Blue Gold (25 page)

“We have to hurry,” warned Olivier. “Kayembe is expecting us soon.”

“Hurry to do what, exactly?” asked the Belgian.

“To clear the clinic!” Sylvie told him. “When Kayembe realizes we're not coming, he'll attack!”

Doctor Van de Velde shook his head vigorously from side to side. “This is not our problem. We can't put our facilities at risk for the sake of one family!”

Marie turned on the head doctor, sheepish no longer. “Is this how we're measuring people's lives now, Bernard?” she said, waving her hand around at the now empty clinic. “In concrete blocks and tin roofs?”

The Belgian shot Sylvie and Olivier an embarrassed look. “Of course not,” he replied, “but if they destroy this clinic, what's to prevent them from going after the other ones, and even the hospital?”

Olivier spoke up. “That's exactly the problem. Kayembe counts on everyone being afraid of what he will do to them, so he does whatever he wants. Somebody has to stand up to him.” Sylvie was proud of him. He sounded just like Papa.

“You know he's right, Bernard,” pleaded Marie. “Somebody has to take a stand. Otherwise, what are we doing here?”

Doctor Van de Velde wavered for a moment. At last persuaded, he crossed to the admitting desk and, putting down the AK-47, picked up a satellite phone and dialed.

“It's Doctor Van de Velde,” he said. “We need increased security at the Zone 3 clinic immediately, second­arily at all medical facilities and the foreign workers' compound.”

Olivier stepped forward and whispered to the doctor, “Not the camp guards! Kayembe owns most of them!”

It took Doctor Van de Velde a second to process this, then he rang off immediately.

“Call the Tanzanian police,” suggested Marie. “Call the Canadian embassy in Dar es Salaam, too. Call all the embassies.”

Doctor Van de Velde thought for a moment. “We have to keep our people in one place. Neema, go to the compound and tell everyone to stay there.” She nodded anxiously and started away. “Wait!” he said. When she turned back, he thrust a portable defibrillator into her arms. “Take whatever we can carry!”

Marie told Sylvie, “Help me gather things from the back.”

Sylvie started to follow Marie, but stopped when she saw Olivier grab the AK-47 from the desk. He slipped toward the door. “Where are you going?” she called to him.

“To get Mama and the children. I'll meet you at the foreign workers' compound.”

“Don't take them there!” countermanded Doctor Van de Velde, his ear to the sat phone as he waited for a connection. “Sylvie, okay, she's staff. But the general population isn't allowed inside.”

“But Kayembe will kill them!” protested Sylvie. “He'll burn down the hut!”

“If we let one family in, they'll all want in.”

Olivier gave Sylvie a searching look. “You said they would help us.”

“Please!” pleaded Sylvie. “Not everyone is at risk. Only my family.”

“If we don't allow them inside, then I'm not going either,” said Marie. She had come out from the back, her arms full of equipment. Neema turned a scathing glare on Sylvie, as though this was all her fault. But the Belgian took in Marie's determination, and relented.

“There's no time to argue about this,” he said, and turned to Olivier. “Go, then. Get your family—but only
your
family.” Olivier nodded and headed out the door. “And bring that rifle back with you!” Doctor Van de Velde yelled after him.

Marie saw Sylvie's anxious look. “Don't worry,” she told her. “They'll be safe soon.”

Sylvie wished she could believe her. “Here, take these,” said Marie, loading Sylvie's arms with tubing and monitors.

Doctor Van de Velde at last got through to the Tanzanian authorities. “We are expecting an attack,” he shouted into the sat phone. “Please hurry!

BY THE END OF THE WEEK
, Fiona had more or less succeeded in putting the whole sexting episode behind her—aided greatly by a call from Lacey telling her that everybody at the party felt really bad about what had happened, and the way they reacted. Rick even wanted to find Ryan and kick his ass, although Lacey thought that was mostly just talk. Lacey put a message out on Friendjam, telling anybody who had received the photo to delete it immediately, so hopefully that was the end of it.

“Ignore it,” was Lacey's advice. “Stay off of Friendjam for a few days, and just forget about it.”

Fiona briefly considered texting Ryan to tell him what a low-life scumbag he was, but she decided that would give him too much satisfaction. Lacey was right—the mature response was to rise above the whole thing and pretend it never happened.

It was Labor Day weekend and the beach was packed. A breeze off English Bay hinted at the end of summer, cooling down the open kitchen at the back of the food stand and putting Cathy in a good mood as she worked over the deep fryer.

“I'm going to miss you around here, kiddo,” Cathy told her, “but you must be looking forward to getting back to school.”

“I am,” agreed Fiona as she set up the coffee machine for a fresh batch. She wouldn't have said so after her humi­liation at Lacey's party, but now that her world hadn't actually ended, she was once again excited about grade ten, and about moving past last year's mistakes—namely Ryan.

Cathy threw a nod toward the order window. “We got customers.”

Fiona turned to see a gaggle of three boys, doubled over with laughter, as though they were trying to outdo each other telling dirty jokes. From their scrawny frames and zit-pocked complexions, she pegged them as grade eights.

“Can I get you something?” asked Fiona, going to the window.

“Yeah,” said the boldest of the three. “How about a feel?”

Fiona stared at him in confusion for half a second. Then she saw the cell phone in his hand.

“You're Fiona, right?” he said.

Fiona's head was suddenly light. “Get lost,” she said, knowing she had gone every shade of red.

“C'mon!” shouted the shortest of the trio. “Show us your tits!”

Cathy was at the window in a flash.

“Get out of here!” she yelled. “Don't you let me see you back here again!”

