Alone at 90 Foot (8 page)

“Yeah. He begs to play every time you walk by the house.”

Jenn looks at me with her eyes smiling. “I didn't mean the dog.”

I feel my face flush. She must have seen me looking

I've decided that I'm going to be a shiftless drifter when I grow up. With no fixed address. It's the easiest out. I am fed up with people asking me what I want to be. I can't even think about it. These last few years have been so screwy, I can hardly think ahead to the next day. Even plans for the next hour can be iffy. Six years from now? It may as well be sixty.

Mrs. Dalrymple came into homeroom yesterday to discuss course choices for next year. We should have a good idea of where we're going, she said, so we don't limit our options in the future. We have
to think hard about our interests and abilities. And discuss it with our parents. And remember, the world is our oyster. What a gross saying. It doesn't make the least bit of sense.

Some people know exactly what they want to do. Darla Miller wants to be a veterinarian. She's been big into horses since she was six years old. Mike Ortega is going to take over his dad's garage someday. He's never considered anything else. Danielle Higgins wants to be, big surprise, a supermodel. Never mind that she's only five-foot-two. Joanne is considering becoming an elementary schoolteacher, an engineer or a talk-show host.

“Is that something you just decide to be?” I asked after Mrs. Dalrymple had left the classroom. I was referring to her third choice.

“Yeah, I guess so. If the world is my oyster, I can decide whatever I want. What about you, Pam?”

“I already told you. A shiftless drifter.”

“Can't,” said Mandeep. “You're already over qualified. You should have dropped out in grade eight. I'm going to take fine arts and play flute with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. What about you, Lynn?”

“My mom wants me to be a dentist.”

“Ooooo!” we all groaned.

“How could you stand to put your hands in just anyone's mouth?” I asked. “Can you imagine, like,
Carl Jenkins'? Or — or Mr. Bartell's?”

“Ooooooo!” we all said again, including Linda.

“I'll be so good, I can be super selective.”

Joanne looked at me. “Seriously, Pam. There are so many things you are good at. Look how well you did on your English essay. What about a writer of some type?”

It was true. Mr. Bartell gave me ninety-six percent on the in-class essay we wrote on Thursday. He said I showed “incredible insight into the group dynamics of the tribes.” I think he was sucking up to me for causing me to lose it in class. “I don't have any ideas,” I answered. “And nobody wants to listen, if you don't have anything to say.”

“Well, what about a forest ranger? Then you could spend all your time sitting up in a tree.”

I made a face. “Why don't you forget the flute and become a comedian, Mandeep?”

Joanne wouldn't drop it. “You like art. You like paintings. Who's that artist you really get off on? You know, that weird one that had rodents for pets. She was a member of the Group of Seven?”

I was forced to roll my eyes. “Emily Carr. She was not a member of the Group of Seven. And she wasn't weird. You should be so weird that you can paint like that.”

“Come on, Pam. Don't get so hostile. We're only trying to help.”

And I guess they were. But there's this thing I can't tell them because they would never understand. A year and a half ago, I was, like, this little girl, still growing up. That ended, like, boom. And now, I'm this semi-adult who has to make these major decisions about what I'm going to do with the rest of life. The thing is, I don't want this happening. Not yet. Not now. Not without my mom knowing. But I can't make it stop. My whole world is changing, getting way out of my control. When I want it to stand still. But it's not just me. Everyone around me is changing. There's this whole major attitude change that sucks.

Like our teachers. Two years ago, they didn't act like it was a pain if we asked them questions. A few years ago, they had patience with us. Now, it seems we're too difficult to teach. Like if we open our mouths, they can't wait to get them shut.

In stores the sales clerks used to be helpful. Now, they follow us around like hawks. On the other hand, reluctantly remembering “The Peach Sweater Incident,” I guess they have every right.

Then there are the other things. Like trying to get used to these gazelle legs of mine. And like my period which started. And other parts of me bugging out. Some days, I'm so sore and tender and bloated and achy. But there's no one I can tell. Not even Dad. Because I hate to say it, but he's part of all this.
It's like I'll break or something if he plays with me, throws me around the way he used to. Or like he'll get a disease if he gives me a giant hug. Sometimes, I think it might be something I've done.

