Rachel Bird Read online

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Rachel Bird / Becky Citra.

  Names: Citra, Becky, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210301708 | Canadiana (ebook)

  20210301724 | ISBN 9781772602432 (softcover) | ISBN

  9781772602449 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8555.I87 R33 2022 | DDC jC813/.54—dc23

  Copyright © 2022 by Becky Citra

  Cover photo: iStock.com/den-belitsky

  Editor: Heather Tekavec

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the

  Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our

  publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the

  Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  Published by

  Second Story Press

  20 Maud Street, Suite 401

  Toronto, ON M5V 2M5

  www.secondstorypress.ca

  To Larry and Meghan and the life we share on our ranch.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Aleksandra dropped us off half an hour ago for our last counselling session. Jane’s sitting in the little kids’ corner, coloring a frog with a broken orange crayon. Usually we talk to Aura separately but today we’re here mostly just to say good-bye. I slide lower in my chair and examine my toenails. I’m wearing pink flip-flops. Maybe I’ll walk downtown when we get back and buy some blue nail polish. I’ll do Jane’s toes, too.

  “Hey,” says Aura. “Earth to Rachel.”

  Aura wears glasses with heavy black frames. A tattoo of a Celtic knot covers the top of her right arm. It’s like a loop with no start and finish and it represents eternity. Aura’s tattoo is called a triquetra or trinity knot. I’m considering a Celtic knot when I get a tattoo, but mine will be different. I’ve been googling them.

  Aura was helping Jane with her coloring but now she’s sitting on a huge blue ball opposite me. She calls it “active sitting” because it makes her core stronger. She’s wearing jeans with ripped knees. There’s a bowl of goldfish crackers on a little table.

  “Got something for you,” she says.

  She scoots over to her desk, opens a drawer, and takes out a pair of sunglasses.

  “Right,” I say. They look like something Uncle Rob would wear, not me.

  “They’re not just ordinary sunglasses,” she says. “They cancel out blue light so you can look at screens in the evening without wrecking your sleep.”

  Aura knows that I don’t text friends all night long in between posting on Facebook. Every time I move, I leave my friends behind. But she also knows I’m a little addicted to googling things.

  “They won’t work,” I say.

  “I got a pair for me, too.”

  They won’t work. “Okay. Thanks.”

  I tuck the sunglasses into my backpack and glance at the clock on the wall. Aura’s leaving for Europe in three days with her boyfriend, Mike. I refuse to start over again with someone new. So, this is the end of counselling for me and Jane.

  I stand up.

  “Sit down, Rach,” says Aura.

  I sit.

  “We’ve covered a lot of stuff you and me,” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  She hands me a tissue.

  “I get how hard this is. I think you’ve made a lot of progress. And I really appreciate how honest you’ve been with me.”

  I can’t trust my voice, so I don’t say anything.

  “Do you know what a carapace is?” she says.

  “Nope.”

  “It’s the hard upper shell of a turtle, crustacean, or arachnid.” She smiles. “I bet you know where I’m going with this.”

  “You think I’m a turtle.”

  “No, but I do think you’ve built a protective shell around yourself. It’s a pretty common coping strategy. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your Uncle Rob really loves you and Jane. Don’t forget that. He’s your ally. And your grandparents, too.”

  So much for Aleksandra being part of this. Aura’s got her figured out. She slides off the ball. “Okay. Group hug. Come on, Jane.”

  Jane scampers over and wraps her skinny arms around Aura’s waist.

  “I’m going to miss you guys, big time,” says Aura. “You look after yourselves this summer and I’ll see you in the fall.”

  After Europe, she and Mike are trekking all over Asia. Aura’s awesome, but seriously? Why would she want to spend all summer listening to the problems of kids that aren’t even hers? She’ll eat sushi and see the Great Wall of China. She’ll never come back. I wouldn’t.

  * * *

  Aleksandra’s waiting at the end of the block in her bright red Mini Cooper. She’s double parked and she taps the horn when she sees us. Jane squeezes into the back and I slide into the passenger seat, fitting my long legs around a gym bag and a paper sack of groceries.

  Aleksandra zips into the traffic. “So, what did you and Aura talk about today, Jane?” she says.

  “Well,” says Jane. “We didn’t talk about Mom.”

  “What!” says Aleksandra. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t know.” Jane bangs her runners against the back of my seat. “Can we have hot dogs for dinner?”

  “Ouch,” I say. “Quit that.”


  Aleksandra runs a red light and a horn blasts. “No hot dogs. I picked up some fresh cod and asparagus at Granville Island Market.”

