Bull's Eye (3 page)

“Jump in,” he barks at Tina without offering to help her with her stuff. In a flash, she is gone. As they peel out, she sticks her head out the window. She waves her cell phone and yells, “Call me!”

When I get to the Y, the woman at the front desk tells me that my mother has called. She paid for my room on her credit card. Wow. She's even willing to pay for me to stay away. My room is small but clean. I am suddenly so tired that I curl up on the bed and sleep for two hours. When I wake up, I go to a sushi place on Robson and then come back to my room and go to sleep again. I keep thinking the un-mom
will call me, but my phone is silent. She's probably off celebrating her freedom.

The next day I walk on the seawall, check out the Art Gallery, eat cupcakes and gelato on Denman. All the stuff I usually do with my mom. It's not nearly as much fun alone and it's expensive. I have lots of babysitting money, but I'm going to have to be careful. Vancouver's a pricey place. I don't dare go into the clothing stores on Robson. Usually when we're here, my mom (I can't stop thinking of her that way) buys me one special thing—a pair of shoes, a purse, a skirt. Not gonna happen this time.

The next morning, after breakfast, I head out on the bus to Donna's old school. When I get there it's class change time. I try to blend in and cruise around. I check out the framed photographs that line the halls, thinking how all high schools feel the same. If I weren't feeling so stressed, I'd probably find the old pictures of Sandra
funny—debate club, chess club, math club (big surprise). She had huge glasses and crap clothes. Donna is only in the drama club pictures, just like in the annual. No math club for her. She played the lead in lots of productions—
Show Boat, My Fair Lady
. She was even Maria in
The Sound of Music
. I can't find anyone named Ken or Kevin or Kurt or Keith in any of the pictures. I head to the office and look for the oldest woman in the room. There's one in every school office. Someone who's been there forever. Someone who knows where the bodies are buried.

“Yes?” says the woman behind the counter. I can see right away that she's too young to help me. Her hair is frosted and her nails are acrylic.

“I'm doing a paper for my, uh, English class. It's about the history of the drama club, so I, like, need to talk to Mrs., uh, Mrs....you know, the school historian.”

“You mean Mrs. Mitchell?” says the woman. “She's hardly the school historian, but she has been here for years.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Mitchell. She's supposed to be great.” I figure a little sucking up can't hurt.

“You could say that,” says the woman with a laugh. She points to a desk by the window. “Wait over there.”

A few minutes later a tiny woman scurries back to the desk, gripping a teapot in one hand and a mug in the other. She looks like a mouse. She has brown hair, brown clothes, brown shoes, small darting brown eyes, a twitchy nose.

“Oh, I didn't realize I had a visitor,” she says. Even her voice is squeaky. “Tea?” She holds up the pot.

“No thanks. I just need some information for a paper. About the drama club.”

She pours her tea and clasps her mug in her tiny pink hands. Now that I have her attention, I don't know what to ask. To buy a little time, I drag the annual out of my pack and plunk it on her desk.

“I'm researching the years between 1988 and 1992, and I'm just wondering if you could tell me about some of the
students.” I pretend to search for a picture. “Donna Bell, for instance. She was in so many plays.” My palms are sweating as I turn the pages. I feel sick to my stomach, the way I feel on the high diving board at the pool.

“Oh, yes, Donna. Darling girl. Very talented. And so pretty. So different from Sandra. It was tragic, what happened to Donna. Such a waste.”

I can't tell if Mouse-woman is referring to Donna's death or her pregnancy. I want to defend Sandra for some reason, to tell this old busybody that there's more to life than being pretty and popular. Like being sane, for instance.

“What happened?” I ask.

Mrs. Mitchell leans across the desk and whispers, “She got herself pregnant. Left school. Never came back.”

I try to look appropriately shocked. I guess I succeed, because Mrs. M. reaches out and pats my hand and says, “It happens more often than you'd think, my dear, but I'm sure you know that. And I'm sure
you're too smart to let it happen to you. Back then, though, girls didn't stay in school when they got pregnant. I heard that Donna gave the baby up for adoption. Probably all for the best.” She sighs and folds her hands in her lap. “It certainly left a hole in the drama club. And then Mr. Keene left. It's never been the same, in my opinion.”

