Best Friends Through Eternity (4 page)

Mr. Brewster notices, too. He strides toward her desk, and I see Kierstead lean over to warn Abbi. Too late. Mr. Brewster slams his ruler on her desk.

She startles awake, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

“Can you explain to the class what a genome is?” he asks her.

All she has to do is read off the slide. But, instead, she looks kind of fish-mouthed.

“Kierstead, can you help her out?”

Kierstead sweeps her long auburn hair back over her shoulder. “Who me, sir?” Silly delay tactic.

“Is there another Kierstead in the room?”

She bats her Bambi brown eyes and titters, hand over her mouth. Kierstead has been awake the whole time; how can she not know the answer? She looks over at Cameron, who winks. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t get all this reproduction stuff.”

That gets a lot of laughs out of the whole class, not just the boys. Kierstead giggles along. It’s the cool thing for girls
to pretend they’re stupid. Still, it’s been so long since Kierstead has said anything intelligent, she doesn’t really need to pretend anymore. Does she not even get what reproduction means?

“Paige, please enlighten Kierstead and Abbi.”

I frown. Answering correctly will make me a target for them in the halls, at gym and at the overpass when the final showdown comes. I know this from the last time. All I have to do is pretend to be stupid, too, and they will leave me alone. The easy thing.

But stupid always makes me mad, and this is my final shot at life. “The genome is where the genetic information of the cell is stored.” I point up to the slide. “It really says it all up there.” Whoops, I shouldn’t have added that bit. Worse than the previous time through when my description was more in depth.

“Way to go, smart girl!” Cameron winks at me.

Kierstead and Abbi put their fingers in
O
s around their eyes to make fun of my glasses, but I happen to know that Cameron thinks girls who wear them are hot. Especially when they take them off and show a whole new identity.

I remove my glasses for a minute and smile blurry-eyed at Cameron.

He blows me a kiss.

What am I thinking? This kind of thing is enough to get me hammered by Vanessa. That’s if her underlings tell her about it.

But hasn’t Kierstead been eyeballing Cameron, too? Flirting with him a little? If her phone number had been the one Cameron called, would she have turned him down to be loyal? I never really paid attention to her behavior last Monday. Now I store it for possible later use.

As the day wears on, through math, English and French, my stomach tightens, as though the hamburger and fries inside are doubling and tripling. They’re also setting like cement so that I feel I’m lugging a boulder around. By dismissal, I just want to go home and flop across my bed, but I promised Jazz I’d wait for her. So, instead, I head to the library and ever so slowly shut off computers for Mrs. Falkner. When she looks busy somewhere else, I sit down, one arm pressing tightly against my middle to hold back the pain, and search the Net, typing in Kim’s full name, Kimberly Ellis.

Kim said I can’t confront my parents about her death unless I find the information about it myself. I stare at the screen. No one would dream that a waspy name like Kimberly Ellis belongs to a Chinese orphan, but of course she’s become a “chosen daughter,” as our parents preferred to call us. I don’t even know her or my real names, for that matter.

An archived obituary notice comes up for the
Toronto Star.
Kim “succumbed to a sudden illness” in July seven years ago.

What is that illness?

I skim to the end of the column and see that her parents requested that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Kidney Foundation of Canada.

What went wrong with Kim’s kidneys? She was never sick, unless you count the time we both had chicken pox. And why wouldn’t my parents let me go see Kim? Did she have something contagious? I know my mother is a germaphobe.

Was that why I hadn’t been allowed to visit her? The obituary didn’t give me any of these answers. For them I will need to confront Mom. Only, I have to do it carefully so as not to ruin the order of time and have my second chance end prematurely.

“
H
e’s not what everyone thinks he is.” Jazz’s eyes shine as she bounces along the way home. “You think he’s a big flirt, but he’s really just friendly.”

Jazz deludes herself. He’s not just a big flirt, he’s a major cheat. Still, “Uh-huh” is the only comment I can squeeze in.

