Logan slammed the notebook down on the bed beside Kip.
“That’s it! It’s the essay Abbie made us write on the most influential person. Listen — she says it right here. ‘Most grandmothers bake cookies, but mine doesn’t. My grandmother lives in Clearwater these days, but she spent her whole career working as an astronomer in the Mount Wilson Observatory in California.’”
He closed the cover of the notebook with a snap.
“I think you’ve got it right, Kipper my boy. Cleo’s gone to Clearwater.”
Kip looked wide awake again. “Are you going to go get her tomorrow, Logan? Are you going to bring her back safe to the hospital?”
Logan’s stomach clenched and the excitement of finding the clue he was looking for drained away. Cleo was hours ahead of him. Even if she was really only going to see her grandmother, he had a long way to go to find her. And if she was headed somewhere else — well, he couldn’t even let himself think of that possibility.
“I think I’d better go now,” he said quietly. “I’m pretty sure there’s a bus I can catch that will get me there by morning. It’s not a big town. I’ll be able to find her, no problem at all.”
Kip leaned forward and began pulling at the IV tape on the back of his hand.
“Whoa, hold on there, buddy. What do you think you’re doing? If you bump that wire, you’ll have the nurse back here in a flash, and that, my friend, will wreck everything.”
“I want to come with you to find Cleo,” said Kip, still peeling tape.
Logan reached over and pulled Kip’s hand away. He took a deep breath to keep himself from yelling at the kid. “You can’t come, Kip,” he said, as calmly as he could. “If we want to find Cleo, I’m going to have to move like lightning.”
He looked straight into the kid’s eyes. “If you leave the hospital, you’ll get really sick. You know that. But I can’t do this without you. You can be my partner, okay?”
Kip’s face brightened. “Your partner? Really?”
Logan nodded. “But we’re going to have to work really fast, dude. We figure she’s headed to Clearwater, right? So you can help me find her when I get there.”
He grabbed Kip’s laptop computer and flipped open the lid. Kip’s face lit up with a reflected glow as Logan thrust the computer into his lap.
“First, we need to find out if I still have time to catch a bus before the station closes. Can you look up the bus schedule?”
Kip nodded and began tapping keys. Logan looked at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty-five. Are there any more buses tonight?” He paced back and forth between the bed and the window.
“It says here that the last bus leaves Evergreen at midnight, Logan.” Kip looked up from the screen. “Wow, that’s really late.”
“But does it go to Clearwater?”
“Uh,” Kip ran his finger down the screen. “Yes! But it stops a whole bunch of places first.”
“Okay, that’s really good news.” Logan stopped pacing and came to stand at the head of Kip’s bed. “So here’s the thing. My Blackberry is broken from the time I dropped it down the stairs, but I know there is an internet terminal at the bus station in Clearwater. My team went there last year for a rugby game. I think the café is called ‘The Bean’ or something.”
Kip tapped the keys again. “It says here there is a ‘Bean and Gone Café’ at the Clearwater Bus Terminal with internet access.”
“Yes!” Logan clenched a fist. “Soon as I get there, I’ll send you an e-mail. And while I’m on the bus, you can look up any information you can find on Cleo’s grandma. Between the two of us, we’ll find her in no time.”
“Okay,” said Kip. “But maybe we should use instant messaging. It’s faster.”
“You’re right, you’re right. Okay, my e-mail address is rugbyrox@yowza.com. ‘Rugbyrox’ is one word, and ‘rox’ is spelled with an ‘x’. Got that?”
“Yeah, I got it. As soon as you e-mail me, I’ll log into IM and we can talk on-line.” He beamed, and Logan was suddenly glad he’d included the kid. He might actually end up being a help.
“Great. Okay, when I get there in the morning, I’ll head over to the coffee shop and e-mail you. So just pretend to Abbie like you’re doing homework and keep your e-mail connected, okay? That way if Cleo contacts you during the night, you can fill me in.”
Kip nodded enthusiastically. “Are you going to put the notebook back on Abbie’s desk?”
