The Hidden Agenda of Sigrid Sugden Read online

  Old Danny Grimsby limps past; he was a fisherman, who took to the booze after his only son drowned off Knucklebones years ago. Right now, he’s in no rush, not like he would be if Prinny was lost at sea.

  A few minutes later, Hud Quinn bikes down the road, his knees sticking out because he needs a bigger bicycle. He’s in grade eight, and he’s Tate’s rival for bully-in-chief along our section of the shore, although he never bullies girls. His favorite target is Travis Keating.

  Hud isn’t in a hurry, either.

  At six-thirty, my brother Lorne’s souped-up Honda roars into our driveway. Lorne slams the car door, slams the front door, and grins at me. “Hey.”

  “Anything new?” I say, real casual.

  “In this dump?” he says cheerfully. “Nah…d’you need the bathroom?”

  Hope spears my chest. Seems like Prinny might, just might, be okay. If she was stuck on one of the reefs, Danny, Hud, and Lorne would know about it. Only one thing travels faster than a nor’easter along our shore, and that’s gossip.

  “Bathroom, Sigrid?” Lorne repeats. “Do you need it? Big date.”

  “All your dates are big.”

  “Girls go for me,” he says. “I should complain?”

  Lorne’s nineteen, tall, with broad shoulders because he works out at the gym, and—you know that phrase, happy-go-lucky? That’s Lorne. Hardly ever buys a lottery ticket but he wins something. Lands a job as a mechanic at the garage in St. Fabien first time he applies. Smiles at a pretty girl and she smiles back.

  “So who is it tonight?” I say.

  “Sally Parsons. It’s been her for the last three weeks.”

  I roll my eyes. “A new record. Don’t leave your wet towels all over the floor.” He gives my hair a playful tug, shucks his jacket onto the couch, and kicks off his work boots where they’re guaranteed to trip the next person who comes along. His bedroom door slams.

  Twenty minutes later he leaves, whistling, his hair in damp curls for Sally Parsons to run her fingers through.

  I stand at the window, watching him drive away. I wish I could phone someone like Travis, or Laice Hadden, and find out for sure that Prinny’s okay. But Travis and Laice don’t like me because I’m a Shrike.

  With a sigh, I turn around. Dust bunnies are gathered in little flocks on the living-room floor. I could sweep. Or I could wash the dishes. I don’t feel like doing either one.

  Back when my friend Hanna still lived in Fiddlers Cove, on a Friday night with summer just around the corner we’d have been together, at my place or hers. We’d have the radio on—disco, bluegrass, heavy metal, country, didn’t matter—and we’d be dancing up a storm, just the two of us.

  Her mother, who was real nice, taught us how to move to Flashdance, how to jive and do the hip-hop.

  I gave up dancing when Hanna left.

  Seal arrives home at nine-thirty. He doesn’t tell me where he’s been all day. Ruffling my hair, his blue eyes smiling, he says, “I have tomorrow off, too, because of those extra shifts last week. Think the liquor store can manage without me for two days?”

  My own smile feels stiff. “Any news worth hearing?”

  “Same old, same old.”

  I swear every muscle in my body goes slack, I’m that relieved. “What are you up to tomorrow?”

  “Meeting my buddies at Tim Hortons.” Where, like usual, they’ll ignore the twenty-minute rule and stretch their double-doubles over a good two hours.

  “We need to do groceries.”

  “You make the list and I’ll call you before I leave Tim’s.”

  Tim Hortons, FoodMart, the mall, and the liquor store are all in St. Fabien, the only town of any size in our area.

  I give Seal a hug, go to bed, and sleep okay because Prinny’s safe.

  At quarter to nine the next morning, someone knocks on the front door.

  It’s a solid front door, not the kind with glass so you can peek at who’s there. I open it. Prinny Murphy is standing on the path, holding her bike. My knees go so weak that I sag against the door frame.

  She says, “Thank you for phoning my place last night.”

  She doesn’t sound friendly and she doesn’t sound grateful.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Mel doesn’t have the smarts to know I was in trouble, and Tate wouldn’t care if I ended up on the rocks. Had to be you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Besides, you know about boats and the tides.”

