Stuff We All Get (3 page)

She's barely out of the driveway when I'm out the back door. It's a cold, foggy day, not the sun-and-fun weather I'd expected in Penticton. I'd checked the city out online before we moved here. Every site was all about the swimming, boating and beaches. There was no mention of the winter weather, which is cold, drizzly and dull.

I decide to look on the bright side. I can barely see the stop sign at the end of our street, but at least I'm out of the house and moving. I pedal as fast as the limited visibility allows, keeping my hands ready to grab the brakes. The pace and the feel of the cd in my pocket warm me, inside and out. I brought the cd along so I could match the handwriting, but having it with me feels like having a bit of
her
with me too.

Half an hour later I reach the road heading to the viewpoint. I see a trail veering off along the hillside and wonder if it's the same one the cache is on. It could be a shortcut, but I'm not sure. I decide not to risk it. I don't like being on the road, since Mom could cruise by—but what are the chances? And the fog might make it hard for me to see, but it's doing the same to everyone. I'm good.

And I am good. Another fifteen minutes of hard uphill pedaling, and I'm in the parking lot. There's no view of the lake today, but I'm not here for that. Minutes later I'm closing in on the cache. The straight trunks of the pine trees are spooky in the fog. Some are almost like the silhouettes of people. The only sound is my tires, crunching on the gravel path. When I get to the spot where I think the stump should be, I stop and look around. I can hear another sound now: steady dripping. The fog has condensed into water drops that fall from the pines like rain.

I get off my bike and stand there, straining to see the stump, uncertain about leaving the trail. It might be tough to find my way back. Then, like it was meant to be, a gust of wind parts the fog. And there's the stump. I bolt for it, and seconds later I've got the cache box in my hands. I pry open the lid, grab the logbook and start reading. The last entry in the book is Mom's, noting the date and our first names. I scan back from there.

The cache has been found quite a few times, mostly by families. They write about how they're having a great vacation and where they're from. Other entries are only a date and initials. I go all the way back to the first entry, written last April. This shows that the Wandering Woods family started the cache, and that's it. Nothing special catches my eye.

I comb through the logbook again, more slowly. This time I zero in on an entry from last October. It's the single letter
F
. It looks familiar. I pull out the cd, and sure enough, the
F
in
Famous
is identical. All right! But my moment of elation is short. So what if that's her initial? I still don't know her name. And if she cached the cd last October, she could be long gone.

I toss the logbook back into the box and snap the lid shut. I put the box back in the stump and cover it with the chunk of wood. What a waste of time. I turn to go to the trail and don't see it. Great. I get to be lost now too? My stomach rumbles. I'm lost
and
hungry.

I know the trail is downhill from where I am. I look at the dead grass at my feet and can see some stalks that are trampled. It's all in the details. I follow the path of trampled grass, and my feet find the trail again.

I peer through the fog, back the way I came, then peer the other way. It makes sense that the trail would lead down to the road by the lake. I decide to take the trail down the hill. It's bound to be a faster way back.

It isn't. For starters, I can't ride. It's not only that the trail is narrow and steep. It's also that I can't see more than two feet ahead of me. If I don't keep my eyes glued to the ground, I risk losing the path altogether. When I do look up, my eyes strain to penetrate the silent wall of white. The fog coats my eyeballs. They sting, and the water and the cold make my nose run. I'm dripping like the trees. If this fog were music, what would it be? I've never heard music that looks like this.

When I come to a fork in the trail, I consider turning back. But that means dragging my bike uphill, and it feels like failure. I stand there thinking I should have brought the gps. I decide that since the path to the left
seems
to go down, I should take it.

And then a sound comes out of the fog. It is so strange and piercing, all thought ceases. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and midnight blue ripples around me. I feel a million miles from anywhere and anyone, utterly alone. The sound repeats, and my brain comes back online. I realize the eerie, fluting call is made by a loon. I only know the sound from tv, but it's unmistakable. It's one of the musical bird calls that give me color. The loon calls again, and the midnight blue is a relief after the no-color of fog. I tilt my head, trying to pinpoint the loon's location. It must be close by. And it must be on the lake.

