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  “Um,” I say again.

  There’s a knock on the windshield. I scream.

  The guy shakes his head at me, sighs, then rolls down the window. “Careful, Kay,” he says. “I’ve got a wild one here for you.”

  This middle-aged lady with a bright orange raincoat pulled up over her yellow hair says, “Hey, Levi. It’s you. Thought I heard something out here—What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing. Banged it up when I was working at the woodlot today.”

  “You’re going to have quite a shiner!” she says. She wags her finger at him. “Oh, the girls are going to love that. They’ll all be wanting to look after you now.”

  He goes, “Ha-ha.”

  I just look away.

  “Got an empty bed for my friend here?” he says.

  “Oh, you’re teasing me now,” she says. “I got too many—as usual.” She waves at me to follow her. “C’mon in, dear. I’ll put a fire on for you. You look like you’ve had a rough ride.”

  Levi lets a laugh out through his nose. “You don’t know the half of it,” he says. He passes me my suitcase and winks at me with his good eye. “Watch out for strangers now, girl.”

  Kay leans in the door and goes, “Listen. Don’t suppose you’d clean my gutters for me sometime, would you, Levi? With this bad knee, I can’t get up there myself any more.”

  He winks at her too. “When have I ever said no to you?”

  As the van pulls out, Kay turns to me and goes, “That Levi Nauss. Don’t you just love him?”

  13

  Saturday, Midnight

  The Shopping Channel

  Here’s your exclusive opportunity to purchase silken pyjamas, luxurious Egyptian-cotton sheets and fail-proof sleep aides from Mimi Schwartz’s glorious Sweet Dream Collection.

  If I could just sleep, I’d be okay. My mind wouldn’t be bouncing around like this. I wouldn’t be thinking about Mom or Anita or Selena or even Dad. I’d completely forget about the whole—you know—“thing” in the van. Best of all, I wouldn’t be hearing that German girl practising moose calls in her sleep any more. (I can’t believe people actually pay to stay in a room full of strangers.)

  Why can’t I sleep? I’m exhausted. I was even too tired to finish the grilled cheese sandwich Kay made me.

  Okay. That’s not one-hundred percent true.

  The real reason I went to bed is that I couldn’t stand hearing her talk about Levi any more. Has she got a crush on him or something? Is she his mother? Or was she just trying to make me feel bad? “Oh, the girls all love Levi Nauss. Everyone loves Levi! So big and strong. A gentle giant! Give the shirt off his back to help somebody. And funny? That boy…”

  Okay. Enough. I get it. I’ve just humiliated myself in front of Prince Levi of Shelton. How long before a juicy story like that makes it round a little place like this? My guess is it already has.

  One more reason to catch the next plane—as in, bus—out of here.

  Right. I’ve got to go to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day. I’m getting up early, getting home. I’ll just tell Anita that Dad was away so I came back.

  No. I can’t say that. If she finds out he was on the road when I was supposed to visit, all hell will break loose. Mom’s lawyer will contact his lawyer. Kelly will testify that I called to say I wasn’t coming. No one will believe her, of course—I mean, she absolutely swears she hasn’t had a boob job—but still. It’s not going to make my next visit any better. Dad’s a space cadet and everything, but I like him. In his own cheesy way, he’s cool. He never bugs me about stuff. I can’t go calling his girlfriend a liar. I need a place to escape to every so often.

  I guess I have to tell Anita the truth.

  Clearly I’m even more tired than I thought I was, because, for a second there, that actually sounds like an okay idea. I roll over to go to sleep.

  My eyes pop back open.

  Tell Anita the truth? Admit that I took off? Am I insane? She’d cut off my Visa. She’d be on me like a stalker. Life would be even worse than it is now—especially since she’d finally have a legitimate reason for torturing me.

  And she’d tell Mom about it too, that’s for sure. She doesn’t tell her everything—Anita doesn’t like to “disturb” Mimi unless she has to—but I can never get away with the big stuff. It must be duly reported to the authorities.

