He shrugs. “What’s with the weird cave at your place? The one down by the stream?”
“Been snooping, eh?” I try on a stern tone. “It’s called the grotto — it’s a fake cave. My dad and I made it from stones and concrete when I was about your age. It’s not weird; it’s amazing.”
“Amazing how?”
“I’ll show you.”
Ten minutes later, we enter the damp, musty space. The size of a family tent, it resembles a concrete dome that someone inside punched his fist into a hundred times.
“Got lots of dents — er, cubbyholes,” Dean says, poking his fingers into some of the cavities in the walls.
“And half of them have a stone in them, all different sizes.”
“But what’s this cave for?”
“A cool place to hang out, make out, hear your voice echo, and avoid homework. And hide things.” I pass my hand over the wall. The rocks in the holes are like ornaments you can rearrange endlessly. “Move the rocks around, and the cave looks different every time. And the hiding spaces change.”
“Hiding spaces for what?”
“Easter eggs at Easter time. The marshmallow bunny was always behind the largest rock. Candies at Halloween. The chocolate witch was always behind the largest rock. Little presents at Christmas time. The best one was —”
“— always behind the biggest rock.”
“You got it,” I say.
He moves about the cave, eyes alight, till he spots the largest stone. It rumbles as he rolls it aside. He turns to me accusingly. “Nothing there.”
“Nothing,” I agree gloomily. Dad’s not around to do it anymore.
Dean rubs his stomach. “Got any food?”
“At home. But you’d have to do some chores for me if you want any.” I like how fast I think that up.
“Can you give me a ride to school, too?”
I cross my arms and pretend to consider that a while before I wink. “Lucky for you, my uncle is coming around to pick up my mom this morning. I guess we can stuff you in.” Better than having his moody sister show up at our house, if she has any idea where he is. “Come on.”
• • •
Dean has fed the chickens, stacked firewood, and polished off three toaster waffles smothered in maple syrup by the time Mom’s soft footfalls sound on the stairs. I always feel good seeing her dressed and downstairs, even if it’s only for doctor appointments.
“Well, who do we have here?” she asks, all friendly, lifting that numb face of hers and speaking so slowly it almost sounds slurred.
“Dean,” I say. “An escaped convict from a nearby prison.” I pause for effect. “Kidding. Friend from school.”
“Hello, Dean. Did you stay here overnight?”
My attempt at humour has floated right over her, as usual. And she doesn’t even seem worried I might have asked someone to stay overnight without her permission. That’s way different than the way she was before Dad’s disappearance triggered her depression.
He hangs his head slightly. “Yes, in the barn.” He doesn’t sound apologetic at all — more sly, like he’s testing her reaction.
“What?” I say. “So that’s what scared the hens. You cost us two eggs. That’s fifty-eight cents.”
He seems to be studying my mother more than paying attention to me.
“You two thought it would be more fun sleeping in the barn than inside?” Mom asks.
“He —” I start. I can’t believe she’s so out of it that she thinks I slept in the barn last night.
“Yeah, love sleeping in barn lofts,” Dean says.
“Your parents gave you permission to stay over on a school night?” She reaches for a mug and the jar of instant coffee.
He hesitates, then says, “Never had a dad. Mom died last year. Just have a sister.”
“Oh.” She looks at him with a sympathy that causes him to furrow his eyebrows.
Interesting. I never knew that about Dean, and don’t recall anyone in the climbing club mentioning it to me. But I totally understand why he’d hide that information at school.
Mom pours freshly boiled water into her cup and stirs, so slowly that I want to jump up and do it for her.
“You driving us to school?” Dean asks.
“Not me,” she replies. “My brother is driving me to the doctor’s. But he’ll drop you two at school on the way.”
“How come you don’t drive?” he asks her.
I kick his leg under the table, but he ignores me.
“Our car is broken down, and I don’t go anywhere often enough for it to be worth fixing,” she says.
It’s true.
As she heads down the hall to find her purse, he leans over the last piece of waffle on his fork. “How come she’s going to the doctor? Is she sick?”
“How about you shut up and stop asking questions?” I say it nicely.
“Okay, if you answer that one.”
“She’s — sad.”
He nods, like he has already figured it out. “Very sad. Better than mad.”
I stare at him. What a strange kid.
• • •
When Uncle Ted pulls up, I introduce Dean and motion him into the back seat beside me. My uncle steadies my mom’s arm as she seats herself up front.
The car has barely made it down the driveway when Dean leans toward me and whispers, “Ask her now.”
“Huh?”
“Ask her now.”
“Ask her what?”
“You know. Permission for the canyoneering trip with my sister.” It’s barely a whisper.
I grind my teeth. Did his sister put him up to this? Is that why he appeared out of nowhere this morning? I stew for a few minutes, then think, whatever. Mom’s going to refuse no matter when or where I ask her. I feel selfish even trying.
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey.” She breaks off from chatting with Uncle Ted about the weather.
“You know school’s out this Friday, right? For the summer. And Uncle Ted doesn’t need me to start at the shop for a week.”
“Yes, dear, Elspeth reminded me.”
“Well, I’ve been invited to go on a hike Sunday. With” — I have to say it — “that group that does canyoneering trips.” I don’t name the company that competed with my dad when he was running trips from his shop.
“Yeah, my sister’s the guide,” Dean gushes. “She says she’ll take him into the Upper Canyon for free.”
What’s in it for you? I wonder, studying his eager expression.
“Ah, you’re Brigit’s brother.” Uncle Ted turns to Mom. “Brigit’s the new guide over there. I was chatting with Alex Carney, the boss. He says she’s good. A reliable type, very experienced, and qualified. Even if she is only nineteen. He has known her for years, since before she moved here recently. How about I spend a day with you, Mary, so Tristan can