Chapter Twenty-Four
“I CAN’T BELIEVE how long she talked to me,” says April, who is still giddy during the bus ride home. “Like, she could have gone back to shmoozing with the reporter lady, but instead she talked to me.”
“And why shouldn’t she? You were the most interesting person there,” I say.
But honestly, I am grateful for Amy Sullivan.
I wouldn’t have expected someone who hustles as hard as she does to notice how much this meant to April.
Ever since finding out she dated Sid—and that she’s Tom’s niece—I’ve been on a constant see-saw, trying to decide if I like her. Today, she’s in my good books.
“Ms. Sullivan says they run a summer program for high-school students,” says April. “Doing it really helps your chances of getting an apprenticeship at the guild after graduation. She says if I can get my math up, I should apply next spring.”
“That’s amazing! And you totally will. Didn’t you get an A on that test?”
April huffs. “Kayla, that was on factoring. We were coving stuff that kids here learn in Grade Four. Grade Four! I am so far behind, it hurts. In regular math, they’re adding exponents to polynomials.”
“What’s an exponent?”
“Exactly.” She looks down at a pamphlet Amy gave her, describing the program the guild ran this past summer.
“I need a whole plan of attack. Would you mind if I stayed late at school a few nights a week? Sometimes there’s a teacher on duty to give tutoring—maybe if I got some, I would catch up faster. ”
“Oh… um…”
“I think that’s a great idea,” says Sid.
“Thank you!” April squeals.
“Hold on, I’m still deciding. He’s not your big sister.”
Sid places a hand over his heart. “And here I thought I was. You wound me, Kayla.”
“Ha ha ha. I’m not saying no. I just want to think about it.” I still dislike the idea of April spending any more time separated from me than she absolutely needs to. But the way she lit up during the tour is undeniable.
“Why? What’s the big deal?” Sid asks.
“She’s still my responsibility.”
“Her pancreas is my responsibility. I say her pancreas can go.”
“Please, Kayla?” April stares at me with that wounded bird expression that made me march us miles across Vancouver Island looking for passage to Salt Spring. I really would be a bitch if I don’t let her chase this new dream.
I grunt. “Fine. But not every night. I hardly get to see you anymore.”
“I promise it will be worth it! Thank you so much!” She gives me a tight squeeze, like she used to as a little girl.
Too soon, she’s back to her pamphlet, flipping to the page that most interests her.
“They’ve got a lot of different specialties you can take.
I like the idea of chemistry. I could design new drugs for people someday. Maybe rediscover synthetic insulin.”
Maybe. She’s got a whole life ahead of her to try.
Still, I can’t shake my unease as we arrive home.
I stopped worrying about the school trying to brainwash her weeks ago.
Her math booklets are too boring to possibly be trying to woo her into some dark cult.
And I know if she wants to be successful on this island, she needs a good education. So how come I feel oddly disappointed?
April heads straight to our bedroom to study. Meanwhile, I stand listless in the living room, growing grumpier by the second.
“Why don’t you have any furniture?” I ask. “It would be nice having somewhere to sit down.”
“Well, there’s the kitchen,” says Sid, closing the door to the apartment.
“Everyone uses the kitchen! People can just show up whenever.” I tilt my head towards the bedroom, which April has already commandeered. “There’s nowhere for me to be alone.”
Sid’s brow furrows. “I thought you said you don’t like being alone.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I’m being serious. Are you okay?”
“Everyone likes being alone sometimes. I was just talking out of my ass.”
“You said people only want to be alone because they have to be,” says Sid, not buying my flippant explanations. “Are you feeling unsafe?”
The question is so direct, I’m not sure how to answer it. I look over my shoulder at April, but she’s so engrossed with the pamphlet, I don’t think she’s listening to any of this. “No. I don’t think that’s it.”
“Oh. That’s good, then?”
“Sure. New shitty emotion unlocked. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”
“Kayla—”
“I’m going for a run. Tell Carlos I’m sorry I can’t help with dinner. And don’t panic, big guy.” I punch him lightly on the arm.
“I won’t.” He serves me the same face most people make when they bite into an unripe blackberry. “You told me where you’re going this time.”
Running for the sake of running. It’s almost as absurd as paying for a haircut or taking a salad home uneaten.
