If Only (9 page)

Danny

Hugh knows where Basken Street is. There are three used bookstores on Basken Street; one of them's called Basken Books. Hugh's dad dragged him to all three stores one Saturday. Hugh's parents are fanatical readers. (Danny has never seen so many books in one house; they are crammed into shelves everywhere.) At Christmas Hugh got
Treasure Island
,
Gulliver's Travels
and three
Hardy Boys
books. Hugh hasn't read any of them yet; he's stuck on comics. He says it's driving his parents crazy.

Danny and Hugh find two seats near the middle of
a bus, which is crowded with shoppers with parcels, mothers with toddlers and some noisy teenagers at the back.

“Basken Street is all stores,” Hugh says. “I don't think it's the kind of street where people
live
.”

“People live in apartments above stores,” Danny points out.

Danny and Hugh have to transfer twice. It's raining again, and just before they get on their final bus, a man shakes the water off his umbrella, spraying Danny's jeans. Water is already dripping down Danny's neck, and he pulls up the collar of his jean jacket. Hugh is getting wet too; his glasses are covered in droplets, and the shoulders of his nylon shell are soaked through.

This bus is almost empty, and they sit near the front so they can see where they are going.

“What exactly are we going to do when we get there?” Hugh says.

He's already asked Danny this, at least three times. “I don't know,” Danny says. “I'm
thinking
.”

Danny
doesn't
know. Part of him acknowledges that this is crazy stupid. He's hoping he'll come up with a plan when he sees where Raymond lives. He really just wants to get one more look at him. Then maybe something will come back to him. Some little clue that he missed, that he didn't tell the cop.
Proof
, Danny thinks.
I need proof
.

Hugh rubs a circle of steam off the window and peers out. “I don't recognize anything,” he says. Danny gives him a cool look and Hugh adds, “It's not
my
fault. I was sitting in the back seat of my dad's car. I wasn't paying attention. I sure hope this is the right bus.”

Danny goes up to the driver and asks, “Are we getting near Basken Street?”

“I don't go as far as Basken,” the driver says. “Get off at the next stop, turn right at the corner and it's a couple of blocks up.”

They get off in front of a bakery. Delicious smells, yeasty and cinnamony, waft out to the sidewalk, but Hugh has no money and Danny's only got enough for their bus fares. And now that they're close, he's in a hurry.

Basken Street turns out to be four blocks away. Hugh's right—it's a street of stores, some with awnings out front. Danny spots a number on the door of a shoe store. “Two twenty-nine,” he says.

“What are we looking for again?” Hugh says.

“Five forty-one. It should be on this side.”

They read out numbers as they walk two more blocks. They pass the three used bookstores, a market with bins of fruit and vegetables on the street, a delicatessen with sausages and cheese and jars of pickles in the window. They pass a few shoppers, but the street is mostly deserted.

The farther they walk, the shabbier and more run-
down the stores appear. There's litter on the street—a broken
pop bottle, a crumpled paper bag, a sheet of newspaper. The rain has turned into a fine mist, but Danny is chilled. His heart is thumping as he scans the numbers.

“Five thirty-nine,” Danny says. He glances at the window of a pawnshop, but it's closed and too dark to see anything. “It should be the next one.”

It's a laundromat; the number 541 is above the door.

“This is it,” Danny says. “Five forty-one.”

“A laundromat,” Hugh says. “You can't live in a laundromat.”

“I realize that,” Danny says tightly. He can't figure this out. He looks up, but there is no second floor, just a flat roof and nothing that could be an apartment.

“Maybe you copied it down wrong.” Hugh is shivering, and he hops from one foot to the other.

“I didn't,” Danny says. “I was careful.”

But he pulls out his piece of paper and checks it, even though he knows he hasn't made a mistake. He studies the building again and mutters, “This can't be right.”

He pushes open the door and they go inside. The room is lined with washing machines and dryers. It's warm
and steamy and smells like soap. Clothes spin in one of the dryers. A woman sits in front of it in a plastic chair, reading a magazine. She glances up at them briefly and then goes back to her magazine.

Danny and Hugh go back outside. Danny is reluctant to pull himself away, but there's no point staying here. They start walking back to the bus stop. Danny's shoulders are hunched and he shoves his hands into his pockets.

“I just don't get it,” Hugh says, his teeth chattering. He has to walk quickly to keep up with Danny. “What kind of person makes up a fake address?”

“Someone,” Danny says, “who has something to hide.”

Pam

“Too bad Danny's missing this,” I say.

It's Sunday night. Carol and I are at the White Spot having supper. Carol picked me up at my house because I'm too scared to walk to her place by myself. She invited Danny, but he wouldn't come.

