Trail of Secrets (5 page)

“Wow, Ambie,” I said. “Don't you think you should tell your mom about this?”

Ambie looked down and picked at a broken nail. “I knew you'd say that. I wanted to tell her, but any mention of my dad always sends her over the deep end. Marty asked me not to say anything for a bit, so we wouldn't upset her.”

Marty
. “I don't know, Ambie. This doesn't feel right.”

Ambie shrugged, but when she looked at me, her eyes were determined. “He's my father, Jen. My
real
father. I
owe it to him to see if a relationship is possible. I know Mom would forbid it, but I'll be sixteen in January. Then she'll have to let me do what I want. This way, I just save her from worrying.”

“But Ambie, you don't know anything about him,” I said. “Maybe he's not . . . trustworthy. Your mom must have a reason for not wanting you to see him.”

“Well, if your mom had her way, you and Leslie wouldn't have anything to do with
your
dad. Parents aren't always the best judge of what should happen in our lives, especially when they get divorced.”

I had to admit, Ambie had a point. I knew she'd always wanted to know about her biological father. She'd spent a lot of time over the years wondering who and where he was, so finding him must have been like a dream come true. “So, where's he been all this time?” I asked, relenting. I didn't want to alienate Ambie, who could close up like a clam when she wanted to.

“Hong Kong.” Ambie's voice lightened. “He never remarried, so he hasn't any other kids, but he says he's living with a Japanese woman named Suki. He met her when he was travelling.”

The phone on the desk rang, and Ambie picked it up. “Jen? Yeah, she's right here.” She put her hand over the receiver and passed it to me. “Your dad,” she mouthed.

“Hi, Dad,” I said. “Sure, I'll pick something up on my way home. Okay. See you in a bit.” I handed the receiver back to Ambie and stood up. “Dad says Uncle Phil and his new lady friend are coming over for a barbecue, so I have to pick up some salad stuff. Do you want to come
for dinner?” It would be a chance to ask more questions and make sure she wasn't going to do anything reckless.

“No, but thanks. I have some math homework to do,” Ambie said, standing too and opening her bedroom door. “I'll meet you at school tomorrow morning in our usual spot.”

“I'll remember to set my alarm.”

“Always a good idea,” said Ambie, punching me lightly on the arm.

I followed her down the hall to the front door, walking past her mom, who was ironing in the living room and watching an afternoon soap opera. “How was your first day back?” Mrs. Guido asked. Her eyes crinkled up as she smiled at me.

I was having trouble reconciling Ambie's kind, plump mother with streaks of grey in her hair as the one who'd left her husband under dicey circumstances. “It was okay,” I said. “I'm not too far behind . . . yet.”

“Keep up the good work, dear.” Mrs. Guido's eyes tracked back to the two people locked in a passionate embrace on the screen.

I stepped towards the open door, which Ambie had swung open. “See you tomorrow,” she said, her eyes fixed on mine. “And remember, Jen. Not one word . . .”

I knew that I should have learned my lesson a few times over about keeping secrets. It's not like I hadn't come close to disaster a few times because I'd tried to handle
problems by myself. But there was no way I'd ever share Ambie's secret because that would have hurt our friendship in a way that it might never recover from. I convinced myself that maybe Ambie's dad was a good guy after all, and Ambie's mom had reacted out of the craziness parents often let take over when they're mad at each other. I should know. My parents had put in enough crazy hours to give lessons. Besides, now that I knew Ambie was in touch with her real dad, I could keep an eye on her and head off any bad decisions—or so I wanted to believe.

Before I knew it, it was Friday morning, and I'd made it through the first week without forgetting any homework or being late for class. That was probably because my social life—the same one I'd promised myself would be healthy and full—had dropped off the radar screen. Dad was working long hours in the shop, and sometimes wasn't even home when I went to bed. I kept myself busy reading
The Sun Also Rises
for English class. I'd never read Hemingway before and didn't think I'd like this book, especially since the cover put me off. I was surprised though how much I got into his writing style and how he could show so much emotion in a few words. I made notes as I read it through the second time and actually had an outline going for my first essay, which was worth forty percent of my final mark and not due until the week before Thanksgiving. Maybe I related to the book so much because I felt at one with Jake's tormented love. Pete
had e-mailed me a second time with a promise to call, but that had never happened, so I was feeling down about him and my life in general. Even Leslie hadn't bothered to phone me as she always did when we were apart.

I plunked myself down in my usual seat a whole ten minutes before Mr. Williams was due in class. The effort to be on time was costing me, and I closed my eyes, trying to catch a few more minutes of sleep. I'd almost zoned out the noise around me when I heard a voice I didn't recognize. Opening my eyes, I watched the new boy slide into the desk across the aisle from me. He was talking to Toby Manning, self-professed class clown. Because the new boy hadn't been to class since Tuesday, I'd figured he'd switched out of biology and English. I couldn't say that I would have blamed him. Mr. Williams and Mrs. Bailey were two of the tougher teachers Morton T. High insisted on keeping on staff. My other nemesis, Miss Dragot, had transferred schools the year before, but Williams and Bailey were expanding their reigns of terror to fill the vacuum she'd left behind.