  Not that Mom would do anything about it. (That would be a lot to expect.) She might sigh and tell me how disappointed she is. If she’s not too busy, she might explain how my inconsiderate actions hurt “those who love me” and ask for a written apology. More likely, she’d just pull her lips together and look at me over her reading glasses before going back to her production schedule for the next day. Big deal. I can handle that.

  Then why does it make me feel sick, the thought of Mom finding out?

  I stare at the moon shadow the trees make on the wall. The rain must have stopped—they’re not moving.

  Because she’d know I was in her room. She’d know I’d found out about her little hiding spot. Why else would I go to a place like Port Minton?

  No. No. No. I’m not thinking straight. I figured this out already. Port Minton would mean nothing to Mimi. She’s never even been to Nova Scotia! And anyway, there’s no way she’d ever own a ring like that. Some fan probably just sent it to her and…

  Goosebumps start behind my ears and crawl all the way down my back. I suddenly know the ring is hers. Every inch of her room gets cleaned every day. The ring couldn’t have just fallen on the floor. It wasn’t from a fan either. Gifts from fans are opened at the office and donated to charities. Mimi never even sees them.

  The ring was in the chair with that picture of Mom when she was a kid. She hid them there.

  Why?

  I totally give up on the idea of sleep.

  I don’t understand her. She’s told the entire world about her nose job, her tummy tuck, her bad relationships, her jujube addiction. So why would she hide some old ring?

  Okay, the ring I can sort of see. Maybe there’s some romantic attachment to it. Maybe she was—is?—involved with the guy who owns it.

  Yeah. So? Who cares? You can’t pick up a magazine without seeing her “linked” to some new man. Old, young, single, married, funny, boring. It’s always someone—even when it isn’t.

  I used to be in the paper a lot too when I was little, when I was cute. I got big and Mimi made a “plea for privacy.” Since I never got around to snorting coke or running off with my tennis instructor or doing anything scandalous like that, the media kind of backed off. The paparazzi haven’t bugged me since Mom spent a wad on that twelfth birthday party for me at the Russian Circus. As far as they’re concerned, I don’t exist any more. I’m not worth the effort. Nobody knows me.

  In fact, I probably could have told Kay my real name and it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. It’s not like there’s only one Robin Schwartz in the world. It’s not like Kay’d look at me and immediately see that cute little red-headed kid in the chef’s hat. Even the lady at the ticket counter was only joking about my name.

  But Kay had the Enquirer spread out on the kitchen table with a big picture of Mom on the cover. (“Oh, Mimi, Oh My! Did you buy yourself some new cleavage?”) She folded up the paper to make room for me and went, “Sorry. Here I’ve been babbling away and I didn’t even ask your name.”

  No way I could say Robin Schwartz then. Who knows what they were talking about in the article? I panicked. I did this stuttery thing for a while, then I said, “Opal.” That’s my middle name. I’ve always hated it. It’s ugly.

  Most people think it’s Oprah—like Mom was naming me after her hero or something—but Kay got it right away. “Opal. Really? Nice name. You have relatives around here?”

  “No,” I said. “No, uh, my family’s from…” I was desperately trying to come up with some lie when the grilled cheese sandwich started smoking.

  Kay jumped up to deal with it. When she sat back down, all she wanted t
o talk about was Levi again.

  Every time she mentioned him, I pictured myself sucker-punching him in the face.

  “Saving myself” from his advances. It makes me cringe. I think of me saying have your way with me as if I’m some dainty damsel-in-distress and I cringe even more. I’m so embarrassed.

  Is Mom embarrassed? Is that it? Is that why she hid the stuff?

  No. This is a woman who’s had her Pap smear done live on-air. What could be more embarrassing than that?

  Some blurry old photograph?

  No way. She’s had a picture of herself as a kid on her show. I saw the episode. Why would she hide it now? Hide it inside a chair! I mean, that’s not like throwing it under your mattress or anything. That takes work.

  It almost makes me laugh. Unless a camera’s aimed at her, Mimi doesn’t do anything for herself. I can’t imagine her down on her knees with a hammer and nails—you know, squirrelling the picture away. It’s so out-of-character. Like she’s going to risk chipping her manicure for something like that?

  So maybe Anita did it for her. Maybe Anita’s in on the secret. Maybe that’s why she went so berserk when I knocked the chair over.