The expression “the penny dropped” suddenly takes on new meaning. I feel as if a giant piggybank full of pennies is crushing my chest. I struggle to fill my lungs.

“Why did Mr. Keene leave?” I try to speak slowly and calmly but the words come out fast and loud.

Mrs. M. tilts her head to one side and says, “You don't go here, do you, dear?”

“No,” I gasp. “I'm the baby. Donna's baby. I'm trying to find my father.”

The mouse-woman's bright little eyes close for a moment and when she opens them, she stands up. She smoothes down her skirt, takes me by the hand and leads
me out to the hall. We stand in front of a picture of the cast of
Annie Get Your Gun
. Off to one side in the photo is a man in a dark suit. She points at him and says, “Michael Keene. They were always together, he and Donna. He was fired right after she left. Runs a bar called the Bull's Eye, the last I heard. You have a bit of his look about the eyes, dear. He wasn't a bad man. Very smart. Very young. We all liked him.” She pats my hand again and says “Good luck” before she scuttles back to the office.

I stand and stare at Michael Keene for a while. He looks ordinary, but the mouse-woman is right. I do look a bit like him about the eyes.

It's not like I've never been to a bar before, but usually I'm wearing heels and carrying a fake id. When I get to the Bull's Eye the next day, I'm wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says
My Dashboard Hula Girl Can Beat Up Your Dangling Jesus.
The only other shirt I brought has an Emily Dickinson quote on it—
Forever is composed of nows
. I figure the hula girl one will go over better in a bar. The Bull's Eye is a dive. A dark,
narrow, smelly dive. The best thing about it is the neon sign outside—a blue arrow flying over and over into the dead center of a red and white target. Inside there are a few banged-up tables and a long bar. Even though it's only noon, there are guys draped over the bar and lounging at the tables. Every last one of them is smoking, despite the No Smoking signs. As I walk in, they all look up and watch me make my way to the bar. A couple of them offer to buy me a drink. Another one suggests we go back to his place and party. What a self-esteem boost.

“I'm looking for Michael Keene,” I say to the guy behind the bar. He is standing with his back to me, washing glasses.

“That's me,” he says, turning around and drying his hands. “But I don't serve minors, no matter how cute they are.” He grins. I grin back, like an idiot.

He can't be Michael Keene, unless Michael was teaching high school when he was five. This guy can't be more than twenty-four. A very hot twenty-four.

“You're Michael Keene?”

“Yup. Technically, I'm Michael Keene Junior. Call me Mike.”

Mike. Junior. No wonder Donna was forbidden fruit. Michael Keene Senior was married. With a kid.

“And you are...?”

“Sandy.” I try not to stutter. “Sandy Dickinson. I go to Northwood. I'm doing a paper on the drama club, and Mrs. Mitchell suggested I talk to... your dad.”

“Ah yes. Mrs. Mitchell. Dad told me about her. He called her the Mouse. She got my dad fired.” Mike frowns and adds, “Well, to be fair, he got himself fired, I guess, but she didn't help. But I'm sure you don't want to hear about that stuff. He was an amazing drama teacher. The best Northwood ever had.”

“I'd like to talk to him. Get his stories firsthand, I mean.”

“Not possible,” Mike says.

“Why—is he out of town?”

“Permanently. He died last year. Car accident. He was in a crosswalk and a drunk driver plowed into him.”

I sit down and try not to let him see how freaked out I am.

“Can I have a Pepsi?” I ask. “No ice?”

“Sure,” he says. “Coke okay?” When I nod, he continues. “I can try and help you with your paper, though. Or you could talk to my mom. Even though he got fired, Dad loved to talk about Northwood. About all the plays he directed, how some of his students went on to Broadway and movies.”

Not all of them, I think. I take a sip of my Coke and watch him wipe the bar. I took an ethics class last year, and I can recognize an ethical problem a mile off. This is definitely a big one. The hot guy behind the bar is my half-brother, but he has no idea who I am. Am I morally obliged to tell him? Or can I just pump him for information about my dad and then split? I must have been silent for a while, because he nudges my elbow and says, “Are we done here? 'Cause if you don't want to talk, I've got stuff to do.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Can I see a picture of
your dad? That would really help. All I've seen are group photos.”