  “Oh Gaaawd,” says Jane.

  I laugh and Aleksandra frowns in the rearview mirror. “Rachel? What did you talk about?”

  She’s determined that she and Uncle Rob get their money’s worth from Aura.

  “Nose rings,” I say.

  She sighs and flips on the radio.

  * * *

  It’s scorching by the time we get back to the apartment, so I forget the idea of trudging all the way downtown to get nail polish. Instead, I grab our bathing suits, towels, and library books and stuff everything in my backpack.

  Aleksandra’s on her phone, swearing at someone in Polish because they’re telling her for the millionth time that she can’t practice medicine in Canada with a Polish license. “We’re going!” I yell, and she flaps her hand in the air.

  She and Uncle Rob are renting this apartment in the West End while they look for a condo to buy. Jane and I have been living here since Christmas. Six months. An all-time record. It’s better than anywhere we’ve ever lived before. Stanley Park is right outside the window. You can smell the ocean and it’s seven minutes to the pool at Second Beach.

  We walk to the library on shady streets with tall leafy trees. I leave Jane in the children’s section and head to Young Adults with a list Aura gave me: 26 Young Adult Fantasy Novels You Need to Read.

  I have a system when I pick out my library books. It’s random. Last week, I took out books with one-word titles. Today, I’m looking for books with the word blood in the title.

  I find Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi, Bloodwitch by Susan Dennard, and The Blood Spell by CJ Redevine. Then I break my rule and grab Lady Smoke by Laura Sebastian because I love the way it sounds.

  Lady Smoke. When I come back in my next life, I’m going to call myself Lady Smoke.

  Jane has a stack of Magic Treehouse books. There’s got to be at least fifty books in the series and she’s on her second time through. I taught her to read when she was three. The librarian adores her and gives her a high five as we leave.

  One more stop before we go swimming—the West End Community Center next door to the library, to pick up a brochure. We scan it together, searching for activities that Jane can do this summer.

  “Okay,” I say. “Kid Zone, Lego Block Party, Star Wars Day, Seeds and Senses, Thumb Print Art, Bee an Eco Hero.”

  “All that?” says Jane.

  “Yup. It’ll be fun.”

  I love taking care of Jane. We’ve always stuck together. But I have stuff to do. I’m looking for someone. And he’s not going to be at Thumb Print Art.

  Chapter Two

  Jane and I hang around the pool at Second Beach all afternoon. Unlike me (red hair, pale skin—it’s so unjust), Jane gets darker and darker, but I’ve slathered her with sunscreen anyway. Now she’s hunched up on her towel near the little kids’ seal slide, hugging her knees. She gets cold even on a hot day and once she starts, she can’t stop shivering. She’s probably starving, too.

  I wave and she waves back.

  A moment later, I’m standing over her, my long, wet hair dripping on her head. She wriggles away. “Can I get some mac and cheese bites? Please, please, please?”

  At the concession stand, I order the mac and cheese bites, and we refill our water bottles at the drinking fountain while we wait. I have an apple and an orange in my backpack. I don’t eat at concession stands.

  I carry the little cardboard box of mac and cheese bites, so they won’t spill, and we walk down the cement stairs to the beach. People are everywhere, stretched out on towels and baking in the sun, splashing in and out of the ocean. Somewhere music is blaring. We find an empty log, kick off our flip-flops, and bury our toes in the sand. I count five huge orange freighters as a sailboat with white sails skims across the water.

  “Are you meeting those guys again?” says Jane. She’s wrapped up in my towel because she’s still shivering.

  “Nope.” But my eyes drift up and down the beach.

  I’ve seen them here three times, two girls and three guys, playing Frisbee and hanging out. They’ve just finished grade nine at King George Secondary. I know them from my math class.

  Last time, one of the guys, Jason, tossed the Frisbee at me and then they all wandered over.

  Caitlin, a gorgeous volleyball star who can’t do multiplication, smiled at Jane. “Hey, look at that little girl! She’s reading a book at the beach. That’s adorable!”

  Jane scowled, then she rolled over on her stomach and her towel slipped off. Caitlin’s mouth fell open and I knew she was staring at Jane’s arm. Then she looked at me and I drilled my eyes back at her until she turned red.

  Everyone flopped down on the sand and talked mostly about the teachers they hated and their lousy report cards.

  “Old Turco is out to get me…. Try having Mr. B for history. He’s a moron…. I flunked History and Science. God. I’ll have to go to summer school.”