Logan shook his head. “Nah, I want to read through it some more. Maybe it has an address or something in the back. I’ll have plenty of time. It’s going to be a long bus ride.” He looked at his watch again. 11:45 p.m. And it was a fifteen-minute run from the hospital to the bus station… when he was in shape. “I gotta go, buddy. Watch for my e-mail, okay? It’s really important. Just like ‘M’ in James Bond, right?”
“I remember him! He’s in my computer game!”
Logan shook his head. What’s wrong with kids these days? They spend so much time on this computer crap, you’d think they’d never heard of movies. “Geez kid — when I get back I’ve got a couple of shows you’ve gotta see, okay?”
“Really? Okay, Logan. Good luck.” Kip was beaming, and Logan found himself smiling back. But time was up. It was past up.
Logan tucked the notebook into the waistband of his scrubs and stuck his head out the door. A red light was flashing over the ICU wing and the three nurses were nowhere to be seen. Bonus! Time to hit the stairs running.
Logan’s trip down the back staircase took place at a higher rate of speed than he had anticipated. His mind occupied by the conversation with Kip, he forgot his earlier meeting with the custodian. He never actually lost his footing, first sliding on the wet floor, then grabbing the handrail for support. And in a decision that took less than an instant, he thought that maybe riding the handrail down might prove to be the best course of action in any case. So he did.
He made it safely to the basement, had another close call when the custodian stepped unexpectedly out of the morgue (who expects anyone to step out of a morgue in the middle of the night, anyway?), and shot out the door with his coat in one hand and Abbie’s notebook in the other. When he made it to the station there would be plenty of time to read through the notebook to find what he needed. He needed Cleo’s grandmother’s address. If it wasn’t in the notebook, Kip might be able to find it. And as soon as he’d delivered what he had in his pocket to Cleo, he’d bring the notebook back to Abbie. She’d understand. She had to.
As he ran, he jammed his arms into the sleeves and took a moment to ensure the inner pocket was safely fastened before zipping the coat closed against the frigid night air. For cold it was — winter had well and truly come to Evergreen. In spite of his good intentions, Logan had to slow to a walk for a block or two when his insides twisted with pain from the unexpected running.
In direct contrast to the fire in his belly, his fingers and toes soon numbed in the sub-zero temperatures. His breath came in frozen gasps, the moisture crystallizing on his eyelashes and trimming the ends of the hair with white.
He jogged up to the bus station at 12:10 am. Ten minutes late. But in spite of all his anxiety, he found that he needn’t have hurried after all. The engine block on the bus had frozen solid when the driver had stopped for a coffee and neglected to keep the vehicle running. In the end, Logan helped the driver clip the cables onto the battery and earned himself a free bus ride when the engine roared to life.
“Don’t mention it to the ticket seller,” the driver had muttered gruffly. “She’s out for my job.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” said Logan, so grateful not to have missed his ride as to be feeling almost cheerful.
A woman was collecting money in a kettle to one side of the station, having taken shelter from the storm. He had just watched the ticket seller sternly admonish her that there was to be no bell-ringing indoors. Logan ran over and stuffed his bus fare money into her collection kettle.
The non-bell-ringing woman wished him a happy holiday and promptly packed up her kettle. Logan and the last of her potential donors rolled away from the station at 12:30 a.m.
He settled back on the bus, one of only a handful of passengers to board on this late night journey. It was a milk run, scheduled to stop five or six times before the bus hit Clearwater. Logan leaned back into the musty seat to try to sleep. The seat smelled like old cigarettes and stale food and he couldn’t find a way to get comfortable. His hand went to his inner coat pocket and he traced the shape of the object inside. It was no use. His stomach had settled down but sleep was still distant. The plastic bag holding the notebook was on the seat beside him, slipping from side to side as the bus shivered its way along the slush-rutted highway.
If he could somehow manage to find Cleo before everyone else, he wanted to tell her something that he’d finally figured out. Maybe it was just a question of listening to the right voices. Not the kind of voices that told a person to kick a hole in a wall or stuff your fingers down your throat. Other voices — other ideas. Maybe all heroes were not found on rugby pitches or prancing in front of the Hollywood paparazzi.
