Days That End in Y Read online

  I wonder if this is how it’s going to be now: Doug asking me questions about my feelings while we walk his dog. I feel like we’re on a family sitcom, and this is the part where the father and daughter have a heart-to-heart. Only Doug is not my father, and I hate heart-to-hearts.

  If this is going to be our new thing, then it is an unfortunate side effect of his moving in. I don’t like to talk things out; I do enough of that with Mattie. I don’t need another amateur psychiatrist in my life.

  Nor do I need a dog, come to think of it.

  “I’m okay with it. I’m still sort of … processing the information.”

  Processing the information? Now I sound like Mattie.

  Inside, I’m cringing, but Doug is nodding.

  “Totally. I get that. It’s going to take some time. That’s why we thought I’d move in in stages,” he explains, sounding suspiciously like my mother. It hits me that they probably discussed how they would approach me, mapping out all my possible reactions and deciding how they’d respond.

  This is something they will do, now. They will have secret conversations to discuss things like allowance and curfew and whether or not I am being too mouthy. They will be Team Parent and I will be all alone. There is no one on my side. Except for maybe the dog.

  Suzy bounces up, snapping her jaws at a moth. Even the moth, the laziest and dopiest of insects, gets away. This doesn’t seem to bother Suzy. She still runs over to Doug, elated, as if she had caught it. Doug leans down and roughs up her doggy bangs, jabbering away to her in baby talk.

  Who am I kidding? That dog is not on my team. It’s just me against Team Parent and their sweet-natured, if a little slow, mascot Suzy.

  RESEARCH DAY

  Because Mattie is leaving for camp soon, we are trying to spend as much time together as possible. She even comes over just to hang out while I cover the phone for the Hair Emporium. Mattie loves it, especially when I let her answer the phone and make appointments. She’s so good at it: very professional and friendly.

  Today I got roped into packing the last of the boxes that are headed to the Salvation Army. With Mattie around, I barely have to do any of the actual work. She’s happy to organize, and I do my best to add my two cents from the bed, flipping through the yearbooks.

  “Clarissa, you aren’t being very helpful.”

  “Sorry, you’re just doing such a good job.”

  Mattie tosses an old tuque at my head. “Yeah, right. What are you doing? Are those yearbooks?”

  “Yeah, they’re my mom’s.”

  Mattie squeals, abandons her organizing and steps through piles of winter clothes to sit on the bed next to me. “Let’s go through them!”

  I’m happy to pore over them again. We go through the yearbooks one by one, laughing at the hairstyles and wondering over all the mysterious notes.

  “Your mom was so pretty,” Mattie says. “My mom had these horrible glasses in high school. You could barely see her face!”

  “Do you want to see my dad?”

  Mattie draws her breath in sharply. “Are you serious? They went to high school together?”

  “Yep.”

  “Show me.”

  I find the grade eleven yearbook and flip to the prom picture. “That’s him.”

  Mattie takes the book from me, sets it on her lap and stares at it for a few moments before declaring, “He’s handsome. Don’t you think so? I would date him.”

  I take the yearbook back, snapping it shut. “Ew, don’t be gross!”

  I should have known Mattie would take what could have been a nice moment and make it all about boys.

  “I’m not — I’m giving him a compliment! Do you ever wonder about him?”

  “Not really. A few times, maybe. But lately I’ve been thinking about him more.”

  “And you’ve never spoken to him?”

  “Never.”

  Mattie shakes her head. “I can’t believe it. It’s like something out of a movie. Have you ever looked him up online?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  I’m embarrassed to admit that even though I’ve considered it in the past, I always chickened out. “It didn’t seem like such a big deal before.”

  Mattie’s eyes wander over to the computer. “Want to look him up now?”

  Now that the seed has been planted, I do want to look him up. “Okay, but let me close the door first.”

  Mattie frowns. “Why?”

  “Just in case my mom comes up and wants to know what we’re doing.”

