Leftovers (13 page)

“Now throw me the rope!”

Sullivan unties the long rope from the front of the canoe and tosses it out to me. With Judy still floundering on top of the life jackets, I manage to tread water and fasten one end around her body like a crude harness.

Flipping onto my back, I tie the other end of the rope around my waist.

“Calm down. Relax. That's a good girl,” I whisper to Judy, who slowly begins to melt into her life-jacket bed as if it's an air mattress.

Glancing around at my options, I decide not to back-stroke toward Camp Dog Gone Fun right away. There's a tiny island another hundred feet upriver, no more than two small pine trees poking up between three huge boulders.
Too small to support a doghouse, let alone a real house. But all I want is a landing spot to let Judy rest, so it'll do.

Arriving at dry land, Judy doesn't need coaxing to shed the life jackets and scramble up onto the rocks. She shakes about fifty gallons of river water out of her fur and then sits stoically atop the biggest of the three boulders, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, her chest heaving as she catches her breath.

A few minutes later, Sullivan pulls the canoe up alongside the rocks. I think about it a minute, deciding that even if we let her rest for an hour, I don't trust Judy to dog-paddle back to Camp Dog Gone Fun. The sun is down now, the sky will be black soon, and if she were to bolt again, the river would be too dark and dangerous to track her. And while the current is small potatoes this close to the mainland, if she were to panic and find her way out to the shipping lanes, there's no way two scrawny-armed teenagers in a canoe could do anything to help.

“Judy, get in the boat!” I command the big dog.

She balks.

I have no more patience. I only pulled the Judy-raft the length of two swimming pools, but my heart is pounding in my ears. Hands on my knees, I suck air into my lungs.

“JUDY! GET IN!” I scream. Grabbing the big dog by the scruff of her neck, I yell, “MOVE IT!” With me pushing and Sullivan pulling, and nearly capsizing twice, we manage to get all Judy's dog-bulk settled into the bottom of the canoe. “DOWN!” I tell her. With the rope we short-leash Judy to
the middle thwart in case she gets any bright ideas about jumping out.

“Go ahead and sulk all you like,” I tell her as she yawns and sets her head down on the bottom of the canoe, her forehead lowered and her mouth drooping in a frown.

Sullivan's jaw is down to his knees. “Man, can you swim! Sarah, where did you learn to—”

“Toss me my clothes!” I demand, my voice raspy from all the yelling. I can't believe I'm standing on a boulder in the middle of the St. Lawrence River in my wet underwear. Sure it's dusk, but there's still enough light to see that I might as well be naked.

Balancing on the slippery rock, I quickly pull my dry T-shirt and shorts over my wet underwear.

“This is all your fault,” I mumble to Judy as I take my place in the canoe's stern.

No, I correct myself. It's Sullivan's fault.

Slowly and silently, I steer us back in the direction of Moose Island.

My mother would tell me that it's my own stupid fault. If I'd just gone out and had my damn picture taken, then—

It's my father's fault. As usual.

Isn't blaming your father for everything getting old, Sarah?
the voice in my head whispers.

Shut the hell up, I think.

“Seriously, Sarah, where'd you learn to swim like that?” Sullivan asks, swiveling in his bow seat until he's facing me. He knows that Riverwood has no town pool. There's no swimming elective in gym class. I've never mentioned my
family having a lake house—which we don't. Or admitted to spending previous summers at sleepaway camp—which I hadn't.

Good question, I tell myself. “Watching
Little Mermaid
videos?” I reply, gesturing for him to turn around and get paddling. Canoeing after dark is dangerous. Canoeing after dark when Victoria is your bow-paddler's mother could prove fatal.

But Sullivan can't take a hint. “Where did you take swimming lessons? I wanted to take—”

“I've never been swimming in my life.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“You know how lots of people joke around that they'd rather be dead than be seen in a bathing suit?”

“Sure.”

“I'm the one who really means it.”

“But out there? In the water? How did you know what to do?”

“I don't know. I was high on adrenaline. Haven't you heard stories about old ladies lifting cars off trapped kittens? Judy's okay. That's all that matters to me. Sullivan?”

“Yeah?”

I point my paddle over his shoulder. “Watch out for that piece of driftwood.”

Lucky for us, the current is taking us back in the general direction of Moose Island without much effort. Which is good, because Sullivan is totally
ADD
when it comes to paddling.

So, Sarah,” he yaps, “if Mom doesn't kill me for ruining the party tonight, are we still—”

“You didn't ruin the party. I did.”

“Nah. It was totally my fault. Mom's big on ‘No Means No.' You definitely said no.”

“That just refers to sex.”

“Are you kidding? It refers to everything—except chores and basic hygiene, I guess. Anyway, are we still on for the puzzle and the concert? You aren't going to try to dump me again are you? I swear, I was just joking around tonight. I didn't know how strongly you felt about—”

I put my hand up, palm out. “Sullivan. It's okay. We're cool.” I haven't got the strength to argue with him any more today.

“Thanks, Sarah!” He does a little happy dance in his seat; then he swivels around to resume paddling.

Sullivan is like Judy in some ways. Obnoxious at times, often infuriating, but too goofy and good-natured to stay mad at for long. Something about him makes me want to scratch his belly and ruffle his ears. Or the human equivalent anyway.

I look down at Judy. “We're cool too,” I tell her, realizing it's true. “I'm glad you're okay.”

Too tired to lift her head, she sticks out her neck and licks my big toe.

The mayor's boat is just pulling away as Sullivan and I approach the dock. The mayor laughs and waves to us from the deck of his cabin cruiser, like everything's just peachy.

Sullivan swings around in his seat again and raises an
Is this too good to be true?
eyebrow at me.

