Impossible Things

  Impossible Things

  Impossible Things

  Robin Stevenson

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2008 Robin Stevenson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Stevenson, Robin H. (Robin Hjordis), 1968-

  Impossible things / written by Robin Stevenson.

  ISBN 978-1-55143-736-1

  I. Title.

  PS8637.T487I56 2008 jC813’.6 C2007-907381-6

  First published in the United States, 2008

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007942243

  Summary: Cassidy thinks that making friends is impossible until she meets Victoria,

  who has some very unusual abilities.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover and text design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover artwork by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B

  VICTORIA, BC CANADA

  V8R 6S4

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  CUSTER, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  11 10 09 08 • 4 3 2 1

  To Kai, with all my love.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Cheryl, Ilse and Giles for their endless support; to Bird, the first kid to read it, for her enthusiasm; and to all the friends who cheered me on when I decided to write a book and who celebrated every step of the journey with me. I am very grateful to Pat Schmatz and Gwynneth Evans, for their encouragement and insightful suggestions, and to my editor, Sarah Harvey, for her consistently thoughtful advice and guidance.

  One

  I probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the new kid if Amber and Madeline hadn’t decided to make her their next victim. I stood in the hallway and watched as they stared at her from about two feet away, snickering and pointing. Short brown hair, glasses and blue jeans. She couldn’t have looked more ordinary if she’d tried. I balled my hands into tight fists and took a deep breath. Maybe the new kid and I had nothing in common but our enemies, but I might as well show her that the environment at school wasn’t totally hostile.

  I walked over and nodded at her, ignoring the other girls completely. “Hey, welcome to Parkside. It’s kind of like a reality show, you know?”

  She looked blank.

  “Um, like Survivor? Once these two establish their place at the top of the food chain and vote you off the island, things may improve.” I glanced toward Amber and Madeline. “Or not. In my experience, not.”

  The new girl stared at me, eyes wide behind the dark frames of her glasses, her mouth slightly open.

  “Oh, social advice from Thrift Store Cassidy,” Amber sneered, deliberately lisping my name. Cathidy. She planted her hands on her hips and gave the new girl a long hard look. “You ought to watch who you get friendly with. Hanging out with the school freak…”

  Madeline nodded. “Social suicide.”

  The new girl didn’t say anything. I grinned at her; then I turned to the other two and made a gurgling noise in my throat. Unlike the rest of my family, I don’t have any amazing talents, but I am pretty good at noises. I gurgled a bit more and then I laughed at the disgusted expressions on their faces. “How many times do I have to flush before you go away?” I asked.

  There was a muffled snort from beside me: the new girl choking back a laugh.

  Amber narrowed her eyes. “Well, I guess you’ve made your choice then,” she told the new girl coldly. “Come on, Maddy. Let’s go.” She linked her arm through her friend’s and they sauntered off down the hallway.

  I watched them go, my relief mixed with guilt. I hadn’t meant to, but I’d probably just made everything harder for the new girl. “Look, I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’ll go. If you just ignore me or better yet, shout a few insults at lunchtime, they’ll forget that you laughed. They’re always eager for more followers.”

  She held out her hand. No one shakes hands in the seventh grade. It was like something my brother would do—in other words, not entirely normal. I grinned and took her hand. “Cassidy Silver.”

  “Victoria Morris.” She watched me for a moment, gray-blue eyes thoughtful behind the glasses, her lips curved in a hint of a smile. “How come they called you that?”

  “Thrift Store Cassidy?” I looked down at my outfit: a green T-shirt that read Humpty Dumpty Was Pushed, a multicolored silk scarf and a pair of faded jeans with patched knees. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Not your clothes. I meant, why did they call you Cathidy?”

  Because they know I hate it. That would’ve been the honest answer, but I didn’t like to admit that it bothered me. “I used to lisp,” I said carefully, making sure I didn’t. Years of speech therapy and still, if I was stressed or not concentrating, the lisp would sneak back.

  “Oh. That’s…that’s so mean.”

  “Um, yeah. Mean is what they do best.” I looked at her curiously. “Wasn’t it like this at your old school? Where’d you go before this anyway? Did you just move here or something?”

  She nodded. “Yes, we moved.” Her eyes slid away from mine for a moment; then she looked right at me and smiled again. A full-on smile this time—two rows of small white teeth and lots of pink gums. “You’re in grade seven too? What’s our teacher like?”

  “Ah. Well, I’m afraid he’s not quite human.” I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth, making a long, drawn-out, squeaking noise. “No description will do him justice. You’ll see.” I glanced at my watch and picked up the battered briefcase I lug my school stuff around in. “Come on. If we’re late, he’ll eat us alive.”