  “Why would she care? He’s your dad. It’s not illegal to Google your own father,” Mattie says.

  “I know, but she’d probably overreact. She’d think it was this big deal.” I roll my eyes, as if to say “mothers, what can you do?” even though my heartbeat is speeding up and my skin is itching, which is what happens to me when I’m excited or anxious. This is, in fact, a huge deal. I’ve never done anything other than ask Denise a few questions about Bill before. I’m in completely new territory here.

  Mattie sits at my computer, and I sit on the bed behind her. It feels safer to let her do the typing, as if I’m just an innocent bystander and have nothing to do with it.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bill Davies. I don’t know his middle name.”

  “Do you think he goes by Bill or William?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s look up William Davies first.”

  Over three million results pop up. This is going to be more difficult than I thought.

  “We have to narrow it somehow,” Mattie says.

  “He lives in Vancouver. Maybe type in ‘Bill Davies, Vancouver.’”

  Mattie types the words in as requested. Still way too many hits to go through, but definitely less than three million. The first three entries that pop up are a LinkedIn profile, an obituary and a movie database listing for an actor.

  “Which one should we check first?”

  “Go to the actor.”

  “Good idea. Maybe you get your love of acting from him,” Mattie says, optimistic as ever.

  But Bill Davies the actor turns out to be a twenty-six-year-old black man.

  “Obviously not. Try the LinkedIn profile.”

  That also ends up being a bust. The Bill Davies listed there is too old and doesn’t look a thing like my father does in his high school photos.

  “Remember that people change,” Mattie points out.

  “That man’s face is an entirely different shape, he has red hair and he’s at least ten years too old.”

  Mattie sighs. “I know. I’m just trying to be positive. Do you want me to check the obituary?”

  I hesitate. Even if I’ve never met him, I’m not sure I want to find out whether or not my father is dead just yet. I take a deep breath, gripping the back of the computer chair so hard my knuckles turn bone white. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  According to the obituary, the Bill Davies who died last Saturday was eighty-four years old and left behind two children and six grandkids in Surrey, B.C. I let out a big sigh.

  “That’s a relief,” Mattie says. “Do you know anything else about him?”

  “I think Denise said he worked in sales.”

  So Mattie types in “Bill Davies” Vancouver, sales. Two lawyers, a photographer and a police report pop-up. A quick check proves that none of these men are the right Bill, either.

  “This is impossible,” I sigh. “There are too many Bill Davieses in the world.”

  “Don’t give up so quickly!”

  “What’s the point? What am I going to do, email him?”

  Mattie thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe. Or maybe you can just read about him and move on.”

  “What do you mean, move on? It’s not like he’s holding me back. I barely think about him. It’s just these stupid yearbooks.”

  “Maybe …” Mattie begins, then she trails off.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Or
maybe the yearbooks are a sign.”

  “What kind of sign?”

  “A sign that you are meant to look him up. Why else would you find them now? They’ve been in your house forever.”

  “That’s crazy. They turned up because we were cleaning.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s try Facebook.”

  Next Mattie signs into Facebook and searches for his name. Not surprisingly, there are tons of Bill Davies from all over the world. It’s hard to tell from the little profile pictures that pop up, but none of them look anything like the picture in the yearbook.

  “Maybe he doesn’t like the internet,” Mattie says. “My Aunt Karen moved to Vancouver and now she lives on an organic farm that uses solar power to heat the water. She hates cell phones and microwaves because she thinks they give you cancer. Maybe your dad is one of those back-to-the-earth types.”

  “I doubt it. The way Denise described him, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who goes for solar power and electric cars and all that.”

  Mattie sighs, crestfallen. “I’m sorry this was so useless.”

  “It’s not your fault. Like you said, maybe this is a sign. Only this time the sign is telling me to forget it.”

  Mattie frowns. “That’s the most depressing sign I’ve ever heard of.”