I've never been to the White Spot before. It's cool. You eat
in the car. You have to put the headlights on when you want to order, and a guy brings your food out on a long, skinny metal tray that he balances on one hand.

The tray stretches across us, hooked onto the edges of the front windows. It's a bit awkward, but it's fun. I'm having a hamburger and fries, and Carol is having fish and chips. We both ordered chocolate milkshakes.

We blow the papers on our straws at each other, which Carol says is a White Spot tradition. Prince barks in the back seat, which makes us laugh. My hamburger is delicious, oozing with yummy relish. I pass a fry back to Prince, who is drooling.

Carol says, “How do you feel about school tomorrow?”

“I don't know,” I say slowly. “Okay, I guess. Billie's going to come with me. And Danny.”

“Great,” Carol says. “Billie sounds like she's going to be a good friend.”

I told Carol all about Billie on the way here. She laughed when I described Billie cutting my hair and said, “I don't think we'll be in too much of a hurry to hire her at Silver Scissors.”

Now I say, “I don't really want to talk about school.”

“Then we won't,” Carol says. “We'll just enjoy ourselves right now. And we'll make Danny come next time.”

I like the idea that there's going to be a next time. But I'm not so sure about Danny.

I push away the rest of my burger. “Danny doesn't want to be around me,” I blurt out. “He won't even look at me. It's like I did something terrible.”

Carol pauses in the middle of a bite. She finishes chewing and says, “Danny is going through a hard time.”

“Yeah, well, he's not the only one,” I say.

“True. But it's different for each of you. What you're feeling isn't the same as what Danny's feeling.”

I stir a fry in a pool of ketchup and then leave it in the cardboard basket. I'm stuffed. I put together my question carefully. “So what do
you
think Danny is feeling?”

“He's your brother,” Carol says. “Not just that. Your
twin
.
I'm only guessing, but he might think he let you down. That he's somehow responsible.”

I wasn't expecting that. I stare at Carol. “That's stupid. It wasn't his fault.”

“Of course not.”

“So why would he think that?”

“He's your brother,” Carol repeats. “He loves you.” She reaches
over and squeezes my hand. “And just in case you're thinking it was
your
fault, it wasn't. It was nobody's fault. It just happened.”

She flicks on the headlights. “It looks like we're done here. And don't worry. Danny needs to work through this. He'll come around.”

Tears burn my eyes. I turn around and make a fuss over Prince so Carol won't see. I want to believe Carol, but I'm not sure I can. I'm spinning up and down like a yo-yo. How can I be okay one minute and then the next minute want to bawl? I'm so sick of this.

On the drive back to my house, I stare out the window. I don't want to talk anymore. We cross over a bridge. It's too dark to see the water. Everything is inky black except for a few twinkling lights from boats. I close my eyes and lean my head against the cold glass.

Suddenly I think about Nana. The memory comes out of nowhere. I see her silver hair, twisted in a bun, her soft face with no wrinkles except for some around her hazel eyes, her brown arms, strong from gardening.

I smell her. Roses. Nana always grew beautiful pale yellow roses at the farm. She dried the petals, put them into little net bags and tucked them into our dresser drawers, nestling them among our T-shirts and socks and underwear.

“I smell like a girl,” Danny had complained. Nana had laughed, but she stopped putting the roses in Danny's clothes. That was what Nana was like. She listened.

I swallow a lump in my throat. Nana would have known what to do about Danny.

Danny

The model of the Thunderbolt
is finished. It's perched on the edge of Danny's desk as if it's ready for takeoff. The decals have dried. The black and yellow and silver paint gleams. Danny thinks he's done a pretty good job—a
great
job, in fact
.
Every piece fits perfectly. He didn't make any mistakes.
He has to give the Thunderbolt back to Hugh, but he's going to ask him if he can keep it until Hugh's grandmother comes. Maybe after that Hugh will let him have it for good.

Carol's taken Pam to the White Spot, and Danny is eating dinner by himself in his room. He's hunched over on the side of his bed, a plate of pork and beans and chopped-up wieners on his lap. He told Dad he has to study for two tests tomorrow, math and social studies. His books are spread across his desk. He hasn't looked at them yet; he can't stop admiring the Thunderbolt.

Danny puts his plate down beside him on the bed and crosses the room to his desk. He picks up the model and spins the propeller with his finger. He studies the tiny plastic pilot nestled in the cockpit. There's information about the Thunderbolt on the instruction sheet that came in the box
.
Danny has read it so many times, he almost has it memorized. It says that the Thunderbolt was a famous fighter plane in World War II. There is a real war hero called Colonel Kearby who flew a Thunderbolt and shot down a record number of enemy planes. Danny likes to imagine that the plastic pilot in his model is Colonel Kearby.