  My tongue fumbles with the words. “Did you make it back on your own?”

  “Da came out in his speedboat, towed me back to the wharf.”

  “You gonna tell Tate I called?”

  Her eyes are as cool as rainwater. “No.”

  The weight of every rock in Newfoundland slides off my shoulders. “Thanks.”

  “I was being washed out of the cove when Da found me. He doesn’t get mad often, but when he does, watch out.”

  I’ve seen Prinny’s father lots of times. Slow-moving in his overalls and white t-shirt, with an easy smile. A good man to haul traps with, according to the fishermen, who aren’t known for doling out praise.

  “What do you mean?” I say. “What will he do?”

  Neatly, Prinny turns her bike around and marches down the path to the road, her shiny ponytail swinging from side to side. I take two steps after her, then stop. She didn’t answer on purpose. Wants me to suffer.

  I think of her rowing through the fog, the black swell, the growl of waves breaking on the rocks…

  She rides away, not a backward look. Dandelions sprouting all over our lawn like the happy faces you can insert in your emails if you’re in a happy-face mood.

  I go back inside. Every now and then I’ve imagined Prinny knocking on my front door and asking me if I’d like to be her friend.

  Like that’ll happen.

  Will her father come after me? Will he tell Seal and my mother? Seal doesn’t know I’m a Shrike, one of three bullies who specialize in extortion. It’s not something you advertise.

  He’d be horrified. Worse than horrified. Lorne wouldn’t think much of it, either.

  I go into my room and sit on my bed, hunched over, my nerves in an uproar. I wait for them to settle. I wait for Prinny’s father to pound on the front door or the cops to come and arrest me. When the phone shrills, I jump halfway to the ceiling.

  Very slowly I walk to the kitchen, counting the rings.

  Call Display shows Seal’s cell. I snatch up the receiver before it goes to voice mail.

  “I’m ready to leave Tim Hortons,” he says. “I just talked to your mother. She’s gone for the weekend, back on Monday morning.”

  What do you want me to say? That I’ll miss her?

  He sighs. “Have you made a grocery list?”

  “By the time you get here, I’ll have it ready.”

  Quickly, I check the cupboards and the fridge, pencil in hand. Hard to make a list when you never know who’ll be home. Harder still when every little sound sets your nerves flapping in your gut like trapped ravens.

  When Seal pulls into the driveway, I run outdoors. He leans over and unlatches the passenger door, pushing it partway open. He’s nice that way. Treats me like I deserve his good manners and his friendly smile. There’s times I wonder if he’s trying to make up for my mother, but mostly I don’t believe that. He’s just a decent guy, with rusty-red hair and the bluest eyes of anyone the length of the shore. I smile back, and for a minute the thought of Prinny’s angry father doesn’t seem so desperate.

  FoodMart is busy, so it takes us a while to go through the list. Then we head home. As we’re lugging the bags in, he says, awkward for him, “Guess I won’t be home for supper, Sigrid. You be okay?”

  “Sure.” He’s busy lifting a big box of corn flakes out of the bag. “You weren’t home last night, either.”

  He vanishes into the pantry. “I should be home tomorrow.”

  Should be isn’t the same as will be. “You playing poker
tonight?”

  He stashes pizza in the freezer compartment. “Not tonight.”

  So don’t tell me what you’re up to. See if I care.

  Some days it’s like everyone’s got a life but me. And don’t I hate it when I whine.

  Four

  to summon

  The weekend crawls by. Not a sign of Prinny’s father. Most people, when they’re angry, act on it right away. So you’d think I’d relax as hour by hour passes and nothing happens.

  You’d think wrong.

  I bicycle to Gulley Cove on Sunday for something to do and because I know I won’t run into Tate—she’s never allowed out on Sundays. Too busy being part of the Brotherhood. The one time I asked her where the Sisterhood was located, she nearly crawled down my throat.

  There used to be a bunch of feral cats at Gulley Cove until Travis rescued them. He found homes for most of them, although one or two still live in Abe Murphy’s barn just up the road. Travis is another decent guy, and cute besides.