Mrs. Bailey'd been around since they'd first invented feather pens and parchment. She remembered teaching Dad and Uncle Phil English years before, and not fondly. “So, you're one of those
Bannons
,” she'd said when we'd first met, spitting out our last name like a bad seed. My summer prayer had been for her retirement, but my luck with wishes seemed to be following the usual pattern.

“No can do. I didn't get around to taking any notes,”
Toby said, grinning, his dimples the size of small craters. “I'm Toby Manning, by the way.”

“I'm Evan Quinn,” I heard New Boy say. “We just moved here from the States.”

“Cool,” Toby said. “I don't remember seeing you after Monday. Were you getting settled in?”

“Something like that,” Evan said just as Mr. Williams banged his books on the desk so we'd stop talking. As usual, the crack of books on wood worked its magic, and all eyes turned to the front of the room.

After an hour of note-taking, Mr. Williams set us free. I was cramming my binder and biology textbook into my knapsack when Evan stood and moved into the aisle between our two desks. He looked thinner than I'd remembered, and his face was pale, like someone who's recovering from an illness. He held out the pen I'd lent him the first day of class. “Thanks for the loan,” he said. “My name's Evan.”

“Glad to be of help,” I smiled. “My name's Jennifer. Would you like to borrow my notes too? You must be the first person in the history of education ever to ask Toby Manning for his. Directions to a party, yes. Notes, no.”

Evan's eyes sparkled. “It's lucky then that I've found somebody conscientious. You look extremely organized.”

I opened my binder and snapped open the rings. “Here.” I handed him some sheets. “This is a day for firsts. I've never been called organized before either.”

We started towards the door. “Where do you go next?” I asked.

“Geography with Mr. Collins.”

“Good luck,” I said. “He's the reason I'm taking French. One year of Collins was enough.”

“I'll give him your regards,” Evan said. “See you in English.”

“Okay,” I said. “See you then.” I dropped my eraser and stopped to pick it up. Cindy, who'd been following close behind, stumbled against me. I turned to face her.

“So?” she giggled. “What's the verdict?”

“On the new boy?”

Cindy nodded her head vigorously.

“He's . . . he seems nice. I can't say I know that much about him.”

Cindy started walking with me down the hall. “I heard he's weird. Danny Gibbons tried to ask him some questions, and New Boy . . .”

“Evan,” I filled in.

“Yeah, well, Evan acted all mysterious and wouldn't tell him anything except that his family moved around a lot. Danny said that it sounded like they were on the run.”

“Seriously?”
I asked. “I heard Evan tell Toby Manning that they moved here from the States.”

“There you go,” said Cindy. “He told Danny they moved here from out west. He's lying to somebody.”

“Maybe he's from the western States,” I suggested.

Cindy shook her head. “He said Edmonton. He also told Danny he wouldn't be trying out for any teams because his family might move again soon.”

“That doesn't mean he's weird,” I said. “His parents could have jobs that have them moving around a lot.”

“Or they're keeping one step ahead of the law,” Cindy said. “Something is off about him, that's for sure. Danny
said that Evan started acting spacey before lunch the other day and disappeared for a long time. He showed up halfway through geography class.”

“Did he get into trouble?”

“Mr. Collins didn't even notice. He was telling one of his long-winded stories about backpacking through the Andes when he was in university. I wish he'd take some new trips so he'd have something to talk about from this century.”

We entered the French classroom, and I headed for my customary seat in the back. Cindy's suspicions were a little odd, even for Springhills, but I wasn't going to believe anything about Evan and his family until I had proof. I knew from past experience that truth had a way of being repackaged in the town's hardworking rumour mill.

Ambie and I were back in her bedroom sipping on ice-cold glasses of lemonade while polishing off a plate of homemade molasses cookies that Mrs. Guido had been taking out of the oven when we arrived. The warm ginger-and-cinnamon aroma of fresh-baked cookies was a smell I'd come to link with Ambie's house on Friday afternoons during the school year. Mrs. Guido's cookies, along with a replay of the school week in Ambie's bedroom, was a tradition we'd started way back in kindergarten and one we were reluctant to let go of. I sighed happily and reached over to put my empty plate on Ambie's desk.

“Your mom's outdone herself,” I said. “Those have to be the best molasses cookies ever. I think she's switched brands of molasses.”

Ambie chewed and swallowed. “She told me to tell you if you come over this Sunday morning, she'll give you some pointers on how to bake bread, that is, if you're still interested.”