Out of the Box

OUT
OF THE
BOX

MICHELLE MULDER

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright © 2011 Michelle Mulder

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

Mulder, Michelle
Out of the box [electronic resource] / Michelle Mulder.

Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.

Issued also in print format.

ISBN 978-1-55469-329-0

I. Title.

PS8626.U435O98 2011A        JC813'.6        C2010-907949-3

First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2010941927

Summary
: Ellie's passion for tango music leads to an interest in Argentine history
and a desire to separate herself from her parents' problems.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book
on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund 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 Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photo by Getty Images
Typesetting by Jasmine Devonshire
Author photo by David Lowes

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

14   13   12   11   •   4   3   2   1

For my family

CONTENTS

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

AUTHOR'S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

O
NE

“E
llie?”
My parents are staring at me across our dining-room table. Mom's still in her work clothes—a tailored beige blouse and black pants that make her seem confident and professional. Dad has changed from his usual T-shirt into something dressier. They've raised their wineglasses full of bubbly water for a goodbye toast, and they're waiting for me to do the same.

I grip the stem of my glass, trying to figure out how long I've been staring out the window at our bark-mulched yard. I was imagining myself picking raspberries in Aunt Jeanette's garden in Victoria. My parents have finally agreed to let me stay with my aunt for the whole summer this year, instead of just a week. Jeanette says she needs help cleaning her basement— something she and Alison had promised each other they would do this summer. They had wanted to hold a giant yard sale and give all the proceeds to a soup kitchen where they volunteer. Despite everything that's happened, my aunt's sticking to the plan. I told my parents I wanted to help, because it feels like the last thing I can do for Alison. Maybe they get it, or maybe they're worried Jeanette'll get depressed if she sorts through twenty years of memories of Alison by herself. Either way, I've been counting the days until I get to my aunt's place.

I raise my glass. “To a fantastic summer!” I say.

“To Ellie,” says Dad.

“To Jeanette,” Mom adds, giving us each a long, meaningful look. She's reminded me often in the past few weeks that I can't expect my aunt to be the same as before, now that Alison's gone. Even though Jeanette sounds fine when we talk on the phone or when she visits, grief might come crashing in on her when summer arrives and she's not busy teaching. Besides, summer is the season of kayaking, hiking and lake swimming—activities she and Alison used to share. I think Mom imagines her curled up in a chair, desperate for company, but personally I can't picture it. My aunt always says that life is nothing if not a great adventure. I've told Mom she shouldn't worry so much, but telling Mom not to worry is like telling her not to breathe. Sure enough, Mom seems sad and tired as we clink glasses, and I scramble to think of something cheerful to say. “I was thinking about what to pack,” I lie.

“Don't think too hard,” Dad says, his voice cheerful enough to make up for my mother's mood. This goodbye dinner was his idea, and he spent all afternoon chopping sun-dried tomatoes and grating extra-aged cheddar for his gourmet macaroni and cheese, my favorite meal. He doesn't usually try this hard, but we both know tonight is important. “You never know what Jeanette has up her sleeve,” he says. “You can't possibly prepare for everything.”

“No kidding,” I say, digging into my macaroni. One year, Jeanette, Alison and I made elaborate costumes and waved from a float in the Canada Day parade. Another time, we rode horses to a secret waterfall at the top of a mountain. Last year we went camping, whitewater rafting and to the opera, all in one weekend. That's what visits with Jeanette have always been like. Intense. Fabulous. And full of stuff I'd never do at home.

Dad and I are smiling.

Mom isn't. Tears are welling up in her eyes.

I feel a pang of guilt, but I grit my teeth. I'm not giving in. Not this time. “Great supper, Dad,” I say.

Somewhere outside, a lawn mower roars to life, startling us and giving me a few extra seconds to think up a cheery new topic. “You guys'll have a great summer too, right? What did Jeanette call it? The romantic opportunity of a lifetime?”

