break down in the cafeteria. I had known it was a bad day the minute I came into Emma’s room. She was watching the DVD of Grandad again.

I would really like to stomp on that DVD until it was only tiny shreds of plastic. It is the most ridiculous piece of cinematography ever made.

I know it by heart at this stage, and you really do have to hear the entire spiel to appreciate how utterly horrible it is. Here is how it goes:

[Enter Grandad, tubes coming out of his nose, walking with a cane, taking a seat behind his giant, some-sort-of-professional-career desk that was the place we most often saw him at, before he got too sick to work.] But now I am digressing from the script.

[He clears his throat, lays his hands upon the desk, and throws his shoulders back.]

‘Emma-Rose [even he gave in to the sentimentality of calling Emma that, the most unsentimental man I knew], you know that I am not a sentimental man [see, told you], and so I will not give you sentiment here. But you are a remarkable young girl, with a gift. When you dance, I want to dance with you.’

Are you getting the picture? I don’t think I can go through the entire thing. It makes me nearly as ill as Ems was today to think about it.

[Skip to the end of the video.]

‘And so there is only this to say to you, sweet granddaughter: fight, fight hard. I love you more than I ever thought possible [I think this bit was in reference to skipping out on his wife and daughter – who happens to be my mom – and basically not getting back in touch for twenty years, until Emma and I came along]. I may not be here at the end of the fight, but you will be.’

I cannot believe that Mom lets Emma watch that video over and over again. I mean, it can’t be only me who thinks it is ludicrous for a dying man to give an inspirational speech to a little girl. I don’t even know how Mom forgave him for leaving her and Grandma when she was only six. I would certainly not have forgiven him. Nor would I have let him give my impressionable daughter a sick video about how to beat cancer with a bit of ‘rah, rah, let’s get better’.

Here I am, going off on a complete tangent. I tend to do that. It entertains me. God knows, this town is short on entertainment.

So yes, it was a bad day. Capital B, bad day. But then, days around our house range from ‘hey, it could be worse’ to ‘it can’t possibly be worse’.

Even on the bad days, Emma is nice to everyone. She knows I hate that video, so she had turned off the laptop when I came in. The effort to sit up and do that had been almost too much for her and she’d left her arm hanging off the side of the bed while she curled the rest of her body into a ball.

‘Do you mind if I pop out for a coffee, Jane?’ Mom had asked. She had her purse on her lap, ready for the minute I arrived. It didn’t look like she had even brushed her hair today. She didn’t have any make-up on. There was a time when she would not have been caught dead without it.

‘I’d say you need more than one, Mom.’

Mom had barely given Emma a reassuring kiss and left the room before Emma started to retch, trying to reach for the cardboard bowl herself.

‘Hold on, Ems. I’ve got you.’ There was at least something I could do on days like today – hold my little sister’s impossibly thin shoulders while her body protested what the drugs were doing to her in the only way it could. I couldn’t even hold her hair back anymore. She didn’t have any to hold back.

After the first bout was over, Emma had laid back, exhausted from a day of it. There was a trail of sick down one arm of her fleece pyjama top, a top she had had for two years and not grown out of yet.

‘I’m sorry, Jane.’ She is always apologising.

‘You should be. No self-respecting thirteen-year-old wears pyjamas with teddy bears on them.’ I took off my own hoodie and unhooked her drip, manoeuvring the line through arm holes until she was wearing the hoodie instead. I had to roll the sleeves up for her.

‘Do you think Mom will let me go to the high school when I’m done here?’ she had asked out of the blue. Sometimes I hate that Emma is so optimistic. Sometimes I think it should be me lying in that bed.

I’m not though, and Dad still had to eat, so I opened a can of tomato soup and even managed to find some ham and cheese to make him a sandwich as well. When I took it out to him, he hadn’t changed positions at all.

‘Dad.’ I gave him a shake. And then another, until he finally opened his eyes and sat up.