  I don’t think so. Anita did go berserk, but that’s, like, normal for her. If I’d stumbled on to some secret treasure trove, she’d have cranked the volume up way more than that. All things considered, she was almost reasonable. (She didn’t break a blood vessel like that time I got grape Kool-Aid on the guest towels.)

  No. Anita doesn’t know. This is Mimi’s little secret.

  The girl across the room is smacking her lips in her sleep. She’s either having a food dream or a guy dream. Whatever. I wish she’d quit it. It’s really annoying.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  Where am I going to go?

  Paris. I keep thinking of Paris. I could live off croque monsieurs and Orangina, stay at that little hotel Mimi featured in “France for Freeloaders.” I could just hang out.

  French TV is lousy. Doesn’t matter. If I got really bored, I could go sightseeing. Climb the Eiffel Tower. Look at the paintings in the Louvre.

  There’s something else about that picture of Mimi too. I can’t put my finger on it. What is it? It’s definitely Mimi standing there, but there’s something about her that doesn’t look quite right. Maybe if I could find out who the other people are in the picture, I’d know. There are some names on the back. I wonder if I could track them down somehow.

  Mimi did a show on finding long-lost friends. It’s easy now with the Internet.

  It’s not going to help. I only have first names. My guess is there are quite a few Kathy W.’s and Lenore T.’s in the world.

  The ring’s a better lead. I wonder if Shelton has a public library. If it does, they might have some stuff there on Port Minton High. How many guys could have played football in a little place like that? It shouldn’t be that hard to find out where the ring came from.

  I’ll just stay in Shelton long enough to check that one thing out, then I’ll get going.

  Where? Not France. I’d get too fat in France. I’ve got to go somewhere where the food is bad. Where there’s no food.

  I’ll Google “famine” when I’m at the library tomorrow. I’ll figure something out.

  14

  Sunday, 10 a.m.

  You, You and Mimi (rerun)

  Mimi interviews four dynamic, attractive women on the joys of being “Alone and Happy.”

  It’s the quiet that wakes me up. I open my eyes and look around. It’s bright and sunny but totally silent. It’s so weird. I feel like I’m in one of those movies where every person in the entire world has just up and died except me. I almost panic for a second there. Like, where am I? Where is everyone?

  No German moose calls. No smacking lips. Everyone else must have slipped into their spandex bicycle gear and taken off for another glorious day of inhaling diesel fumes.

  I stumble out of bed and look around. I go, “Kay?…Kay?” I stop at the top of the stairs and listen. Nothing.

  I’m alone.

  That’s when something bizarre happens. I forget about panicking. I forget about the ring and Mom and everyone. My body, on its own, just decides to take a deep breath and start smiling. So this is what freedom feels like! It’s not as good as a coma, but just about.

  I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I take out my retainer. I don’t think Kay will mind me using her towel. I borrow a little of her toothpaste too. I squeeze some on my finger and start to brush.

  Jeez, I look gross. There’s a little scab on my lip from the chair bashing. I went to bed with my hair wet, so I’ve got a major Albert Einstein thing happening. I’ve got bags under my eyes the shape and colour of prunes. My glasses are bent. (I must have done that in the van.)

  Who cares?

  I spit out the toothpaste. I wipe my mouth off on my T-shirt. I love the thought that Anita isn’t here to bug me about it. I even kind of like the look of that big blick of toothpaste across my chest. A bold stroke of self-expression.

  I go downstairs. The hall’s dark but there’s so much sunlight streaming into the kitchen it’s practically glowing. I feel like I’m some puny earthling being drawn into the mother ship. There’s a box of cornflakes and a bowl on the table. Kay’s left me a note on the back of a bulletin for the Shelton Volunteer Fire Department Lobster Supper. Her handwriting is all neat and perfect.

  Hi Opal,

  I didn’t wake you up because you looked awful beat. I’ve gone to do some errands. Here’s some cereal. There’s tea over on the stove. If you want to go into town, there’s a bike in the shed. Just turn right on the 109 and take Exit 17 into Shelton. It should take you about twenty minutes. Don’t worry about locking up.

  Have a nice day!