  Truth be told, my spirits have dipped a little low, too. A big part of me was looking forward to learning about Bill Davies. But looking for him online was like looking for a needle in a haystack, only the haystack was the internet — the biggest haystack in the world.

  “Can’t you just ask your mom?”

  I shake my head. “No way. I told you, she’d read into it and take it too seriously.”

  Mattie wasn’t finished. “But she must have some way to contact him. Maybe she’s been waiting all these years for you to ask, letting you come to her in your own time.”

  “You read too many books,” I say.

  “Maybe you should read more books,” Mattie says, just the slightest bit of sass in her voice.

  “Why should I? It’s summer.”

  Mattie rolls her eyes, but laughs. “You never know unless you ask,” she says.

  “Trust me, I know. She’d completely freak out,” I say.

  MOVE-IN DAY

  For the past two weeks, whenever he dropped by, Doug brought a box or two over with him. The house is like an obstacle course: boxes in the living room, boxes stacked in the hall outside the master bedroom — there are even a few boxes in the bathroom beside the toilet. I have no desire to open these.

  But today Doug has brought over the final load of boxes and the most significant piece of baggage: Suzy. For such a little dog she sure comes with a lot of stuff. Along with her stainless steel bowls and enormous potato-sack sized bags of food, she has a travel crate, a regular crate, a sleeping pillow, a variety of very worn blankets and an entire box of toys. I don’t mean a shoebox; I mean a box that originally held a microwave. It’s possible that Suzy has more toys than I ever did.

  Having Suzy around might be the weirdest part about Doug moving in. I’ve gotten used to seeing him at the dinner table or watching TV on the couch with my mom, but Suzy will be a new fixture in our everyday lives. Doug will be at work for part of the day, so I won’t really see him much more than I used to before he moved in. But now Suzy will always be around, sniffing at our heels, trying to eat our shoes and crying if we don’t give her enough attention.

  Tonight my mother puts her foot down for the first time since the move-in started. She does not want Suzy to sleep in their room.

  “She’s a cutie, but I don’t need to vacuum dog hair off my comforter every day,” she says.

  Doug appears to take the news quite hard. He looks truly sombre, as if imagining the moment he has to break the news to Suzy. Eventually, he agrees. Annie Delaney is a hard woman to argue with.

  “For now, let’s confine her to the kitchen at night,” Doug says sadly. “It’s probably better if she gets used to the house one room at a time.”

  Suzy has been to our house plenty of times, so she doesn’t seem to get that something is up until Doug traps her in the kitchen with a complicated series of baby gates. At first she thinks it’s a game, jumping around in circles and growling at us through the gate.

  “That sounds threatening,” I say, taking a step back toward my room. “Are you sure that gate will hold?”

  “She’s just playing,” Doug insists.

  “But what if she decides that I’m responsible for locking her up and manages to get out in the middle of the night, hunting me down in my sleep?”

  “She’s a dog, not a tiger, Clarissa.”

  She may be a dog, but right now she’s growling like a tiger. But neither Doug nor Mom seems worried by her aggressive behaviour.

  As we head to our rooms, the growling turns to whining and then barking in loud, evenly spaced barks. It sounds like she’s sending out some kind of doggy distress signal. Any minute now other dogs, from all over town, are going to start barking in response.

  “Is she going to do that all night?” I ask.

  “Probably not,” Doug says.

  “Probably not?” I repeat.

  “Just ignore her.”

  Easier said than done. Suzy has more stamina than I thought possible, and after fifteen straight minutes of her sounding the doggy alarm, I’m ready to climb out the window and go sleep at Benji’s.

  Doug yells at her from the bedroom, “Suzy-Q! Quiet down, now! Atta girl.”

  Hearing Doug’s voice does nothing to calm Suzy down. Instead, it encourages her to change tactics. Now she’s whining, a sound so pitiful that it even manages to pull on my heartstrings. I may not be the biggest Suzy fan, but I’m not cruel. I know it must be lonely being cooped up in a strange place, especially for a dog that used to sleep at the feet of her one and only master.