“And he’s sick of Vanessa. He’s tired of her hissy fits.” Jazz holds her shoulders back and her chin high. She smiles nonstop.

I pick my way across the icy walk more carefully. It’s a gray, cold day, the same as it was the last time I lived through it, only today my belly holds a bucketful of greasy food. “Vanessa slapped Cameron. Did you know that? Do you understand that she is physically violent?”

Jazz is not hearing me. “Vanessa’s a stupid cow,” she says, and then, as if fate is striking her down, she slips and begins cartwheeling her arms to get her balance again.

I grab her hand to steady her. “Careful! Slow down.” We head up the overpass now, me still holding on to her tightly. It isn’t super high, which makes it a great place to train spot. If you stand there at the right time and the train comes toward you, the bridge shakes and it feels like you’re going to be run right through.

My knees turn to jelly when I see the tracks. My arms shake and my teeth chatter. I can picture myself walking along one, can see the train approaching me, even hear the conductor sounding the horn. A short note, a longer note and then a longer, desperate, unending blast as it tosses my rag-doll body into the ditch. There’s no way I can ever repeat stepping on a track again. If I am going to die the same way at the end of this week, someone will have to push me. I double over to ease the pain in my gut.

“You okay?” Jazz asks.

“Not really. I ate a hamburger today—it’s killing me.”

She shakes her head. “You never eat meat, and then you assault yourself like that?”

I nod. “It was great.” I straighten. “Ow.”

“There’s no helping you.” Jazz is vegetarian, and cows are sacred to serious Hindus. “You deserve what you get.” She’s kidding, but she’s right. Just like being hit by a train when I bailed on my best friend, maybe I deserve to die for violating my parents’ code of eating.

I try again to convince Jazz not to hang out with Cameron. “You say Cameron is just a friendly guy. But he was being
very friendly to a lot of girls. And he was going out with Vanessa.”

“Does she think she owns him?” Jazz asks.

“Uh-huh. That’s exactly what she thinks.”

“And you think I should back off because of her?”

At the top of the overpass, a blast of cold air stings my face. I nod. “Let him go out with other girls first. Abbi, and Kierstead, too. They all want him. Then they’re the ones who stole him. Not you.” Everything looks much closer than it is up here. I can see my house, storybook miniature in the distance, four long blocks away, the smoke curling up from the chimney invitingly.

Jazz turns to me. She’s stopped smiling. “Did you know my mother wants me to go to India with her this summer?”

“Why do you look like that? Won’t that be exciting?” I ask.

“Sure, I’m dying to go to India,” she says sarcastically. “Just like you’re dying to go to China.” She starts walking again, more slowly.

Dying.
I scrunch up my face. “That’s different. I’ll admit I have a mental block against a country that gave me up.”

“Different, I’ll say. You’re still coming to my cousin Beena’s engagement party this Saturday, right?”

“Yeah, but what’s that got to do with you visiting India?”

“My aunt took Beena to India last summer. That’s where she met Gurindar.”

We start down the pass now, and I spot Dad’s white truck
turning into our driveway. He usually leaves the house at four in the morning to get to the food terminal, so he often comes home early, too. All right, maybe I can ask him about Kim. He’s way less emotional than Mom. I turn to Jazz. “Isn’t it possible Beena just fell in love?”

“Yes. That’s what everyone’s saying: what a perfect love match it is. But it’s only so perfect because he’s a suitable Indian boy. Right down to his horoscope. Which is exactly what my parents want for me. And soon. Cameron might be my only chance to feel what real love is like.”

“Aw, Jazz!” Is it real love, though? As the streetlights switch on against the dark of winter, I can see that even her skin glows. I don’t want to stomp all over her happiness. Not this time through. For a moment, in fact, I want to hug her.

