Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 22.1

Mom wants to move. I want to die.

The sky drizzles as I walk to school. Mom doesn't want me leaving the apartment without her. She wanted me to drive, but I refused to get out of bed. I finally left at noon. A cyclist veers around me from behind, almost clipping me. A man shouts out "side walk." I don't even break stride.

"Up yours," says the cyclist, and he's gone.

I bump listlessly against students in the school hallway like a pinball in a machine. Usually I hear bits and pieces of conversations, but now it's all just a drone. I can't take my mind off his note.

One is never finished with the family.

I hit Cancel. I swear to God, I hit Cancel. I did not click Post.

I didn't even include a photo. It was just a few lines of text.

Mom asked me what Lonely-VP meant. I told her I didn't know. She doesn't know anything about online dating or computer nicknames. Eventually she said that it doesn't matter how he found us.

Mom has no idea I'm responsible.

Bill never surfs the internet, so someone must have stumbled on it and told him. I tried logging back into CanDate, but all I got was User Account Suspended. I guess Bill filed a complaint to help cover his tracks.

It figures he would quote a philosopher. He would never do anything illegal, other than the one time he hit Mom, that is. I'm sure if Mom ever pressed charges he'd just say he was trying to help his stepdaughter gain a classical education.

Bill is vindictive. He can hold a grudge like no one I've ever known. Once when we were driving home on the 401 in Toronto, a grey Nissan cut him off. Bill ignored our exit and followed the guy for forty-five minutes before he got close enough to read his license plate. He talked happily about geology the whole time, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He can be a charming English gentleman, while underneath it all he's scheming to make your life miserable.

We left so much of ourselves behind. The only things we brought with us were items we could jam into Mom's Honda: clothes, some toiletries, the antique writing box, and a few personal decorations. My keyboard was the first thing we packed. I was worried the keys would be crushed by the weight of everything else piled on top, but it survived. We drove all the way across Canada, through Manitoba and Saskatchewan and Alberta. I'd always wanted to see the countryside, but not like that.

After she showed me the package from Chapters, Mom and I had a huge fight. She wants to move, but not back to Toronto. She's talking of Edmonton, but there's no way in hell. Ralph Klein once said, "Edmonton isn't the end of the world, but you can see it from there." If a former Premier doesn't even respect his province's capital, why should I?

I think we should fight Bill. And it's not like I have his $27,777. Mom sure doesn't have it, either.

On Monday morning she spoke with Constable Walker, the school's liaison officer. He said the police can't do much because the note wasn't explicitly threatening. She asked about a restraining order and he said that in Canada they're called "Peace Bonds." For a Justice of the Peace to issue one, Mom would have to present physical evidence to demonstrate ongoing harassment, like photographs of bruises or a hole kicked in the wall. We have one photo of Mom bruised, but she keeps saying it's not enough. I think she's too proud to admit that Bill is a problem.

I haven't told anyone what's happened. I feel like we just got here.

I collide heavily with a student. I apologize and he scowls, then walks around me, swearing. The next voice I hear is Kyle's. He descends on me from out of nowhere, like a ghost.

"Rebecca?" he says. "Hey, are you okay?"

Kyle and his bottle of Diet Coke. Kyle and his guitar case. To him, life is just fodder for music. He'll never understand.

"I'm fine," I lie. My ex-stepfather sent us a lovely book that's a thinly-veiled threat, Mom wants to run, and it's all my fault. Life is great.

"Are you sure? You seem completely out of it." Kyle finally gets the guts to put his hand on my shoulder. But now is not the time.

I shrug it away. "Just – I'm not in the mood for anything okay, Kyle? Please no song lyrics."

"What's going on? Ever since the weekend you've been a space cadet. Stevie Wonder could see you're upset."

"Just drop it, Kyle. Learn to take a hint." God. I wade into the throng of students walking to class.

I don't need him. Just Mom.

* * *

I don't care about today's rehearsal and skip it. Kyle will probably say something tomorrow. I don't care about that, either.

Mom finishes work, then the two of us drive home together. The mood in the car is somber.

"I spoke to Constable Walker," says Mom, stopping at a red light. "He's going to meet with us tomorrow when he can spare a minute. I'll have you paged."

I think this is the one time I'm glad to have Mom at the school.

"What did he say? How did Bill find us?"

Mom sighs. "I don't know. I went over everything. I didn't leave a forwarding address, I pay cash, I cut up my old credit cards, I got a new bank account. It's like someone told him where we went." The driver's side window fogs up and she rolls it down.

I furrow my eyebrows. "I think you should fight him."

"We've talked about this, Rebecca," says Mom.

"Get a Peace Bond. Hire a private detective to scare him off. Get a bodyguard or something." The memory of Jesse bribing our way into the club comes to mind, but I don't think this is the time to bring up suggestions that aren't exactly legal.

"Honey, that stuff works only in the movies," she says. "We'll wait until the police have some advice. We need to pull together on this, Rebecca. I need you to be strong."

I'm not strong? Being the best daughter I can doesn't take strength?

Maybe Bill will leave us alone if he got his $27,777. I can't tell Mom that I know about it, though. One topic would lead to another, and I wouldn't be able to bottle it all in. Then she'd realize that I know she...let him.

What a lying hypocrite. They had a deal. He broke his end of the agreement when he didn't use a condom, and now he's come after us when he said he wouldn't.

Men suck.

* * *

"Hey, Rebecca," says Kyle. "You weren't at the rehearsal yesterday." Kyle homes in on me like a pigeon the next day in the hallway.

"Yeah," I say, anticipating upcoming student traffic for my escape. I pull my backpack up around my shoulder. It threatens to sap what's left of my strength from spending the night up talking with Mom.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he says. "If something's happened, you can tell me."

"Thanks, but I can handle it."

"So something is wrong. What?"

"Kyle, don't you ever give up? Yes, something's wrong, but it's none of your concern."

I shake my head and slip through an opening between two girls. Kyle is the last person I'm going to run to.