  I have the cove to myself. I’m not much for the outdoors, but it’s peaceful here, waves wallowing on the rocks, the boards of the staging warm in the sun. I almost forget that I’m a Shrike who’s all stressed out about Prinny’s da.

  The day I first heard that name, Shrike, I Googled it. Guess what? A shrike is a bird that shoves its prey, which you truly hope is dead, onto a sharp thorn and leaves it there until dinnertime. Sort of like our pantry. Isn’t that enough to put anyone off the great outdoors?

  Seal doesn’t come home for supper. Lorne does. Sally’s working, he says, and parks himself in front of our old TV with a plate of spaghetti on his lap. Although he slurps up the long, slippery strands with maximum noise, for once that doesn’t irritate me. I’m just glad of the company.

  Funny thing about Lorne—he doesn’t get riled up about our mother, not like I do. And him and Seal were best buddies from the get-go.

  Finally it’s time for bed.

  I lie flat on my back in the dark, listening to the mutter of voices from whatever show he’s watching. Nothing’s going to happen tomorrow. Prinny is safe, her father’s over his mad, and if Prinny said she won’t rat on me to Tate, she won’t.

  Quit being a wuss, that’s what I tell myself.

  While Tate and me are waiting for the school bus, Cole and Buck bat a beat-up tennis ball back and forth with their hockey sticks. Tate inserts her earrings—ugly metal chains—and loops more chains from her belt. Then she slicks red lip gloss on her mouth and piles mascara on her lashes. One day when she was in a good mood, she told me that all of them are against the rules of the Brotherhood.

  She’s not even allowed to own a bicycle. She rides tandem with Mel.

  Admiring her reflection in her little mirror, she says, “My cousin Melissa, the one who lives in Ratchet, saw Prinny on the weekend—none the worse for her little boat trip. We’ll up the pressure on her today. At recess.”

  “We should lay off Prinny Murphy!”

  “When I wants your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

  “You’re the brains of our little group, Tate. We’re just lucky Prinny didn’t end up on the rocks.”

  “Back off or I’ll sic Mel on you!”

  “Here comes the bus,” I say.

  Mel can’t touch me on the bus because Mr. Murphy, our driver—he’s another of the Murphys from Ratchet—is death on bullying. He might have gray hair, but he could pick up any kid on the bus in one hand and every kid on the bus knows it. Even Hud, who rarely misses a chance to bully Travis, never kicks or punches him on the bus.

  At school, I run for the main door. The other kids give me a wide berth, like usual.

  Tate and Mel disappear into the girls’ washroom to collect Vi’s twenty dollars. I go straight to my desk in our homeroom. I’m safe here. Mrs. Dooks, our teacher, is a pro at keeping everyone in line.

  Safe doesn’t last very long.

  At 9:30 an announcement comes over the loudspeaker from the school secretary, her voice crackling into the room. “Prinny Murphy, Tate Cody, Mel Corkum, and Sigrid Sugden: please come to the principal’s office immediately. Thank you.”

  I sit there, frozen as a High Liner cod fillet. Prinny’s father. He held onto his mad until this morning.

  When Tate finds out I phoned him, she’ll kill me.

  With the all-too-willing help of Mel.

  Mrs. Dooks says, “Hurry up, Sigrid! All of you, right back to class afterwards. We’ll be reviewing for exams.”

  I stumble to my feet. Prinny’s already halfway down the corridor, Tate hot on her heels, Mel thumping along behind them. I’m the last one to walk past the secretary with her crystal earrings and fuzzy mauve sweater.

  In the principal’s office, Prinny’s father is standing with his back to the wall so he can see who comes through the door. Mr. MacInney, bald as a plucked chicken, is seated behind his desk. His eyes look like they’ve seen everything there is to see and he could do without most of it.

  We all sit down. Black metal chair, cold through my jeans. I wrap my fingers around the edges, hold on tight like I’m the one in a dory with the tide on the turn.

  Mr. MacInney says, “It has come to my attention that you three girls are responsible for what all too easily could have been a tragedy. On Friday afternoon, Prinny went to the wharf in Fiddlers Cove to speak to her father. Unfortunately, he had already left for home. He’s here today to lay a complaint that you terrorized his daughter that afternoon. Although she managed to escape in a dory, she was nearly swept out to sea. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  Silence thicker than fog. Then Tate says, “If Prinny was stupid enough to go rowing in the cove, that’s her problem.”

