I had no idea how I was going to get even with the DeRosiers for those horrible rumors. It just made me feel a little better to think I could. I would entertain different ideas but I discarded them all. Talking to my social worker was futile because she’d already proven to me that she could be fooled too easily by the DeRosiers. And the same thing went for the teachers at school.
Since I never saw Jennifer over the summer months, Cheryl and I didn’t write to each other. It was when I went into Grade Ten that an opportunity presented itself. I didn’t recognize it as such. Jennifer came to me with a letter from Cheryl in September. I expected her to walk away but she stayed and after an awkward pause, she said, “April, about last year… I guess I should have told you what was going on when I first heard about it. But there are these sayings, you know, about being judged by the company you keep. Well, I didn’t want to get the same hassles you were getting. I’m chicken. I couldn’t take that kind of thing.”
I looked at her and said, “Did you believe any of it?”
“No. I knew you. I knew you wouldn’t do anything like what they said. I’d like for us to be friends again.”
“I’d like that, too,” I said, gratefully.
“One more thing, April. I’m sorry I didn’t stand by you,” she added.
I smiled. “It’s okay, Jenny. I understand. You’ve done a lot for me, already.”
In October, Mrs. Gauthier, our English teacher told us that the Southern Journal was holding a competition for Christmas stories and we’d have two weeks in which to submit entries. At lunchtime, Jennifer and I talked about the competition. English was my strongest subject and compositions were easy for me. It was mostly just a matter of choosing a topic that would attract attention.
“Why don’t you write about your life with the DeRosiers?” Jennifer asked with a grin.
I thought it was a great idea. But then I said, “It has to be a Christmas story and they have a way of destroying Christmas for me.”
For a week I pondered over how I could work my life at the DeRosiers into a Christmas story. Finally, the idea came to me and I started on my story at lunchtimes. The title was the usual—“What I Want for Christmas” and I ended the story with the sentence: ‘What I want for Christmas is for someone to listen to me and to believe in me.” I handed it in to Mrs. Gauthier.
The next day, Mrs. Gauthier asked me to stay at lunch. I waited and was surprised when Mrs. Wartzman came into the room with my story in her hand.
Mrs. Wartzman said to me, “This is an incredible story, April. Is this really what’s been going on?”
I nodded, unable to speak because that perpetual lump in my throat was back. I was sure they were going to throw my story in the garbage after giving me a good scolding. Maybe they would even show it to Mrs. DeRosier.
Mrs. Gauthier’s next words gave me hope. “I believe the story. I’ve heard the rumors about April and she’s never done anything to indicate that they were true. She’s a very good student. One of the best.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is. I’ve checked with Cheryl’s former Grade Five teacher and she confirmed what you wrote, April. I can’t believe that workers would place children in this kind of home.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell your social worker or one of us?” Mrs. Gauthier asked.
“We tried. We tried to tell our workers but they would only believe what Mrs. DeRosier told them. And when you said those things to me last year…” I looked at Mrs. Wartzman.
“I owe you an apology, April. I am so sorry I jumped to conclusions,” Mrs. Wartzman said.
It was decided that my story would not be entered in the competition and they urged me to write another one in its place. From what I understood, Mrs. Wartzman was going to call my social worker herself. That was good enough for me.
I waited impatiently. In November 1963, something happened in the United States which made me forget my impatience temporarily. The President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, was shot. I was just coming back from lunch when I heard the news. The whole class was subdued and I was shocked. Cheryl and I had talked about him a few times. She admired him for many reasons. In the weeks which followed, I saved clippings from the newspaper on his funeral and his family. I wasn’t allowed to watch television so I missed an awful lot, including the death of Lee Harvey Oswald. I planned on giving my clippings to Cheryl. We were supposed to have a visit but for some reason it was put off.
I returned to my impatient waiting. Had the wheels of motion begun or was nothing going to come of my story, after all? Christmas passed and then it was 1964. The only consolation I had until then was that two grown-ups were aware of my predicament. Then in January, I got a letter from Cheryl.
January 16, 1964
Dear April,
How are you? I got your letter and obviously you didn’t know you missed a visit with me. I waited at the Children’s Aid office all afternoon December 23rd. Then Miss Turner came and told me that Mrs. DeRosier called to say she wasn’t able to make it to town because she’d gotten stuck. Is that true? Anyways, I’m glad you’ve gotten through to your teachers. Have you heard anything further? We are getting a new social worker, did you know that? I sure hope she’s going to be better than what we’ve got now.
Wasn’t it terrible about President Kennedy being assassinated? I wanted to see you so much to talk about it. I cried all that night and the next few days. I read a lot on history and politics. All the Kennedys were so interesting and young and vital. I used to collect items on them. I’m sure that Robert Kennedy will get in as President, though. I hope he keeps the same speech writers. Kennedy’s speeches were just marvellous.
Anyways, I’ve enclosed my historical piece on Riel at the Red River Insurrection. You ought to see this rubbish we have to take in History. I don’t know if you took the same textbook. It makes me wish those whitemen had never come here. But then we would not have been born. At least, the Indians would have been left in peace. Nothing those tribes ever did to each other matches what the whites have done to them. Whoa, there, Cheryl. You probably don’t agree with me, do you, April? But history should be an unbiased representation of the facts. (Unfortunately, I’m not unbiased but fortunately, I don’t plan on writing a history book.) And if they show one side, they ought to show the other side equally. Anyways, I’m writing the Metis side of things but just for myself. And you. I don’t really know what I’m going to do with it otherwise, but it makes me feel good.