Then there was the question of the meds. She took these pills every day, right? He racked his memory. The hospital must have put them in the bottle for when Cleo was given the weekend pass. But he couldn’t remember how often she took them or even what she needed them for. That she left them behind was the worst sign yet.
Logan rubbed his tired eyes. Who knew what he was going to say or do? He wasn’t even sure himself. He just knew this journey might be worth something, if he could just find Cleo. He just needed to know she would be okay.
He stretched up and flipped on the tiny light above his head only to discover it was burned out. But the light over the next seat flickered on when he touched it, so he slipped in beside the window and opened Abbie’s notebook. He could see the next notation was from Kip — something about happiness and chocolate cake. He remembered writing something for Abbie about happiness as well. What was it?
In the hospital, it was easy to forget how to be happy. That’s the problem with happiness, isn’t it? Just when you think you have it in your hand, it’s gone and you’re left with a fistful of air and nothing else. Logan tilted the notebook toward the light and began to read.
Kip G. <immune suppressant>
Did you see, Abbie? My mom brought in my laptop. Dr. Robbie said I could use it to do my school work so from now on I’m going to use it to type all my journal entries for you. My mom also brought me a printer cable, so at night when everyone in the office goes home, I can print off all my work.
Here is my journal entry for today:
My Laptop by Kip Graeme
My laptop is a great machine. I’m really happy because now I can play all my computer games instead of Xbox. Computer games are way better. My favourite is Battlescene Historia, because I get to replay all the great battles in history.
I also really like watching anime and drawing my own anime with a program on my laptop. This is why my laptop is so great. I showed it to Jacqueline and she said she liked it, too, and even showed me how to type her name. Logan didn’t want to see my laptop, for some reason. Maybe tomorrow.
Also, Jacqueline doesn’t have the tube thing hanging out of her nose anymore. They took it out today. That sentence wasn’t about my laptop, but I still thought it was interesting and you said journals should be interesting.
From,
Kip
November 19
Kip G. <immune suppressant>
Hi Abbie,
Logan got mad at me this morning and I feel pretty sick today. That’s all my news. But I know you like to read my journal, so I will write a little bit on what you asked.
What Makes Me Happy
by Kip, 6th Grade
Three things make me happy. Playing baseball with my dad is one. Eating my mama’s chocolate cake is another. But the best is not being in the hospital. I don’t have to stay for so long this time, do I? Is a week up yet?
From, Kip
Logan K. <corticosteroids>
Too early.
Okay Abs, today you want me to write about something that makes me truly happy. (Stupid assignment, by the way. The little weirdie is going to force you to read all about butterflies and moonbeams and crap like that, y’know. And what would she know about Carl Sagan, anyway? That chick is such a know-it-all.)
So, what makes me happy?
Beer.
Logan
November 19
Jacquie H-M. <antiarrhythmic, IV nutritional supplements>
1:00 p.m.
Dear Ms. Zephyr,
This was to be a journal of celebration, as Medusa and Dr. Valens have finally opened their eyes to the amazing progress I am making in here and have withdrawn my feeding tube. However, the joy of that event has been quashed by something I have read in your notebook and I really feel I must protest.
As you know, over the weekend I submitted a ten-page essay on the subject you assigned: happiness and fulfillment. Ten pages. With footnotes! And when I return to check my mark in your notebook, not only is my essay (which I sincerely believe deserves an A+) missing, but I see by Logan’s entry that he was allowed to submit nothing. Not even a single page! With the exception of the ridiculous paragraph he submitted earlier today, of course. I also notice that some time ago he was allowed (may I even say encouraged) to present some sort of comic strip as a substitute for a journal entry. I would not ever want to accuse you of favouritism, Ms. Zephyr (and certainly no teacher in their right mind would favour him over me) but I feel righteously indignant enough to share my concerns with you.
