Finding Cassidy Read online

  “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t think you would, but—” I was confused, embarrassed. “But people are whispering and laughing. I shouldn’t have said anything at the party. It was a mistake. But I didn’t expect it to spread like lice in kindergarten. It’s nobody’s business anyway.” And you know who did it and you won’t tell me. Oh God, oh God, I was going to cry.

  Jason’s anger dissolved. He pulled me into the room, kicked the door shut with the toe of his boot and hugged me. We stood there for, like, forever, or at least until way after the bell rang and the banging on the door got too loud to ignore. When Jason finally let me go, there was a huge lineup of people waiting, including Mrs. Sutter, who looked angry until she saw who it was. Then she gave me a nervous, twitchy little smile and moved aside so I could pass.

  Clearly, she knew, too.

  I had law class first block; Prissy wasn’t in my class. I couldn’t find her afterward, either, and believe me, I tried. Bolting through the door of my English class, I headed for my usual spot beside Jasmine. Her head was bowed over her textbook; she didn’t look up. Jasmine was quiet. Her family life centred heavily on her church; she rarely went to parties. But she was still one of the gang. She’d know who’d thrown that rock.

  I tried to catch her eye. Deeply enthralled in the day’s sonnet, she didn’t look up. When we broke into groups, she joined with two others before I could join her. At the end of the class, she jumped out of her chair almost before the bell stopped ringing. I managed to grab her as she went through the door.

  “Hey, Jas, what’s up?”

  She shook my hand off her arm. “I have to go.” She tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder and started walking.

  I followed her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She wouldn’t look at me.

  “I guess you heard.”

  She didn’t answer. Instead she picked up her pace. The halls were packed. People slammed books into lockers, made plans for lunch. I wove through the crowd, practically running to keep up with her.

  “Jasmine, wait! What’s going on?”

  She stopped so fast I almost smashed into her back. Then she turned, eyed me with disgust and said, “Some man masturbated into a paper cup just so you’d be born. That goes against scripture. Your real father could be a gas-station attendant somewhere. How am I supposed to make sense of that?”

  I stared after her with my mouth hanging open. That was Jasmine? Jasmine of the everyone-has-value-in-the-Lord’s-eyes school of thought? Apparently that didn’t include guys who masturbated into paper cups or worked at gas stations.

  I stormed around the halls, glaring at anyone who dared catch my eye. I couldn’t find Prissy, or anyone else who mattered. On a hunch, I headed for the local McDonald’s. When I saw Prissy’s car in the lot, I knew I was right.

  We always ate in the lower kids’ play area. As long as we ordered food and kept our swearing under control, we could get away with being loud and obnoxious. I grabbed food and headed downstairs.

  The windowless room smelled like grease, apple juice and sneakers. Prissy and Yvonne sat in the corner, talking and laughing with a gang of kids. My heart sank. I hadn’t expected such a big crowd.

  Holding my tray high, I sidestepped around a weary young mother in grey sweats trying to convince a little girl with a big pout that it was better to eat her chicken McNuggets off the table than off the floor.

  “It’s sperm child,” someone said.

  Prissy and Yvonne snickered.

  “Don’t be an asshole.” I slammed the tray on the table. Brynna jumped.

  “Hey, you said it first.” Max mimicked my high-pitched voice. “Sperm child, just dancing to the music.”

  Laughter and grins all around. I sat down and buried my flaming face inside the french-fry container. As soon as I found out who had thrown the turkey baster through the window, I’d leave.

  “Her daddy’s sick to death.” This from Tom. “Sick to death ‘cause he couldn’t get it up.” Snorts of masculine laughter ripped through the air.

  Yvonne giggled, but Prissy glared at Tom. “That’s not funny,” she said.

  “Yeah, leave her dad out of this.” Brynna gave me a sympathetic look.

  “Her dad’s been left out of a lot of things,” someone added with a snicker. A few guys chuckled. Yvonne rolled her eyes. I unwrapped my burger and wondered how I could swallow with my throat practically closed.

  “So what’s it like?” Chad asked. “Starting life in a test tube?”

