Since You've Been Gone (3 page)

I
wrinkle my nose. The smell of damp fills my nostrils. I roll over and bury my face deep into my pillow.

My bedroom door opens.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” Mom calls from the doorway.

I force my head up from the pillow.

“We'll get you some blinds with my first pay.” Mom says. She walks in and sits on the edge of the bed. “I'll be gone to work before you get in from school this afternoon, but I'll leave food in the fridge for dinner. Just be sure to turn the cooker off when you're done using it.”

Cooker? It's a stove!
I want to scream. Instead, I swing out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. The cold tiles of the floor jolt any remaining drowsiness out of me.

The small bathroom makes me feel claustrophobic. I turn on the tap, splash water on my face, and undress.

A faint knocking sound comes from the other side of the door. I consider turning on the shower and not answering it, but Mom knocks again, this time a little more loudly. I wrap a towel around myself, open the door a crack, and stick my head out.

My mother smiles at me. “I just want to let you know that I love you more than anything in this world.”

“You needed to pull me out of the shower and make me late for school just to tell me that?”

“I felt it was important that you know.” She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Now get into that shower and get to school so you can someday rule the world, Edie Fraser!”

The walk to school is interesting and uncomfortable all at once; so many things are unfamiliar and I almost feel like a baby again, having to learn about this new country. Will I ever get used to the accents, to the way cars drive on the wrong side of the street, or the fact that there isn't a Tim Hortons anywhere in sight?

It's another wet day and the sidewalks are slick with rain. I hate the way the clouds hang so low in the sky here. There's so little light, the street lamps have stayed on.

“Watch out, you stupid cow!”

Pain blooms across my left shoulder.

Another shove sends me stumbling backward against a black, wrought-iron fence. My knapsack drops to the ground. At least five girls surround me. I don't recognize any of them, except one.

“Fancy yourself better than us, do ya?” Precious sneers. She takes a step toward me.

“No.” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Yeah? Well, we caught you giving us cut-eye yesterday,” one of the other girls says. She narrows her eyes at me. “Either that or you're staring at us 'cos you're completely gay.”

“That's it, innit?” Precious says, leaning so close to me that I can feel the warmth of her breath against my face. It smells faintly of eggs, which makes me want to gag. “Do you want a kiss?”

One of them picks up my knapsack. “Let's see if the poxy little American did her homework last night. Bets that she did!”

Squeals of delight emanate from the pack of girls as they turn my bag upside down. Its contents spill out onto the sidewalk.

Through a haze of tears I notice adults scurrying along, stepping around us. They hold their umbrellas high as they rush toward the nearby train station. Do adults forget what it was like to be a teenager, to be bullied?

I hold my breath, trying to prevent myself from sobbing. If I cry, it will only make things worse.

“What's this rubbish?” the girl who dumped my knapsack asks. She's holding my journal. My heart twists inside my chest. My journal contains all my letters to Rume. All my secrets.

“Isn't this sweet?” Precious says, grabbing my journal out of the girl's hand.

She opens it up to a random page.

“Dear Rume,” she begins, placing a hand on her hip and reading each word with an exaggerated Texan drawl. “I know you'll wonder where I've gone and why I left without even saying goodbye …”

“Stop it!” I yell, my voice catching in my throat. Everything is blurring, tears threatening to leap from my lower lids. If she reads just a little farther in my diary, they'll find out everything.

I lunge toward Precious. For a moment she looks completely surprised. Then two of the girls grab me by the arms and thrust me back against the fence.

“Shut it!” one of them hisses, giving me a quick jab in the chest with her index finger.

“Awww,” Precious says. “What's the matter, Texas? You don't want me to read your love letters to your girlfriend? Do you write about getting off with her in here?”

Fury claws at my chest. “Bitch!” I scream.

“Look here! Oi! You lot! Leave that girl alone, do you hear?”

A burly man in paint-splattered coveralls heads toward us from across the street. He looks like a grizzly bear wrapped in a Jackson Pollock painting. Relief floods through my body as he approaches.