‘I did it again, didn’t I? Fell asleep before I could make dinner,’ he said. ‘I think it must be this chair that puts me to sleep.’

‘Definitely the chair,’ I said, ‘because it couldn’t have anything to do with working sixteen hours straight.’

Dad would have smiled at that once, but now his expression never wavered from weariness. He just heaved himself out of the chair and padded to the table, like he was a five-year-old, and I was his mother, just waking him from his nap. Where Mom had become nicer, in a weird absent way, Dad had just become a cardboard cut-out of himself. It’s like he hardly existed anymore. Sometimes I felt like doing more than shaking him awake; sometimes I wanted to scream at him, just to see if he would scream back.

It kind of just took too much energy though, so instead I went back in to get myself some soup as well, even though I wasn’t even hungry. And then we ate in silence, like we always do these days. We’d given up on the small talk a while ago.

‘Well, I better get to my homework,’ I said, when my bowl was empty.

Dad didn’t ask why it wasn’t done yet. He didn’t ask where I’d been all evening. For all I knew he hadn’t even noticed I wasn’t there before he collapsed in a heap in his chair.

I’m not sure exactly when I decided to make school an optional part of my day. I’m not sure exactly why I made this decision either. If I am totally honest, then I didn’t decide at all. It just started to happen.

Emma started to get sick the same month I started secondary school, but it didn’t really interfere with my life for a while. I wasn’t even around enough to notice. Obviously in a village of 423 there aren’t enough kids to populate a whole secondary school, so I took the bus, with everyone else in Verwood, to Kendal – forty-five minutes away. This is another fantastic thing about living in a backwoods village – donating an hour and a half of your life to sitting on a bus every day for your entire high school life.

So it didn’t matter that Mom and Emma were spending all of their days in Red River, a further half hour away, while doctors tried to figure out what was wrong with her. I mean, I am not a complete callous bitch, of course it mattered that Emma was not well, but it wasn’t like all of a sudden I was the left out child, pining for my mother’s attention or anything. I was in school or on the bus the whole time these appointments were happening – nothing to do with me. Hell, once in a while the appointments even worked out so that Mom could pick me up from school.

It just happened that things were changing in our family at the same time things were changing for me as a person. It was coincidence, that’s all. I was almost thirteen. I’d say things would have changed even without Em’s diagnosis.

I’m rambling, I know. What I mean is – I didn’t start skipping school because Emma was sick. I wasn’t in some sort of emotional upheaval; it wasn’t a cry for help or anything. I just started to not want to go. Simple.

I guess somewhere in there Grandad got sick too, and even though he wasn’t really sick yet, Mom kind of hinted a lot that it would be nice for me to go up the hill to his house on some of my lunch hours, just to say hello. Sometimes taking a class off before lunch, to get up the courage for an awkward hour with him, seemed like a good idea. Sometimes, taking a class off to recover from an awkward hour with him also seemed like a good idea.

I say all of this because in the early days of missing school I had this ridiculously nice school counsellor try to say that the two things – Emma’s illness and me skipping school – were related.

I guess I’d been leaving school early for a couple of weeks, not every day, but quite a few days, before I got pulled out of my first class. Even the way she came to the door of my English class was nice.

‘You wouldn’t mind if I borrowed Jane for a few minutes, would you Mr Smith?’ she’d asked, after knocking softly and opening the door. And then all of the way down the hall to her sort-of office she had kept turning around and smiling at me, as I trailed behind her, wondering what my punishment was going to be. It had been a bit of a buzz actually. I’d never been in trouble at school in my life before. Could they kick me out?

But she was still smiling when we got to her sort-of office. I say sort-of office, because even though it had her name on the door ‘Eva Hartigan – Counsellor’, like it was an office, inside it was more like she had moved her living room into the school. There was a little couch and a matching chair—all poufy, so you sunk right down when you sat. And it was like the place had been professionally decorated – with accents that were all lime green and that blue that isn’t quite turquoise. I can tell you, that decorating definitely didn’t come out the publically funded budget. Eva had spent her own money on kitting the place out.