I shrug, distracted by the need to inspect the skin on my arms. No itching or explosive green pustules yet. Maybe the St. Lawrence isn't as polluted as everyone says.

“Go take a shower if you want,” Sullivan says a few minutes later as we're hanging our life-jackets and paddles in the dark boathouse, doing our best to avoid Victoria.

“No time. I have to settle Judy in the barn and then finish scrubbing the chili pot. And I need to find the damn table leg. And figure out how to reattach it. No rest for the wicked, as my mom likes to say.”

Sullivan nuzzles my river-slime-scented neck. “Don't worry about it. I'll do Judy and the pot.”

“And the table?”

“My pleasure.”

What's that saying? Never kiss a gift horse on the mouth? “Do a good job,” I say, dashing into the night.

“Hey, Sarah!” Sullivan calls after me.

I turn.

“Joan of Arc was left-handed!”

I laugh. “So is Bart Simpson.”

The next morning I'm in my cabin, changing out of my grease-spattered breakfast-cooking clothes, when someone comes knocking.

“Anyone home?” a singsong voice calls. Victoria. I'd slip out the back door if there was one.

“Hang on a second!” I shout, frantically pulling on my standard baggy shorts and T-shirt.

A few seconds later, I open the door and a red-faced, post-run Victoria pokes her head into the cabin, her forehead dripping sweat on the linoleum.

“Can I use your shower?” she asks. “The one in the lodge is backed up.” Bundled in Victoria's arms are shampoo, conditioner, a towel and clean clothes.

I step out of the way, holding the door open so Victoria can enter, even though my first instinct is to push her out and wedge the door closed with a chair—except I don't have a chair. No locks. No chairs. No back doors.

No fun at all.

Without a moment's hesitation, Victoria begins stripping off her sweaty workout clothes.

I cringe at her lack of self-consciousness. “I'll just be...uh...going,” I tell her, waving over my shoulder and opening the door just wide enough to dart through.

“Sarah, could you wait?” Victoria calls to me. “I'll only be a few minutes in the shower. I want to talk to you about something.”

I don't think I can handle being reamed out about what happened last night. But then, I don't think Victoria cares much about my comfort zones. From the set of her jaw, I can tell she has what we here at Camp Dog Gone Fun call a bone to pick.

With me.

As promised, not three minutes later she bounds out of the shower stall and proceeds to dry herself off and pull on Lycra gym shorts, a matching tank top and hot pink flipflops. With great agility, Victoria vaults herself up onto my loft bed as I continue to distract myself from her presence by rushing around the small space, dusting cobwebs from corners and shoveling my scattered laundry items into a basket. She tips her head up to read the graffiti previous “volunteers” have etched into the wooden rafters:
Kelli was here, July 2001. Darrell loves Paris Hilton! Mikalah sucks dogs.

“You haven't written anything, Sarah,” she comments.

“Nothing to say.”

Victoria peers down at me, her forehead pleated like an accordion. “Dr. Fred and I have been talking about what happened yesterday during the mayor's visit.”

The two pieces of toast I forced myself to eat that morning whip around in my stomach like they're on a Tilt-a-Whirl. I set the laundry basket down.

“Are you going to send me home?” I ask. Might as well cut to the chase.

If I'm expelled from Camp Dog Gone Fun, the judge might send me to youth detention for the rest of the summer. Despite what happened yesterday, here's the sorry truth: I don't want to leave. I can do without the cooking. And even the dog-biscuit contract, I guess. But I need Sullivan to get me to Ottawa. And Judy, that big hairy pain-in-the-ass, needs me. I lay awake all last night wondering what compelled her to torpedo into the river. And, maybe more importantly, wondering what compelled me to strip off my clothes and dive in after her when I thought my stripping days were over.

All I know is Judy better not try a stunt like that again.

Victoria jumps down off the bed. Landing softly on the balls of her feet, she reaches forward and grabs me by the shoulders. “Send you home? Don't be crazy, Sarah. Why would we want to send you home?”

Is this a trick question? “Because I ruined your picnic.”

“You made our picnic wonderful, Sarah! All that delicious food! And Sullivan explained to me how quick-thinking you were out in the water with Judy. I'd say you saved the day!”

“But...the photographer. I...puked. I—”

“Sarah, that incident, whatever it was, wasn't your fault. I'm so ashamed that Sullivan—”

“Don't blame Sullivan,” I sigh. “Please don't punish him. He was just trying to be...funny.”

All I don't need right now is for Victoria to punish Sullivan by taking away his concert tickets.

She nods. “The mayor is putting a positive spin on the situation as well. His son spent a summer here a few years back too, if you catch my drift. Of course, he's disappointed about not getting his annual group shot for the paper, but thankfully the camera wasn't damaged when Judy knocked it off the tripod. As far as our visitors were concerned,” Victoria continues, “you and Sullivan and Judy were just part of a hilarious prank. They even thought the vomit was some old-fashioned can-of-soup trick.”

I'm halfway through a sigh of relief when Victoria snorts. “But, as we say here at Camp Dog Gone Fun, make no bones about it; I don't believe it for a second. You want to tell me what all that was about last night?”

The lightning in her eyes assures me that an emphatic NO! would be the wrong answer.

So I crack my knuckles, stare at the floor and speak the truth. “I just...I don't like...I can't...get my picture taken.”

Victoria bursts out laughing. It's Sullivan's laugh, only two octaves higher. “Why? Are you a witch?” she cackles.

I know Victoria is just teasing, referring to one of Dr. Fred's demented campfire stories about how, in medieval times, left-handers were considered witches and were burned at the stake. During more modern times, he said, there persists a belief that witches can't be photographed.

Still, I'm tempted to ask Victoria where the hell she got her social worker degree. The back of a cereal box?