  “Oh, gross.”

  “Hey, man, not while I’m eating.”

  The young mother in grey gave us a look and started to pack up her daughter’s lunch.

  “It’s not a test tube, stupid. I read that they take this huge, long syringy thing and shoot the sperm inside the woman,” Yvonne said. “Then she has to lie down and keep her feet up in the stirrups for, like, hours afterward so it doesn’t leak out.”

  Oh God. I put my barely eaten burger down. Like I needed to hear this. “Why don’t we drive out to Circle Lake together?” I suggested to Prissy. If I got her alone, she would talk. “There’s no point in taking separate cars to class.”

  “No thanks.” Prissy fiddled with her hair. “I…uh…I have plans after school.” She looked at Yvonne, who nodded. “I need my car.”

  “I guess sperm child’s gonna have to drive out there by herself,” Max drawled. “Better watch out for flying turkey basters.”

  More snickers.

  I stared hard at Max. “Did you throw that at my window?”

  “Moi?” The picture of wide-eyed innocence, he slapped his hand over his heart. “You wound me. I have better aim than that.”

  “Yeah, Vonnie,” Scott piped up. “I thought you were gonna get the jiss and blood and stuff all over the front door, not on the living-room carpet.”

  Yvonne? Something sucked the air right out of my lungs.

  “Shut up, Scott.” Yvonne’s lips twisted into a grin. “He’s being stupid, Cass. Don’t listen to him.”

  Brynna grabbed her tray and stood. “I have to go.” She hurried up the stairs.

  But Scott wouldn’t shut up. “I still think Prissy’s idea to do city hall was better,” he said. “But like Vonnie said, you’d need too many egg whites to cream that place.”

  Prissy? For the second time in less than an hour, I was speechless. Prissy flushed and wouldn’t meet my eyes. City hall? When Jason had said “guys,” I had just assumed…but I’d assumed wrong. My heart ached. Jason hadn’t been protecting them. He’d been protecting me.

  Finally I managed one word: “Why?”

  “Oh, lighten up.” There was a bored look on Yvonne’s horsy, spoiled face. “I never meant to break the window. It was just a joke.”

  Do I even know you? “Great joke.”

  “I aimed for the door, but Max pushed me and then my arm slipped and…” She shrugged. “Don’t worry, Cass. I’ll talk to my dad. I’m sure he’ll pay for the damage.”

  The damage. Some damage was irreparable. I’d learned that in the last two days. “Whatever.” Feigning indifference, I sipped my root beer, loosened the lid on the cup. I shook out my fries, ate two. I opened my burger, then shut it again. Then I rose, tray in hand, and slid from my seat. I stepped sideways. Flicked my wrist. Dumped my lunch right into Yvonne’s lap. She shrieked and jumped up. Pop and ice and pickles and fries went flying.

  “Ooops, sorry, I slipped.” I smiled. She glared. “Lighten up, Vonnie. It was just a joke. Besides, soap and water work wonders.” I slapped the tray down on the table in front of her. “Apparently it cleans up even the nastiest shit in the world. Better go use some.”

  Silence followed me out the door.

  I needed Jason, but he wasn’t around. I also needed to call Cypress Hills, but the clinic wouldn’t be open for another hour. What I didn’t need was that class at Circle Lake. So I drove out the highway past the gravel pit to Witty’s Lagoon, where I walked the beach, listened to the swo
op of the incoming tide and watched the sandpipers skim the water’s surface looking for bugs to eat.

  Yvonne and Prissy were my friends. How could they do that to me? How could they think it was funny? Jasmine was supposed to be my friend, too. And Max? Max was always sarcastic, but today he’d been plain mean. I’d witnessed nasty comments from them before. Like when Mike’s mother got a botched facelift. Kids had teased him for months. The comments eventually dwindled, but they hadn’t stopped completely until she’d had reconstructive surgery.

  Sooner or later I’d stop being the topic of conversation, I told myself as I hiked back to my car. There was no question about it. But could our friendship survive in the interim? Did I even want it to?