Instead of being inviting though, it pretty much screamed ‘desperate to be taken seriously as a professional’. As soon as she opened her mouth I knew why she needed the decor.

‘So, welcome, Jane,’ she started. ‘I want you to feel at home. Do you know why I’ve asked you here?’ Somehow, when she said anything, it seemed like she was reading it from a script.

‘I don’t suppose it’s because I’ve won a prize for ‘Best Hair of the Week’ is it?’ I told you, I was feeling a bit bold, and this woman evoked rebellion. She just kept going though.

‘So we both know that things have been slipping a little for you, haven’t they, Jane?’ She was still smiling, that kind of smile you save for people you don’t know, but who you really need to like you. Like maybe a dentist that is about to perform dental surgery, while you are asleep, so you definitely want him to like you, so he remembers you are more than just a surgery candidate.

Only I was just a twelve-year-old kid at the time. I should have been afraid of her, not the other way around.

‘Slip sliding away.’ The lyrics to the song had popped into my head, and I hadn’t been able to resist speaking them aloud.

‘Pardon?’

‘Nothing, sorry, never mind.’ It occurred to me, a little too late mind you, that I had better respond to her as if she was in control, even if it wasn’t true.

‘Jane, you’ve had an awful tragedy at home, and it’s perfectly normal to want help, but not know how to ask for it.’

‘Have I had an awful tragedy? I wasn’t aware that anyone had died.’

She went a little red at that.

‘No, no, of course not,’ she said. ‘But I am sure it must be difficult. Your Mom is very busy with your sister, just when you are entering a new period in your life.’

That had struck me as kind of funny – only because I had just started my period that day. Not for the first time of course; it wasn’t that coincidental, but it was still funny. I don’t think I actually laughed, but I definitely smiled. Poor Eva; she didn’t know what to do with that. She kind of sputtered. I think she had been prepared for me to burst into tears. There was even a big box of tissues (one with blue and green swirls adorning it, though not quite the right shade of blue to match the room) in a very prominent place, at the ready.

I tried to help her out then. I don’t exactly like to make people upset, even though sometimes I say things, or react in ways, that does just that. I adopted a more sombre expression, concentrating on feeling sad.

‘It isn’t the most cheerful time in my house.’ I would give her that; there had been this weird tension at home for weeks, with everyone doing exactly what they usually did, only with plastic grins and ending sentences in an inflection that was just a little too high to be natural. ‘But hey, every dancer goes through some injury time, don’t they?’

See, at the time when Emma got diagnosed with cancer, when she finally did, after weeks of tests – nobody told me. Everyone knew except me. Even Emma knew. When I asked what was going on, I got vague answers about the strain of excessive training on young ligaments. But of course I did know. The plastic grins made it pretty obvious that something more was going on.

So I suppose I wanted someone to tell me directly.

But this counsellor was not going there. She was a ‘play-it-safe’ kind of professional, and she had learned her catch phrases well.

‘Sometimes when we suffer an upset, instead of talking about it, we start withdrawing from things, even activities we enjoy.’

‘Uh huh? Like what activities? Flower arranging?’ I couldn’t believe that she wasn’t just going to name it – that I was skipping classes.

That did get her though. She gave a little sigh before saying, ‘Jane, not going to classes is not going to help the situation with your sister. It isn’t going to make you feel better. It’s just avoidance.’

‘Okay.’ There had been nothing else to say. It had felt like we were having two different conversations at the same time, or like she was talking to someone else who wasn’t me. I didn’t see how not going to math class, for an example, because we were going to be learning about quadratic equations say, that didn’t interest me at all, had anything to do with Emma.

‘So you will come to talk to me, instead of just leaving school?’ There had been a hopeful look to her then. Maybe counsellors get paid on commission or something – the more kids they convince to listen to their ‘wisdom’, the more money they make. ‘My door is always open, and you are welcome to just come in to hang about if you want.’

