Kicked Out Read online

  Kicked Out

  Beth Goobie

  orca soundings

  Copyright © 2002 Beth Goobie

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Goobie, Beth, 1959-

  Kicked out

  (Orca soundings)

  ISBN 1-55143-244-7

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8563.O8326K53 2002 jC813’.54 C2002-910695-8

  PZ7.G597Ki 2002

  First published in the United States, 2002

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2002107489

  Summary: Dime can’t get along with her parents. When she moves in with her older brother, she finds out that if she starts believing in herself, other people will too.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Cover design: Christine Toller

  Cover photography: Eyewire

  Printed and bound in Canada

  04 03 02 • 5 4 3 2 1

  IN CANADA:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  IN THE UNITED STATES:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  for Claude

  Chapter One

  It was another one of those face-the-music moments. Yelling parents — they make heavy metal sound like a fairy tale. With a sigh, I slid off the back of Gabe’s street bike and took off my helmet. I handed it to him and he hooked it onto the bike, a Kawasaki Ninja. I was glad he kept the motor running. It was after midnight, and I wanted everyone in Winnipeg to see this. Here I was, coming back from a date with Gabe Jordan — the cutest guy in the West. Finally, he’d dumped his old girlfriend and picked up me. I hoped my parents were hiding behind the living room curtains, getting a good eyeball.

  We set a world record for the longest kiss. Then Gabe said into my ear, “Call me tomorrow, Dime.”

  I stood and watched him roar off down the street. Now everyone in the neighborhood would know about my love life. Tomorrow morning the phone lines would be buzzing with gossip. Mom would be so embarrassed. I grinned, thinking about it. At the same time, my stomach bunched into a tight sore lump. I wished I was driving Gabe’s Ninja — down the street and on into forever. But no, Gabe got to disappear. I had to go inside and deal with the Two-Headed Monster that was my parents.

  First things first — I took out my nose ring. Mom thinks only drug dealers wear nose rings. Last time she saw me wearing it, she said I was grounded until I grew up. I never paid any attention to the grounding — I didn’t have time to waste, sitting around the house. But I did stop wearing my nose ring at home. Life is a lot easier if a parent isn’t blocking the door when you want to go out.

  As I went up the front walk, I got ready for battle. I made my eyes look really bored and pulled my mouth into a pout. I was really good at this — I’d spent hours practicing in front of my bedroom mirror. Looking bored was my best defense. It drove my parents crazy, and then they gave up on whatever argument we were having.

  Slowly, I pulled open the front door. Arms crossed, Mom stood in the front hall wearing her Terminator face.

  “Just where have you been?” she asked.

  “Out,” I said. I pulled off my jacket and hung it up.

  It was always Die Hard III in our house, only the weapons were our mouths. Dad appeared behind Mom, on Info-Search.

  “Out where?” he asked.

  I kicked off my boots and started to push past them. Dad took my shoulders in his hands — not hard, just enough to keep me there. Then he yelled, “You were supposed to be home at nine.”

  “So, did you call the cops?” I asked.

  Fifteen years old and I had to be in at nine. It was ridiculous. To make things worse, when I came in late, Dad would start yelling. I’d put on my extra-bored face, and he’d yell even louder. Sometimes he got to me. My defense system would crumble and I’d go nuclear. I hated it when I yelled back, but I often ended up doing it.

  “This is our house and we make the rules, Dime. If we say you’re home at nine, that’s when you walk in the door! No excuses!” Dad shouted.

  Their house, not mine. For a moment, my eyes burned, and I thought I was about to cry. Then I got it under control. I slid a smile over my mouth and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Make me,” I said softly.

  He looked as if he might hit me. Then he roared, “No respect! You’ve got no respect for your parents or anyone else. We work hard to put food on the table. You’re out there blowing your mind on drugs. Flunking school. Dressed like you’re in a street gang. Look at your hair. And you’re running around with some guy twice your age.”

  Gabe is seventeen. My parents seriously needed to get real. I took a deep breath and started arguing back.

  “I’m almost sixteen! You treat me like I’m twelve. My friends don’t have to be in until midnight on Fridays,” I said, still trying to keep cool.

  “You used to be such a sweet little girl. How did you turn into such a problem?” Mom moaned.

  “I dunno. Maybe it’s all those drugs you say I’m taking,” I shrugged. As a matter of fact, I didn’t do drugs, but sometimes they made me want to.