  By the time I returned to town, school was out for the afternoon. I considered heading back and searching for Jason, but I didn’t want to run into Yvonne or Prissy, or any teachers, either. I wanted to be alone and call Cypress Hills.

  “How’s it going?” Frank asked when I got home. Big Mac and Little Mac sat on the couch opposite. Papers and brochures littered the coffee table between them.

  “Fine.” The lie didn’t bother me as much as Frank’s appearance. His hair was mussed, his skin ashen. He looked like a sick, old man. Just a few days ago, he’d looked like his old self. Or was I seeing him differently now? “You okay, Dad?” The old term slipped out before I could stop it.

  “Sure, Cass. Fine.”

  Yeah, right. “Where’s Mom?”

  “At the store.”

  Distracted, Little Mac glanced up from the Mayo Clinic brochure she was reading. “Was your father right? Did kids throw that turkey baster? Did you find out?”

  “I’m working on it.” I wasn’t ready to tell them yet.

  Big Mac peered at me over his reading glasses. “Are you all right, Dee Dee Bird?”

  I’m not all right, I’ll never be all right again, but you’re not my grandfather and you wouldn’t understand. “Sure.”

  Dad and Little Mac turned their attention back to the brochures, but Big Mac’s steady grey eyes studied me intently. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

  Big Mac had a way of seeing past your face and your clothes and all the stuff you said and did for the rest of the world. He was probably the only one in the family who wouldn’t care if I pierced my eyebrows six times or tattooed a snake up my leg. Because he knew the I of me.

  Or he had, before I’d become Cassidy the Separate.

  “I’m fine.” I grabbed an apple from the sideboard and hurried down the hall. He’s only pretending to care. His priority is Frank. It has to be Frank.

  My knapsack landed in the corner with a thud. I tossed the apple onto the bed. I picked up the phone. Fingers shaking, I dialled the Cypress Hills Fertility Clinic.

  TEN

  The Imperial Parrot does not form flocks. It hides from others. It is very secretive.

  Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

  Good afternoon, Cypress Hills.”

  This is it. My gut clenched; I couldn’t speak.

  “Cypress Hills,” the voice repeated.

  I took a breath. “Hello, I’m looking for some information.”

  “On our services?” The voice was butter-soft, sweet.

  “Sort of.” I hesitated. “Not exactly.”

  Silence yawned on the other end of the phone.

  “My mother was a—” A what? A patient? A receiver?

  “A client,” the voice gently prompted.

  “Yes.” I practically cried with relief. “She was a client there. In September of 1988. I’m—”

  The woman didn’t wait this time. “A donor offspring.”

  “Yes. And I’m trying to contact my…the…donor. His number is 1546.” I’d memorized the number the night before, saying it over and over in my head like a soothing mantra—the key to the puzzle of me.

  “All donors are kept confidential.”

  “But—”

  “It’s standard procedure.”

  Nothing about this was standard. “I just want a name. A little information.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  Her detachment made me angry. “But I need some health history. Family illnesses, that kind of thing.”

  “That was discussed between the doctor, the donor and the client.”

  The doctor, the donor, the client. “But what about me?”

  “The agreement wasn’t made with you.”

  No, the agreement just created me. “I don’t want to meet him. I just want his name, some genetic history.” And to know if he has long fingers. Likes pasta. Has scientific leanings.

  The butter-soft voice hardened. “I’m not authorized to answer those questions.”

  A phone rang in the background. Panic rose. I didn’t want her hanging up. “Did you work there in 1988? Did you see him?”

  “I’m sorry, I have another call.”

  She was my only contact with him; I didn’t want to let her go. “Do you have pictures? Can you tell me what he does? Can you give me a name? Please! I won’t phone again.”

  The dial tone buzzed in my ear.

  I fell backward onto my bed, stared up at the ceiling. The apple pressed into the small of my back. It was the only thing I could feel. I was numb everywhere else. Only that blood-red apple pushing on my spine reminded me that I was still alive. Still breathing. Still functioning. I would get a name, find him. I would figure out who I was.

  Mom had to call the clinic herself. I’d talk to her about it after dinner.

