Read Online Days That End in Y by Vikki VanSickle - Free Book Online Page B

can’t quite remember. “Who’s Dean again?”
    Benji looks at me like I’m crazy. “The director? He’s a university student? He does, like,
real
plays in the city. He’s running camp this summer.”
    “Right. Here, I brought food.” I reach into my backpack and fish out a sandwich that is now more of a squished ball of bread and peanut butter. I hand it to Benji. I guess the food got a bit beat up with the yearbook and the water bottles clanging around in there. “Can you eat and bike at the same time?”
    Benji looks insulted. “Of course.”
    “Then let’s go. First stop, Mason Street.”
    It turns out there are four Davies families in town with listed phone numbers. The closest is on Mason Street.
    It’s so humid it feels like we’re pedalling through soup, the thick, split pea kind. Even the breeze we generate by biking feels hot; though it does lift the lank and heavy hair off the back of my neck, cooling it from forty degrees to thirty-nine.
    I can’t wait to get my licence. Considering the helmet, backpack, pedalling and the lack of air conditioning, biking has to be the hottest form of transportation.
    Mason Street is deserted: no kids playing street hockey orelderly people hanging out on porches. This makes spying easier. The plan is to bike by 184 Mason Street, laughing and talking, while scanning cars in the area for the licence plate number, which we have both memorized. If we see the car, we have to say, “Cramp!” at the top of our lungs. It’s the perfect code word. Anyone around will think we just need a breather, not that we are staking out a house.
    “What if we have a real cramp?” Benji asks.
    “Then say ‘Can we stop? I have a cramp,’ or anything else! Just don’t yell out ‘Cramp’ as one word!”
    “I was just asking. Calm down!”
    “I can’t calm down! My
father
is in town!”
    Turns out the code word was even more appropriate than we thought. I have cramps all over my stomach. These ones are from anxiety, not biking. All I want is to find out where he’s staying, so I can eventually do something about it. What if we ride by just as he’s getting out of the car and he waves and says hi? Then what will I do?
    It turns out I don’t have to worry about it yet, because there are no cars in the driveway at 184 Mason Street. The cramps loosen a little.
    “Maybe everyone’s at work,” Benji says.
    “Why would Bill be at work if he’s just visiting?”
    Instead of answering, Benji asks, “What’s the next address?”
    If you don’t count the Lilac Motel, 439 Birch Street is the furthest address on our list. That’s where we head next.
    I haven’t been able to convince Benji to bike to the motel yet, so it’s last on our list, followed by three question marks. We bike single file though town, taking the scenic route by the river because I thought it might be a bit cooler by the water, and because biking through major intersections makes Benji nervous. It adds five minutes to our travel time.
    My stomach cramps up again as we slow to our leisurely pace on Birch Street. I spot a car, but it’s red, and sure enough, the licence plate number is wrong, too.
    “Two more, then we check out the hotels,” Benji says.
    Victoria Street and Grosvenor Park are also big fat failures. There are lots of cars at the Super Eight Motel, but after three rounds of the parking lot, none of them are right, either. By the time we get to the River’s Edge Bed and Breakfast, I’m hot, irritated and in need of a win.
    No such luck.
    “The River’s Edge is pretty fancy,” Benji points out. “More for tourists. Bill isn’t exactly a tourist.”
    He’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel better. I savagely kick at the kickstand and rear my bike around in the opposite direction. “Let’s go home. I’m boiling.”
    Benji hurries to catch up. “Can we stop and get freezies?”
    “I didn’t bring any money.”
    “I have some.”
    I don’t say anything, but I let Benji lead the