Please feel free to inform Mr. Logan Kemp that I prefer to be addressed as Ms. Hornby-Moss or even as Jacqueline. NOT Little Weirdie. It is true that I have relinquished my birth name, however the whole subject is none of his business and on top of that, his substitute is entirely unacceptable.
And while you are speaking to him, perhaps you might inform him that due to circumstances beyond my control, I have been forced to examine the night skies extensively in my life. As a result, I have developed a deep and profound interest in astronomy. I have read widely from the works of Carl Sagan and he was even friends with my Nona. And not once — NOT ONCE — did he ever say “I’m outta here.” (He would never use such a vile contraction, I am quite sure.)
Back to my original point, Ms. Zephyr. I truly understand how little Kip is allowed such a brief entry. After all, he is only eleven years old and really is feeling poorly these days. But Logan is in tenth grade — a full year ahead of me. Justice has not been served here.
Jacqueline H-M.
November 19
Logan K. <corticosteroids>
Later.
Abbie, be reasonable. Beer does make me happy. You should feel good that I’m not smoking dope. Half the team smokes, but those stupid idiots have no eye for the future. I want a scholarship to get me out of this puny town. Smoking dope makes a person too content to lie around in their own shi feces.
So how’s that? Are you happy now?
Logan
Logan K. <corticosteroids>
Sometime after the overcooked spaghetti they tried to pass off as dinner.
Sheesh, Abbie. This is not fair. You get to go home to your regular life and probably some kind of great dinner like pizza and I’m stuck here with the nurse from hell enforcing no TV until I make a third freakin’ stab at this homework. Give me a break, Abbie — I even asked the little weirdie how to spell feces. You are one hard dudette, Abs. (Hard Abs — good one!)
But you hold all the power, so here goes:
Happiness by Logan Kemp
After giving this subject some deep thought, I have decided to write about rugby. Any fifteen-year-old guy in his right mind likes football, right? But the truth is that it takes a special type of guy to play rugby. Rugby is more physical than football. The players don’t wear all the pansy padding that football players wear. We’re only forced to wear helmets so the opposing team doesn’t tear off our ears in the scrum.
It’s faster and you need a strong, clear ability to communicate. My favourite part of the game is the scrum. This is where the forwards all work together, shoulder to shoulder, to try to gain control of the ball from the other team. Sometimes it feels like you are trying to make it down the field with the entire opposing team on your back.
You just don’t see that kind of action in football.
I also like how after the game the whole team lies on the side of the field because we are too tired to move. We drink Gatorade and pretend it’s beer. (Just pretend. Of course, I know that no kids in high school ever drink beer. We just don’t like it. Right.)
And so, to make a clear concluding paragraph just like you asked, what makes me happy is playing rugby followed by not drinking beer.
I’m going to ask the nurse to call you and read this to you, so you can tell her to let me turn on the TV.
Logan
November 20
Logan K. <corticosteroids>
Some crappy morning time
Today I feel like crap. The whole world is crap. And writing this journal entry every day is the biggest crap deal of all. I don’t need English skills to be a rugby star. I just need someone around here to solve the problem of whatever is eating my gut out. Who was this Crohn guy, anyway? And why does he hate me so much?
I’m not really up to this journal stuff today.
By the way, I don’t care that I’ve been kicked out of that crappy little store. Who needs them, anyway?
That little weirdie isn’t helping. Okay, I give you that I shouldn’t call the chick a weirdie. But there is no way I’m going to call her by some stupid, made-up name. And there’s no denying she is weird. I mean, even before she broke her wrist she was trying to starve herself to death. And here’s me who CAN’T eat because it kills my gut. It’s just not freakin’ fair. The truth is, that’s why I kicked your wall in that time, Abbie. I was so mad at that chick. She could have a perfect life and she just chooses not to.
What kind of teacher keeps her notebook on the desk for anyone to read, anyway? I hate it when the weirdie looks at my stuff and then bugs me about it. Little Miss A Student is pretty quick to criticize other people. Maybe she should just keep her eyes on her own work and go eat a banana split or three. And have a look in the mirror while she’s at it. Baby, she’s got problems of her own.