Danny sets the model down carefully. He goes out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom. He's usually careful to shut his bedroom door when he leaves, but this time he forgets.

When he gets back, he freezes. Dad is standing by his desk, holding the Thunderbolt.

Dad never comes in his room.

“Where did you get this?” Dad says.

“I made it,” Danny says. “It's Hugh's, but he didn't want to do it.”

The Thunderbolt is private. Danny wants Dad to go.

“You did a good job.” Dad turns it over in his hands. “Really good.”

Danny is unsure how to take the praise. He mumbles, “Thanks.”

Dad's looking at the box now. “The P-47D Thunderbolt
. I remember them from the war.”

“Were you in the war?” Danny blurts out. He realizes he doesn't know. Dad has never talked about the war, but then, Danny has never asked.

“No,” Dad says. “I was seventeen when it ended. Too young. A bunch of my buddies and I tried to enlist, but they wouldn't take us.”

Danny knows about the Nazis, and in grade seven his teacher read the class
The Diary of Anne Frank
, but the war has never touched his life.

“What about Pop?”

Dad puts the box down. “Not World War II. Pop kept the farm going. But he was in the First World War. He fought in the Battle of Vimy Ridge. You should get him to show you his medals sometime.”

Dad suddenly looks tired. He turns to go, saying, “Bring your plate to the kitchen and wash it when you're done. And don't study too late.”

“Yeah,” Danny says. He's only half listening. Pop fought in World War I. He has medals. Does that make him a war hero? And Dad. Dad had tried to join when he was seventeen. Only two years older than Danny. Danny can't imagine fighting in a war when he's seventeen. He'll still be in high school.

“Dad?” Danny says.

Dad pauses in the doorway.

“When you went to enlist. Were you scared?”

“It was a war, Danny,” Dad says. “I was petrified.”

Pam

It's Monday morning and I'm going to school. Dad has made pancakes for breakfast. This has never happened before.

Pop, yes
.
Thick buttermilk pancakes with huckleberry sauce made from huckleberries that Danny and I used to pick from a patch of bushes that grew in the bottom field on the farm.

Dad, never.

He's burned them. Danny is sitting at the table, struggling through a stack. He's drowned them in gallons of Aunt Jemima syrup.

“I'm not hungry,” I say.

“Make sure you take a lunch, then,” Dad says. “There's bologna in the fridge for sandwiches.”

Dad is done being father of the year. He sticks the frying pan in the sink, pours himself a cup of coffee and disappears. Danny scrapes his mess of soggy pancakes and syrup into the garbage can.

The doorbell rings while Danny and I are busy spreading mustard on bread, side by side but not talking. A few seconds later, Billie comes into the kitchen, her cheeks rosy, her clothes crazy (fluorescent green and sunshine yellow).

Danny must be surprised to see Billie, but he doesn't show it. He says hi and then wraps his sandwich in wax paper and grabs an apple. I run back to the bathroom for one more look in the mirror. Face—so pale that half my freckles have disappeared. Clothes—okay, my favorite Seafarer jeans and a green blouse. Hair—disaster. I poke at it for a minute, tucking a few jagged strands behind my ears.

My wild eyes stare back at me. A deer in headlights. I take a deep breath as I think of my plan. I go to my bedroom and get Stacey's skirt. It's in my closet, folded into a neat square and in a paper bag.

More big breaths. I can do this.

Back in the kitchen, we gather up homework and lunches and head out the front door. Billie sticks her bike in the garage, beside Dad's car.

Danny and I used to cut through the backyard and onto the railroad trail when we went to school. Today we stay on the road. I'm in the middle.

“We'll be your bodyguards,” Billie says with a grin. Then she sighs. “Sorry—that was a dumb thing to say.”

I just shrug. Danny flushes brick red.

As we walk, I count the days of school that I have missed. Just six. It feels like forever.

I wish the walk would last forever. It's sunny and a little bit warm, and there are even birds singing; if I could keep walking like this, I'd be okay. Not talking much, but listening to Billie and Danny, who are in the same social studies class and are quizzing each other for the test.

But too soon we turn into the schoolyard. My stomach drops and my legs shake. Stacey and her friends Jennifer and Allison are right in front of us, screeching with laughter at some joke.

They see me at the same time I see them.

“Pam,” Stacey says. Jennifer and Allison just stare. It's the first time they've seen my hair.