  Kay

  I smile at her note and pour myself a huge bowl of cornflakes. They’re a bit stale but whatever. It’s probably the best breakfast I ever had.

  I put the kettle on for some tea. Grandpa likes tea. I pour myself another bowl of cornflakes. I wonder where Kay keeps the television. I look around. I glance past the window and see an old lawn chair sitting in the sun.

  It’s so not-me but I get this urge to go outside. I remember staying somewhere with Mom that had chairs like that—the bent metal ones with the woven plastic seats that leave criss-crosses on your thighs that make them look like uncooked danishes. Where would Mimi ever have gone that had junky stuff like that? I don’t know. All I remember is a little cabin on a lake. It was dark and kind of smelly inside but not in a bad way. The furniture was old and squeaky. No one was around except Mom and me.

  And Dad. Dad was there too. It must have been during one of their little reconciliations. I was about eight. We sat around on the deck, swatting mosquitoes and doing this huge jigsaw puzzle of some castle with swans out front. We were so happy.

  We canoed. We sunbathed. We swam. We had to push Dad in every time because he said the water was too cold. It was cold, but Mom and I didn’t mind. Skinny little Mimi didn’t mind. We swam and swam and swam and then we made a fire in the big old stone fireplace.

  And Mom cooked! I mean, nothing fancy, but it was better than that old “Eating Like a Birdie” stuff. She made tea biscuits and pea soup and these delicious molasses pancake things, too. What did she call them? She had some weird name for them. Lassie tootins. That was it. Lassie, like molasses. I don’t know what tootin means but I’m pretty sure that’s what she called them.

  Am I making this up?

  It almost seems too good to be true. Unless I’m totally nuts, I think we even sang songs around the fire. Funny songs. Back then, at the cabin, Mom was as funny in real life as she is on TV.

  How did those songs go?

  All I remember is something about “underpants and my friend Hans.”

  Okay, it doesn’t seem that hysterical now, but back then I was rolling on the floor, laughing and laughing and laughing. Mom had tears streaming down her face too and Dad kept addi
ng these heavy metal guitar licks that were so totally wrong. It completely cracked us up.

  I’m going outside.

  I hike up my pyjama bottoms with my elbows, grab the bowl of cornflakes and the teacup and back out through the screen door. It’s actually almost warm. Not Antigua warm or even Bermuda warm but nice. I feel good.

  I put my cup on the ground. I stretch out in the chair so I can rest my bowl on my belly. I lean my face back into the sun.

  That’s when I notice Levi Nauss looking down at me from the top of a ladder.

  15

  Sunday, Noon

  You, You and Mimi (rerun)

  “No Pain, No Gain.” Mimi’s on-air exercise club never caught on with viewers. It’s easy to see why. Everyone knows Mimi’s figure owes more to surgery than sit-ups.

  Kay was wrong. It doesn’t take twenty minutes to get to Shelton by bike. It takes at least forty minutes—even when you’re pedalling like a maniac because all you can think about is escaping as fast as you can.

  What’s the matter with me? I’ve got to stop screaming every time I see that guy. He’s going to think I’m emotionally unstable or something.

  But it’s his fault! He shouldn’t have snuck up on me like that.

  Okay. Fine. He didn’t exactly sneak up on me, but he could have at least given me some warning he was there.

  Instead he hides out at the top of a ladder with his shirt off, waiting until I’m stretched out in dirty pyjamas with my disgusting hair all over the place and a bowl full—I mean, full—of stale cornflakes on my belly. Of course I screamed. Who wouldn’t scream?

  And then, of course, I jumped.

  I get cereal plastered all over my chest and milk dripping into my pants and this crystal-clear picture in my head of exactly how ridiculous I look and he’s laughing and then apologizing and then laughing some more and then actually coming down the ladder as if he’s going to help me or something and I just can’t stand it.

  I stick up my hand like I’m a traffic cop and go, “Stop!” He stops halfway down the ladder with this big dopey grin on his face. He starts to say something, but I don’t listen. I run into the house, up the stairs. I throw on some clothes, run back down the stairs, hop on the bicycle and start pedalling. I pretend I can’t hear him calling me.