“That's him,” he says. He jerks his thumb at a framed black-and-white photograph behind the bar. A professional headshot. It shows a smiling man of about forty. Dark hair, dark eyes—my eyes—slight overbite (thanks, Dad), a tiny scar on his forehead. Mike Junior has the same smile, but he's blond and his teeth are perfect. “He acted around town—little theater groups. Anywhere that was doing a musical. After Northwood, he gave up directing. Said it was too messy, whatever that means. My mom is a teacher too, but little kids. She says one teenager was enough for her.” He laughs and asks, “You giving your parents a hard time yet?”

For once I tell the truth. “Not really,” I reply. I have never given and never will give my parents a hard time. It's technically impossible.

Mike takes care of bar business while we talk. He's full of stories about his dad, and I try to act like a good little student
and scribble away in my notebook. It's obvious that Mike's family went through some rough years after Mike Senior left Northwood, but Mike is vague about the details. I don't really think I can ask, “What about Donna Bell and her baby?” What he is clear about is that his parents worked it out. Whatever “it” was. He also keeps saying what a great guy his dad was and how much he misses him. I want to ask what kind of a great guy knocks up and abandons one of his high school students, but is that fair? According to Donna, he thought she had an abortion. He even paid for it. I wonder what Donna did with the money. I doubt she used it to buy baby clothes.

After three Cokes and an hour of Mike's stories, I have to pee so bad that I risk a trip to the ladies' room, which is surprisingly clean. There's even a hilarious framed poster on the wall.
The Sound of Music
starring Michael Keene as Captain von Trapp. That must have brought back a few memories of the good old days at Northwood High.

When I come out, I gather up my stuff and shake Mike's hand. I promise to send him a copy of my paper and I stumble out into the sunshine. I start to cry as I walk to the bus stop. I cry as the bus crosses the bridge to downtown. I cry when I buy a Starbucks Frappuccino. I cry as I walk back to the Y. People turn away from me as if I'm spraying bird flu germs all over them. I have no Kleenex, so I use my sleeve to mop up the snot. I wish Tina was here with her cool washcloth. When I finally get back to my room, she's the only person I can think of to call, but all I get is her voice mail. I leave a message asking her to meet me tomorrow. Then I climb between the thin sheets and cry myself to sleep.

I meet Tina the next afternoon at a café on Robson where a cute barista decorates my latte foam with a wobbly heart. I wish I was more inclined to flirt, but all I can mumble is a lame “Awesome. Thanks” as he lingers by our table.

Tina is wearing the same clothes as before, and there are purple shadows under her eyes. She brushes off my questions about Tom, although she does admit he
parties a lot and there's no food in his kitchen. Just a lot of booze.

“The sooner I get my own place, the better,” she says, “but everything's so expensive here. I had no idea. I'm probably going to have to live in, I dunno, Surrey. Or find a shared house closer in. It'll work out, though.” She sips her undecorated black coffee. I wish I'd thought to order her a latte. She needs a foam heart as much as I do. Maybe more.

“You sounded pretty upset on your message. Did you find your dad?” she asks.

“Sort of,” I say. I stab my latte's heart with a wooden stir stick. “He's dead. Which makes me an orphan, I guess. Little Orphan Emily. And no Daddy Warbucks in sight.”

“How did you find out that he was dead?”

“His son told me. His very cute son, Mike Junior. My brother. Or half-brother, I should say.”

“No way,” Tina says. She slams her mug
onto the table and spills the coffee. “You've got a brother. That's great!”

The cute barista zooms over with a rag and mops up the spreading pool of coffee. He must have been keeping an eye on us, which makes me feel both annoyed and pleased. He refills Tina's mug and flashes a dazzling smile in my direction before heading back behind the counter.

“He's flirting with you,” Tina says with a giggle. “He's cute. Excellent ass.”

“At least he's not related to me,” I say. “Mike flirted with me too. It was weird. I almost flirted back. But then I kept thinking how grossed out he'd be when he found out I was his half-sister.”