Tuesday morning came way too soon. I woke late to the drum of raindrops on the roof and water splashing down the inside wall where I’d left the window open overnight. Jumping up to slam it shut, I craned my neck to look up at the dark clouds hanging in the sky like tufts of black cotton batting, heavy with enough rain to turn my hair into a frizzy, finger-in-the-light-socket mess.
I threw on some jeans and a not too wrinkled blue T-shirt before making my way to the kitchen for a glass of juice. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper when I entered. He looked up at me over the sports page and gave me the thumbs up.
“Nice hair.”
I ran my hand through one side and tried to shake it out. “I was planning on a shower and a leisurely breakfast, but my alarm didn’t go off,” I groaned.
“Helps if you set it,” he said, ducking back behind the paper.
“Very funny,” I said half-heartedly. It was too early in the morning to even think about pretending I had a sense of humour.
Luckily, Dad took pity and dropped me off in front of the school at ten to nine. Ambie had given up waiting for me in our usual spot, and I didn’t feel too good about that. I’d promised her I’d be there on time, for sure for sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so definite.
I snuck into the opening assembly, where Principal Kirkpatrick talked about how wonderful it was to have us all back. She almost looked like she meant it. The effect was ruined by a grade niner belching really loudly, resulting in a ten minute lecture on what constituted inappropriate behaviour and what would get us expelled. We were late leaving assembly, and Kirkpatrick told us to hurry to homeroom for attendance. I sat with a few girls I knew, but Mr. Topper shooed us out as soon as he handed us our timetables.
I had just made it to biology on the second floor and found an empty desk when Mr. Williams strode into the room. He was short and stout, with flaming red hair to his shoulders and a droopy moustache. No-nonsense was his middle name. I opened my binder to a clean page and grabbed a pen out of my case. For some reason, I looked over to my right. A boy I’d never seen before was staring at me with startling blue eyes the colour of ripe blueberries. He had straight blond hair cut in short layers that suited his high cheekbones and square jaw. He was dressed in a ripped green sweatshirt and patched jeans. When he saw me looking, he smiled and pretended to write in the air, letting me know he needed to borrow a pen. Could somebody possibly have come to class more disorganized than me? I dug around in my case again and handed him my back-up. “Thanks,” he said.
“No problem.” I turned my eyes back to Mr. Williams, who’d begun pacing like a caged lion at the front of the class while he boomed out the class rules. Any thoughts I had about the new boy disappeared as I began taking notes. Mr. Williams insisted on milking every second out of his allotted time, and I had to race to the first floor to be on time for French class with Madame Grégoire, a recruit fresh out of teacher’s college. I hoped she’d find her teaching legs soon, or the boys in the class were going to drive her into another career by Christmas.
I didn’t meet up with Ambie until English class third period, when she plunked herself down in the seat behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I swung around. Ambie’s eyes were outlined in black and dusted in satin blue shadow, and her hair was pulled up into a French braid. She was wearing a black and silver striped top I’d never seen before and looked like she could be modelling for Glamour magazine. “Forget to set your alarm again?” she asked.
“Just thought I’d start the year where I left off last term,” I said. “You know, don’t turn over any leaves until someone kicks them over. How were your first two classes, by the way?”
“Oh, all right. Grade Twelve math and chemistry. They look pretty easy.”
Ambie wasn’t hallucinating. She was something of a genius when it came to math and science. “Hey, who’s that cute new guy?” She motioned towards the same boy who’d borrowed my pen in first class. “Looks like he could do with a friend.” He was sitting slumped back in his seat with his arms folded across his chest, a sea of calm amidst a group of boys who were tossing a sponge football back and forth at the back of the room.
“No idea,” I said. I looked around. I noticed the other girls in the room looking at the new guy with interest. I didn’t imagine he’d be lonely for long.
“Looks like the artistic type,” Ambie said. “Gaunt face—high cheekbones, sensuous lips, tortured eyes . . .”
“You’re nailing those adjectives, Amb,” I said. “Have you been reading romance novels again, by any chance?”
Ambie grinned. “I think his sister may be the new girl in Grade Twelve math. They look alike, although her hair is dyed red.”
Since Springhills isn’t that big a place, new students stand out and become topics of conversation until we can figure out where they fit into our social order. In the teenage world, everyone is slotted into a category that it can take a lifetime to get over—or at least, that’s what Mom told me. Ambie and I weren’t in the popular crowd, but we weren’t classed with the nerds either. I think I leaned towards the jocks, and Ambie flirted with being an egghead, but we tried not to be that predictable. Maybe we were just kidding ourselves.
Ambie leaned closer. “Have you got a spare next class? We could go back to my place if you want. I have something excellent to tell you.” Her eyes flashed with excitement.
At last she was ready to spill her secret. “Sounds good,” I said as the class went suddenly silent. I swung around in my seat to find the grouch of the English department, Mrs. Bailey, staring us down at the front of the room, her bulging eyes unblinking behind black-rimmed glasses. It seemed like as good a time as any to start paying attention, so I reached down to open my binder to a fresh sheet of paper.
Ambie shut the door to her bedroom, and I flopped onto her bed on my stomach beside Madonna the cat. I buried my head in Madonnas fur and heard a rumble of purring that seemed to vibrate out of her belly. “How old is Madonna?” I asked.
Ambie flung herself into the chair beside her computer. “Ten. That’s like seventy in people years.”
“She’s fatter than last time I saw her,” I said, running my hand down the softness of her back. The purring got louder.
“Dad says he’s going to sign her up for aerobics classes.”
“I’d pay to see her ride a stationary bike,” I said.
Ambie laughed. “Or pumping some iron strapped to her little paws.” She bent down to turn on her computer.
“So, what’s going on with you?” I asked, trying not to sound too nosy. “You said you had something to tell me?”
“Come look at this,” Ambie said. I pushed myself off the bed and went over to stand beside her. She clicked on the e-mail icon then opened a folder she’d labelled “Research”.
A number of e-mails popped up from someone named Martin Donaldson.
“Who’s Martin Donaldson?” I asked, pointing to his name on the address lines.
Ambie looked at me and smiled her secret cat smile. “Promise you won’t repeat what I’m about to reveal?”
I felt my stomach drop. Had Ambie fallen for some weirdo over the internet? We’d all been warned about the dangers, but Ambie was a soft touch when it came to people taking advantage of her. I nodded and hoped I wouldn’t have to break my promise.
Ambie studied me for a moment until she seemed satisfied. “Martin Donaldson,” she paused dramatically, “. . . is my real dad.”
I took a second to absorb what she’d just said. Ambie’s mom had left Ambie’s dad when Ambie was a baby—under mysterious circumstances—and had refused to tell Ambie anything about him, even down to his name. If Ambie’d been in touch with her biological dad, this could turn the Guido family upside down. She was staring at me, waiting for my reaction. “Nobody else knows we’re e-mailing each other,” she said, as if reading my thoughts, “and you promised you wouldn’t tell.”