Boys in general have gone weird. Two years ago, they acted real stupid. But at least they ignored us. Now, they act even more stupid, but they do it staring at our chests. I hate it. Can you imagine if we stared at them in a certain place like that? They'd be so self-conscious they'd probably duck out of the room, thinking something was majorly wrong.

I wish there was someone I could talk to. Other than Joanne and my friends. We have discussions about these things, but they don't amount to much. Like last summer, when we were tanning on my back lawn. Joanne insisted you're a woman the minute you get your first period. You're a woman because you can have a baby if you want.

“That's stupid,” Linda told her. “How can my little sister be a woman? She got her period when she was eight.”

Then Mandeep said, “I think Joanne is right. You're a woman when you can procreate. When it comes down to it, isn't that the reason we were put on this earth?”

“Procreate?” said Linda.

“Yeah, you know, reproduce.”

Linda frowned, like she always does when our
talk turns to semi-serious stuff. “Okay. Maybe. But what if you don't get your period? Say, like, for some medical reason, and you can never procreate. Does that mean you're a child your entire life?”

“Yeah, Joanne,” Mandeep now agreed with Linda. “Or what about if you don't get your period, but you have a test-tube baby or whatever. So what does that make you then?”

Joanne shrugged. “Well, I guess if you're twenty or something, a woman, I guess.”

“So it comes down to age?” said Mandeep. “Legally, you're an adult when you turn eighteen.” I'm not sure how I knew that.

“Pam's right. So, that's it. You're a woman when you turn eighteen.” Linda settled back in the lawn chair and closed her eyes.

Mandeep looked at her watch. “Time to turn,” she said, sipping her lemonade in the shade of the umbrella. She's our timekeeper when we tan, but she never tans herself. She says she's brown enough already.

The rest of us flipped to our stomachs. We were quiet for a while, letting the hot sun soak into our backs.

“I still think it's when you start your period,” said Joanne.

Aside from my height and the period thing, there are a zillion other changes since Mom. My
entire wardrobe is different. My hair has grown six inches and been cut twice. I've changed my room around. I made a pumpkin-pecan cake for Dad's birthday. He didn't want me to. But I had to. It's the one Mom always baked. I have a jar of sand from Ucluelet. And a peach pit from the Okanagan. And then, there's this other thing that happened, that nobody knows about. Not even Dad.

I like ice skating. Joanne and I have been going ice skating together since we were nine years old. Every Friday night during the winter, we take the bus from the Center, down Mountain Highway to the arena at the Winter Club. At nine o'clock, we take it back. We get off at the Center again and walk all the way down Ross Road. Joanne goes into her house. And I walk farther, turning on Hoskins toward mine.

Last January was when it happened. Joanne had gone into her house. I was continuing down the street toward mine. This guy, like about eighteen or whatever, was passing me. He was walking the opposite way, on the other side of the street. I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk. This is because I don't like to look in the eyes of people who I don't even know. It was dark, but it wasn't raining. Actually, it was quite warm. We passed. But then the sound of his footsteps didn't continue like they should have. I heard them stop, then swing
around. They became louder again, coming after me. He was right next to my side.

I walked quicker. He walked quicker alongside me. He hung his arm over my shoulder.

“Hey, sweetie. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

His breath was bad. His long whiskers scratched against my cheek. I had never had a man — not even my dad — so close to me. I tried to run, but he threw an arm across my collarbone and slammed my back against his chest.

“Where are you going, doll?” he hissed.

I couldn't move. I was pinned against him and he was pressing his hand across my mouth. He hissed more things, worse things, in my ear. And as he said these things, he ripped a button from my jacket and he squeezed — he
kept on
squeezing
— one of my breasts! I struggled hard but I couldn't move. And he kept on doing it. And it hurt so much! And I couldn't do anything! Except blubber like a little baby. Because it hurt. But mostly because I
hated
him. I hated him so much I would have killed him if I could have got my arms free. Instead, I bit him on the hand he had wrapped around my neck.

