LITMIR.BIZ

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very thoroughly going from jar to jar every Friday. Even if the next jar, the jar of the week, is some terrible jelly bean flavour like liverwurst or green pepper (if those exist), she has to take a bag.

      Christopher is exactly the opposite. He either picks the same jelly beans every week (he went for an entire year just eating lemon-lime, for instance) or he closes his eyes and points. Whatever jar he points at, he has to try. These days he just grabs different flavours and mixes them up in the same bag (which is fine, since they are all the same price).

      This drives his twin sister crazy. She is Miss Jar-a-Week Organized. He is Mr. Any-Jar-Will-Do Random. They are an interesting combination, those two.

      As they pick their jelly beans, Jez and I walk up to the counter. Mrs. Forest is standing there with her huge glistening arms and her striped red apron. She is about the biggest lady I’ve ever seen.

      I should tell you a little about Mr. and Mrs. Forest. They own The Float Boat. They are great to us kids. They always remember your birthday and give you extra ice cream if you’re in the store that day. Or somehow they know when you aren’t having a great day, and they sneak you a little treat you weren’t expecting, like your favourite gum drop or something. For me, it’s always a Hershey’s Kiss.

      They don’t have any kids of their own, which I think makes them sad. But they sure see enough of everyone else’s kids, so it isn’t like they don’t get to be around any, or anything. I guess if you love kids but can’t have any of your own, opening up a candy shop makes a lot of sense.

      The kids come to you by the boatload. The floatload.

      “Hi, Mrs. Forest,” I say. Jez wanders over to the gum balls, daintily picking out a small bag of cinnamon-flavoured ones.

      “Hello, Gwennie. Are you ready for a float?” Mrs. Forest says. Then I swear she winks at me.

      Now, in a store called The Float Boat, you’d think that’s not such an unusual question. It probably wouldn’t be for any other kid, any kid other than me.

      See, the thing is, I hate floats. I always have. I’ve hated them since the first time I spat one out all over the counter in front of Mr. and Mrs. Forest. I was about four years old, and my dad took me in there and made me try one. And it was hate at first taste. I decided then and there that ice cream and soda had no right to be together in the same glass.

      For many years after that, Mrs. Forest would wink at me whenever I was with a bunch of kids and everyone was ordering floats. She’d look over at me and say, “But no float for Miss Gwennie Golden!”

      So this was a bit puzzling to me, that suddenly Mrs. Forest was offering me a float.

      Especially given the events of the past two days.

      Did she want me to spit it out all over the counter? Was she having a quiet day or something and felt the need to clean up a mess of spat-up float?

      Since I hesitate, she can sense I’m puzzled. She laughs a little and says quietly, so just I can hear her, “No, no, Miss Gwennie Golden doesn’t like floats, does she? But floating, that’s a different story.”

      I snap my head up and look her right in the eye. My face must look really dark and angry, because she raises her eyebrows and whistles.

      “Don’t get mad, girl. Just come see me when you need me. I’ll be here.”

      Honestly, that’s just about the most confusing thing she could say to me. Why would I need to talk to the local candy store owner? What does she know about me? She clearly said “floating.”

      I want to talk to her then and there. But at that very moment Jez, Christine, and Christopher all come up to me. I could tell the twins to go look at something so I can talk more to Mrs. Forest, but I can’t get rid of Jez, too. I’ll just have to wait to ask her what she meant.

      Floating. It’s pretty clear that she knows more about me than I do. Just like Mr. McGillies this morning. What’s going on with the grownups in this town? She smiles at me and rings up the candy. I pay for everything, and we leave the store. But not before Mrs. Forest calls out to us, “Remember, Gwendolyn. I’m right here.”

      I nod but frown. I don’t say anything, but I’m thinking a lot of things.

      Mostly: Okay, Mrs. Forest. You’re right there. You’ve always been right there, as long as I can remember. What’s so important about you being right there now?

      We’re all the way home before I realize I’m the only one who didn’t buy any candy. It’s the first time ever that I left that store empty-handed, but I’m starting to think maybe I’m getting a little old for candy.

      FIFTEEN

      I have a hard time getting to sleep.

      Earlier, I looked everywhere for Mr. McGillies, but it was like he disappeared or something. After I fed them tinned tomato soup, I took the twins and Cassie on her leash, all through our neighbourhood, calling for him. We even went down to the shack by the fields where he lives. It’s a place we aren’t supposed to go, but it was daytime and this was important.

      We walked through our neighbourhood for so long that the Chrissies started to complain. They were tired. They were bored. Why were we looking for dumb old Mr. McGillies anyway? What’s so important about him? Cassie liked it, though, she needed a long walk.

      But you get the picture.

      He just wasn’t anywhere, and eventually I had to take the twins home. We sat and watched TV until Mom came home around eight-thirty.

      As soon as she came in, I went to bed. To think. Sometimes I have to put the twins to bed, but tonight I just didn’t want to. Mom didn’t make me.

      I read. I toss and turn. I worry. I call Jez but she’s asleep and her mom doesn’t want to wake her up. I chew my nails.

      Finally, just when I think I’ll never get to sleep …

      … I wake up.

      It’s really late. It’s so late that it’s actually probably early the next day. It’s bright in my room, because the moon is glowing outside. But that’s not what’s really important. No, what’s more pressing is the fact that my head is gently bump-bumping against my bedroom window.

      I wake up floating face down, bumping into my window, like a boat gently bumping into a dock. A float boat.

      It’s not all that comfortable bumping head first into the window, actually.

      I try rolling over, but my body is quite determined. I’m lying on my stomach, banging into the window like a bee trying its darnedest to get out. My body is getting a little more insistent, and the bumping starts to get more forceful.

      So I have no choice but to open the window. The glass banging against my head is hurting me, so I think the screen will be better to bang against.

      It is, but only a little. It doesn’t hurt to bang into the screen, but it’s torture of a different kind. I can smell the beautiful spring night. It’s warm and smells like new grass and warming dirt. I hear small creatures rustling around out there. The trees are gently waving in the breeze, calling my name.

      My body and soul want out the window. My mind isn’t so convinced. A force is tugging me outside, a force I can’t see, but I sure can feel it. My head starts bulging against the screen and I feel the screen give and tear, just a little. Suddenly I worry that I’m going to break through it, which wouldn’t be good.

      Panicky. I don’t want to go soaring outside. Who knows what could happen? I don’t want to fly off into outer space.

      I say out loud, “I’ll die if I go out there.”

      Then a voice outside my window says clearly, “No. You won’t die, missy.”

      I know that voice.

      It’s Mr. McGillies.

      SIXTEEN

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