The calls stop as suddenly as they started, but they've guided me to go to the right. The trail is steeper and rougher than ever, and it's hard to hold on to my bouncing, bucking bike. But within minutes I've found the road. I'm so relieved I shout, “Yes!”

My voice sounds unnaturally loud, almost as startling as the loon. A glance at my watch shows I've been gone three hours. I'm going to have to hurry to make it home before Mom stops in on her dinner break.

I do make it. I throw my wet clothes in the wash and park my butt on the couch mere seconds before she comes through the door.

“What a day,” she says.

“Bad?” I ask.

“One fender bender after another. It's this fog.” She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “I've only got time for a quick bite. Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Want to help me heat up some leftovers?” she asks.

“Sure.” And that's it. We heat up meatloaf and vegetables, scarf it down, and then she's gone again. When I watch her leave, I notice my sopping sneakers by the back door. Mom didn't catch that evidence of my jailbreak. After I stick the shoes on a heat vent, I'm out of things to do.

TV
? No. Video game? No. My girl's
CD
? Yeah.

I sit back with my eyes closed, watching her colors go by. Then I grab my guitar and strum along with her, watching our colors merge. They don't harmonize as well as I'd like. I'm not sure if it's because she's so much better, or because I'm trying too hard. But what if we could play together? In person. Wow. That would be epic.

I have to find her. But how? All I know is her name starts with the letter
F
. It would help if I knew what she looked like. I'll bet she's got red hair. Not carrot red, but that dark brown red. Auburn. Yeah, she's got auburn hair. I've seen that color in the music. And her hair is long and wavy. No, maybe short and spiky. Not short and spiky. It's long, for sure. But maybe it's black? It could be black. Whatever it is, it's thick and soft.

Her skin is perfect. Smooth and light brown. I'm not sure if it's light brown because she's tanned or because it just is. And her body? It's perfect too. She's tall, but not as tall as me. And she's slender, but not skinny. When I get close to her she smells like…

Jeez. No way does she smell like barf. I get off the couch and take my sneakers off the vent. That pretty much ruined my fantasy. It's time to get back to the facts.

Famous
. Could that mean she
is
famous? I doubt it. I'd recognize most famous voices, at least if they're current. I spend the next few hours listening to female indie singers online. My search isn't methodical. I listen to almost a hundred singers, and none of them are her. A few have a similar sound, but they don't sing the cd songs. And none of them have names that start with
F
.

Chapter Six

After dinner on Friday, Mom says, “You've done your time, Zack. You're free to go.”

It takes about three seconds for the words to sink in. When they do, I don't wait around to hear more. I grab my jacket and yell, “See ya,” as I dive out the back door.

She follows me and yells, “Not so fast, mister. Where are you going?”

I have to think about that. Where am I going? “Maybe I'll take a bike ride.” I detour toward the garage.

“I want you home by ten. Do you have your cell phone? Are your lights working?”

I don't answer until I'm outside with the bike, helmet on. I flick on the bike lights and wave my cell phone in the air. “See? It's all good.”

I'm gone before she can ask me more questions.

I ride like a demon for the first twenty minutes. I don't have a destination in mind. I just go. When I finally slow down, I am at the far end of Main Street, close to the waterfront. Penticton sits between Skaha and the much larger Okanagan Lake. We live near Skaha. Okanagan Lake is where most of the stores are—and the people.

I'm looking for
her
. That seems crazy, even to me. But part of me believes that if I see her, I'll know. Some vibe will connect us. I get off my bike and push it along the sidewalk. It may be downtown on a Friday night, but the place is dead. The tourists aren't around in February, and that equals not much happening. Only a few restaurants are open.

