Just be yourself. And be friendly. And just join in. That’s all there is to it. Really.” Mom climbed a few rungs of the bunk ladder to plant an actual kiss on top of my head. “Really.”
I nodded, and Mom and Dad descended through the trap door. I sat up in my bunk to get dressed for school. I had few choices for a back-to-school outfit. It was shorts weather and I had two pairs. The cargos were my favourite, and because they were my favourite I’d worn them every day. They were, when I stopped to examine them, a little grubby. My plaid shorts, on the other hand, were perfectly clean, but only because they were too ugly to wear. I wriggled into my cargos. I removed a clean T-shirt from my overstuffed drawer. It was crumpled and there was no way to press it. Since we had no electricity, we had no iron, and we had no room for an ironing board anyway.
I stood combing my hair before the locker mirror on the wall. When I combed out a twig and several pieces of bark, I started wishing I’d gone for a back-to-school hairwashing at the community centre. Too late now, I thought, peering at myself. The locker mirror was too small for me to behold my entire head at once, so I took it from its hook and moved it around to check out different portions. No individual portion looked too bad.
There was no water in our porcelain washing-up pitcher or wash basin, so I pumped some. The stream had cooled off a lot in the last weeks of August, and the water was cold on my face. I washed quickly, focussing on visible dirt. I brushed my teeth and spat over the porch banister.
Inside the treehouse, I made the lunches: a banana and jam sandwich for Tilley, and a smoked-oyster sandwich for me. I woke Tilley up for breakfast. Time proceeded. At quarter to eight, Tilley and I got our bikes from the shed and bumped across the meadow. Tilley was now riding without training wheels, and she could even ride the plank bridge across the stream. The only thing she needed me to do was push her bike up the plywood ramp to the top of Great-great-aunt Lydia’s stone wall. Tilley coasted down, and together we rode the long path to the world of sidewalks and streets.
Tilley was starting Grade One at Sir Combover Elementary. I brought her to her classroom and left when she showed no signs of freaking out. Back on my bike, I continued past all the big fancy houses toward Windward Middle School. In my head I renewed the wish I’d made when my birthday candles had disappeared around the bend of the stream. The wish had been that the people at Windward would be nice.
I reached the big brick schoolhouse and locked my bike to the stand. Watching the Windward kids arrive, I couldn’t tell if they were nice. All I could tell is that they definitely did not live in treehouses. I watched them getting out of Mercedes and BMWs and Range Rovers. They were well-groomed in the way of those who have hot and cold running water and full-sized mirrors. Over the summer, I had somehow forgotten that this kind of grooming was not only possible but normal. Expected even. These kids were well dressed too. Amazingly so. Every single article of clothing I saw looked like it had been bought at full price within the previous twenty-four hours by a personal shopper carrying out a wardrobe plan. In a flash of contrast, I realized that I was a mess.
I went inside to look for my classroom. The class lists were posted on the bulletin board outside the office. A bunch of kids stood around reading them. “Hey Devo, we’re in the same class, man,” one guy said, punching the shoulder of another guy. I guessed that Devo was
RADCLIFFE, Devon
.
MCGRADY, Rosamund
, was on the same class list.
“Rankle’s class two years in a row,” Devo rolled his eyes. “That really burns.” For a while I watched all the boys talking to this Devo. He barely said anything and he didn’t even look at them, but somehow he got their attention. Devo moved off down the hall and the other guys all moved
I nodded, and Mom and Dad descended through the trap door. I sat up in my bunk to get dressed for school. I had few choices for a back-to-school outfit. It was shorts weather and I had two pairs. The cargos were my favourite, and because they were my favourite I’d worn them every day. They were, when I stopped to examine them, a little grubby. My plaid shorts, on the other hand, were perfectly clean, but only because they were too ugly to wear. I wriggled into my cargos. I removed a clean T-shirt from my overstuffed drawer. It was crumpled and there was no way to press it. Since we had no electricity, we had no iron, and we had no room for an ironing board anyway.
I stood combing my hair before the locker mirror on the wall. When I combed out a twig and several pieces of bark, I started wishing I’d gone for a back-to-school hairwashing at the community centre. Too late now, I thought, peering at myself. The locker mirror was too small for me to behold my entire head at once, so I took it from its hook and moved it around to check out different portions. No individual portion looked too bad.
There was no water in our porcelain washing-up pitcher or wash basin, so I pumped some. The stream had cooled off a lot in the last weeks of August, and the water was cold on my face. I washed quickly, focussing on visible dirt. I brushed my teeth and spat over the porch banister.
Inside the treehouse, I made the lunches: a banana and jam sandwich for Tilley, and a smoked-oyster sandwich for me. I woke Tilley up for breakfast. Time proceeded. At quarter to eight, Tilley and I got our bikes from the shed and bumped across the meadow. Tilley was now riding without training wheels, and she could even ride the plank bridge across the stream. The only thing she needed me to do was push her bike up the plywood ramp to the top of Great-great-aunt Lydia’s stone wall. Tilley coasted down, and together we rode the long path to the world of sidewalks and streets.
Tilley was starting Grade One at Sir Combover Elementary. I brought her to her classroom and left when she showed no signs of freaking out. Back on my bike, I continued past all the big fancy houses toward Windward Middle School. In my head I renewed the wish I’d made when my birthday candles had disappeared around the bend of the stream. The wish had been that the people at Windward would be nice.
I reached the big brick schoolhouse and locked my bike to the stand. Watching the Windward kids arrive, I couldn’t tell if they were nice. All I could tell is that they definitely did not live in treehouses. I watched them getting out of Mercedes and BMWs and Range Rovers. They were well-groomed in the way of those who have hot and cold running water and full-sized mirrors. Over the summer, I had somehow forgotten that this kind of grooming was not only possible but normal. Expected even. These kids were well dressed too. Amazingly so. Every single article of clothing I saw looked like it had been bought at full price within the previous twenty-four hours by a personal shopper carrying out a wardrobe plan. In a flash of contrast, I realized that I was a mess.
I went inside to look for my classroom. The class lists were posted on the bulletin board outside the office. A bunch of kids stood around reading them. “Hey Devo, we’re in the same class, man,” one guy said, punching the shoulder of another guy. I guessed that Devo was
RADCLIFFE, Devon
.
MCGRADY, Rosamund
, was on the same class list.
“Rankle’s class two years in a row,” Devo rolled his eyes. “That really burns.” For a while I watched all the boys talking to this Devo. He barely said anything and he didn’t even look at them, but somehow he got their attention. Devo moved off down the hall and the other guys all moved
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