I planned this moment in the middle of the night when I was tossing and turning in bed. Now I feel scared.

“You're back,” Stacey says weakly.

I almost chicken out. My heart is pounding so hard, I'm sure everyone can hear it. I stop. I give Stacey the paper bag with her skirt in it. Then I dig in my pocket and pull out a handful of bills. All my saved-up allowance. I have no idea if it's enough.

I thrust the money at Stacey. “This is for the blouse. It got wrecked.”

Stacey stares at the money. Then she opens the bag and takes out the skirt. A look flickers across her face like she has just smelled dog poop.

“God!” Allison says. “You can't wear that again!”

Like I have contaminated it.

Jennifer giggles.

“The money,” I repeat. “I'm pretty sure it's enough.”

“You don't have to do that,” Stacey says. Her face is red.

“Yeah, I do.” Sweat prickles the back of my neck. I feel stupid, my hand stuck out in front of me, clutching the money, but then Stacey takes it.

“If you insist,” she mumbles.

I can't look at Billie and Danny. I have this wild urge to burst out laughing, and that definitely would not be cool.

Billie slips her arm around my waist. Stacey notices. She gives Billie this long, hard look.

We're walking away when Stacey calls out, “Hey Pam, why don't you meet us for lunch today?”

Stacey, who never phoned me once.

Stacey, the jerk.

What does this mean? Is Stacey, for one teeny billionth of a second, trying to be nice? Or is it something else?

I turn around. “No thanks,” I say grandly. “I have other plans.”

When we go inside the school, Billie sticks close to me. I tell myself that this day is going to be the worst. I just have to get through this day.

My first class is English. Billie is in another division, but I honestly think she wants to come right into my classroom with me and pretend she belongs there.

“I'm okay,” I say. “Really and truly. I'll see you at lunch.”

I sit near the front, and I'm early, so most of the kids come in after me. They push and shove in the aisle as they go past. I open the novel we're studying,
Island of the Blue Dolphins
, and wonder how much I've missed. I don't see the note at first.

Someone's dropped it on my desk—a scrap of lined paper torn from a bigger sheet.

All it says is
nice hair.

I'm not dumb enough to think it's a compliment.

I turn around and look at the kids behind me. No one meets my eyes, and I can't tell who did it. That guy Jason, smirking in the back row? Maybe. Those two girls with their heads bent, giggling?

I turn around again and force my eyes wide open for a few seconds. If you do that, you can keep tears inside you.

Who cares? I whisper in my head. Who cares?

All morning, kids stare at me in the halls. I tell myself it's just my hair, but I know it's more than that. They're wondering exactly what happened. They'd love all the messy details, but they don't have the guts to ask.

Except for Julie Glassen. Julie is the kind of girl who blurts out stupid things and then puts her hand over her mouth like she's sorry. She eyeballs me when I'm coming out of French and says, “Oh my god, Pam! Did he do that to your hair? I mean, I heard he had a knife…”

Then she clamps her hand over her mouth.

I keep walking.

By lunchtime I feel wiped. Billie and I eat our lunches outside in a protected spot, leaning against a concrete wall and soaking in the sun.

About twenty minutes before the bell, a girl walks by. I notice her platform shoes first, the kind I want to get. I glance up at her. She has shoulder-length brown hair and she's wearing a blue ski jacket, unzipped. She's carrying a bottle of Mountain Dew and a small paper bag with sticks of black licorice poking out the top. I don't remember seeing her before, and it's not that big a school.

She stops in front of us and says, “You were fantastic on your violin yesterday, Billie.”

“Thanks,” Billie says.

“This is Celia,” she says to me. “We go to the same church. Celia's in grade nine.”

Celia and I exchange hi's.

“Are you new?” I say.

“Not anymore, I guess,” Celia says. “I came in January.”

Whoops. Invisible Celia.

If I apologize, I'll embarrass her even more.

I hear myself say, “Why don't you sit down?”

As soon as the words come out, I wonder if Billie will mind. She's the one who knows Celia, not me.

Celia looks unsure. She says, “Is that okay?”

“It's a free wall,” Billie says. Is she being sarcastic or is it
really
okay?

Celia hesitates, then slides down the wall beside me. She slides off her jacket and then passes around the licorice. I take a stick and smile at her. She smiles back.

I chew a piece off the end of my licorice stick. Billie and Celia talk about some woman at their church who sings off-key and drowns everyone else out, and I can see that Billie is fine about Celia being here. Billie gives a hilarious imitation of the woman and we all laugh.

I tip my face back into the warm sun.

Me and Billie and now maybe Celia. You could almost call us a group.