Finding Cassidy (8 page)

“Sounds good.” His kindly grey eyes peered out at me over his bifocals. “How’re you doin’, Dee Dee Bird?”

I’m fading. I am no longer me. I am now Cassidy the Separate.
“Okay, I guess.” Grandpa Mac was the one who had originally given me the nickname. When I was eleven months old, he’d taken me to the park where I’d pointed to a tree and yelled, “birdeee, birdeee.” It was my very first word.

“Things are tough now, huh?”

You don’t know the half of it.
“I…”
What to say?
“Yeah.”

He smiled gently, and his old face was as familiar
and dear as the freckles on the back of my arm. “Now, there’s no sense in worrying, Cassidy. That does no good at all. Just yesterday, your grannie, she was talking to some official over at the University Medical Center, and he said even if you do have the gene, they’re making strides all the time. What with stem cell research and all. By the time you hit your daddy’s age, well, they’ll probably have a cure.”

He thought I was a carrier.
Oh, God, thinking before speaking was a royal pain in the ass.
“We don’t know for sure yet…if I am…a carrier.”

Just then, Mom walked in with a tray of coffee and goodies. Her hands were unsteady; the cups and saucers clattered as she put everything on the coffee table. Big Mac was adding his third teaspoon of sugar to his cup and I was three bites through a chocolate florentine when Dad and Little Mac came into the room and sat down, side by side, on the couch.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather have a rest?” Big Mac asked Grandma. “It was a long flight.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

That was another flat-out, socially acceptable lie. Grandma Mac didn’t look fine. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her freckled face was blotchy, her nose was red. Maybe it was because he was sitting right beside her, or maybe it was because I was looking for
it, but Dad looked more like Grandma than he’d ever looked before. He had the same short legs and thick torso, the same square, freckled face and the same haunted look in those oh-so-familiar almond-shaped eyes.

She’s not my grandmother. She’s never been my grandmother. Why didn’t I see it before?

Mom started talking, filling the air with store details no one cared about. The rest of us silently drank coffee, ate florentines and stared anywhere but at each other.

Eventually, Grandma cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Grace, but before I lose my nerve there’s—”

Something smashed into the bay window. Glass splintered and hit the floor.

Grandma Mac gasped.

Grandpa Mac swore.

Dad jumped up to see what had happened, then stumbled and dropped his coffee cup. Mom hurried to his side.

With a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach, I stepped over the broken cup to the cloth-covered object.

It was a white towel weighted down with rocks. Inside was a turkey baster filled to the brim with clear, slimy goo.

Birds normally live in things called flocks. Living in flocks means they stick together. They have friends. One flock member is always the boss.

Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

C
learly, we couldn’t hide my news from Big Mac and Little Mac.

I mean, we don’t live in the kind of neighbourhood where people chuck things through windows. Especially not turkey basters filled with slimy goo. And it didn’t help that Mom took one look at it and blurted, “Oh my God, who knows?”

Obviously someone with a really good arm. And probably not Prissy’s mom, either. The only thing
she
threw around was money.

Big Mac and Little Mac huddled on the couch, looking stunned and more than a little shaken. Luckily, my
aunt Colleen picked that moment to phone and make sure they’d arrived safely. While the grandparents talked (could I still call them grandparents?), Mom cleaned up the glass, Frank arranged for a window replacement and I got on my cellphone.

I’d opened my big mouth in the first place. I needed to find out who wouldn’t let me forget it.

Prissy wasn’t home. Neither was Yvonne, Jasmine or Brynna. I couldn’t reach Mike, so I took a chance and called Jason’s place. No one picked up.

Who had done this terrible, vile thing? I’d find out tomorrow at school. Meanwhile, I had to tell my parents I’d blabbed.

They didn’t say anything at first, although Dad turned red when I repeated the little ditty I’d sung at the party, and Mom’s lips got so thin they practically disappeared.

Then Dad had to tell Big Mac and Little Mac the details of my conception. Feeling freakish and embarrassed, I watched for some kind of reaction, but they didn’t give their feelings away. They nodded, they listened, they looked at me occasionally, but they didn’t say a word. After Dad finished, Grandpa Mac asked, “So Cassidy won’t get Huntington’s?” When that was confirmed, Grandma Mac burst into a fresh round of tears. “Thank God, thank God,” she kept repeating.

As far as I was concerned, it was over too soon. Where was their anger, their disappointment? Their curiosity about how I felt being a no-name-brand kind of person?

All Big Mac and Little Mac seemed to care about was whether the issue would affect Dad’s job as deputy mayor. Would the news of my conception result in some kind of political fallout?

Dad told them that the only fallout he expected was the ability to do his job as the Huntington’s progressed.

Then Grandma asked if the turkey baster was a sign that some fundamentalist group was about to burn crosses on our lawn or something. Dad laughed and said more likely it was kids being stupid. “People are far more open to reproductive technology than they used to be,” he said.

So that’s what I was? A product of reproductive technology?

