Rebel's Tag

K.L. Denman

orca
currents

Copyright © K.L. Denman 2007

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
Denman, K. L., 1957-
Rebel's tag / written by K.L. Denman.
(Orca currents)

ISBN 978-1-55143-742-2 (bound)
ISBN 978-1-55143-740-8 (pbk.)

I. Title. II. Series.

PS8607.E64R42 2007 jC813'.6 C2007-902772-5

Summary:
After receiving a letter from his estranged grandfather, Samuel begins to learn about forgiveness and knowledge.

First published in the United States, 2007
Library of Congress Control Number:
2007927585

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 design: Teresa Bubela
Cover photography: Andreas Kindler / Getty

Orca Book Publishers             Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B             PO Box 468
Victoria, BC Canada              Custer, WA USA
V8r 6S4                    98240-0468

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

010 09 08 07 • 4 3 2 1

For Ron, with love.
KLD

My thanks to those tagged by the moon and ever-deserving of rubies, Shelley Hrdlitschka and Diane Tullson. Thanks also to Tiffany Stark and Jonathan Tweedale for reading the rough cut, and to Melanie Jeffs, Orca Editor, for the fine grit polish.

Within this story are quotes from writers who set their thoughts on clay tablets four thousand years ago. Those writers were Sumerians and many translations of their ancient cuneiform texts can be found on a website hosted by Oxford University in England at:
http://www-etcsl.orient.ox.ac.uk/edition2/etcslbycat.php
. I would also like to point out that the characteristics attributed to the planet Uranus in this story are, for the most part, not derived from the science of astronomy. It is true that Uranus takes eighty-four years to orbit our sun, but the notion that planets influence our lives is found in the realm of astrology. It's interesting to note that during the time of the Sumerian civilization, astronomy and astrology were one.

I'm late getting home. That sucks because I'll be in for it. Mom hates it when I'm late, especially when I don't have a good reason, like now. I was playing street hockey with the guys and didn't notice the time. No big deal, but I'll hear about how thoughtless I am. How worried she was. How at the very least, I should have called.

I slip into the living room and switch on the
TV
. Once in a while, if she's on the
phone or something, I get away with this ploy. If she isn't sure how long I've been parked on the couch she lets it go.

It doesn't look good today. I've barely landed my butt and Mom's there. I pretend deep interest in the tv, which is useless because I'm watching a diaper commercial. I brace myself for the usual, but she says nothing. Instead she drops an envelope onto my lap. It's one of those big yellow envelopes, and my name is scrawled across the front:
Samuel Connor.
Mom stands over me, her lips pressed tight, her arms folded across her chest.

“What's this?” I ask. “Some garbage from school?”

She shakes her head. “Take a look.”

The envelope isn't sealed so whatever it is, I'm betting Mom read it. Judging by the look on her face, she didn't like it. But if it's not a nasty school report, then what else could it be?

Oh, man. Someone must have seen Indi and me doing our thing. They recognized me and reported it to the cops. This
envelope is from the cops. They write letters? Wouldn't they just come and hassle me?

I keep cool, reach inside, draw out a sheet of paper. It doesn't have any official emblems. It just looks like a letter, starting with
Dear Samuel
. Weird. No one writes me letters. I shoot another glance at Mom but she hasn't budged. She's just standing there looking like she's going to burst.

I look down and catch an odd aroma wafting from the sheet of paper. What is that smell? It triggers a hazy memory. The memory wheels around the edge of my mind but refuses to solidify. It circles, and I don't want it to come closer. Maybe I don't want to read this letter.

Dear Samuel,

I want to make it clear from the start, us not knowing each other anymore is my fault—not yours, not your mother's. This is your grandfather, Max Connor, writing to you. The last time I saw you was at your father's funeral. You were
only four years old, just a little guy. Do you remember me? Because before that day, we were pals and we spent a lot of time together.