I know Carl Sagan was an astronomer dude. I know he used to look at the stars a lot. The man must’ve said “I’m outta here” at some point in his life. And who gives a shit about Carl Sagan or what he said, anyhow? You can’t see the stars from in here.
Logan
November 20
Jacqueline H-M. <antiarrhythmic, IV fluids>
9:06 a.m.
Hello Abbie,
Well, there you have it. You have broken through my natural reserve. I have never called a teacher by her first name before. I have to admit it feels a little strange, even in writing.
But after our amazing discussion yesterday I just feel free to do as you have asked. I had no idea you were so interested and informed on the subject of astronomy. What a thrill for me to chat with such a knowledgeable resource! Plus, today is a day of celebration. First full day since Medusa finally removed my gastric tube, not that I needed the thing anyway. I feel quite sure I have turned a corner and am on my way to recovery.
Only nine days to my birthday — can you believe it? Abbie, I feel ready to become a whole new person. New name, new age, and new slim and attractive body. The NG tube removal means that I can start eating food again, and though I have some firm thoughts on the choices I must make, I am happy to get back to normal. You’ll see on the wall of my room I have put together a collage of the world’s most beautiful women, cut out of magazines from the waiting area. My art therapist suggested I make the collage to represent what I want in life and I am thrilled with the results.
I know I can never be as beautiful or as willowy as these women but I hope that even when I am old and grey I will always retain a certain sense of style.
Jaqueline H-M.
November 20
Kip G. <immune suppressant>
Hi Abbie,
Since I’m stuck in bed right now, Logan said it would be good if I asked you a favour. Is it okay for me to hook up to the internet from my room? Logan says he’ll show me a couple of really cool games if I let him try to send an e-mail to his friend Tom. He keeps trying to reach Tom from the computer station at the end of the hall but Tom hasn’t answered and Logan says that computer is screwed anyway. But Logan says teachers have special powers to get things done around here.
I send e-mails to my dad at work every day, and every night my mom sends me a goodnight e-mail before she goes to bed. But I usually don’t get them until the next day because we are not supposed to use the internet station at the end of the hall at night time.
So can I?
From,
Kip
November 20
Logan K. <corticosteriods>
An ungodly hour in the morning.
Okay, I get why you keep your notebook on your desk, all right? Everybody needs to look at it and you take away and file a bunch of the private stuff, anyway. I don’t even care if the little weirdie reads my stuff. I just don’t think she should be allowed to slag my work. It’s one thing for her to be all stuck up about her English skills and her math skills and so on, but she should keep her opinions to herself. I mean, she has a lot to say for a girl who won’t even use her own name because she thinks it’s too boring. It’s not boring. It’s a good enough name. The one she made up is just plain stupid. A person who has something to say should have the backbone to use their own name. And she’s so proud of her grandmother but won’t use the name they share? Gimme a break. That chick is just too weird.
What really bugs me is she scoffed at my graphic novel. For your information, CLEOPATRA, it is not a comic strip. There’s a difference, you know. Comic strips are like Garfield or Peanuts or something. And they can be pretty fun to read. But I happen to know from my English teacher that the graphic novel is a highly respected form of writing. And just because certain little weirdies can’t draw worth spit is no reason for them to talk down about graphic novels. We read Maus in Grade 9 English and it was one of the best books I’ve ever seen. It was published in 1986, which was before a certain weird person was even born. And what about The Sandman? Neil Gaiman is a genius. Graphic novels rule.
So, even though I’ve written by far enough journal today, here’s another panel of the novel, just because.
Logan Kemp, who always uses his real name.
November 21
Kip G. <immune suppressant>
Abbie, I showed Jacqueline my anime program today. She really liked it. She is so nice. I don’t get why she changed her name, though. Logan says she is weird, but I think she is nice.
I feel sick.
Do I have to do my journal when I feel sick? Besides, Jacqueline and Logan are fighting over my laptop. They both want to send e-mails to their friends since the internet station at the end of the hall is broken. If I feel sick, do I have to do my math, Abbie?