  “Do you admit you were on the wharf in Fiddlers Cove on Friday afternoon?”

  “I don’t admit nuthin’.”

  “Anything,” he says. “Mel?”

  Mel frowns at Tate. “We was on the wharf Friday. Last day of the week—that’s how come I remember.”

  Tate shoots her a vicious look.

  “So you were on the wharf, Tate,” Mr. MacInney says, making a note on his pad.

  “Is that a crime?”

  “Failure to admit the truth,” he says, writing away. “Were you bullying Prinny?”

  “We was minding our own business.” She sneers at him. “Anyways, what’s the big deal—she’s sitting right here in this room, ain’t she?”

  Mr. MacInney skewers her with the stare that shows why he’s been voted Principal of the Year for five years in a row. “Luckily for all concerned, Prinny’s father went back to the wharf. He had to go out in his speedboat to rescue his daughter. This is a very serious matter, Tate.”

  Her eyes drop first. Mr. MacInney turns the stare on me. “Sigrid? What about you?”

  My brain’s in a scramble. Didn’t Prinny’s da tell him about the phone call? “I got nothing to say.”

  “I’ve heard rumors about you three, “Mr. MacInney says, “but no one’s ever been willing to give me concrete details. So I’ve had to ignore the rumors for lack of evidence. Prinny wouldn’t under any circumstances other than extreme threat have left the wharf in a dory in thick fog with the tide going out—she’s too experienced on the water. I want to know which of you was the ringleader.”

  “Ringleader?” Mel says with a baffled frown, spreading her fingers as though they’re circled with gold.

  “Whose idea was it to chase Prinny into the dory?”

  “She’s the one climbed in the dory. It was her idea,” Mel says triumphantly.

  “Shut up,” Tate says.

  “I see,” Mr. MacInney says. “Sigrid? Do you have anything to add?”

  I shake my head.

  “Very well. Prinny’s father has asked to meet with your parents in my office this evening, and I’ve placed the calls. The secretary will escort you back to class, and you’re to stay inside at recess and lunch hour, where you’ll be supervised at all times.”

  Prinny’s da hasn’t sa
id one word. But the way he’s standing against the wall—no little metal chair for him—solid as the wharf, that’s how he looks, and just as unmoveable. We file out and march in a straight line down the corridor, the secretary’s high heels rapping on the tiles.

  Mr. MacInney and Prinny’s da—they’re saving the phone call for tonight. I feel like I might throw up.

  Back in class, Mrs. Dooks says, “Page 126. Open your book, Sigrid. What are the two main metaphors in the poem?”

  The words jiggle on the page. “Um. The rising sun as hope?”

  “And the second one?” she says impatiently.

  “The mist over the lake. Despair.”

  Maybe there’s a point to poetry after all.

  We’re supervised at recess by Mr. Marsden, who’s obviously been told to keep his eye on us, and at lunch hour by Mrs. Dooks, who’s not too happy to have an added chore foisted on her. When it’s time to catch the bus, I dawdle through the thinning crowd of kids, and sneak to the bus from the back end, hoping Tate and Mel are already on board.

  DO NOT PASS WHEN RED LIGHTS FLASHING.

  I edge around the back fender. Tate’s flattened against the rear wheel, where Mr. Murphy can’t see her. My heart slaps my ribs. I turn to run, but Mel comes from nowhere—she can move real fast when she’s got a kid in her sights. Her fingers circle my arm, nearly hoisting me off my feet.

  Tate smiles. Mel yanks my arm behind my back and pulls up. Simplest move in the book. Most painful for the effort it takes. I haven’t been a Shrike for nothing.

  I can’t help it, I whimper.

  “Ringleader,” Tate says. “We all know Mel’s not ringleader material. So that leaves you and me, Sigrid. Tonight you’ll tell ’em it was your idea to chase Prinny into the dory.”

  Right. I chase Prinny into the dory then I call her father to come and rescue her out of the dory.

  Tate says, her eyes narrowing, “Another little tug there, Mel.”