steaming mug I give him with both hands. “But drilling holes warms you up. The ice is a good ten inches thick.”
I went ice fishing once. Not my idea of a wild time.
After a couple mugs of coffee, I’m wired enough to brave the witch’s kiss.
The door opens on a wind that stings my eyes and sucksmy nostrils in tight. I scan the snow-whipped stretch of shore and ice.
What are we doing here? I ask myself for the millionth time. Dad’s answer to that would be “You gotta go where the work is.”
Like there were no jobs back in Toronto? I’ve been in three schools in two years. I barely find out where the cafeteria is before we’re packing up. What’s next? A nice little shack at the North Pole? How far do we have to go?
We’re on the run. Running from a ghost, a memory. But you can’t give your memories a “no forwarding address.” Just like you can’t lose your shadow—it knows where you live. We’ve got to face what happened to Mom sometime. We’re out of places to run. Harvest Cove
is
the end of the world. But when I try to tell Dad this, he shrugs it off.
“Hold on tight,” he yells to me now over the snowmobile’s motor. I climb on behind him. We pull out, with the sun slanting a white glare off the ice. The stinging wind wakes me all the way up.
The huts are wooden shacks on sleds the marina rents out. Me and Dad tow them a couple hundred yards from shore, teaming up to shove and shift them into place over the holes he’s made. Then he anchors them in the ice with drilled spikes.
When we’re done, we hop back on the snowmobile. Dad revs the motor, making the thing quiver under us like a horse ready to run.
“What do you say we set her loose?” he calls over his shoulder. “See what she’s got?”
“Let’s do it!” I squint against the blowing snow.
“Grab on tight, now.”
I lock my arms around him.
“Unleash hell!” I tell him, quoting our favorite movie,
Gladiator
.
Then we launch.
With me hanging on for my life, we fly across the ice. I’m laughing, breathless, my cheek pressed against Dad’s back.
We speed into the blinding white of the rising sun, outracing the wind and the cold—and for a while, even the past.
EIGHT
I wince in sympathy as the middleweight’s head bounces off the mat. I know what that feels like. He pushes himself to his knees, but that’s as far as he gets. The ref waves him out, and the winner pumps his gloved fist in the air.
It’s Friday night, and the Molson Center in Barrie is packed for the regionals of the Canadian Juniors bouts. It’s like a greenhouse in here, warm and humid from the press of the crowd and the battles in the ring.
“Ash is up next.” Howie leans forward.
Me, him and Pike are sitting two rows back.
“See that blonde sitting ringside?” Pike mumbles around a mouthful of hot dog. “She’s checking me out.”
The blonde is looking at Pike in shock. Probably because he eats like a starving hyena. Except instead of a blood-covered muzzle, he’s got ketchup smeared all over his face.
“She’s just stunned at how many dogs you can cram down.”
“Here comes Ash!” Howie says.
I stand up to see over the crowd.
Ash strides toward the ring, her spiky black hair springing out the top of her headgear. She’s followed by her father. He’s a foot taller than her and twice as wide. A full-blooded Ojibwa with a weathered face and an intense black heat in his eyes. He’s Ash’s trainer. I’ve seen him at the gym out at Borden, running drills with her, working on punching combinations. They call him Nick, because his real name is Indian and hard on the tongue—something like Nishkahdze. It means “angry one.” Ash says he got it because he was born screaming and throwing punches in the air. He’s got one of those faces you can’t read. You never know if he’s pissed or just laughing at you.
Ash has the same heat in her stare now as she passes us to climb the steps to the ring. She doesn’t see us or seem
I went ice fishing once. Not my idea of a wild time.
After a couple mugs of coffee, I’m wired enough to brave the witch’s kiss.
The door opens on a wind that stings my eyes and sucksmy nostrils in tight. I scan the snow-whipped stretch of shore and ice.
What are we doing here? I ask myself for the millionth time. Dad’s answer to that would be “You gotta go where the work is.”
Like there were no jobs back in Toronto? I’ve been in three schools in two years. I barely find out where the cafeteria is before we’re packing up. What’s next? A nice little shack at the North Pole? How far do we have to go?
We’re on the run. Running from a ghost, a memory. But you can’t give your memories a “no forwarding address.” Just like you can’t lose your shadow—it knows where you live. We’ve got to face what happened to Mom sometime. We’re out of places to run. Harvest Cove
is
the end of the world. But when I try to tell Dad this, he shrugs it off.
“Hold on tight,” he yells to me now over the snowmobile’s motor. I climb on behind him. We pull out, with the sun slanting a white glare off the ice. The stinging wind wakes me all the way up.
The huts are wooden shacks on sleds the marina rents out. Me and Dad tow them a couple hundred yards from shore, teaming up to shove and shift them into place over the holes he’s made. Then he anchors them in the ice with drilled spikes.
When we’re done, we hop back on the snowmobile. Dad revs the motor, making the thing quiver under us like a horse ready to run.
“What do you say we set her loose?” he calls over his shoulder. “See what she’s got?”
“Let’s do it!” I squint against the blowing snow.
“Grab on tight, now.”
I lock my arms around him.
“Unleash hell!” I tell him, quoting our favorite movie,
Gladiator
.
Then we launch.
With me hanging on for my life, we fly across the ice. I’m laughing, breathless, my cheek pressed against Dad’s back.
We speed into the blinding white of the rising sun, outracing the wind and the cold—and for a while, even the past.
EIGHT
I wince in sympathy as the middleweight’s head bounces off the mat. I know what that feels like. He pushes himself to his knees, but that’s as far as he gets. The ref waves him out, and the winner pumps his gloved fist in the air.
It’s Friday night, and the Molson Center in Barrie is packed for the regionals of the Canadian Juniors bouts. It’s like a greenhouse in here, warm and humid from the press of the crowd and the battles in the ring.
“Ash is up next.” Howie leans forward.
Me, him and Pike are sitting two rows back.
“See that blonde sitting ringside?” Pike mumbles around a mouthful of hot dog. “She’s checking me out.”
The blonde is looking at Pike in shock. Probably because he eats like a starving hyena. Except instead of a blood-covered muzzle, he’s got ketchup smeared all over his face.
“She’s just stunned at how many dogs you can cram down.”
“Here comes Ash!” Howie says.
I stand up to see over the crowd.
Ash strides toward the ring, her spiky black hair springing out the top of her headgear. She’s followed by her father. He’s a foot taller than her and twice as wide. A full-blooded Ojibwa with a weathered face and an intense black heat in his eyes. He’s Ash’s trainer. I’ve seen him at the gym out at Borden, running drills with her, working on punching combinations. They call him Nick, because his real name is Indian and hard on the tongue—something like Nishkahdze. It means “angry one.” Ash says he got it because he was born screaming and throwing punches in the air. He’s got one of those faces you can’t read. You never know if he’s pissed or just laughing at you.
Ash has the same heat in her stare now as she passes us to climb the steps to the ring. She doesn’t see us or seem
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