From,
Kip
Jacquie H-M. <antiarrhythmic, IV fluids>
9:06 a.m.
Hello Abbie,
I had a wonderful dinner with my mother and father last night and I wanted to tell you about it so you could see the progress I have made. After you left for the day my parents arrived with a pass from Dr. Valens so we could go out for a surprise dinner. We got to celebrate my sister Helena’s successful win as second row dancer and understudy in a new play. They brought me a new skirt (size zero, can you believe it?) from the Gap to wear with my red sweater to dinner. My sister seemed not quite herself. She did say that she much preferred the understudy role to the main role itself as the director was really on the lookout for cows with big chests and she would not want to be considered one of those. My mother says for a special treat they will go to visit the plastic surgeon one more time as push-up bras are just not enough these days for a girl who has Hollywood in her sights. My dad read the paper since he doesn’t like to comment on girl talk.
I want you to know, Abbie, that I ate my whole meal. My parents were so proud. They are convinced I will be ready to leave here soon, and much as I will miss you, Abbie, I am ready to go home.
I did get some bad news at dinner. My parents and I had quite a long time to talk while my sister was in the restroom, and they told me that Nona has moved to a nursing home while I have been incarcerated. It seems she fell and broke her hip and needs extra care while she recovers. She sent me a gift, though: a beautiful little astrolabe from her collection. It’s not the gold one, but it is quite old and valuable all the same. As you are so knowledgeable on the subject of astronomy, you must know what a precious gift this is to me. Mother and Daddy were quite worried that it would be stolen in the hospital but I assured them that I have a very safe place to keep it, and especially since Nona is not well I would like to have it near me.
I’m so thrilled you enjoyed my journal entry enough to send it off to my English teacher at school. Because of my parents’ visit, I have been thinking so much about my dog Zoë and how happy I will be to see her when I get home at last. I thought you might appreciate reading all about Zoë and what she does every day. I hope Ms. Plato enjoys it, too!
With all the writing and math practice I have had here, returning to school is going to be a piece of cake. I feel totally ready to go back. And wait until that Adine Terrapini gets her eyes on my new skirt. I’m dying to see the look on her face.
Love,
Jacqueline
Logan K. <corticosteroids, reduced dosage>
Afternoon, thank god.
So, Abs — did all my math this morning. Still working on the graphic novel, you’ll be happy to hear. I’ll have to show you my sketchbook because I’m not quite ready to hand you another finished panel. But I’ve got a problem.
Here’s the thing. I know the chick is sick, all right? Mentally, I mean. But she’s taken to puking in my washroom. MY washroom, Abbie. Now, let me tell you, my washroom is not a nice place. The cleaning staff just can’t get in there often enough, and as you know, my own digestion is not exactly in order these days. But for some reason she seems to like it better than her own. I think she’s hiding from the nurse and this is the second time in two days I’ve caught her. The first was the other night after she went out to dinner. I sure as hell don’t understand this eating disorder thing. How can you go out for a great steak dinner and then want to stick your fingers down your throat?
I mean, cripes. At least she’s got a normal family. A mom and a dad at home, still married with good jobs and all. A hot sister. Okay, I know that probably doesn’t matter to the little weirdie but it still rules.
She even has a dog for crissakes. I would kill for a freakin’ dog, man.
You know, I should be the one with the eating disorder, not her. Screwed up family, divorced dad living in Denver, works all the time, bonks his secretary and flies home for the odd weekend. Mother obsessed with charitable causes. Uh, how about looking a little closer to home, Angela? I can think of a half-decent charitable cause who lives in your son’s bedroom upstairs.
Never mind. Forget I said anything. For all I know, my mom is off raising money to fight Crohn’s disease across the country. The only thing more embarrassing than living with this stupid disease is having to be the poster child for your mother’s charitable efforts.
Crap. I wish I hadn’t thought of it. If you hear even a whisper that she is up to something, you’ll tell me, right Abbie?
Logan