I barely had time to figure out how that made me feel when Little Mac dropped a bombshell of her own—a bombshell that reinforced my belief that all of life comes down to a series of events. And in my family, at least, the really significant ones were clearly tied to sex.

Grandma MacLaughlin had never been married to
Dad’s—I mean Frank’s—father. All these years she’d led us to believe she’d married the man and then left him because he was a drunk. But she hadn’t married the guy at all. She’d slept with him. Once. And never seen him again.

Shame had made her keep the secret all these years. Now she was wracked with guilt.

“It was an indiscretion,” she repeated, running a finger under the collar of her too-tight cream blouse. “An indiscretion. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Frank sat, stone-faced, tapping out some kind of silent rhythm with his fingers.

An indiscretion’s better than a date with a turkey baster,
I thought.

Little Mac burst into tears again.

Then I realized I’d spoken the words out loud.

As you can imagine, it was a real Jerry Springer kind of night. A night blurred with explanations, recriminations and tears. And a badly overcooked chicken.

That chicken could have been why I had a stomach ache when I left for school the next morning. But when I pulled into the parking lot and Max caught sight of me, and he smirked and nudged Scott and they started laughing, my stomach ache only got worse.

I walked into the school foyer. Heads turned. Eyes
widened. Muffled giggles broke out. More than once, the stares and giggles were accompanied by whispers of “sperm” or variations on the same, none of which I care to repeat.

Avoiding direct eye contact, I headed straight for Prissy’s locker. I ran into Jason halfway there. “Did you hear what happened?” I pulled him into the alcove of Mrs. Sutter’s computer class.

“Yeah.” He looked embarrassed. “Someone said it broke the window.”

“It was wrapped around a five-pound rock. Of
course
it broke the window. But never mind. Who
did
it?”

“I’m not sure. There was a group of guys…They were being stupid. No one’s taking responsibility.”

“Which guys?”

He hesitated just a fraction of a second too long. “I’m not sure,” he repeated.

“You know. Why won’t you tell me?”

He practically winced. “Let it go, Cass. It’s not worth worrying about.”

He was protecting them.
On the heels of that thought came an uglier one. “Were you there?”

A nasty red flush crawled up his neck. “First you think I tell my mother about your…your…donor thing…and now you think I’d do that?” He flipped his blond hair back. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t think you would, but—” I was confused, embarrassed. “But people are whispering and laughing. I shouldn’t have said anything at the party. It was a mistake. But I didn’t expect it to spread like lice in kindergarten. It’s nobody’s business anyway.”
And you know who did it and you won’t tell me.
Oh God, oh God, I was going to cry.

Jason’s anger dissolved. He pulled me into the room, kicked the door shut with the toe of his boot and hugged me. We stood there for, like, forever, or at least until way after the bell rang and the banging on the door got too loud to ignore. When Jason finally let me go, there was a huge lineup of people waiting, including Mrs. Sutter, who looked angry until she saw who it was. Then she gave me a nervous, twitchy little smile and moved aside so I could pass.

Clearly, she knew, too.

I had law class first block; Prissy wasn’t in my class. I couldn’t find her afterward, either, and believe me, I tried. Bolting through the door of my English class, I headed for my usual spot beside Jasmine. Her head was bowed over her textbook; she didn’t look up. Jasmine was quiet. Her family life centred heavily on her church; she rarely went to parties. But she was still one of the gang. She’d know who’d thrown that rock.

I tried to catch her eye. Deeply enthralled in the day’s sonnet, she didn’t look up. When we broke into groups, she joined with two others before I could join her. At the end of the class, she jumped out of her chair almost before the bell stopped ringing. I managed to grab her as she went through the door.

“Hey, Jas, what’s up?”

She shook my hand off her arm. “I have to go.” She tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder and started walking.

I followed her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She wouldn’t look at me.

“I guess you heard.”

She didn’t answer. Instead she picked up her pace. The halls were packed. People slammed books into lockers, made plans for lunch. I wove through the crowd, practically running to keep up with her.

“Jasmine, wait! What’s going on?”

She stopped so fast I almost smashed into her back. Then she turned, eyed me with disgust and said, “Some man masturbated into a paper cup just so you’d be born. That goes against scripture. Your real father could be a gas-station attendant somewhere. How am I supposed to make sense of
that?
”

I stared after her with my mouth hanging open.
That
was Jasmine? Jasmine of the everyone-has-value-in-the-Lord’s-eyes
school of thought? Apparently that didn’t include guys who masturbated into paper cups or worked at gas stations.

I stormed around the halls, glaring at anyone who dared catch my eye. I couldn’t find Prissy, or anyone else who mattered. On a hunch, I headed for the local McDonald’s. When I saw Prissy’s car in the lot, I knew I was right.

We always ate in the lower kids’ play area. As long as we ordered food and kept our swearing under control, we could get away with being loud and obnoxious. I grabbed food and headed downstairs.

The windowless room smelled like grease, apple juice and sneakers. Prissy and Yvonne sat in the corner, talking and laughing with a gang of kids. My heart sank. I hadn’t expected such a big crowd.