I believe I owe you an explanation for being absent from your life. You see, I went kind of crazy after your dad's car accident. Your grandmother Connor died too, just six months before your dad, and I figured I had enough of losing the ones I loved. I decided I wasn't going to love anyone ever again. I made myself forget about you and your mom.

I've written your mom too and told her how sorry I am for being such a fool. If you're reading this now it's because your mom is wiser than I ever was. Ten long years have passed and I've finally got to the place where I know I made a very big mistake. I've asked her to allow me another chance to be part of your life.

I want to give you something, Samuel. It's the most valuable thing I have and I never should have kept it from you. If you're willing to forgive me and accept
my gift, please follow the instructions you'll find in the second letter. If you want nothing to do with a thickheaded old man like me, well, I understand.

Your Grandpa Max

The smell coming from the paper is pipe tobacco. Grandpa Max smoked a pipe. Two images explode from the past. The first is Grandpa bending over to scoop me up, swing me round and set me up on his big shoulders. The second is him standing apart from everyone in a graveyard, the pipe clamped in his mouth. I remember how I ran to him, expecting to find his arms reaching down. I caught hold of his leg and he flinched. He shoved me aside, sent me sprawling and marched away. I called after him. He didn't look back.

“Mom?” I say.

“Yes?”

But I don't know what to say next. I want to crumple that letter, shred it, burn it. That jerk—who does he think he is? I lift the paper to my nose and inhale.

“Sam, we need to talk.” Mom perches on the couch beside me. She shoves both hands into her hair and scrubs her head, a sure sign she's thinking hard.

“So you read the letter?” I ask.

She nods. She stops scrubbing but keeps holding her head in her hands. “Do you remember him at all?”

I shrug. “Not much.”

“We haven't talked about him for a long time. You used to ask for them...” Her voice trails into silence.

Memories of my dad are barely more than those flash images of Grandpa. Maybe I only remember Dad because Mom keeps pictures of him around the house.

Mom straightens, draws in a deep breath, exhales. “I don't know if this is a good idea.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well,” she says, “part of me feels sorry for Grandpa Max. But I don't believe we owe him anything. Just thinking about him makes me angry.”

“Why?”

“Because of what he did to you,” she says. “He knew how much you loved him, and there you were, just a small boy, losing both your heroes at once. I was so shocked at how cruel it was.”

Her face is flushed pink and her eyes are shiny. Man I hate it when my mom cries. I tell her, “Don't worry about it. It's history. Who cares?”

“I care!” she says. “It was wrong. You needed him, and he just left you. And now here he is, expecting us to forgive him, like it was nothing.”

“So, why don't we just tell him to go to hell?” I ask.

“Sam!” She stares at me for a long moment. Finally she says, “Because I want to be better than that. And I want you to be better than that.”

I don't know what she's talking about. I don't want to waste time on stuff like this. I get to my feet and say, “I just remembered, Mom. I promised Indi I'd come over.”

“Sam, wait. Maybe we should give him a chance?”

I really want to be out of there so I say, “Sure.” Sometimes, that's the only way to stop her: I just agree.

“Okay,” she murmurs. Then she reaches into the envelope and pulls out another folded sheet of paper. She looks at it, sighs and then slowly stretches out her arm. “Here. Take it.”

I take the paper and stuff it into my pocket. “Catch you later, Mom. I'll be back in time for dinner.”

And I'm gone before she can say anymore. There's no way I want anything to do with the old geezer. But then I remember he said he's got something for me. Maybe I should get it and
then
tell him to go to hell. Why not? Seems fair to me.

Indi's black brows slant down as she scans Grandpa's second letter. The only sound in her kitchen comes from her long fingers tapping a random beat on the tabletop. Finally she shrugs and sits back. “So, are you going or what?”

“I don't know. I want to find out what the old man has for me, but this seems like a stupid game. Why doesn't he just give it to me?”

“I guess because he doesn't want to,” she says. “If it was me, I'd go. What's the big deal? He sends you money and says go to this place and have a burger. Doesn't sound too harsh.”