CHAPTER ONE

      I’m busy in the swimming pool, dreaming of you and me under water, gripping on to each other’s chubby wrists, our cheeks big and round with stored breath, our eyes big and round and locked on each other, the chlorine on our skin, bubbles ringing our faces and our feet kicking out behind us. And when I rise reluctantly to the surface, away from the water-mottled laughter, the heartbeat in my head and the hum of trying not to breathe, I’m dry and nowhere near the pool.

      I don’t hear the alarm or any other sound. On a Sunday there should be bustling about – Dad shouting for Mom to find his tie with the blue stripes, Mom shouting for Dad and everyone to hurry up, the smell of brewing coffee that Dad drinks by the mugful to stay alert during the minister’s sermon. There’s nothing.

      I attempt to pry my eyes open but my lashes have bound themselves together. I rub at my lids. I’m in the rollaway bed again, in your room, looking up at walls and ceiling, blinded windows, bed frame. The clock face looms somewhere on the night stand above my head. 10:47 a.m. We’re cutting it fine. I should bolt out of bed immediately, but…

      I let my head fall back into its hollow in the pillow and try with all my might to lie very, very still. But the stillness only draws attention to the trouble spots. My head’s exploding. My mouth is completely coated in a foul-tasting furry substance, my tongue swollen, glued to my teeth and the roof of my retainer. My muscles ache, my skin feels tight and goosepimply at the same time, the hairs on my arm stand up like the bristles of a brush. Down below, my stomach burbles, daring me to make any sudden moves.

      I turn my nose into the pillowcase for comfort. It hasn’t been washed since and I can still smell you there. I sink into that smell.

      Footsteps pound heavily along the hallway overhead. They’re on the stairs, avalanching down. I hold my head as the door swings open, banging hard against its stop at the back. Mom flicks the light switch and the brightness makes me wince.

      ‘Get up.’ She’s wearing her navy woollen dress and already has her hair combed and sprayed into place, her nose powdered, navy pumps buffed.

      I whimper.

      ‘Get up. Now, Justine.’

      ‘Mom, I don’t feel so good. I think I might be sick.’

      She makes a noise. ‘You’re not sick. That’s not sickness you’re feeling and you know it.’

      ‘But Mom, we’re not going to church, are we?’

      ‘Suddenly you’re too good for praying?’

      ‘We’ll be late, you hate ducking in late.’

      ‘We won’t be late. Not if you get a move on.’

      ‘But Mom…’

      ‘But Mom nothing. Get up, I said. Do you hear me? Now! Get!’

      Her voice has the edge. I prop myself up unsteadily on one elbow.

      ‘We’re going to church and then we’re going to the mall. We’ve got errands to run, lots of errands. We’re leaving in ten minutes and I expect you to be dressed and ready.’

      She yanks the door to on her way out, my head cracking between the hinges. Ten minutes. I throw back the sheets and swing my feet to the floor, but as soon as I pull myself erect, my stomach lurches. Vomit rises in my throat as I dash to the bathroom.

      I crouch over the bowl there. The porcelain’s cool, smooth like vanilla ice cream against my cheek, and the nausea subsides.

      Delicately, I get to my feet, brush my teeth and retainer, scrub my tongue and splash water on my face, then stagger back into your room to dress. There’s no time for a shower or even to venture upstairs to my closet for a decent outfit. The blouse I was wearing last night is soiled with God-knows-what and my pantyhose ruined from a shoeless midnight sprint across the muddied football field. I dump them in the trash can. My tartan skirt’s wrinkled but passable and, thankfully, long, and I find an old turtleneck at the back of one of your half-empty drawers.

      By the time Mom returns, I’ve buckled on my Mary Jane shoes and tied my hair back, just avoiding tearing the scalp from my screaming head, and have started rummaging in the medicine cabinet for that blasted Tylenol and where, oh where, has that water glass got to?

      Mom gives me the tip to toe once-over and clucks disapprovingly. ‘This is how you dress for church nowadays?’

      ‘I only had ten minutes.’

      ‘Where on earth are your pantyhose?’

      ‘They had a run.’

      ‘Every pair? Oh for heaven’s sake.’ She checks her purse for lipstick, tissues and Tic Tacs as she shows me her back. ‘Get your coat, your father’s starting the car.’

      At last, the Tylenol. I dump two out and pop both down my throat, but still no water glass. I slurp direct from the tap but can’t get a good angle, can’t sluice my mouth enough. The pills lodge halfway down my gullet, trapped in the furry sludge. I cough, grab my coat and a pair of sunglasses and follow Mom out to the garage where Dad glowers behind the wheel of the Volvo.

      As Mom settles into the passenger seat, Dad motions for me to hit the garage door opener. The chain overhead creaks, the garage murk dissipates as the midwinter light crawls in through the widening opening. I don the sunglasses before it can reach my line of vision and try to catch a parental eye through the windshield. Dad’s already pulled down his visor and Mom’s staring straight ahead to where the lawnmower’s stored. Her face is splotched and extra puffy, but her eyes are dry, hard and glassy like marbles.

      ‘Come on, dammit,’ Dad grumbles. I scramble into the back seat next to his neatly folded overcoat and buckle up in double-quick time.

      Dad eases the car out of the garage, checking his path in the rear-view mirror in case the rose bushes bordering the driveway are in a mind to scratch his paintwork. Once clear, he reaches to the visor for the garage door remote. He clicks, nothing happens. Click, click.

      ‘Goddammit!’

      I know he wants to order me to get my ass up and shut that frigging garage, but for some reason he doesn’t. He leaps out, the car door hanging open and dives into the garage himself.

      I take advantage of the opportunity. ‘Mom, look, I’m sorry, really I—’

      ‘Shut up.’

      ‘But—’

      She doesn’t move her head one inch in my direction. ‘Shut up, shut up!’

      The garage door begins its descent and Dad shimmies out beneath it just in time, the rubber seal catching the back of his suit jacket and leaving a smear of dirt that he doesn’t seem to notice as he climbs back into the car.

      This is bad. Worse than the time you and I trapped the neighbour’s cat in the mailbox, worse than when we got picked up by the cop for loitering in the Kmart parking lot, worse than when you brought home the report card with two ‘D’s and I tried to forge Mom’s signature, worse even than when we skipped fifth period so Lloyd Taggart could drive us and Cindy round the block in his Dad’s Audi, even though he only had a learner’s permit and we hadn’t even started our semester of Driver’s Ed. I shiver and wish I’d gone upstairs for a new pair of pantyhose, wish I’d remembered my gloves.