Page 13 of Home to Christmas Island
I don’t know who he thinks he is, I huff out, as I slide my letter into the slot destined for the North Pole. He doesn’t know me well enough, or at all I might add, to be taunting me. Aren’t cops supposed to be like, serious or something? So what if I was speeding? I can’t help but thrust out my hands for emphasis, my voice getting slightly louder. Everybody speeds! People have places to be!
Alba puts her letter in the slot after mine and I can feel her following behind me as I start to walk back out the door. She stifles a laugh as she says, See you later Jean.
Bye dear, the woman replies before she adds, Lovely to see you, Flora.
I wave my hand without looking back at her, my mind still on Alistair. What is it about this guy that gets under my skin so much?
It’s only after we get back in the truck that I realize I was so incensed, I forgot to be anxious about being in the post office.
Chapter 6
YOU’RE REALLY NOT GOING TO shut up about this, are you?
I stick out my tongue at Alba.
Listen, I tell her, for the hundredth time in the last two days. I’m just saying I could still do it.
It’s Wednesday night after ten o’clock, and we’re in Alba’s truck driving home from seeing a movie in town. We’re supposed to be heading back to her place, but she drives right past the driveway to the B&B and looks at me. Her eyes are direct, devilish.
So prove it, she says, and minutes later we pull into the parking lot of our former high school.
I’ll admit, even to myself, I’ve been a little hot-headed since the run-in with Alistair at the post office two days ago. I’ve done a lot of blustering about how worried he’d been, how terrified he’d looked when my foot slipped—slightly slipped. I may have gone a little overboard in my assurances to Alba, and maybe to myself, that I could still climb up onto the roof of our school’s storage shed and live to tell the tale. Alba only watched me with that calculating stare every time I brought it up.
But being in front of the high school now, I can admit this is probably a dumb idea. I was definitely a thrill-seeker as a teenager and often didn’t think before I acted. But when you’re seventeen life feels vast, endless, like it can go on forever.
I learned only five years later how far that was from the truth.
Now in my thirties, I’m not as nimble or as brave as I used to be. My balance is still pretty good though.
Alba gets out of the truck and zips up her charcoal, knee-length winter jacket. She saunters over to the shed. It occurs to me there are actually students still going to school here, who would have even been here earlier today. Something about this seems almost impossible, the idea that life here has continued, even after I left.
I step out of the car and shake my head to try and clear it, zipping up my red parka with a shiver. Neither of us brought hats or gloves since we were only going to the movies. I put my already-cold hands in my coat pockets and walk over to Alba, rolling my shoulders back and jutting my chin up in an act of feigned confidence.
This is the spot, right? She gestures to the one corner of the shed where I used to climb up onto the dumpster, and grab the lip of the roof, which I can’t help but notice is currently covered in icicles. Then I’d hoist myself up from there. But, if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I have the arm or the abdominal strength for it anymore.
Yep, I say, nodding wildly, trying to hype myself up to do this.
Well, go on then, Alba prods, gesturing towards the shed in invitation. If there was no reason for Al to be nervous, why don’t you show me how carefree and talented and freakishly-balanced you still are?
Al. The name slices through me like a razor. I hate that she’s using his nickname, like they’re friends or something.
It occurs to me then that they might actually be friends. They might grab a drink at the pub together sometimes, he might come help fix things around the B&B or play on her softball team in the summer months. And I—living what feels like a million kilometres away, on a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean—would have no idea. This thought gives me a pang of something akin to jealousy.
Has it ever occurred to you, Alba drawls, and I’m already rolling my eyes at whatever she’s about to say. That Al is an excellent judge of when something is, or isn’t, dangerous?
No, I snap back at her. That hasn’t ever occurred to me and frankly, that’s impossible.
Why?
Because he’s a stupid, rule-following cop who senses danger when there is none. I was fine and he freaked out. I try to laugh like this is funny, but it comes out harsh even to my own ears.
Oh my god, why are you so stubborn about everything? She rubs her face in exasperation.
I can’t think of a retort, so I head closer to the large garbage bin, trying not to stomp in my winter boots the whole way over. I don’t even get one leg up before Alba is there, pulling me back down.
Stop, she says, shaking her head. I thought you were done with this shit Flora, and there’s a change in her tone that gives me pause. Refusing to admit you’re wrong at any cost, even if you don’t want to do something. Even if you’re miserable.
I know what she’s referencing, and I feel myself recoil.