‘Sure, Eva.’ She hadn’t introduced herself; I could have been overstepping the mark by not using her last name, but I wasn’t; she smiled like I had just given her a present.

That was over three years ago and I hadn’t seen Eva in over two of those years. At first I had popped in once in a while. I hadn’t stopped skipping classes, but there isn’t a lot to do in Kendal, and people would kind of look at me suspiciously if I hung around any one store for too long. Then it got cold of course, so having a place to hang out that wasn’t in the snow was a bonus. Plus, she had those really comfortable chairs. She wasn’t even such bad company once she stopped trying to counsel me.

But then, for some reason I just stopped going. I think it was around the time that Grandad got sicker, and probably it was the time when Emma started having to stay in the hospital for weeks instead of days. I’d probably had legitimate reasons to be out of school, checking on Grandad or going to the hospital to see Emma. To be honest, it seems like a long time ago.

I just know she didn’t last the year without being chewed up and spat out by some tougher cases than me. She started to need some of those tissues on her desk after one of the tenth grade boys started spreading a rumour about what she had gotten up to on her sofa with him. And then one day she wasn’t there anymore. And there wasn’t a replacement councillor. So maybe she did use public funds to decorate her office after all, and the money was all gone when they went to hire a new one.

So now, I get called into the principal’s office every month or so. For a chat. You would not believe it, but I have never so much as gotten a suspension for skipping. I know Mom and Dad have received a few letters, and I think Mom has even managed to go in to talk to the school the odd time, but I’ve never received any real grief.

I guess I keep my head down just enough. I haven’t failed anything yet, put it that way. Teachers have more than me to worry about. I’m getting by.

Besides, with Emma in the hospital so much of the time, I usually have the excuse of not being in school because I could be there with her, which technically, is very feasible. The 1pm bus to Red River is way more direct than the one at 3:30. The one at 3:30 takes nearly forty-five minutes and so I only have about an hour and a half at the hospital before I have to catch the 6 o’clock bus back home on the days that Mom stays overnight with Emma, which seems like all of the time lately.

But the truth is, I don’t take the earlier bus most days. An hour of time at the hospital is almost too much for me to stand. More and more I feel like a stranger when I am there anyway. Emma and Mom seem to have this routine and way of not even talking and yet knowing what the other is thinking. And I am just … there in the corner. Sometimes I sit there not saying or doing anything to see when they will notice. They don’t.

I sometimes wonder if things would have been different if Emma hadn’t have gotten sick. When we were kids I never thought of Emma as being a friend; she was just my little sister. But now, with her not home most of the time, it feels like I’m missing something. Not exactly a friend, but the potential for a friend. I’m missing closeness that we haven’t had a chance to find.

Mostly though, I think things would have been the same as now. Not the same as in hanging out in the corner of a hospital room, but Mom-and-Emma-being-a-closed-unit kind of the same. Honestly though, as much as I used to complain about everything being about Emma’s dancing, I know she was really good – like professional-potential good, that was heading toward way more than a couple of lessons a week and a recital twice a year. That kind of good that requires everyone else to come second. I never said it, but I was so proud of her that it seemed worth it, being on the outside of that.

But this? This never-ending survival, with no end date? This feels so pointless.

All of this explanation is to say that even as I was getting on the bus in the morning, I’d decided that it was going to be a two-class day. I divided up my school days into zero-class days, two-class days – where I left at the first break, three-class days – until lunch, and five-class days. Basically, at this point, five-class days were mostly those that ended in a class that didn’t require much from me, or days when either I forgot to leave or where the weather was too bad for me to want to bother going out into it. Any day that I was going to the hospital was never more than a three-class day.

Nobody else seems to know my system though.

‘Hey, stranger,’ Tracey greeted as I slid into the seat beside her. ‘Are you around for lunch?’