  “Your brother never did this to us,” Dad said.

  “If only you could be a little more like him,” Mom added.

  That did it. If I didn’t get out of there that minute, I’d start yelling. Then I’d break down and cry in front of them. I couldn’t do that, couldn’t let them see they’d gotten to me. I pushed past them and ran upstairs to my room. I slammed the door and locked it — my door-slamming habit started when I was nine. I dove onto my bed and buried my face in my stuffed rabbit. A wild pounding filled my ears, and I counted heartbeats. Slowly my heart grew quiet, and I could hear my parents’ voices blending with the TV.

  I was starting to feel guilty about the look on Mom’s face. It was always there these days. It was as if she looked at me and she started to hurt. I didn’t want that. I wanted Mom to see me and smile, but it never seemed to work that way. There was just endless yelling and hurt. Maybe I should have crawled into the nearest Dumpster instead of coming home. Curled up with everyone’s junk where I belonged. That was what I was thinking when I finally fell asleep.

  It was late when I woke up the next morning. I was still wearing my Metallica T-shirt from last night, and my hair looked like an old broom. I decided to add some ripped jeans and drag myself down for breakfast. I didn’t bother washing up. That would show them they hadn’t gotten to me. None of their yelling had changed a thing.

  As I came downstairs, I could hear Dad’s voice in the kitchen. He was saying, “I tell you, we don’t know what to do with her anymore. It’s as if she wants to hurt us every way she can.”

  I stopped and swallowed. Why didn’t they just buy me a T-shirt with Problem Child printed across it? I could put it on every morning when I got up. They wouldn’t have to bother talking to me anymore, and I could wear their opinion wherever I went.

  I heard a voice. My brother Darren said, “Give her a break. She’s working things out.”

  “You were never like that,” Mom said.

  “What’s that got
to do with it?” Darren asked.

  “We just want her to succeed in life. Right now, she’s a failure at everything,” said Dad.

  I went stiff. I wasn’t even in the same room with them yet, and I was ready to yell.

  “Dime is not a failure. She’s just a little different than I am,” said Darren.

  “That’s the problem,” said Dad.

  I’d heard enough. I walked in, running a hand through my hair. Last month I’d dyed part of it pink. It looked good with my green eyes. Since my hair is so short, it sticks up in the morning until I wet it down. My parents thought I had a Mohawk.

  I made my voice very loud and said, “Morning, Darren.”

  “Morning, Sis,” he said.

  There was only silence from my parents. Their mouths had died. Well, that was fine with me. I picked up Darren’s toast and took a bite, then gave him a jam kiss on his cheek.

  “New chair? You get the Rick Hansen model?” I asked. Darren had been a quad for about three years. He’d broken his neck when he was eighteen.

  Darren grinned and said, “Around the world in forty days.”

  Darren’s chair may have been cool, but his matching sweatshirt and pants were definitely a problem. They were almost as bad as the sweat suits my parents had on. Darren was an okay guy, but he needed fashion advice really bad. He was twenty-one going on fifty.

  I dropped some bread into the toaster. Then I poured a coffee and took a loud slurp. I looked at Darren and said, “Gabe’s teaching me to drive his Ninja. When I turn sixteen in June, I’m going to get my license.”

  Mom dropped her fork. Dad pushed back his chair. I knew this would set them off, but I figured Darren would protect me from the fireworks. Dad went straight into a dead roar.

  “I won’t allow it!” he shouted.

  “Oh Dime, what next?” Mom groaned.

  I shrugged and said, “I dunno — AIDS?”

  Dad put both hands over his face and sat quietly. That surprised me. Why did they always take everything so seriously? I looked at Darren and lifted an eyebrow. Then he surprised me too.

  “I don’t think AIDS is funny, Dime,” he said.

  “Okay.” Now I was going red. As usual, everything was horrible because I was there. I took another loud slurp of my coffee.

  “We’ve been talking about you moving in with me,” Darren said.

  “For real?” I gasped.

  I glanced at Mom and Dad. They were both staring silently at the table.

  “What do you think?” Darren asked.

  “Tell me when!” I was grinning ear to ear.

  “Like now. Today,” Darren said.

  I put down my coffee and answered without thinking twice. “I’m packing!” I said.

  “You’ll have to cook,” Darren warned.

  “It’s a deal,” I grinned and kissed him on my way out of the kitchen.