  I didn’t contribute, but no one seemed to notice. I knew NOT to:

  take my library book out of my backpack and read

  confess that I got straight As in English, Social Studies, and French

  Jason wasn’t saying anything either. He’s new at King George. He appeared about a month ago. His eyes are very dark and he’s always tossing his long black hair off his face.

  While the others talked, he flicked bits of broken shells at my leg. When they left, he said super casually, “We’re coming back tomorrow.”

  I haven’t tried to make any friends at King George. Now it’s almost the summer holidays and I’m regretting it. I’m sick of being the girl whose mother died. I want someone to hang out with. And I’m pretty sure Jason was giving me a signal.

  I went back to the beach last week, even to the same log, without Jane. But they never showed up. Maybe I was too late. Or too early. Or maybe it wasn’t a signal at all.

  One last look around. They aren’t coming today either.

  “Can I get some Twizzlers?” says Jane.

  * * *

  We go for a walk along the seawall so Jane can read the sayings on the memorial benches. She’s memorized six benches, which so far is the farthest we’ve walked. Her favorite is,

  Do not complain about the rain. Think of all the raindrops that are missing you.

  She laughs every time. If I died and someone wrote that on a bench to remember me, I’d come back to haunt them.

  “I got one,” I say. “Lady Smoke. She evaporated into thin air.”

  “Can a person evaporate?” says Jane.

  “Lady Smoke can. Just like that! Poof!”

  The first time Jane talked about the memorial benches at the dinner table, Aleksandra said, “Do you think that’s a good idea…well, considering…. Really, Rob, memorial benches?”

  We do three more benches today. We agree that I love you to the moon and back is the best.

  “I love you to Mars and back,” I say.

  “I love you to Jupiter and back,” says Jane.

  Why did I start this? Now she has to go through every planet. She’s on to asteroids when I say, “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  We double back to Stanley Park and duck through a short concrete tunnel, over a bridge, and onto the path by the tennis courts. Two more minutes and we’re at the apartment on Comox Street.

  Uncle Rob’s in the kitchen talking to Aleksandra. The door’s partly open. As I dump my backpack on the floor and start pulling out the wet towels, Aleksandra says, “You’re going to have to tell them soon.”

  “Shh,” I say to Jane.

  “I know,” says Uncle Rob. “It’s just that—”

  “I didn’t sign up for this, Rob,” says Aleksandra. “We agreed. Focus on our careers. N
o kids.”

  “You could give them a break, Aleks.”

  “I do. But I can’t deal with it anymore. Not right now.” She gives this huge dramatic sigh. That’s very Aleksandra. “I can handle Rachel, although she completely ignores her curfews. And the way she skulks around in the dark is disturbing. The other night I got up to get a drink of water and she was sitting on the couch at two a.m. with a blanket over her head.”

  I love you too, Aleksandra.

  “Jane is something else,” she says. “She won’t eat anything I cook.”

  I put my hand on Jane’s shoulder.

  “She’s six,” says Uncle Rob.

  “A six-year-old shouldn’t wet her bed every night. And she doesn’t talk like any six-year-old that I’ve ever met.”

  “Not every night,” I whisper to Jane. “And you talk way smarter.”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” says Aleksandra.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll send them,” says Uncle Rob. “As soon as school’s done. But you’ve got to promise it’s only for the summer.”

  “I won’t promise that.”

  “Where is he sending us?” Jane sounds shaky.

  “I think it’s Aspen Lake.” I poke her in the ribs. “Don’t worry. We’re not going.”

  Chapter Three

  After supper, Uncle Rob takes Jane and me to the Marble Slab Creamery on Denman Street. This is how it works: you order your flavor of ice cream, and they scoop it onto a marble slab and mix in toppings that you pick from little plastic boxes. Then they scrape the entire mess into a cone.

  Jane picks bubble gum ice cream. She asks the girl behind the counter to add mini marshmallows, chocolate chips, M&Ms, gummy bears, Nerds, coconut, and sprinkles. I choose vanilla. One small scoop. No toppings.

  We take our cones to a table in the corner where Uncle Rob is cradling a coffee from Starbucks. He eyes Jane’s cone, which is collapsing under its load, and shoves a handful of napkins across the table.

  “Okay. This is the deal.”

  I lick my ice cream slowly.

  “Aleksandra’s been under a lot of stress fighting this bureaucracy. Trying to find ways to get around all the obstacles.”

  Jane’s digging out all the gummy bears and piling them up to eat at the end.