But for some reason, this one comes naturally to me.
I miss the long open roads on Vancouver Island.
I miss the empty space I had to traverse to find food or water.
There was a purpose to all the running then, but here, in this place of ease and comfort, I miss the feeling of my muscles aching and sweat dripping down my spine.
With each slap of my feet against gravel, it’s like I’m grounding my body in an earlier version of myself.
The Kayla of two months ago was never tortured with discontent.
There was always something that needed to be done; always a teenaged girl who depended on me for life.
Now, I’ve arrived at the greatest success a parent can hope for: April doesn’t need me anymore. Not like she used to.
My sister wants to be a scientist. I should be thrilled and on one level, I am.
Look at her, taking after our mum. They got so few years together, but her influence is still there.
It’s poetic, even. In hindsight, I guess I was more Dad’s child.
I work with my hands. I take care of what needs doing.
Except even Dad had a passion. No one carved more beautifully than he did.
I wish I’d been able to keep more of the things he made.
I slow to a walk as the ugly emotion I didn’t dare name back in Sid’s apartment swells inside me.
It’s not just that April is outgrowing me.
I’m jealous of her. Where was I at fifteen?
Stumbling around the woods, grieving my father’s death.
I still had Mum and Curtis then, but my life was so small.
It still is. I never got to have big, teenaged dreams. I survived.
That’s all I ever dared to ask for. Now, I’m living that same small life in a place that offers April so much more.
It’s telling that I never had this internal crisis while living in Astolia.
Really, I wasn’t that far off April’s age when we left.
We weren’t at risk of starving while we lived there.
At some point, shouldn’t I have wanted something more?
I try to remember the conversations I shared with Beth-Anne, the closest I ever got to bearing my unfettered heart.
Every morning, we would go to the goat pen and pick neighbouring does to milk.
Under our breath, we would whisper all the things we knew the adults didn’t want us to say.
Often, I told her stories Mum had read to me back in Port Alberni, though we had to depend on my memory for the details.
One time, I was telling her The Wizard of Oz and she asked me what a twister was.
Since I didn’t know, I just told her it was like a tsunami. Close enough, right?
Other days, we talked about the future. I wanted to get married.
I wanted to have kids. I wanted to be able to read books without hiding them at the bottom of my bag, just in case.
Only that last one hints at any ambitions that weren’t predetermined for me.
And by some metric… I guess I’ve already achieved most of them now. Look at me. Winning at life yet again.
Beth-Anne, I remember, was more specific in her dreams. The Grand Astrologue had already made a deal with her father. She was promised to Alan, a guy who was already in his twenties when we were thirteen. He was waiting for her to come of age, a turn of phrase that now makes my skin crawl.
Once—only once—I remember her saying, “You know what would really be the best? Getting to fall in love and choose my husband.”
The wind picks up, making my shirt stick to my sweaty skin. I need to go home and wash up before it gets too late. April will kill me if I fall asleep smelling like this in the bed we share.
* * *
“YOU COULD TAKE night classes. Finish your high school diploma, if you want to.”
I shouldn’t have told Sid about this. He doesn’t understand mindless complaining. He’s immediately jumped into fix-it mode, each suggestion more overwhelming than the last.
“That’s your thing, not mine. Next you’re going to suggest I run for office.”
We’re writing letters. Sid asked for my help getting word about his campaign out to constituents, since my penmanship is significantly more legible than his.
James used to help him with tasks like this, but Sid says he always had to check them for sex puns, so I’m a clear improvement.
I’ve been writing the same message over and over—Do you have concerns about healthcare accessibility on our island?
The task is repetitive enough that we both got bored.
He asked if my run the other night helped me feel better, and soon I was rambling about envying April’s ambitions.
Big mistake. He’s got no sense of when to leave well enough alone.
“You could see if the agriculture department needs your expertise in foraging,” he suggests as he presses a wax seal over one of the completed letters.
“I’m not working for the government.” I’m not putting myself through another interview like the one with that asshole in charge of the border guard.
“Not even as a border guard? If you want to make money—”
“I don’t want anything, Sid! That’s the point.”
“You like cooking.”
This isn’t the first time he’s brought that up. I grind my molars as I start yet another letter.