“You're bloody lucky,” Precious says, throwing my journal down on the ground. She turns and runs. The other girls follow. The one that poked me in the chest takes a second to grind my homework under the toes of her shoes before leaving.

I bend down and carefully retrieve my diary. Then I try to salvage what I can of my homework assignment. Most of it is soggy and dirty, the ink smeared into unreadable black blotches.

“You okay?” the man asks. He bends down to help me. I can smell his cologne. It reminds me of the cheap aftershave the boys in Regent Park used to spray up and down the school hallways in the hope of causing at least one teacher to have an allergic reaction.

I nod at him. Tears spill down my cheeks. With one hand I brush them away.

“Thanks,” I stammer as we stand up.

“No need,” he replies. “You American? Is that why they're taking the piss?”

I have no idea what he means. “I'm Canadian,” I reply as I stuff my schoolwork, or what's left of it, back into my knapsack. “Thanks again for everything. I better get to school. I think I'm officially late.”

The man cocks his head sideways and gives me a long look. “You're shaking. Are you certain you're all right?”

I nod back. “Yeah. I'm sure.”

I begin walking up the hill toward school, uncertain what Precious and her friends might have in store for me when I arrive, but vow to keep my anger in check.

I
clutch the late slip to my chest, open the classroom door, and step inside, taking care to be as quiet as possible.

Ms. Bryans stops her lesson mid-sentence, a stumpy piece of chalk hanging between her thumb and forefinger like a cigarette.

“You're late, Miss Fraser,” she says.

Tell me something I don't know. I can feel her eyes judging me, taking in the wet, matted mess of my hair, the soggy notebook, and dishevelled school uniform.

“Where is your late slip?”

“Right here.” I hold out the piece of yellow paper. It's soaked from being held against my sweater.

Ms. Bryans breathes audibly out her nose. “Place it in the recycling bin, Edie. Then quickly take your seat. I think you've wasted more than enough of our class time today.”

“Sorry,” I reply.

“Apology accepted. Of course you'll join me at lunch for detention.”

I nod, hoping Ms. Bryans's head will spontaneously combust as I walk to my seat.

The morning's lessons drag on at an excruciating pace. I hold my breath each time I change classes, anticipating Precious and her posse around every corner. But she doesn't show to homeroom English, and, as the morning wears on, it becomes evident that she is likely skipping classes for the day. Maybe she thinks I'm going to report what happened to the headmaster or another adult at the school. But I'm not stupid. There's no way I want to become known as a rat.

It's only when the lunch bell rings that I remember my detention. I slam my books down on the desk and kick my chair back.

“What's wrong with you?” Savitri asks.

“Just this stupid detention I have with Ms. Bryans. I guess I'll catch up with you and Keisha after school.” The injustice of the situation makes me angry; I'm paying the price for Precious's bullying when I haven't done anything.

“Ms. Bryans has got to let you at least buy your lunch,” Savitri says. “Come on, I'll walk down to the lunchroom with you.”

The door to the classroom is slightly ajar when I come back from the cafeteria. Balancing my tray carefully, I nudge the door open with the toe of my shoe.

Ms. Bryans is at her desk, hunched over a stack of papers. From the doorway, she looks tinier than usual. I notice her green cardigan hangs awkwardly on her tiny shoulders like it's been washed one too many times.

For a moment, I swear she looks sad. That changes as soon as she notices me; her eyes narrow and she regards me with a look usually reserved for dog shit smeared on the bottom of shoes.

“Thank you for politely knocking, Edie. I'd expect nothing less from you.”

“Sorry.” I reach over and knock on the door, feeling completely stupid. What did I do to make her hate me so much?

Ms. Bryans waves me in. “Never mind now. Sit down. At least you're on time, unlike Mr. Lewis. Find something useful to do.” She picks up her pen and begins marking the pile of papers again.

I sit down and slowly unzip my knapsack. The way Ms. Bryans spat out Jermaine's name, it seems like just saying it makes her want to vomit. Why does she continue to teach? It's pretty obvious she doesn't like kids much.

