Page 16 of Home to Christmas Island
I would climb up on top of the dumpster and then, probably, jump up and grab that ledge. Then I would, theoretically of course, pull myself up from there, I say, looking back at him. His expression isn’t disbelieving exactly, it’s something more like bewilderment if I had to guess.
You would grab onto the lip of the roof—which is covered with icicles. He gives me a pointed look before adding, And just, pull yourself up?
I shrug. Seems easy enough, doesn’t it? I can tell by the look he gives me that he doesn’t like it, but he does believe me. Something about realizing I don’t have to prove that I’m telling the truth makes my shoulders relax.
He blows out a breath, the cold air visible even in the darkness. He shakes his head again, then tilts it to look up at the roof. Well, I get the sense kids these days aren’t brave enough to pull themselves up here—or have better ways of occupying their time. But I’ll probably talk to the school about getting this garbage container moved farther from the building.
Ugh, you’re such a fun-sucker, I say without thinking. He bursts out laughing. The sound sends a feeling through me that I can’t quite name. Like a splash of cold water on a warm day; surprise mixed with something else.
To you, I guess I probably am, he raises an eyebrow at me and then gestures towards the police car. Come on Red Sizzler, I’ll give you a lift.
WHAT’S WRONG? ALISTAIR ASKS ME with a sigh a few minutes later, as we creep along the highway. I’ve been bouncing my leg up and down incessantly and clearly he’s noticed.
You are driving, I say, closing my eyes and trying to do some deep breathing, The slowest anyone has ever driven. It honestly makes me feel on edge.
Have somewhere you need to be tonight, Florence?
I don’t. It’s a weeknight in rural Nova Scotia in the throes of winter—there is truly nowhere anyone needs to be tonight, or at least not with any real urgency. But of course, I can’t say that.
Don’t you ever break the rules, even a little bit?
Break the law, you mean? He gives me a sideways look. No. Not unless someone’s life is at risk. But normally in policing that kind of thing is reserved for officers who are working undercover. We have to get permission ahead of time, too.
Okay, well, do you ever do anything fun then? Anything spontaneous? What’s the last wild and crazy thing you did?
He shifts ever so slightly in his seat, and I can tell this is getting to him. A part of me wonders if he feels harshly judged for always being a goody-two-shoes, but mostly I feel elated to finally have the upper hand for once.
This isn’t about that incident on the roof of the post office, is it?
Well, there goes my upper hand. If it wasn’t dark and he wasn’t driving, I think he would have seen my jaw hit the floor. How did he figure that out?
What, I stammer, are you talking about?
If you had asked me, Fast Florence, why I reacted the way I did to you nearly falling off that roof and splitting your head open on the pavement, I would have told you that my little brother once fell off a ladder when we were kids. He’d taken it out of the shed by himself to try and get a football—a soccer ball, as you’d call it—that was stuck in the gutter of our house. By the time I realized where he was, his foot was already slipping. He looks over at me as he says this last part, his gaze hard, but I see the flash of worry in his eyes.
I had to watch him fall. And it was not a pretty scene, I’ll tell you that for free, he says, before rolling his neck and adding, Finn’s still got the scars to prove it. And I’ve kind of had a thing about ladders ever since.
I feel a twinge of shame creep up my neck. I’ve spent the past two days stewing over his reaction to this, when he had a perfectly good reason. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell this story to Alba, she would never let me hear the end of it.
I’m sorry, I say, my voice quiet. I kind of have a reputation for acting first and thinking later. Anyone from Christmas Island would tell you that about me. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out hollow.
He gives me another look and I realize we’re finally pulling into the B&B’s driveway. Thank god.
That’s not really what anyone says about you, for the record.
I really don’t want to know what people are saying about me these days: that I’ve abandoned my roots? That I still can’t face my mother’s death? That I stormed out of her funeral, never to be seen again for a decade? I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me and I wonder why he said it. But Alistair’s tone was kind, which only confuses me. I don’t dare ask him about it, though.
He puts the car into park, and I undo my seatbelt.
Well, thanks for driving me back here, I say, climbing out of the car. I feel desperate to get away from his intensity and incessant line of questioning.
Don’t be too hard on Alba for driving off, I think she means well.
Given that he saw us physically fighting in the snow, he should know Alba doesn’t mean well. I choose to ignore his suggestion completely. There’s a thirty per cent chance Alba and I will be going for round two the second I step foot in her house.
Well, thanks again, I say, my hand ready to close the car door. And Alistair?
Yes, he says, sighing with frustration, and there’s enough trepidation in his voice that I know he’s mentally preparing for whatever I’m about to say. I wait until he looks up at me before I plaster on another aspartame smile.
