Out of the Box Read online

  OUT OF THE BOX

  MICHELLE MULDER

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2011 Michelle Mulder

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Mulder, Michelle

  Out of the box [electronic resource] / Michelle Mulder.

  Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-329-0

  I. Title.

  PS8626.U435O98 2011A JC813’.6 C2010-907949-3

  First published in the United States, 2011

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010941927

  Summary: Ellie’s passion for tango music leads to an interest in Argentine history

  and a desire to separate herself from her parents’ problems.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photo by Getty Images

  Typesetting by Jasmine Devonshire

  Author photo by David Lowes

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  14 13 12 11 • 4 3 2 1

  For my family

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY - ONE

  TWENTY - TWO

  TWENTY - THREE

  TWENTY - FOUR

  TWENTY - FIVE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  “Ellie?”

  My parents are staring at me across our dining-room table. Mom’s still in her work clothes—a tailored beige blouse and black pants that make her seem confident and professional. Dad has changed from his usual T-shirt into something dressier. They’ve raised their wineglasses full of bubbly water for a goodbye toast, and they’re waiting for me to do the same.

  I grip the stem of my glass, trying to figure out how long I’ve been staring out the window at our bark-mulched yard. I was imagining myself picking raspberries in Aunt Jeanette’s garden in Victoria. My parents have finally agreed to let me stay with my aunt for the whole summer this year, instead of just a week. Jeanette says she needs help cleaning her basement— something she and Alison had promised each other they would do this summer. They had wanted to hold a giant yard sale and give all the proceeds to a soup kitchen where they volunteer. Despite everything that’s happened, my aunt’s sticking to the plan. I told my parents I wanted to help, because it feels like the last thing I can do for Alison. Maybe they get it, or maybe they’re worried Jeanette’ll get depressed if she sorts through twenty years of memories of Alison by herself. Either way, I’ve been counting the days until I get to my aunt’s place.

  I raise my glass. “To a fantastic summer!” I say.

  “To Ellie,” says Dad.

  “To Jeanette,” Mom adds, giving us each a long, meaningful look. She’s reminded me often in the past few weeks that I can’t expect my aunt to be the same as before, now that Alison’s gone. Even though Jeanette sounds fine when we talk on the phone or when she visits, grief might come crashing in on her when summer arrives and she’s not busy teaching. Besides, summer is the season of kayaking, hiking and lake swimming—activities she and Alison used to share. I think Mom imagines her curled up in a chair, desperate for company, but personally I can’t picture it. My aunt always says that life is nothing if not a great adventure. I’ve told Mom she shouldn’t worry so much, but telling Mom not to worry is like telling her not to breathe. Sure enough, Mom seems sad and tired as we clink glasses, and I scramble to think of something cheerful to say. “I was thinking about what to pack,” I lie.

  “Don’t think too hard,” Dad says, his voice cheerful enough to make up for my mother’s mood. This goodbye dinner was his idea, and he spent all afternoon chopping sun-dried tomatoes and grating extra-aged cheddar for his gourmet macaroni and cheese, my favorite meal. He doesn’t usually try this hard, but we both know tonight is important. “You never know what Jeanette has up her sleeve,” he says. “You can’t possibly prepare for everything.”

  “No kidding,” I say, digging into my macaroni. One year, Jeanette, Alison and I made elaborate costumes and waved from a float in the Canada Day parade. Another time, we rode horses to a secret waterfall at the top of a mountain. Last year we went camping, whitewater rafting and to the opera, all in one weekend. That’s what visits with Jeanette have always been like. Intense. Fabulous. And full of stuff I’d never do at home.

  Dad and I are smiling.

  Mom isn’t. Tears are welling up in her eyes.

  I feel a pang of guilt, but I grit my teeth. I’m not giving in. Not this time. “Great supper, Dad,” I say.

  Somewhere outside, a lawn mower roars to life, startling us and giving me a few extra seconds to think up a cheery new topic. “You guys’ll have a great summer too, right? What did Jeanette call it? The romantic opportunity of a lifetime?”

  Mom had laughed when Jeanette said that a few weeks ago, and I’m hoping for the same response now. Tomorrow I want to leave with memories of us laughing together. If I can think about that, I’ll worry less about what happens here while I’m gone.

  On the outside not much will change, I know. When I return, the lawns on our cul-de-sac will be as green as ever. The air will smell of sprinkler water on pavement, and the neighbors will be walking their dogs.

  Our backyard might be weedier. The house was new when my parents bought it thirteen years ago, right before I was born, and they’ve never gotten around to putting in a garden. Each year they order a load of bark mulch and hire a gardener to spread it out so the weeds don’t take over. I pull out the dandelions and grasses that sprout through the mulch. Not many do.