Holding my tray high, I sidestepped around a weary young mother in grey sweats trying to convince a little girl with a big pout that it was better to eat her chicken McNuggets off the table than off the floor.

“It’s sperm child,” someone said.

Prissy and Yvonne snickered.

“Don’t be an asshole.” I slammed the tray on the table. Brynna jumped.

“Hey, you said it first.” Max mimicked my high-pitched voice.
“Sperm child, just dancing to the music.”

Laughter and grins all around. I sat down and buried my flaming face inside the french-fry container. As soon as I found out who had thrown the turkey baster through the window, I’d leave.

“Her daddy’s sick to death.” This from Tom. “Sick to death ‘cause he couldn’t get it up.” Snorts of masculine laughter ripped through the air.

Yvonne giggled, but Prissy glared at Tom. “That’s not funny,” she said.

“Yeah, leave her dad out of this.” Brynna gave me a sympathetic look.

“Her dad’s been left out of a lot of things,” someone added with a snicker. A few guys chuckled. Yvonne rolled her eyes. I unwrapped my burger and wondered how I could swallow with my throat practically closed.

“So what’s it like?” Chad asked. “Starting life in a test tube?”

“Oh, gross.”

“Hey, man, not while I’m eating.”

The young mother in grey gave us a
look
and started to pack up her daughter’s lunch.

“It’s not a test tube, stupid. I read that they take this huge, long syringy thing and shoot the sperm inside the woman,” Yvonne said. “Then she has to lie down and keep her feet up in the stirrups for, like, hours afterward so it doesn’t leak out.”

Oh God. I put my barely eaten burger down. Like I needed to hear
this.
“Why don’t we drive out to Circle Lake together?” I suggested to Prissy. If I got her alone, she would talk. “There’s no point in taking separate cars to class.”

“No thanks.” Prissy fiddled with her hair. “I…uh…I have plans after school.” She looked at Yvonne, who nodded. “I need my car.”

“I guess sperm child’s gonna have to drive out there by herself,” Max drawled. “Better watch out for flying turkey basters.”

More snickers.

I stared hard at Max. “Did you throw that at my window?”

“Moi?” The picture of wide-eyed innocence, he slapped his hand over his heart. “You wound me. I have better aim than that.”

“Yeah, Vonnie,” Scott piped up. “I thought you were gonna get the jiss and blood and stuff all over the front door, not on the living-room carpet.”

Yvonne?
Something sucked the air right out of my lungs.

“Shut up, Scott.” Yvonne’s lips twisted into a grin. “He’s being stupid, Cass. Don’t listen to him.”

Brynna grabbed her tray and stood. “I have to go.” She hurried up the stairs.

But Scott wouldn’t shut up. “I still think Prissy’s idea to do city hall was better,” he said. “But like Vonnie said, you’d need too many egg whites to cream that place.”

Prissy?
For the second time in less than an hour, I was speechless. Prissy flushed and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
City hall?
When Jason had said “guys,” I had just assumed…but I’d assumed wrong. My heart ached. Jason hadn’t been protecting them. He’d been protecting
me.

Finally I managed one word: “Why?”

“Oh, lighten up.” There was a bored look on Yvonne’s horsy, spoiled face. “I never meant to break the window. It was just a joke.”

Do I even know you?
“Great joke.”

“I aimed for the door, but Max pushed me and then my arm slipped and…” She shrugged. “Don’t worry, Cass. I’ll talk to my dad. I’m sure he’ll pay for the damage.”

The damage.
Some damage was irreparable. I’d learned that in the last two days. “Whatever.” Feigning indifference, I sipped my root beer, loosened the lid on the cup. I shook out my fries, ate two. I opened my burger, then shut it again. Then I rose, tray in hand, and slid from my seat. I stepped sideways. Flicked my wrist. Dumped my lunch right into Yvonne’s lap. She
shrieked and jumped up. Pop and ice and pickles and fries went flying.

“Ooops, sorry, I slipped.” I smiled. She glared. “Lighten up, Vonnie. It was just a joke. Besides, soap and water work wonders.” I slapped the tray down on the table in front of her. “Apparently it cleans up even the nastiest shit in the world. Better go use some.”

Silence followed me out the door.

I needed Jason, but he wasn’t around. I also needed to call Cypress Hills, but the clinic wouldn’t be open for another hour. What I didn’t need was that class at Circle Lake. So I drove out the highway past the gravel pit to Witty’s Lagoon, where I walked the beach, listened to the swoop of the incoming tide and watched the sandpipers skim the water’s surface looking for bugs to eat.

Yvonne and Prissy were my friends. How could they do that to me? How could they think it was
funny?
Jasmine was supposed to be my friend, too. And Max? Max was always sarcastic, but today he’d been plain mean. I’d witnessed nasty comments from them before. Like when Mike’s mother got a botched facelift. Kids had teased him for months. The comments
eventually dwindled, but they hadn’t stopped completely until she’d had reconstructive surgery.

Sooner or later I’d stop being the topic of conversation, I told myself as I hiked back to my car. There was no question about it. But could our friendship survive in the interim? Did I even want it to?