The moment passes, and it comes time for us to head down different streets. During the week, we never hang out. Homework, chores, maybe a bit of texting. School night is a sentence both sets of parents impose on us. But, nerds that we are, we don’t really mind.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jazz says.

“Same time, same place.” I give her a little wave. As she leaves, I double over again. Man, that hurts. Was it the burger or the fries?

Then I drag myself home the rest of the way. Inside I kick off my boots on my run up the stairs for the bathroom. I whip down my pants and sit on the toilet.
Relief!
I hate that Mom has to be right about a thing like a food
group. But that’s my parents’ business: organic, healthy food.

When I’m done, I wash my hands and open the window wide. “Hello, Dad! I’m home!” I call as I head back down the stairs.

“Hi, Paige. Just unloading some groceries. Come and look at these beautiful mushrooms we got in today.”

I head toward the kitchen. “Dad, what really happened to Kim?”

Dad turns from the counter to face me. He’s a tall guy, kind of slow-moving, with long graying hair and large, calm horse eyes. But I see panic flicker briefly in them. “I’m fine. How was your day?”

“Terrible. You have no idea. My stomach is killing me.”

“I’ll make you some Rooibos.” He fills the kettle and sets it to boil.

His shoulder blades move under his gray T-shirt, and I feel bad for a second. In a week, he won’t ever perform this simple act of love for me again. “Okay. Really, Dad, was your day fine?”

He turns and smiles, lights twinkling back on in the brown of his eyes. “Well, there’s these mushrooms.” He dumps the bag on the counter.

The mushrooms are large and white. “Yeah, I can see how they would make your day.”

“Besides that, I helped a guy buy the eggplant that was on his wife’s grocery list.” He hands me an oversize mug
with antlers on it, a souvenir from our canoe week in Algonquin Park.

Sitting down at the counter and sipping the hot, sweet liquid, I feel soothed. Our kitchen is decorated, if you can even call it that, circa 1950. The cabinets are painted mint green; the counters are pale beige Formica; the floors are checkerboard tile. Jazz says it’s like stepping into a malt shop from a classic television show.

“Dad, I was in the school library and thought I’d google Kim, just to see if I could friend her on Facebook.”

He sips from his own tea, then releases a long sigh. “You found her death notice.”

“Yeah. All this time, I thought she had left me without saying good-bye. It wasn’t her fault.”

“You’re right.”

“Why did you guys do that to me?”

“Paige.” He says my name like an apology, then walks over to my stool and hugs me. “You were so young. We didn’t know how to handle her illness or her death. Your mother fell to pieces.”

“And I felt deserted.”

“You would have felt the same way if you had watched her die. We all did. We loved Kim.”

“Dad, what did she have? Was it contagious?” That would explain us not visiting her.

“No.” He sips from his tea again and shakes his head. “An
E. coli
infection. They call it hamburger disease.”

I sputter all my tea out.

“What’s the matter with you?” He grabs a cloth and wipes up the tea.

“I ate a hamburger today.”

“And you have a sore stomach?” He grabs the phone from the counter and keys in some numbers.

“Who are you calling? I’m okay now.”

“The doctor. What are your symptoms?” Phone clutched to his ear, he touches my forehead. “Yes, hello?” He speaks into the receiver. “My daughter is suffering from food poisoning.”

“Dad, really, I just had the runs.”

“Diarrhea,” he tells the person on the other end. “Any vomiting?” he asks me.

“No.” I rub my stomach.

“You want us to wait twenty-four hours? Let me speak to the doctor.”

“Honestly, my stomach doesn’t hurt anymore,” I say quietly, trying to calm him down.

“Fine! We’ll go to Emergency.” Dad slams the receiver down. “Come on, let’s go!”

“I don’t want to, Dad. Can we just wait, like they said?”

“By then it could be too late. Let’s go.”

I slide off my stool slowly. Trips to the hospital involve hours of waiting till someone sees you. I know that from my sprained ankle a couple of months ago.