The three boys took off at a run, laughing even harder. Cathy turned to Fiona. “What the hell was that about?”

It was on the tip of Fiona's tongue to say “nothing,” but instead she burst into tears.

“I did something really stupid,” she said. “I took this picture of myself…”

She trailed off, unable to say the words. Fiona couldn't look Cathy in the eye, but Cathy must have understood, because the next thing Fiona knew she was being folded into a grandmotherly hug.

“Honey,” she said, “everybody makes mistakes when they're young.”

Fiona's mind raced. How did those walking pimples get hold of the photo? She imagined it loose on the Internet—forever!

“What am I going to do?” choked Fiona between sobs. “My life is ruined!”

“Kiddo, your life has barely even started,” Cathy replied, matter-of-factly.

But her words were no comfort. How could somebody Cathy's age possibly understand how unforgiving cyberspace could be? But Fiona knew, and she also knew what was going to happen next.
I'll be the joke of Vancouver, of the whole country. Of the whole world!

Customers were lining up at the order window, and Cathy eyed them, no doubt thinking about how this was going to be one of the busiest afternoons of the year.

“Can you pull yourself together?” she asked, then smiled as Fiona gave a quick nod. “Attagirl. Go wash your face,” she said, “and don't let the bastards get you down!”

 

FIONA MANAGED TO GET THROUGH
to closing time, but she wondered with each hot dog and ice cream bar she served whether the customer had seen the picture—imagined that every group of teens trading laughs as they waited in line was laughing at her. After work, she sat at the back of the bus on the way to her dad's, keeping her face turned to the window in case anyone recognized her, and her backpack on the seat beside her to discourage anybody from sitting down.

Never had Fiona been so grateful to climb the hill into her dad's neighborhood, where nobody except her family knew her. But when she entered the house, a strange stillness greeted her. Katie was likely in bed already, but where was everyone else? She wondered for a moment if she'd gotten the night wrong, but—no—it was definitely her night at Dad's.

“Hello?” she called.

“Back here,” came her father's voice in reply.

Fiona headed to the large open kitchen at the back of the house, where she found her dad and Joanne seated at the glassed-in table that overlooked the backyard pool, apparently waiting for her.

“Hi,” her dad said, mustering a smile.

He tried to look her in the eye, but he couldn't quite seem to manage it.

“What's wrong?” asked Fiona, her mind rapidly processing various scenarios of disaster. Brandon and Katie must be okay, she figured, or Joanne wouldn't be so calm.

“Sit down, honey,” her dad told her.

“You're scaring me,” she said.

“Nothing's wrong,” he replied. Joanne threw him an
oh really?
look, prompting him to add, “We just need to talk.”

Fiona sat down at the table, looking from one to the other.

“Are you hungry?” asked Joanne, but her manner was cold—lacking her usual determination to be the world's best stepmom.

“I ate at work,” said Fiona.

Joanne looked to Fiona's dad, as if to say,
get on with it
.

“I don't think I was supposed to receive this,” he began. “Talia from the softball team must have me in her address book and sent it to me by mistake.”

Flustered and embarrassed, her father took his smartphone out of his pocket and handed it to her. With a sickened feeling, she glanced at the screen long enough to register a few words from Talia's email below the photo—
“stupid dumb slut!” Fiona passed the phone back to him, wanting to die—right there, right then.

“We're surprised, to say the least,” Joanne piped in. “What if Brandon or Katie saw that?”

“Joanne, let me handle this,” said her dad. Fiona had never heard him use such an angry tone with Joanne before.

“Saw what?”

They all turned to see Brandon standing at the top of the basement stairs, emerging from the rec room below with his friend Tommy.

“Nothing,” said Joanne with forced pleasantness. “Go downstairs and play Ping-Pong or something. I'll bring you down a snack in a minute.”

Brandon and Tommy exchanged a look, like they knew they were missing out on something juicy, and reluctantly headed back to the rec room. Fiona's dad waited until they were out of earshot before saying, “Fiona, you know we're on your side no matter what. But obviously there's stuff going on in your life that we don't know about.”

“I made a mistake,” said Fiona, her voice small.

“I'm really struggling to understand why you would take a picture like that in the first place,” said her father, “let alone why you would send it to all your friends.”

“I didn't!” protested Fiona. “I sent it to one person I
thought
was my friend.”

“Who?”

“Ryan, when we were going out.”

Fiona saw her dad struggling to process this. His little girl…

“Have you…been intimate with this guy?”

“No!” replied Fiona, shocked that he could even think that. “We only dated for a few weeks, and we broke up months ago.”

“And this guy sent this picture around?” said her dad, reddening with anger.

“Great company you keep,” remarked Joanne.

Fiona's father snapped, “She's my daughter—let me deal with this.”

“Fine,” Joanne bit back. She went to the counter and started pulling together a snack for the boys. Fiona glanced at her dad, but he seemed fixated on his balled fists resting on the table. He stayed silent until Joanne had disappeared down the stairs with a plate of cheese and crackers. His next words sent shock waves through Fiona.

“I'm going to need a phone number for Ryan's parents.”

“Dad, no! Just leave it.”

“I just want to talk to his parents.”

“No! Let me handle it.”

“Fiona, how are you going to handle it?” he said, letting his exasperation show. “This guy took advantage of you, and now he's damaged your reputation, possibly permanently. That picture is out there. I mean, ten years from now, future employers are going to google your name and find it.”

Fiona felt her stomach rise with renewed dread. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I'm just telling it like it is. Ryan has to take responsibility for what he's done.”

“What you mean is, I have to take responsibility.”