My journal is still in my bag. I reach down and grab it. It's the only way I can feel like I have any kind of contact with Rume right now. I wonder when Mom will feel it's safe to send an email to Rume so I can tell her why I disappeared.

“Jermaine! So nice to see you.”

In my peripheral vision, I see him standing in the doorway. I don't look up.

“Sorry I'm late.”

Ms. Bryans laughs. “So am I, so am I, Jermaine. I was looking forward to spending much more time with you.”

Jermaine takes a few hesitant steps forward. “I had to go home. My mother needed her medicine from the chemist.”

“You mother again? I'm sure she needed her
medicine
from the off-licence, I mean chemist. Now can you please take your seat and make yourself useful?”

As he walks into the room, I raise my head and quickly glance at him. He catches my eye and smiles. Heat blooms across my cheeks. I look back at the page in front of me and read the words I've scrawled there.

Dear Rume, I hate this place so much and totally miss you and Toronto and the sunshine there.

“Of course, you'll need to serve the time you missed for today's detention at tomorrow's lunch,” Ms. Bryans adds.

Jermaine shrugs, plunks himself down onto the seat directly in front of me, and reaches into his bag. He pulls out a notebook and book. Pretending to contemplate my next sentence, I chew on the end of my pen and casually lean sideways, trying to get a better view of him. He opens the notebook and starts to write.

I lean farther to the left, craning my neck to see what novel he's reading.

“Miss Fraser, what exactly are you doing?” Ms. Bryans asks.

“Nothing,” I reply, sitting back in my seat.

“Really?” She smiles like a barracuda. “It looked to me like you were very interested in what Mr. Lewis was doing a moment ago.”

Bitch.

“Jermaine, what's on your desk that is so interesting?”

He stops writing. This is horrible.

“I just wanted to see what he's reading,” I say.

Jermaine turns around in his seat. “Tupac's
The Rose That Grew from the Concrete
. It's a book of his poetry.” He hands it to me. “Have a look.”

I take the book. “Thanks.”

It makes no sense. Ms. Bryans and other teachers at this school treat Jermaine like he's completely retarded, as though he couldn't read a fourth-grade chapter book to save his life. I'm beginning to learn that students aren't the only bullies at Windrush School.

A few minutes before the end of the lunch period, Ms. Bryans stands up. She walks over to us and sits on top of the desk directly in front of Jermaine, crossing her legs primly at the ankles. In her hands she's holding the coffee can our class is using to collect donations for an outreach project that is building a girls' school in Pakistan. Dark hairs peek out like spider's legs from beneath the sleeves of her cardigan.

“The two of you can go and get ready for your afternoon classes,” she says dryly. “And Ms. Fraser?”

“Yes?”

“I really think you should endeavour to make a better impression around here. We have no records from your former school in Toronto yet, but you strike me as a clever girl. In other words, don't let yourself be influenced by some of the students here who exhibit … less than desirable behaviours.” She raises an eyebrow in Jermaine's direction as she speaks.

Then, with a dismissive wave of her hand, we're excused from the class.

“A moment please, Edie.”

I stop in the doorway. Jermaine is already halfway down the hall, his long legs carrying him away from Ms. Bryans as quickly as possible.

I wince and turn around. What now?

Ms. Bryans stands regarding me sternly, her arms folded across her chest.

“Why don't we have the OSR from your old school yet? School records can be sent electronically, you know.”

“Oh?” I say, feigning surprise. “I had no idea.”

“Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Edie?”

A cold lightning bolt of fear shoots through my body.

“No. Why would there be?” I try to keep my voice as steady as possible.

She tilts her head and regards me carefully. I wonder if she's one of those people who can detect when someone isn't being completely honest. Is my eye twitching involuntarily or something?

“I was just wondering if I should make a phone call to your old school to see if they had concerns with your punctuality or anything else …”

“You don't need to do that,” I interject. Though my mind is speeding like a Japanese bullet train toward panic mode, I try to keep my voice slow and steady. “My old school is really busy and I was the least of their worries. Believe me.”

Ms. Bryans smiles triumphantly. “Then I guess I'll see you tomorrow at 8:40 sharp, Ms. Fraser.”