where Ziggy had permission to keep his canoe for the summer. Without the delay, they could have made it on time. Alan could just hear his mom—“you are such a difficult person,” she would say. “I can’t rely on you, and that means it’s difficult for me to give you any leeway.” What she would mean was that he was about to be grounded until he was twenty-seven. Especially if she found out they’d been canoeing out of bounds, out on the lake past the beach.
The green canoe entered the channel at MacGregor Beach at a pretty impressive speed, considering the size of the paddlers.
Alan and Ziggy had been spending their summers in Ziggy’s canoe out at Mud Lake since they were nine. This year, for the first time, Ziggy’s grandfather had allowed them to keep the canoe in town, by the river. Josée’s mother was okay with it (she had said “my daughter was born in a canoe”), so the three of them had been given the go-ahead to paddle down the river as far as McGregor beach, as long as they wore life jackets absolutely always.
They had taken a safety course. They had been given certificates. They were also very determined people, which is why Alan’s mom (the only holdout) had eventually said, “Okay, you can paddle your own canoe,” which she seemed to think was extremely funny.
On the river, they could go wherever they wanted, no yellow lines to keep to one side of, no pushy mountain bikers or big speeding cars or skateboard bylaw officers. The only thing they had to watch out for on the water was the Weem Team.
Unfortunately, just as they rounded the bend and canoed past a small group of kids on the beach, the Weem Team found them, and they were toast in two minutes.
They had come from nowhere, like they usually did, riding their jet skis in formation like a bunch of bikers in a gang. Dylan Weems was their leader, a big fifteen-year-old. Dylan and his gang of four spent each summer on the water, chasing loons, ducks and kids in canoes. So far, the marine patrol hadn’t caught them, but Alan and his friends hoped it would only be a matter of time.
They buzzed across the bow of the canoe, Dylan in the lead, howling like a wolf and creating a circle of heavy waves. Alan, Josée and Ziggy did their best to stay upright, but it was no use. It was like trying to ride out a storm on the ocean, the waves coming at all angles. Over they went, to a chorus of loud “Woo-hoooo” noises from the Weem Team. The kids watching on the shore had stood up to get a better look, pointing and putting their hands up to their mouths as if they were watching a nasty road accident and expected to see blood.
“They’re probably hoping we’ll drown,” Ziggy muttered through a mouthful of water. This was just like the worst-case-scenario they had been taught to deal with on the canoe safety course, but it was way harder in the middle of the Kuskawa River than it had been on that safe, sandy beach last summer. It was harder, too, with a bunch of people watching and a gang of bullies on jet skis like a swarm of angry hornets, waiting to see if they had stung you hard enough. There was an adult on the beach, too, who started waving his arms and yelling, but the Weem Team just laughed at him and roared away, heading back out to the lake.
Treading water, the kids worked together on one side, rocking the canoe back and forth rapidly so that the water sloshed out of it in waves like soda spilling from a too-full cup. After a moment or two, there was enough water removed for the canoe to be a little bit buoyant again, and Alan and Ziggy vaulted back into it on the count of three—one from each side at the exact same moment so that they didn’t tip it again. Then they leaned out on opposite sides to steady the boat as Josée clambered in. They had kept hold of their paddles, thank goodness (because as Ziggy said afterwards, they would have looked like complete morons, trying to paddle to shore with their hands). Also, fortunately, Ziggy, the smart guy, always kept a small bail-bucket (a scooped out Fleecy bottle, with a handle) on a line attached to the rear seat. As soon as they were in, Josée started bailing, and Ziggy and Alan started paddling, heading for shore.
The really unfortunate part of the whole thing was that the closest landing-place was the one at MacGregor beach, where about a dozen people were standing by, gawking. Nobody looked familiar. Summer visitors, most likely—city kids, who probably thought they were bumpkins anyway, little Laingford versions of Red Green.
The canoe reached the shore quickly, and they got out, and together hoisted the boat to waist height, tipped it to get rid of the rest of the water and launched it again. Then an amazing thing happened. The people on the beach applauded—all of them. They clapped and cheered as if Alan, Josée and Ziggy had just won a marathon or something.
“Way to go!” one of them shouted—a red-haired girl about their age in a green bikini.
“Those guys should be arrested,” another girl called.
“Woo hoo!” the others sang. This was different from the “Woo hoo” noise the Weem Team had made while they were buzzing the canoe. This was a cheerleader kind of noise—a “Yay for our side” noise. Alan looked up in surprise and saw that Ziggy and Josée were grinning as widely as he was.
“Hey,” Ziggy said. “Good work, guys. They like us, eh?”
“That’ll cheese off the Weem Team,” Alan said.
“Sans blague. That redhead is Dylan’s sister,” Josée said.
“We’d better get going,” Alan said. “We still have about two minutes before my mom goes totally postal.”
The red-haired girl waved as they paddled away, and Josée waved back.
“Her name’s Monica,” she said. “She’s in my ballet class. She’s sympathique, even though she’s a rich kid with a creepy older brother.” They were paddling hard now, going fast enough to create a bow-wave. Around a bend in the river, they could finally see the boathouse dock.
“There’s your mom,” Ziggy said. “Set your phasers on stun, people, she’s ready to blow.”
“Alan Michael Nearing, you are such a difficult person,” she said, as soon as they got close enough for her to be heard. “I can’t rely on you, at all, can I?”
“I’m really sorry, Mom,” Alan said at once. Excuses were worth trying, but it was always a good idea to apologize first. Mrs. Mary-Anne Nearing had a thing about manners.
“I should blooming well think so,” she said. People sometimes asked Alan how come he didn’t have an English accent, like his mother did. “It’s because she was born there,” he said. “I was born in Laingford, so I sound like this.” He could do a pretty good English accent, though, if he tried. He didn’t try anything like that now, though.
“We got swamped, Madame Nearing,” Josée said. She was the best of the three of them in dealing with parents. Alan thought it was because she always called them Madame or M’sieu. “A boat went past trop vite, and the waves tipped us over.”
Mrs. Nearing’s attitude changed from annoyance to worry in a split second, but that was a problem, too.
“I just knew it was dangerous letting you three out there on your own in a canoe,” she said. “I knew we were taking a big risk—you’re too young. You could have drowned. Are you all right?” Alan gave the others a warning look, which meant “no details”. No telling her they were being harrassed by Dylan Weems and his thugs, and no telling her that the dunking