Mom had laughed when Jeanette said that a few weeks ago, and I'm hoping for the same response now. Tomorrow I want to leave with memories of us laughing together. If I can think about that, I'll worry less about what happens here while I'm gone.

On the outside not much will change, I know. When I return, the lawns on our cul-de-sac will be as green as ever. The air will smell of sprinkler water on pavement, and the neighbors will be walking their dogs.

Our backyard might be weedier. The house was new when my parents bought it thirteen years ago, right before I was born, and they've never gotten around to putting in a garden. Each year they order a load of bark mulch and hire a gardener to spread it out so the weeds don't take over. I pull out the dandelions and grasses that sprout through the mulch. Not many do.

It's hard to say what things will be like inside our house two months from now. Mom gets upset a lot, and Dad says no one can calm her down like I can. Dad spends most of his time downstairs in his office, designing software for his company or just surfing the Internet. Mom says no one gets him out of his shell like I do.

I want my parents to laugh now so I can think about that laughter on the ferry ride to Victoria tomorrow.

But Mom's tears are brimming over. I look pleadingly at Dad, and for once, he jumps in. “Come on, now, Gloria,” he says. “It'll be a great summer, right? For all of us.” His tone is more forceful than usual, as though he won't take
no
for an answer.

Mom closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. A breath like she taught me to take before math tests. When she opens her eyes, she looks as determined as Dad. “It
will
be a great summer,” she says with a confident smile that matches her professional clothing. “And we'll look forward to hearing about your adventures, Ellie. I know you'll have a wonderful time.”

I relax. Dad does too. We talk about the kite Jeanette and I plan to build together—an improvement on last summer's design—and about the park north of Victoria where we want to picnic. Then Dad cracks a joke about being the suburb's King of Romance this summer, and at last I hear the laughter I've been hoping for.

Later that evening I stuff a book and an extra toothbrush into the crannies of my backpack. I leave my iPod and my cell phone on my desk. Jeanette has banned both of them from her house. She says technology “takes people away from the moment.” Life at her house is all about “being present.” I rolled my eyes when she made that declaration. I'm going to miss my music. (Mom thinks I hate music because I don't always want to practice my violin, but listening to great artists and wanting to practice an instrument I never liked anyway are two completely different things.)

I don't mind leaving the cell phone behind. My friend Samantha is in Tasmania visiting relatives for the summer, and the only other person who ever calls me is my mother.

I take a last look around my room and ease the zipper shut on my backpack.

Tomorrow I will step into a completely different life.

T
WO

J
eanette lives in a red wooden house with stained glass windows, four blocks from the ocean. This is my first time back here since Alison's funeral, and the house seems half empty without her. I can't believe she'll never wander into the living room again to read us a funny line from a book. She'll never whip up another batch of double-fudge brownies or create hilarious names for the new dishes she concocts for supper. I want to hear her laugh at Jeanette's wacky ideas or have her chase me around the house in a tickle attack. At home with my parents, I could pretend that she hadn't really died, but here, her absence is everywhere.

I was right about Jeanette though. Every now and then she looks sad, but since I got here this morning, she hasn't spent a single second curled up in her chair, grief-stricken. She's got too many plans. Like tonight, for example.

“You'll love it,” she says, twirling across her living room, her blond curls flying straight out and her multicolored skirt billowing around her. She does a crazy weaving side-step across the hardwood floor and finishes with a little spin next to the piano. “Takes a bit of coordination, but you get used to it. Ready to go?”

I laugh. “I don't have any choice, do I?” It's Thursday evening, and for Jeanette that means Israeli dancing under the trees in Beacon Hill Park.

Of course I know better than to protest. As far as Jeanette's concerned, the biggest sin in life is to avoid trying new things. At home, I avoid them as much as possible. My parents think it's best to stick to what you know, and that's convenient for me, because I hate not knowing how to do things. I never want to make a fool of myself. Jeanette doesn't get it; she says perfection is not the point. I tell her that I'm in no danger of achieving perfection anyway.