  It’s hard to say what things will be like inside our house two months from now. Mom gets upset a lot, and Dad says no one can calm her down like I can. Dad spends most of his time downstairs in his office, designing software for his company or just surfing the Internet. Mom says no one gets him out of his shell like I do.

  I want my parents to laugh now so I can think about that laughter on the ferry ride to Victoria tomorrow.

  But Mom’s tears are brimming over. I look pleadingly at Dad, and for once, he jumps in. “Come on, now, Gloria,” he says. “It’ll be a great summer, right? For all of us.” His tone is more forceful than usual, as though he won’t take no for an answer.

  Mom closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. A breath like she taught me to take bef
ore math tests. When she opens her eyes, she looks as determined as Dad. “It will be a great summer,” she says with a confident smile that matches her professional clothing. “And we’ll look forward to hearing about your adventures, Ellie. I know you’ll have a wonderful time.”

  I relax. Dad does too. We talk about the kite Jeanette and I plan to build together—an improvement on last summer’s design—and about the park north of Victoria where we want to picnic. Then Dad cracks a joke about being the suburb’s King of Romance this summer, and at last I hear the laughter I’ve been hoping for.

  Later that evening I stuff a book and an extra toothbrush into the crannies of my backpack. I leave my iPod and my cell phone on my desk. Jeanette has banned both of them from her house. She says technology “takes people away from the moment.” Life at her house is all about “being present.” I rolled my eyes when she made that declaration. I’m going to miss my music. (Mom thinks I hate music because I don’t always want to practice my violin, but listening to great artists and wanting to practice an instrument I never liked anyway are two completely different things.)

  I don’t mind leaving the cell phone behind. My friend Samantha is in Tasmania visiting relatives for the summer, and the only other person who ever calls me is my mother.

  I take a last look around my room and ease the zipper shut on my backpack.

  Tomorrow I will step into a completely different life.

  TWO

  Jeanette lives in a red wooden house with stained glass windows, four blocks from the ocean. This is my first time back here since Alison’s funeral, and the house seems half empty without her. I can’t believe she’ll never wander into the living room again to read us a funny line from a book. She’ll never whip up another batch of double-fudge brownies or create hilarious names for the new dishes she concocts for supper. I want to hear her laugh at Jeanette’s wacky ideas or have her chase me around the house in a tickle attack. At home with my parents, I could pretend that she hadn’t really died, but here, her absence is everywhere.

  I was right about Jeanette though. Every now and then she looks sad, but since I got here this morning, she hasn’t spent a single second curled up in her chair, grief-stricken. She’s got too many plans. Like tonight, for example.

  “You’ll love it,” she says, twirling across her living room, her blond curls flying straight out and her multicolored skirt billowing around her. She does a crazy weaving side-step across the hardwood floor and finishes with a little spin next to the piano. “Takes a bit of coordination, but you get used to it. Ready to go?”

  I laugh. “I don’t have any choice, do I?” It’s Thursday evening, and for Jeanette that means Israeli dancing under the trees in Beacon Hill Park.

  Of course I know better than to protest. As far as Jeanette’s concerned, the biggest sin in life is to avoid trying new things. At home, I avoid them as much as possible. My parents think it’s best to stick to what you know, and that’s convenient for me, because I hate not knowing how to do things. I never want to make a fool of myself. Jeanette doesn’t get it; she says perfection is not the point. I tell her that I’m in no danger of achieving perfection anyway.

  “Nope, no choice,” Jeanette says now, pulling on strappy sandals that lace halfway up her calf. I try to picture Mom wearing something like that, but she’d say they’re too young for her, although she’s eleven years younger than Jeanette. It’s hard to believe Mom and Jeanette are sisters. Even though they are both small and blond, Jeanette is fit and strong, while Mom just looks thin and tired. They both have curly hair, but Mom wears hers short and straightened, while Jeanette either lets her curls billow behind her or gathers them all up into a messy bun, fastened with chopsticks from Chinatown. They could never share clothes.

  My aunt grabs a red bandanna from a shelf and ties it on me like a headband. “There’s no dress code, but the more folksy, the better, no?” She hesitates, her hand on the doorknob. “You can borrow a skirt or a scarf too, if you want. And I’ve got some big clip-on hoop earrings.”

  “Nah, that’s okay.” I’m willing to try new things this summer, but I draw the line at wearing a full-on costume to the park.

  “Suit yourself.” She opens the door, and I step outside and take a breath of cool, salty ocean air.

  Jeanette lives on a dead-end street with a tiny park at one end and Beacon Hill Park at the other. Her garden is a riot of blossoms; roses climb up the front of the house and peonies as big as my head crowd the path. I’m so busy looking at the flowers that at first I don’t notice the girl sitting on the steps of the house next door.

  “Hey, Sarah,” Jeanette says to her. “It’s folk-dancing night. Want to come?”