Still, I need to look. I come across a music store and stop to stare in the window. There are some sweet guitars on display. I'll bet this is where she got her guitar. A flyer taped to the door catches my eye. It's advertising guitar lessons. Huh. Maybe I should take some. What if
she's
the instructor? I study the sheet of paper to see if there is a name, but there isn't. Still, it could be a lead worth checking. Then an awful thought occurs to me. What if she
is
the instructor and she's ten years older than me?

No way. That voice, it belongs to a girl around my age. I know it. This is like one of those hunches Mom talks about. She doesn't ignore them. She says you gotta go with your gut instincts. I'm going with my gut.

Another flyer advertises a gig featuring local musicians. It doesn't list all the performers, but the show is tomorrow night at the community center. Finally, a break. I am so going.

I hop on my bike and cruise down to the waterfront. I've still got a couple of hours before I have to be home. I pedal slowly, feeling more relaxed than I have in days. It's good to be outside. I notice a group of kids up the street and wonder if I know them. Probably not. But then one of the girls looks my way, and I recognize Charo.

She calls out, “Zack? Hey!”

I don't want to hear about my butt, so I crank my wheel to the right and pedal hard. I don't pay attention to where I'm going until I realize I've driven into a parking lot. When I stop to look around, I hear music.

It's not any music. It's the guitar melody of
her
traveling song. It's coming from the building in front of me. I'm almost at the door when I notice the sign:
Slick Sal's Neighborhood Pub.

A pub? She's playing in a pub? I crane my neck to see inside, but the main door opens into a dark foyer. Should I go in? I could try. What's the big deal? I might be underage, but it's not like I'm going to try buying beer. I lean my bike against the wall, take a deep breath and go for it. I've made it to the doorway when the singing starts.

It's not her.

Some guy is singing
her
song.

Before I can wrap my head around that, a couple of people come up behind me.

“You mind letting us by, kid?” a guy asks.

“What?” I stammer.

He looks me over and shakes his head. “You haven't got a chance.”

“Huh?” At first I think he means I haven't got a chance with
her
, but then I get it. “I was just listening to the music.”

“Sure,” he laughs. The woman beside him raises her eyebrows.

“Seriously,” I say. “I know that song and I…Uh, would you mind doing me a favor?”

“I'm not booting for you,” the guy says.

“No. That's not it. Could you ask that musician to come out here? Tell him I need to talk to him.”

The guy squints at me and shakes his head again. “Look kid, I'm not a messenger boy. Take off.” He brushes past me, the jerk.

But the woman pauses. “It looks like this is important. I'll ask one of the servers to pass along your message.”

“Really? Thanks!”

“No promises. And if I were you,” she adds, “I'd stay clear of the door. You don't want someone calling the cops.”

I slink into the shadows alongside the building and wait.

Chapter Seven

I wait for over an hour, listening to the singer. He doesn't play any more of
her
songs, which is good—and not good. I don't think it's right for someone else to do her music, but I'd rather hear more of her stuff than his. The colors are different with him, deeper in tone, and duller too. The dullness is likely because the sound is muffled. But if he played her tunes, I'll bet the colors would be brighter, more vivid. I think about that to distract me from the fact that I'm getting cold and hungry. I'm ready to give up when the music stops.

Every muscle in my body tenses as I hear him say, “That's it for this set, folks. Time for me to take a break.” There's a smattering of applause before the clatter of dishes and the murmur of voices take over.

Will he come out? I lurk around the corner from the door and watch. Some people do come out, including the couple I talked to earlier. They head straight for their car. I'm wondering if I should run after them to ask about my message when I hear something behind me. I turn and see a side door opening. Light spills into the parking lot, and a guy steps outside.

He looks the other way, then swings his head back and stares straight at me. He doesn't say anything.

“Hey,” I croak. I clear my throat and step toward him. He's older than me, maybe around twenty or so, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. “Um,” I manage. “Are you the performer?”