Whatever Doesn't Kill You

WHATEVER
DOESN'T
KILL YOU

ELIZABETH WENNICK

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright © 2013 Elizabeth Wennick

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Wennick, Elizabeth, 1972-
Whatever doesn't kill you [electronic resource] / Elizabeth Wennick.

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0084-7 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0085-4 (
EPUB
)

I. Title.
PS
8595.
E
5593
W
43 2013                
jC
813'.54                
C
2012-907464-0

First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2012952946

Summary
: When the man who murdered Jenna's father is released from prison, Jenna decides to confront him.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover image and design by Teresa Bubela
Author photo by Beth Downey Curry

www.orcabook.com

16 15 14 13 
·
  4 3 2 1

To Jennifer Kovacic,
who only got to read the first part.

CONTENTS

THURSDAY

FRIDAY

SATURDAY

SUNDAY

MONDAY

TUESDAY

WEDNESDAY

THURSDAY

FRIDAY

TWO MONTHS LATER

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THURSDAY

I was six days old when Travis Bingham murdered my father. I've made my brother, Simon, tell me the story a thousand times: how Travis held up my dad's store, how my dad was already giving him the money, how Travis shot him anyway and left him to die on the floor in a pool of blood, the money scattered all over the floor and a ten-dollar bill still clutched in his hand.

I've seen the newspaper clippings too; Simon has them all in a file folder in a box in the basement that he doesn't know I've looked through every chance I've had. There are stories in there from the days and weeks right after it happened, articles about what a great guy my dad was, a real “pillar of the community.” There are pictures of him with the kids' softball team he sponsored, pictures of him grinning with Simon and my sister, Emily. They all say how tragic it was that his days-old baby (that's me) would never get to know him, and there are pictures of my mom standing in front of my dad's boarded-up store, holding little me and looking sad. Travis had turned eighteen a week before the botched robbery, old enough for an adult trial. His high school picture was plastered all over the papers, him shaggy-haired and surly and looking every bit like a killer should look. I've spent hours looking at that picture, enough time to memorize every contour of his face, every pimple, every fleck in those cold, yellow-green eyes.

And they're the same eyes, even in black and white, staring back at me now from yesterday's paper, which someone has left on our table at McDonald's. I don't know how long I've been staring into them, like I'm expecting him to blink, to turn tail and run, to do something other than stare out of the picture on page A8, but finally Griffin pokes me and I snap back to reality.

“Jenna? Everything all right?”

Marie-Claire laughs. “That's the longest I've ever heard you go without talking,” she says.

“You're funny.” I look at the paper again and reluctantly fold it up. I turn my attention back to the group at our table: besides me, Griffin and Marie-Claire, there's my best friend, Katie Becker. We're camped out in the corner of McDonald's, as far away from the busy counter and the kids' PlayPlace as we can manage.

We come here once or twice a week for lunch, the four of us. There aren't a lot of kids from our school who make the trek here at lunch hour, and the throngs of stay-at-home moms who bring their kids here to let them tear around the indoor playground while they sit and chat are a nice change from the cafeteria crowds.

Griffin and Katie and I have known each other since grade three. Marie-Claire, who is a year older than us, was the loser at her school out on the east coast before we all met up in high school last year. Marie-Claire went to a French school out east, so she's a year behind in English, which is where we met her. Katie gets mocked for her weight, me for my clothes, Marie-Claire for her thick French accent and Griffin for…well, being Griffin. Together, we're the Loser Club, an assortment of sore thumbs at a school full of punks and jocks and wannabe rappers.

Of course, they all know the story about my dad. It's hard to keep secrets in a group this small, and anyone who's been to my apartment is bound to ask why I live with my older brother and sister instead of my parents. But the feeling of suddenly seeing Travis Bingham— fifteen years older and a little weathered-looking but absolutely, unmistakably him—where I expected to find the comics page…well, I'm not ready to share that just yet.

Katie's the only one still eating—two double quarter-pounders with cheese, a Coke and an extra-large order of fries. Griffin has finished his Happy Meal with chicken nuggets and is playing with the toy that came with it, a little stuffed bear with a tiny pink T-shirt you can put on and take off. He is drawing a skull and crossbones on the front of the shirt with a Sharpie. I'm surreptitiously picking at the contents of the bag lunch I brought from home and tucked into the corner beside me so the staff won't see me eating my own food and throw us out. I'm broke this week: none of my babysitting clients have paid me in awhile, so even a couple of bucks for a hamburger is out of the question.

I force some small talk. “I can't believe how cold it's been all week.”

“I hear it's supposed to warm up next week. We're supposed to get snow on Wednesday.”

Katie shakes her head between bites of hamburger. “You can't trust the long-range forecast. It's got, like, a thirty percent chance of being right.”

