some stranger telling me how to track, but damn, the guy’s sharp. How many times did I hear that from my dad? “Yeah. Good advice. My weak point, I’ve been told,” I admit.
“Look up now, and tell me what you see.”
I lift my face and watch a flock of slender birds with long, pointed wings, hunting insects in the air. “Swallows.”
“Good. And where are they headed?”
“West, duh.”
“No, I mean where, exactly? I am not from around here.”
My chest tightens. Where are they headed? Worst question he could ask. “Swallow Canyon.”
“Ah, the famous Swallow Canyon. You have been there?”
I purse my lips to seal all emo inside. “Yes.”
Something gives me away. His eyes are clamped on me like he’s going to unlock my secret.
“Sorry. I’ve got to go,” I say hurriedly. “I’ve got a mountain of chores to do before school. But enjoy your time in British Columbia, and I appreciate the tracking tips.”
“Okay, Tristan, see you around. Stay safe.”
As my feet turn homeward and speed up, I wonder if I’ll see the guy again. I forgot to ask how long he’d be around. Oh well. When I lift my head for a second, I see that the swallows, like my dad, have disappeared.
CHAPTER 2
“Tristan, my man. A rare sighting! Where’ve you been lately?”
I pause as I’m locking my bike to the school rack and slap my friend lightly on the back. “Nowhere, Phil. What’s happening?”
“Nothing much.” He shifts his mud-spattered backpack and punches me back. “When’re you going to show your mug at climbing club, eh? It’s been forever.”
I chuckle and look away. “Soon. Hey, I’m giving the other guys a chance with the girls in the club.”
“As if. Last time I saw you, you said the girls are too into mothering you since — uh, how is your mom?”
“She’s great,” I say, feeling my mouth press into a tight line.
“Awesome! It’s been eight months, after all.” He’s studying me closely despite my upbeat tone.
“Minus two weeks,” I correct him.
“Okay. I’m so hyped you’re finally coming back. When? Can’t wait to tell the guys.”
“Any day,” I lie. No way can I tell him about the lack of cash for club fees and the shortage of hours in the day, thanks to chores. I don’t mind this more restricted life, I try to tell myself, because nothing matters more than helping Mom right now. But hell if I’m going to let anyone know what’s really up in the Gordon household.
“It’s been boring on the climbing wall without you,” he continues as we move into the school.
“No doubt.” I smile. “Except for the new kid, Dean. Mini Spider-Man.” The last time I showed up at the club was two months ago, the same day as a brand-new kid in town asked to join. I still recall the boy’s natural talent and have seen him around once or twice since. “Who’d have thought a twelve-year-old could climb like that? Or that we’d ever let a seventh grader into the club?”
Phil shrugs. “Only ’cause you suggested it that first day he showed. I admit he’s amazing. I’ve actually learned a few moves from him. But you were the star, man. We need you back.”
“Were, eh! Guess I’d better get my ass back in there.”
The bell sounds. We hurry to our lockers, grab our books, and slam the locker doors shut.
“Later, man,” Phil says as he heads up the hall to class.
“Later,” I say. Books in arms, I wait till Phil has gone before I press my forehead against the cool steel of my locker. I miss climbing club and my friends so much it hurts. But I must not think about it. I count to five till the funk disappears. Then, shoulders back and head held high, I breathe deeply and wade through the crowds to class.
• • •
An hour into Math, students point out the window.
“Class!” snaps Mr. Winters, to no effect.
A fire truck wails up the main street of our little town (population two thousand), its flashing red lights bouncing off the school’s football field posts, where it stops. I leap up to join the students crowding the window; even Mr. Winters stands there gawking. One look and I’m out of the classroom, through the main school doors, and onto the football field, sprinting over its sweet-smelling, fresh-mown grass.
Our school, edged by evergreens, has a bunch of tall Douglas firs beside the playing field, one of them maybe eighty feet high. Mini Spider-Man — Dean the amazing climber kid — has somehow managed to climb three-quarters of the way to the top of that one.
“Don’t move!” Principal Tolmie calls up to him.
Teachers and a ton of kids have circled the tree. Every panicked voice has a different set of instructions.
“Don’t look down!”
“Hold tight!”
“Wait for the firefighters!”
There’s a shrill whine as the fire truck lifts its mechanical ladder to the branch where the boy with bushy black hair sits. He’s smiling and as calm as a Buddha statue.
Way to go, Dean, I think, half proud of my former club mate, even though I hardly know him. Except you’re going to be in a shitload of trouble. I do a fast assessment of the tree trunk between the ground and the boy, ready to climb up and coach him down if needed.
Then a mountain bike catches my eye — someone wheeling at gravel-spitting speed toward the school. The bike clatters to the pavement, and a tall, thin woman maybe twenty years old and wearing black fitness gear strides to the tree, lifts her head, and shades her eyes.
“Dean!” she shouts matter-of-factly, like she has seen it a thousand times before.
Dean actually smiles down at her, pulls a stick of black licorice from his shorts pocket, and starts chewing on it. She’s barely old enough to be out of high school herself, I think. Babysitter? Sister?
She tosses her long, black hair over her shoulders and marches toward the fire truck, all business-like. I edge closer.
“I suggest you retract the ladder … safer if he climbs down on his own.”
Some nerve, telling the fire department what to do.
To my amazement, a firefighter reverses the truck ladder, and the woman in black strolls to the base of the tree.
“So sorry,” she apologizes along the way to the teachers