Right at that very same moment a car came around the corner, sweeping light across us. It came to a sudden stop. He let go of me and I started
running, faster than I have ever run in my life. I ran and ran and ran. I could feel my heart, like it was ready to explode, just below the skin of my chest. I didn't look back. I just kept on going. I tore up our driveway and flew in the side door, down the hallway and into my bedroom. I curled in a ball and rocked back and forth on my bed. I couldn't stop crying. But I had to do it quietly. I didn't want Dad to hear me. I could hear him on the telephone in his den. I pulled my pillow over my head and nearly choked myself so he wouldn't. But it was nearly an hour before I could catch my breath. And another one before I could even think again. A little while later I came out of my room. Dad was surprised to find me sorting beads and folding scraps of fabric in Mom's hobby room. He said he was just about to call Joanne's. He was beginning to get worried. He hadn't known that I was home.

I took a long shower that night and another one the next morning. I tried to get the smell of that man out of my head. But I never could. I mean, I can't. I can still smell him. And sometimes, my breast still hurts. I wish sometimes there was someone I could talk to about it. Maybe that would help. But there isn't. My dad would absolutely freak. Besides, it's too embarrassing. Who would believe a thing like that would happen for no reason? They would
probably think I made it up. So that's it. I keep it to myself.

Anyway, I don't feel like it happened to the real me, to the real Pamela Collins. Nothing has happened to her for quite some time. Sure, all these changes have taken place. Some kind of stuff has to fill the outer Pamela's days. But the real me is inside her hollowness. I'm stuck. I'm sitting alone in the dark, waiting for my mom to come home. I'm afraid to make a move without her. I'm afraid to turn on a light.

May 31st, early afternoon

I am sitting down at Ninety Foot watching Mrs. Marshall crash through the woods. There is no method to her search. With her bare hands, she tears at the undergrowth, hurls rocks over, rips at the junipers and flings fallen branches aside. She looks like some kind of rabid animal. Her hair is all matted, like it's in the early stages of dreadlocks. The cuts and scratches on her arms and face shriek this nasty red. She is way too thin, with these sunken cheeks and hollow black eyes. I want to tell her to
go home and take a hot bath. Eat a good meal. Read a book with her two other children. The ones I see sluffing around the Center like they have no place to go.

The search team has dwindled. But she's making up for it. I see her all the time, tearing crazily at some part of the canyon. I tried to talk to her once. It's frightening. Her eyes are unseeing, like windows to some chaotic planet. She's nothing like the Mrs. Marshall I used to know. The one that taught us how to make Santa Claus ornaments during craft days in elementary school. She was so patient with Randy Carlyle, who got frustrated and began acting stupid, stuffing green embroidery thread up his nose.

I told her she looked thirsty and offered to share some of my lemonade with her.

“Can't you see I'm looking for my daughter?” she shrieked at me. “I haven't got time for that.” She looked at my thermos like it held poison. And at me like how dare I interrupt her mission.

I've seen Mr. Marshall bring her food. She shoves it in. Not tasting. Still looking. Kicking the ground with her worn-out shoe. I've seen him when it's nearing dark, nudging at her, gently pulling her arm, pleading with her to come home. He tries to calm her while she cries and carries on. Finally, reluctantly, she leaves Lynn Canyon and her little daughter. But just for that night.

May 31st, evening

Nana Jean worries a lot. She fusses over little things and doesn't smile very much. She's always telling Dad what to do. She tells me what to do. She tells Dad's brother, Uncle Sean, what to do and his wife, Lilly, as well. She has suggestions for Aunt Andrea, Uncle Nick and all my cousins too. When we visit, she clears her throat a lot and fidgets with her rings, while her hands are folded in her lap.

She's totally unlike Grandpa was. He died of cancer when I was five. But I still remember him bounc
ing me on his knee, tweeking my nose, and his big thundering laugh.