“I could probably have a thirty percent success rate if I just made something up.” Griffin chortles. He always laughs before he says something he thinks is going to be funny. “I predict three weeks of sunshine and thirty-degree temperatures, followed by hurricanes, and crickets falling from the sky.”

Griffin is such a geek that he says thank you if you call him one. He also answers to “nerd,” but he draws the line at “dork.” He reserves that word for the few kids lower on the social totem pole at school than he is. You'd think someone who's had his ass kicked twice a week since kindergarten would want to spare other people the same treatment, but frankly, he can be a bit of a jerk sometimes.

When I think no one's looking, I carefully roll up the entire section of the newspaper with Travis's picture in it and tuck it into my tie-dyed messenger bag alongside my school books, hoping no one has noticed me taking it. I don't think we'd really get kicked out of McDonald's for stealing an old newspaper, but since I didn't buy anything in the first place, I'd hate to push my luck.

Griffin catches up to me as we wait for the lights to change at the Delta, where Main Street switches from one-way to two-way—or vice versa, I suppose, depending on which way you're going. Ordinarily I don't pay a lot of attention to traffic lights, especially when it's this cold out. If there are no cars coming, I'll take my chances and run across. But crossing the Delta means making an odd hop, skip and jump across three separate intersections, and jaywalking here means taking your life in your hands. Even crossing with the lights is sometimes more dangerous than a trip to McDonald's is worth.

“So what's with the newspaper?”

I should have figured he'd be the one to notice. Not much gets past Griffin Paul. “Nothing,” I tell him, determined to be mysterious. “Just an interesting story.”

Griffin doesn't buy it. “Marie-Claire's right: you're never quiet. Come on, what was so interesting that you'd take the newspaper?”

“It wasn't anything big. It really wasn't.” I struggle for a lie, but nothing comes to mind. “There was a story about some software company making a donation to this halfway house so criminals can learn to type and get jobs after they're released back into the community.” Which is technically true: that is what the article was about.

“Well, that definitely sounds like an article worth holding on to.”

I try to think of some reason I might have wanted to keep the article—a school project it might relate to, a personal interest it might have piqued. But I can't come up with anything. So I tell him the truth. “Travis Bingham is out of jail.”

From across the street in the middle of afternoon traffic, Marie-Claire hears what I say to Griffin and jogs across at the light to catch up with us.

Now, I should tell you, Marie-Claire thinks she's a vampire. For real. She wears black clothes and silver chains and goes to parties with university kids who think she's nineteen. They drink vodka and tomato juice and pretend it's blood. Of course the other kids at school mock her relentlessly, but that's why she hangs out with us. If she didn't have a place with the rest of the losers, she wouldn't have any age-appropriate friends at all. But I swear, sometimes I wonder if there might be something to this whole vampire thing. It's like she's got superhuman hearing sometimes.

“No kidding,” she says. “The guy who killed your dad is out of jail?”

“I guess so, if he's in a halfway house.”

“I thought he got twenty-five years.”

“That doesn't mean anything.” Katie has caught up to us too; she's pushing three hundred pounds and doesn't have a lot of “hustle.” Despite lagging a few steps behind the rest of us, though, she seems to have caught up on the gist of the conversation. “If you don't get in any trouble in prison, you automatically get out after you serve two-thirds of your sentence. Plus, if you're in jail for, say, two years while you're waiting for your trial, you get credit for four years.”

Katie can be a know-it-all, but it's hard to argue with her when she really does seem to know it all sometimes.

Marie-Claire grabs my arm, her black-painted fingernails digging into the ratty fabric of my coat so hard I can feel them through my clothes.

“We have to go see him,” she says.

“What?” It takes me a second to even process what she's said.

“Travis What's-his-face. Burnham.”

“Bingham.”

“Whatever. Don't you want to confront him?”

“Well, I…” I frown. “I guess I've never really given it much thought.”

I don't think I've ever seen Marie-Claire smile before, but she's grinning now with an almost hungry look in her washed-out green eyes. “Come on, you've known about this guy your whole life. He ruined your entire family, and now here he is, out in the world where you could just walk right up and talk to him? Where is this place? We have to go!”

“I don't even know what I would say to him,” I protest.

“You'll know,” she says, her voice dripping with melodrama. “You'll see him and you'll know exactly what you're supposed to say. We'll go with you. We can go after school.”

“I can't tonight. I've got to meet the kids at the bus.”

“Well, then, tomorrow.”

“I can't go tomorrow. I've got to work after school,” Katie chimes in. Apparently this is a group activity now.

“Saturday then,” says Griffin. He pushes his heavy glasses up his long, pointy nose. “You don't have to babysit this Saturday, do you?”

“I'll…have to check my schedule,” I manage. But I'm a lousy liar. Without any particular input from me, it's been decided. We—the four of us—are going to stalk Travis Bingham.