Читать книгу The Night Flyer's Handbook 2-Book Bundle - Philippa Dowding - Страница 7

I wash my face, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I go down to the kitchen. My little brother and sister are arguing over the breakfast cereal, which I grab then pour them both a bowl.

“Can’t you two share anything? It’s not that hard,” I say.

“He’s always grabbing stuff!” Christine says. “It’s rude.”

“She always wants everything first. It’s annoying,” Christopher says at the same time.

Yes, you heard me. Unfortunately, their names are Christine and Christopher. They’re twins. I begged my mother not to name them the same thing. What were we going to call them for short? I’d asked her. How would they feel about having practically the same name? And wouldn’t they hate their names? Wouldn’t they each think their name was really meant for the opposite sex? Christine would think her name was a boy’s name, and Christopher would think his name was meant for girls.

It was a bad idea all around, but it didn’t seem to bother my mother. Since Dad wasn’t around when they were born, I didn’t have anyone else to try to talk sense into her. Sometimes when I talk to them both at the same time, I call them C2 if I’m feeling nice, or the Chrissies if I’m not because they both hate the name Chrissie. It makes them cry.

My mother deserves that, she really does.

I eat my toast and jam, sneak a cup of really strong coffee, which I’m not supposed to have, and get the twins’ lunch ready.

Mom drops us off at Bass Creek Junior School, and I walk the Chrissies to the front door, but they walk themselves to class. They’re pretty self-sufficient, having each other to rely on and everything.

I walk to my school next door, Bass Creek Senior School, for the grade sevens and eights: the schizophrenic years. Us grade eights share lunchtime with the little kids from the junior school, but we have gym with the giant grade nine girls from the high school down the street. It’s like no one can decide if we’re children or teenagers.

The town planners weren’t very imaginative, either, since our high school, our public schools, and our town all have the same name: Bass Creek.

Which is odd, because there isn’t a creek, a stream, or a puddle anywhere near town. There’s one of the great lakes, though, an hour to the south. Mom says there was a creek once, a long time ago, before the highway was built and all the local rivers and streams (and creeks presumably) were diverted or buried. It always seemed unfair to me, forcing water to do something other than it wants to, but I’m not in charge here.

My first class is English, a class I’m never too crazy about. I’m not much of a reader. Our teacher, Mr. Marcus, wants us to write a half-hour, in-class essay that starts with the three words, “If I could….”

If I could … what? What am I supposed to write? Mr. Marcus is in love with making us write these scenarios where we’re supposed to imagine ourselves differently.

Differently enough to wake up floating on the ceiling, I wonder?

So I write: “If I could, I’d name Christine and Christopher something better, like Isabelle and Rodolphus. Or Cynthia and Michael. Or Emma and Shiloh. Nothing rhyming, nothing with the same sequence of letters, nothing embarrassing and stupid….”

That’s as far as I get, because that’s when my foot starts to float off the floor.

I accidentally boot Jeffrey Parks, the boy sitting facing me, in the shin. It isn’t my fault. My foot just starts floating slowly, and suddenly my running shoe is jammed into his leg.

“Ouch! What the heck, Gwen? What are you doing?” Jeffrey’s eyes get squinty and scared, and he moves away from me really quick.

Now, Jeffrey Parks and I have had words before. We aren’t exactly the best of friends. He once teased me about the wrong thing in grade five (I’d recently had a very bad haircut), and I punched him so hard he cried every time he saw me for days afterwards.

But really, today, this particular incident is nothing personal. I have no control over myself, this time. My eyes get really wide. I am not going to float up to the ceiling in the middle of my grade eight English class. It just isn’t going to happen.

I jump up so fast that my desk falls over. My pencils and papers go flying, which is just as well, because it distracts everyone. They’re all running around trying to pick up my stuff. I run toward the door, and all I can say to Mr. Marcus as I run by is, “Sorry, sir, I think I’m going to throw up!”

That’s the kids’ “get out of jail free” pass. No teacher is going to make you stay and talk if they think you are about to barf your breakfast all over their shoes.

He just nods and opens the door extra wide for me. I leave that room really fast, believe me. So fast, that no one notices that as I run away, my feet aren’t actually touching the ground.