  Rolling over, I grabbed the phone and dialled Jason’s number. If I was lucky, his mom would still be at work. He answered on the first ring. “You’re not supposed to call here.”

  The chill in his tone shocked me. “Hi to you, too.”

  “Cass, I’m serious. I got supreme shit Sunday when you called after the…the rock thing. Mom saw your number on the caller ID. We’re supposed to cool it for a while, remember?”

  Crap. “I’m sorry. I’ve had the day from hell. I need to talk for a sec.”

  “I heard what happened at lunch.” His tone lightened. He chuckled. “Yvonne’s major pissed.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Yvonne. “I called the clinic, Jase. They wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

  “So forget it. I told you that.”

  I guess I’d reached my breaking point, because I started to cry. “I can’t forget it. I have to find him.”

  There was silence and then, “I gotta go. Mom’s pulled in.”

  Had she? Or was Jason lying?

  For the first time in nine months, I wondered if he was telling the truth.

  The thought made me sick to my stomach.

  Eventually I pulled myself together long enough to spread out my pictures of Cassidy the Separate. Once I was satisfied that I could see them all from the bed, I grabbed my scissors and started in on another album.

  “Cass?” There was a quick knock before Quinn poked her head around the door. “Your dad said you were in here.”

  He’s not my dad. I slapped the album shut and covered the cutouts on my bed. “Haven’t you heard of waiting until you’re invited into a room?”

  Quinn ignored my grumpiness. “Whoa!” Gawking at the group of Cassidy the Separate on my desk, she came in and shut the door. “Some statement that is.” Her gaze travelled from surface to surface, taking in all the cutouts. “You’ve taken the term ‘paper dolls’ to an entirely new level.”

  “Whatever.” My eyes were glued to her massive green sweater, the multi-coloured beret slipping off her head. She looked like an elf on acid.

  “Here.” From somewhere under all that green, she removed a newspaper and a handful of worksheets. “Mr. Edwards said to do these and he’ll let you off the hook for today.”

  He probably knows, too.

  “And class starts earlier tomorrow because the scientists are coming again.”

  “Thanks for stopping by.” I glanced meaningfully at the door. You can leave an
y time.

  But Quinn ignored the hint. “Nice place,” she said, openly assessing my bedroom.

  “I like it,” I muttered defensively. Quinn had never been in this room. She’d never been in this house. Our last fight had taken place the week before we moved. “What do you want?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead she perched on the edge of the bed and pulled a Cassidy the Separate out from under the photo album. “Another one?” It was me at ten standing on the Santa Monica pier. Mom’s and Dad’s hands were still on my shoulders, but I’d managed to cut the rest of them away. “You’re holding a flag from Disneyland.” Grinning, she looked up. “Was that your trip to California?” When I nodded, she said, “You saw your first white-winged dove and you reached three hundred on your species list.”

  She remembered. I’d called her all excited from the hotel. Still holding my image, Quinn glanced at the group of Cassidy the Separate by my computer. Her eyes travelled. Desk. Bookshelf. Windowsill. Assessing. Thinking. Finally she said, “You planning on cutting yourself out of your whole entire life?”

  Her comment hit a nerve. “Piss off!” I snatched the picture out of her hand, laid it upside down. “You can leave now.”

  She made no move to get up. Instead she handed me the newspaper, pointed to the main story and said, “Check it out.”

  I read:

  Rumours are flying around town about Deputy Mayor Frank MacLaughlin. He ended up in hospital Thursday evening, allegedly from falling down stairs. The Deputy Mayor has had three fender-benders in the last six weeks. Breathalyzers were not administered. One wonders if our friendly constables are being just a little too friendly. Meanwhile, unnamed sources suggest this isn’t the first time Deputy MacLaughlin has taken a tumble on dry land. One source even suggests that the misplaced feet are going to cost him heavily in the upcoming civic election.

  “Three fender-benders? He’s only had two.” Disgusted, I chucked the newspaper down. “And they’re trying to imply that Frank has a drinking problem.”

  “Frank?” Quinn raised one eyebrow. “Why don’t you call him Mr. MacLaughlin and pretend you’re a boarder?”