Well, I hope you like my essay. I’ll sign off for now. Let me know what happens. Sure is taking a long time.
Love,
Cheryl
As I read her letter, I was infuriated to learn of Mrs. DeRosier’s usual deceit. Stuck, was she? Well, she’d be stuck once the social worker got through with her. Any new social worker had to be better than what we had now. Then my feelings changed to regret when I read about her reactions to President Kennedy’s death. That had been so unnecessary, so senseless. Suddenly, a thought hit me. Had Mrs. DeRosier learned of my essay? And maybe now, she was going to stop me from seeing Cheryl? I felt a chill. She did know. As usual, it was going to be me who got stuck… stuck here until when? It just wasn’t fair.
To preoccupy my mind, I read Cheryl’s essay on Riel and the Red River Insurrection. But reading her essay didn’t help. Knowing the other side, the Metis side, didn’t make me feel any better. It just reinforced my belief that if I could assimilate myself into white society, I wouldn’t have to live this way for the rest of my life.
That afternoon, I didn’t pay much attention to classwork. My mind was on my present problem. I firmly believed Mrs. DeRosier knew about my essay. I felt I had been betrayed. What could I do about it? I could think of only one thing. Come summer, I’d take off. But then I had wanted to finish school so much. I had wanted to be able to get a good job. I wanted to be rich. Oh, to heck with being rich. I’d run away anyway. Maybe to some other city so they wouldn’t find me. I’d lie about my age if I had to and I’d get a job. For the moment, being free was more important than anything else in the world.
That night, I lay in bed still thinking about my soon-to-be future. Another problem came up. I had no money at all to even start out. I’d have to get some. But how? Steal it? I’d been accused of stealing already so why not? That would be justice of a sort. Oh, sure, April, and when you run out of money in the city, you can just sell your body. And what else do native girls do? By now, I knew what meant skid row. I bet all those girls who ended up on skid row just wanted freedom and peace in the first place. Just like me. I’d had good intentions about my life. But here I was, forced to go out into the world, unprepared and alone, with only Grade Ten and no money. No matter. I’d still run away. I felt such pity for myself as I thought about what I’d end up being, about having to give up my plans, about facing a hard life ahead. But staying here would be harder. I felt I had no choice.
My running away plans were discarded when rescue did come at the beginning of our spring break. It came in the form of Mr. Wendell, my new social worker. When I saw him enter the house and introduce himself, I was downright disappointed. He was short, thin, was balding, had glasses and worse, he had a meek, mild demeanor. To put it bluntly, he was no match for Mrs. DeRosier. I studied him as he exchanged preliminaries with her. Suddenly, he said, “I’d like to see where the boys slept.”
“The boys?” Mrs. DeRosier asked. She was obviously flustered by his unexpected question. I could tell and I was glad she was off-balance. But the thought that she was going to get more boys must have hit her the same time it hit me. Her face lit up and my face grew long.
“Oh, yes, Raymond and Gilbert. How are they doing now that they’re on their own? I hope they’re not getting into any trouble. They were such good boys when they were with us. And such hard workers. You couldn’t get any better workers. I believe that hard work is good for the soul, don’t you?”
“You lying, phoney hypocrite,” I said to her in my mind.
Mrs. DeRosier led the way into the living room towards the stairs, saying, “They used to share my son’s room. We moved their bunks into the storage closet for now.”
Upstairs, Mr. Wendell had a look in the storage closed and nodded without saying anything. He asked where my room was. Mrs. DeRosier took him down the hall to Maggie’s room. I followed them everywhere and when she could, Mrs. DeRosier scowled at me as if trying to tell me to get back downstairs.
“I can only see one bed, Mrs. DeRosier. I understand you have a daughter. Isn’t this her room?” Mr. Wendell said.
“The girls share it. The other bed was so old I’ve ordered a new one. It should have been here by now.” She smiled at him.
This was probably my only chance to prove what a liar Mrs. DeRosier was. I said, “My bedroom’s really downstairs, at the back.”
Mrs. DeRosier said quickly, “Well, the girls have been having trouble so I moved April there but only temporarily.” She glared at me when Mr. Wendell turned to start back down.
“I’ve been in that room since I first came here. And so was Cheryl.” I was beyond caring about the later consequences.
“How about if you show me where your room is, April?” Mr. Wendell said to me when we were back in the kitchen. Mrs. DeRosier said nothing as Mr. Wendell looked at my belongings.
“Well, Mrs. DeRosier, I think that under the circumstances, I can only recommend that April be moved as soon as we find a new foster home for her.” He was about to say more but Mrs. DeRosier cut him off.
“And I think you can take her and get out of my house right now,” she bellowed.
“Mrs. Semple has had a very heavy case-load, otherwise I’m sure you wouldn’t have been able to fool her for so long,” Mr. Wendell said to her, calmly.
He told me to get my things ready. When we started for the car, Rebel came to me. I stopped to pet him one last time. “Poor old Reb. I wish I could take you with me. Thank you for being my friend here. Bye, Rebel.” Rebel wagged his tail and as we drove off, I saw him lay down by the roadside, probably to wait for me to come back.