  The seventh grade classroom was kind of like a large jail cell, minus the bunk and toilet. Mr. McMaran had taken down all the artwork on the first day. He said he didn’t want us staring at pictures when we were supposed to be working. The fluorescent ceiling lights hummed overhead. It was sunny outside, a bright January day, but the blinds were tightly closed. I sighed, made a face at Victoria and took my seat in the back row. I liked to sit near the door. It gave me the illusion that I could escape if necessary.

  “Welcome to the jungle,” I whispered, patting the desk beside mine. “Sit here. It’s a good spot for those of us low on the food chain.”

  Victoria gave that muffled snort of a laugh again and sat down at the empty desk.

  “Seriousl
y. From back here you can watch Amber and Madeline tossing their ponytails, giggling and passing notes.” I gestured to the front of the room, waving my hand like I was a tour guide. “And to our left? The outsiders.” With a sweep of my arm, I took in quiet nervous Nathan Cressman with his smooth black skin and too-big glasses and too-small pants, half asleep with his head on his folded arms; dark-eyed Joe Cicarelli, always in trouble; and chubby Felicia Morgan. I nodded my head toward her. “See the dark-haired girl there? Definitely voted off the island.”

  The door banged open. Mr. McMaran stomped in and slammed it behind him. “Get out your history texts,” he said. “Start reading where we left off.”

  Apparently he wasn’t much in the mood for teaching. He grunted a few instructions; then he sat at his desk and read a glossy magazine about cigars. I snuck another sideways peek at Victoria. I wondered how long it would be before she realized that hanging around with me really was social suicide. I wondered how much longer it would be before she decided to cut her losses and move on. And I wondered how much longer I could go on pretending I didn’t care that I had no friends.

  Two

  If it had been up to me, I’d have hit the road running as soon as the bell rang, but Mom made me wait for Ben. Ben, she claimed, was too young to walk home alone. Personally I thought Ben was more than capable. He wasn’t exactly your average eight-year-old.

  Mom wouldn’t listen to me though. She didn’t have the time. So I waited for Ben, like I did every single day. I refused to spend an extra minute in the school, so I waited outside, at the bottom of the stone stairs.

  I was still standing there when Amber and Madeline came marching down. “Waiting for your little brother?” Amber cooed.

  I ignored her. I was all out of smart comebacks. She just shrugged and walked away with Madeline, both of them giggling. I shuffled my feet and banged them on the icy pavement. My toes were freezing.

  Ben came running around the corner so fast he almost flew right past me.

  “Hey!” I grabbed his jacket sleeve. “Whoa! What’s the rush?”

  He was breathing hard and his face was flushed. “Come on, Cassidy. Let’s go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Ben’s wool hat had slipped down his forehead, covering his eyebrows and the top half of his glasses. He squinted up at me. “Nothing, but let’s get out of here, okay?” His words came out in a rush, tripping over each other.

  “Are those kids bothering you again? Look, maybe you should tell Mom.”

  “I already did.”

  “And?”

  He sighed. “And she says they have low self-esteem and I should just ignore them.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You want me to talk to them?”

  “No!” He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay then.” Not like I really wanted a confrontation with Tyler Patterson and his little fourth-grade gang.

  Ben walked along silently, kicking at chunks of ice. He didn’t seem fine, but I didn’t bother saying anything. He wouldn’t talk to me about it until he decided he wanted to. Anyway, I already knew what the problem was. Ben might be smarter than Tyler and his friends when it came to reading and math and memorizing bizarre trivia, but he was a year younger, a whole lot smaller and a bit clueless about trying to fit in. Besides, Tyler was Amber’s younger brother; and apparently bullying ran in the family.

  “You can’t let them walk all over you,” I told him. “You can’t make them like you, but you don’t have to let them bully you.”

  “Right,” he said sullenly. “Like I should take advice on my social life from you. You’re half the reason I get picked on.”

  I felt like he’d just punched me in the stomach. “What—what do you mean?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could reach up and snatch them back. I didn’t want to hear the answer.

  Ben shrugged. “You know.”

  I did. A huge lump was swelling in my throat, my eyes stung and a hot anger raced through my veins. “You think you’re getting picked on because your sister is Cathidy Thilver, school freak?” I spat, narrowing my eyes at him. “Newsflash: You don’t need my help to be a complete loser. Let’s see, you’re about a foot shorter than anyone else in your class. You wear the ugliest glasses I’ve ever seen. And you actually think other people are interested in all your weird obsessions.”

  He burst into tears, shoulders shaking and his breath coming in shuddery gasps. I just stood there and hated myself. I was every bit as bad as Amber.