  From the other bedroom, I hear the bed creak and the door open. Then Mom’s voice rings loud and clear into the hallway. “Don’t. You’re only showing her that if she whines, you’ll come running.”

  Burn, Doug. You just got told. I smile into my pillow, even though Suzy has gone back to barking, and it’s not clear if we will ever sleep in peace again. It’s nice to know that Mom still knows how to rule the roost. To myself, I think, Clarissa 1, Suzy 0.

  But at three o’clock in the morning, after I’m rudely awakened by round two of Suzy’s protest, I change that score to Clarissa 1, Suzy 1.

  This is going to be even more difficult than I imagined.

  A LONG, BORING DAY

  Dear Clarissa,

  My cabin is singing in the talent show and Wicker is teaching us this AMAZING four part harmony and people are really going to be blown away. Wicker is by far the best counsellor I have ever had. You would really like her, Clarissa. She’s kind of tough and so fun — just like you! Plus, she plays guitar and designs tattoos and is the best archery teacher in the world. It’s like taking lessons from Katniss Everdeen!!! I almost got a bull’s eye, although you should see all the bruises I have on my arms from archery. So not pretty!

  I’ve made a big decision. I’m going to break up with Andrew. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and even though he is really sweet and smart, the connection just isn’t there, not like it is with you and Michael (are you guys official yet?!?!). He’s only written me once, and all he talked about was what he had for dinner and the games he was working on at computer camp. He never said one romantic thing. I know he’s really shy, but I have decided I need a boy who is not afraid to show his emotions. Besides, there are going to be so many other boys at Sir John A., and I want to keep my options open. I’m too young to settle down! So now you know. By the time I come home it will be over. I would much rather do it in person, but that’s not really possible, so I’m going to compose a heartfelt, sensitive letter. Wicker has broken up with lots of boys so she’s going to help me.

  Have you given any thought about coming to camp next year? I really think
you would love it if you just gave it a chance. It’s not one of those hard-core camps where you cook your own food every night over a campfire and sleep in tents. We have cabins and bunk beds and a kitchen that makes AMAZING mac & cheese. Please think about it, Clarissa. I love camp, but I miss you and I know we would have such a great time together! And then you could meet Wicker!

  Say hello to your mom and tell her I’m going to need major highlights when I get back! You should see how the sun has wrecked my hair! Also say hi to Benji and Charity for me and be sure to give Michael a big kiss (ha-ha!). You can even say it’s from me, you big chicken!

  I miss you, but only on days that end in y. (Ha! Get it?! Wicker taught me that!)

  XOXOXO

  Mattie

  I fold Mattie’s letter and leave it on the coffee table. I will add it to my collection later. She is a dutiful pen pal, writing two times a week, sometimes even more.

  I look forward to her letters. I’ve already read this one about fifteen times since it arrived on Thursday. Sadly, walking to the mailbox after lunch has become the highlight of my day. I hate to admit it, but I’m bored. It feels wrong to not take advantage of summer, but there’s only so much I can do on my own. Benji is fully occupied with drama camp, which seem to be taking up some of his evenings, too. In past summers, whenever things got dull, at least we were bored together. Being bored on your own is a totally different story.

  I keep finding myself hanging around the Hair Emporium out of sheer desperation.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Denise asks, barely looking up from her magazine. “You’re spoiling the lovely, peaceful ambiance with your sulking.”

  Oh right, and her snapping her gum and tapping the toes of her shoes against the metal bar of the stylist chair isn’t?

  “I’m bored.”

  Denise sighs. “Must be nice to be young and have the luxury of being bored. These days I don’t have time to eat, let alone get bored.”

  “And yet you manage to make time to drop by here every day,” I point out.

  Denise ignores me and continues ranting. “Do you know how much time I’ve spent in the car this week? Twenty hours. That’s almost a full day! These sales calls are going to be the death of me. If I don’t drop dead from exhaustion, I’ll probably die in a head-on collision.”