  I cringe. I should have warned my aunt that no other teenager on the planet would be caught dancing with a bunch of crazy adults in a park, but how was I supposed to know that this girl would be sitting outside tonight?

  I was excited when Jeanette told me a girl my age had moved in next door. I’d imagined us becoming friends, but one look at her tells me we’ll never find anything to say to each other. Especially now that she thinks I’m some sort of folk-dancing enthusiast.

  Sarah’s obviously not the folk-dancing type. For one thing, she has what I can tell is an expensive haircut. Wisps of black hair frame her face, and her green tank top hugs her in all the places I cover with baggy T-shirts. What gets me most is the huge sunglasses. She looks like a model.

  My silly bandanna feels hot and itchy on my head. I prepare myself for her scowl. I’m ready to glare back, link arms with my aunt and sweep us away from rejection.

  But Sarah is grinning. She jumps up and grabs the door handle. “I’m there! Just let me tell my dad. Back in a flash.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  Jeanette only says, “She hasn’t missed a single Thursday since they moved here last month.”

  “Bye!” Sarah calls over her shoulder as she slams out of the house. I’ve already got goose bumps from the ocean breeze, and she’s pulled on a black sweater flecked with silver. I consider running back to get something warmer, but don’t want to draw attention to myself. I’ll warm up as I dance anyway.

  We hurry along the street, past old houses with lush gardens and a fancy new place whose entire front yard is paved over with beige bricks. The rich scent of the park reaches my nose, and I smile. It smells like warm earth and happy plants.

  Beacon Hill Park is my favorite place in the whole world. I love the creek by my school too, but this park goes for blocks and blocks, with flower gardens, fields, a hill that sweeps down toward the ocean, and even a petting zoo. We cross a little bridge over a brook, and a peacock’s cry slices the evening air. The first time I heard that sound, years ago, I thought someone was being attacked. I’m used to it now. The peacocks are always jumping the fence in the petting zoo and rambling around the park. You can hear them for miles.

  “Sounds like George is on the prowl again,” Sarah says as we cross the little stone bridge.

  “George?” I ask.

  “The peacock. He’s the one that makes the most racket.

  The others try, of course, but there’s no comparison.”

  Before I can ask how model-girl knows all this, Jeanette answers my question. “Sarah volunteers at the petting zoo. She’s on a first-name basis with all the animals.”

  I snort, unable to picture her surrounded by smelly goats or mucking out a pigsty. Sarah catches my smirk before I can wipe it off my face.

  “It was my parents’ idea,” she says. “When we moved here, there was only a month of school left. There wasn’t much point going for just a few weeks, so I became a petting-zoo volunteer instead. I like it, actually.”

  “Cool,” I say. I mean it. My parents would never let me miss a day of school, never mind a whole month.

  “Yeah,” Sarah says, “but it’s not gonna make September any easier. I hate starting all over again.”

  “You’ve done it before?” I ask. I never have. Mom moved
around a lot when she was little, and she’s always made a big thing of staying in one spot while I grow up.

  “Seven times,” Sarah says. “My dad’s a professor. He’s always getting jobs at different universities.”

  Seven? “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Thirteen,” she says as we come to a clearing in the trees. A handful of adults has already gathered, and their get-ups make my aunt’s outfit look almost conservative. I’m suddenly thankful that Sarah is here, making me stand out less. “I hate it,” she says. “Moving, I mean. I’m glad you’re here for the summer though. At least I’ll have someone my own age to hang out with.”

  The look in her eyes reminds me of kindergarten, when kids ask each other, Will you be my friend? It’s funny how, at some point, we know we’re not supposed to ask that question directly. And it’s funny that this girl, who looks like she would be instantly popular at school, is giving me that hopeful look now. I’m not someone that other kids flock to. I don’t really see very many kids outside of school, and I never know what to talk about, yet Sarah’s looking at me like she’ll be disappointed if I don’t want to be her friend. “Jeanette’s told me all about you,” she says. “Did you bring your violin?”

  I flinch. I’m not surprised my aunt has told Sarah about me, but did she have to mention the violin? It’s one of those instruments that isn’t very cool, unless you’re some sort of child prodigy, which I’m definitely not. “I left it at home,” I say. “I’m taking a few months off from practicing.”

  “Too bad,” Sarah says, brushing her perfect hair from her forehead. “I was hoping we could get a duet going.

  Did Jeanette tell you I play the piano? Jazz mostly, but I’m sure we could work out some kind of violin-piano duet. My uncle has a fiddle you could borrow.”

  “Cool,” I say. I’m trying hard not to gush too much, in case she changes her mind about me, but I can already feel myself hoping we’ll be friends. Sarah looks like she lives in a magazine, but anyone who spends her days feeding donkeys and her spare time playing jazz piano would be fun to hang out with.