  Finally he started walking, and I followed a couple of steps behind. We walked in silence interrupted only by the occasional sniffle from Ben. To my relief, he stopped crying before we got home. We trudged through the deep bank the snowplow had left across the foot of the driveway. The front door was locked. I set my briefcase down on the icy step and fumbled around in my pocket for the key. Mom was officially a stay-at-home mom, but lately it seemed she was doing her best to be the opposite. When Dad left for a job in the Middle East, Mom added volunteering at hospice to her usual volunteer work on the crisis line.

  By five o’clock Mom still wasn’t home, and I was getting hungry. I went down to the kitchen and started foraging in the cupboards. Ben was sitting at the kitchen table playing chess on his laptop. I wondered if he was still mad at me for what I’d said. “You hungry?” I asked.

  He shrugged but didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Um, mac’n’cheese?” When it comes to cooking, I don’t have a big repertoire.

  “Cool.”

  I put a pot of water on the stove, opened the box and pulled out the little cheese packet. Then I heard the front door open and close.

  Mom was home, carrying a take-out pizza in a cardboard box. When Dad was here, she used to cook, but he’s been away for two whole months, and he won’t be back until April. In the meantime, we’re eating a lot of pizza, a lot of Chinese food and a fair bit of mac’n’cheese.

  “How’s it going, kids?” she asked, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the back of a kitchen chair.

  I avoided her eyes. “Fine.”

  She nodded and sat down, running her fingers through her dark curly hair. She has great hair, and Ben does too. Me, I got Dad’s straight brown hair, and light brown eyes and olive skin. Dad looks great: all tanned and outdoorsy. I just look beige all over. “Hey, Mom?” I said, putting plates on the table. “I was wondering if I could dye my hair.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Your hair’s lovely.”

  “It’s not lovely. It’s boring.”

  “You’re twelve,” she said, taking a slice of Hawaiian pizza. “You’re too young to start dyeing your hair. Anyway, if you’re like me you’ll start going gray in your twenties, and then you’ll have to dye it for the rest of your life. So don’t be in a rush to start.”

  “I’d like it gray,” I said sullenly. “I wish it would go gray now.”

  She sighed. “You know, Cassidy, I’ve spent the whole day volunteering at hospice, talking to people who are going to be dead in a few weeks or months. Could we just have a nice dinner together, minus the attitude?”

  I took a slice of pizza and said nothing.

  Mom smiled. “So how was your day? Anything interesting happen?”

  “Well, no one died,” I said. “No one was even diagnosed as terminally ill.” I took a bite of lukewarm pizza. “So, no, I guess nothing interesting happened.”

  “If you’re going to be like that, fine.” She turned to Ben. “How about you, honey? How was your day?”

  “Pretty good,” Ben said, staring at his plate. “Um. Yeah. Nothing exceptional, but pretty good.”

  I guessed being bullied by Tyler and his gang couldn’t compete with the soon-to-be-dead people either.

  “Your dad called this morning,” Mom said. “He sounds like he’s doing well. Says he misses you both.”

  “I miss him.” And I miss you too, I thought. Lately, even when she w
as home, she was too wrapped up in her painting to have time for us. “There’s a new girl at my school,” I told her. “Her name’s Victoria. She just moved here.”

  Mom smiled hopefully. “Well, she won’t know anyone then. Perhaps the two of you can be friends. Why don’t you invite her over?”

  “Mom! I don’t even know her!”

  “So, how are you going to get to know her if you don’t take the first step?”

  “It doesn’t work like that, okay?” I hadn’t brought anyone home from school in over a year. I had friends from summer camp, but they all lived too far away to see often, and I had some online friends, but as for school…well, I started getting called Cathidy at the beginning of grade six, and it had pretty much gone downhill from there.

  Victoria would probably just laugh if I invited her over. I looked at my mother. “Newsflash, Mom: It’s impossible to make friends unless you’re exactly like all the other kids.” Under the table, I tightened my hands into fists. “Impossible.”

  Three

  The next morning, Mom was already painting by the time I got downstairs. Her studio used to be the den, but now it was completely filled with stacks of paintings leaning against walls, tables covered in paints and pastels and brushes, half-finished sketches taped up everywhere. It was chaos. She had been painting since I was a baby, but in the last couple of years she’d gotten serious about it. She had a show coming up soon, which I guess was why she was so busy. That and the dying people.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Mom glanced up. “Is that really what you’re wearing to school?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, good morning to you too.” I glanced down at myself: jeans, a purple scarf rolled thin and tied as a belt, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that said I love free speech. I have an awesome T-shirt collection. Mom hates most of them, but she says I’m old enough to choose my own clothes.

  I was about to ask what was wrong with my outfit, but when I looked up, Mom had already turned back to her painting and forgotten I was there.