Read Online The Middle of Everywhere by Monique Polak - Free Book Online

school and his class of Individual Path of Learning students. (Those are kids who didn’t make it in the academic stream, so they study stuff like wilderness skills instead. That way some of them can get jobs as guides after they graduate.)
    Dad was supposed to come winter camping, but now he wants to stay home to look after Tarksalik.
    Our house in Montreal feels like it’s in another world. Dad’s okay, and I think he likes it up here. Did he always make so many puns? If so, was that one of the reasons you guys broke up?
    I’ll write again when I’m back from winter camping— just so you know I survived. (Don’t panic! That was a joke.) Love, Noah
    P.S. One thing you’d really like about up here is you don’t have to leave the house to go shopping. The local carvers come to you. I just saw this little inukshuk you might like. Only Dad and I weren’t exactly in a shopping mood.
    FROM: Noah Thorpe [[email protected]]
    TO: Chris L’Ecuyer
    SUBJECT: Hey dude!
    Dude, I can’t believe I got sent to this friggin’ hellhole. There’s nothing to see except snow. And there’s nothing to do past 6 pm, except hang out at the grocery store. No wonder some of the kids here spend their free time circling town on their snowmobiles or watching tv or getting wasted.
    The worst part is I’ve got to go winter camping this weekend. It’s too complicated to explain why—let’s just say staying home with my dad would be even worse than freezing my butt off in a tent and trying to catch my own dinner. What I fear more than running into a polar bear is that the Inuit are gonna force-feed me seal blubber. Apparently, it’s a real delicacy up here—kind of like poutine in Montreal, or pretzels in Manhattan.
    What’s new at home? How’s Roland Ikpins doing without me? Has he found someone new to torment? The bad news for me is, even a town as small as this one has got a Roland Ipkins. This one’s named Lenny Etok. Same sneer.
    Hey, do me a favor and say hi to Tammy Akerman for me, okay? Better still, send me her e-mail address and I’ll say hi to her myself.
    Write when you can. Noah
    Packing List for Winter Camping Trip
    long underwear
    turtleneck
    fleece shirt
    snow pants
    wool cap
    scarf
    thermal socks (2 pairs)
    snowmobile boots (check with Dad to see if he has an extra
    pair)
    parka (Rhoda said I could borrow Steve’s old one)
    caribou-hide mitts (ask Steve if I can borrow a pair) camera (pack camera case inside sock, and sock inside plastic
    bag, so camera doesn’t get wet if it falls in snow)
    book
    energy bars
    flashlight
    toothbrush
    toothpaste
    floss
    The packing list turns out to be a good idea. This way, I don’t have to worry about forgetting something important. Dad has an extra pair of snowmobile boots. Steve lends me his old parka and a pair of caribou-hide mittens. Too bad I didn’t have the parka and the mitts when I walked into the Northern the other night; maybe I’d have attracted a little less attention.
    There’s only one thing I don’t put on the list: beer. When Dad goes down the street to see if he got any mail, I grab a few cans from the pile of cases in his front closet. Dad’s not much of a drinker, and I figure chances are good I’ll be back in Montreal before he notices anything’s gone missing.
    In Montreal, it’s no big deal for a fifteen-year-old to have a beer. Officially, drinking’s not legal in Quebec till you’re eighteen, but most of us have had a few—and sometimes more than that—at house parties. Last summer, when Chris’s parents were away, his older brother Lee helped us get a few cases. Man, that was some party! I got a nice buzz off the beer, and I was brave enough to put my arm around Tammy Akerman’s waist.
    It’s only now, at the end of the day, when I’m trying to fall asleep, that I start feeling a touch guilty. I’ll admit