  I didn’t look at either of my parents.

  Chapter Two

  When I got to my room, I started throwing stuff into garbage bags. I wanted to be out of the house before my parents could change their minds. When I really want to clean out a room, things can disappear fast. I shoved my stuffed rabbit, some CDs, underwear and my cowboy boots into the same bag. Then I picked up my photo album.

  Something made me stop what I was doing and flip through it. There were the family pictures from our trip to Niagara Falls and Ottawa when I was eleven. We sure knew how to smile for the camera. It was the only time we looked as if we liked each other. But that trip had been before Darren had broken his neck. We’d all gotten along better back then. I flipped to the front page of the photo album and smiled. It had my favorite picture — one of me laughing with Dad when I was five. Back then, we’d lived in a small town near Winnipeg called Gimli.

  Then came the pictures of Darren in the hospital as he recovered. He’d been flown to Winnipeg. My parents had camped out in the hospital parking lot in our motor home for seven weeks. They’d been with him every day. I’d stayed with my grandparents, even though I was the one who’d gone through the car crash with him.

  I decided to take the photo album with me. I’d keep it somewhere out of sight, like under the bed. Before I went downstairs, I pushed open my bedroom window and gave a Tarzan yell. Then I dragged my three garbage bags out the front door and down the ramp. Dad had built one at each door for Darren’s chair. I put the bags in the back of Darren’s van, then walked back into the house. What would saying goodbye be like? A funeral? A boxing match?

  It turned out to be another two-mouth lecture.

  “You listen to your brother and don’t give him any trouble,” Mom said.

  “I don’t want to hear about you coming in at all hours,” Dad said.

  “You make sure you cook the food Darren likes. Not hamburgers all the time for yourself,” Mom got in.

  “And do your homework. It’s about time you passed something,” Dad added.

  “Yeah, bye,” I said. It felt like time to get out of there.

  Mom gave Darren a kiss. Dad told him, “Take care of yourself.”

  At the door, I thought all I was going to get was The Glare. Then Mom sort of moaned and gave me a hug. I’ve always liked hugs from Mom. She smelled nice and it made me feel like her little kid again. It was about the only time, for a couple of seconds, that we got along. I hugged her back quickly, then let go. Dad just looked at me and shook his head as if he was dizzy … or out of it.

  “I’ll pass every class — you’ll see,” I told him. Then I climbed into the passenger seat of Darren’s van.

  Darren got himself settled behind the wheel and we drove off. Freedom, I thought, and put my nose ring back in. Just to let Darren know he wasn’t going to run my life either.

  “Dad and I cleaned out my study for your bedroom,” Darren said as he drove along Portage Avenue.

  “When was this?” I asked, going stiff.

  “A couple of weeks ago. We’ve been talking about this for a while,” he said.

  So everyone had known about this except me. Why hadn’t they included me in their little chats about my life plans? I chewed my lip and stared out the window. I thought I’d left my parents behind, but it looked like they were still all over my life. Then I decided not to get angry. It made sense that Dad would have cleaned out the room for me. After all, Darren couldn’t do it alone.

  Darren turned down Sherburn Street and his apartment block came into view. It had been specially adapted for wheelchairs. Darren turned into his parking space and we sat quietly for a moment. Finally he said, “They’re afraid for you, Dime.”

  “Afraid of me, you mean. Afraid of me and my friends,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Darren said.

  As soon as I dropped my garbage bags inside the front door, I headed for the phone. I had to call Gabe right away and let him know my new number. My phone call dragged him out of bed, but he was still chipper. Of course, he said he’d be right over to see my new place. Then I phoned my best friend Tiff. She said the same thing.

  After the calls, I followed Darren down the hall, dragging my bags of stuff. I felt a little guilty about taking his extra room — he could use the space. He’s studying engineering at the University of Manitoba. He gets really high marks, which sort of makes up for my D’s and C’s. Well, and the odd E.

  Except for a bed, a dresser and Darren’s desk, the room was empty. The first thing I did was put a sign on my door: DIME’S ROOM. KEEP OUT. A lot of people wonder about my nickname. One day when I was eight, I refused to come out of my room when I was called. Playing Barbies seemed more important than whatever Mom wanted me to do. When she asked why I hadn’t answered, I told her I didn’t like my name. So she asked me what I’d like to be called. It was a day I felt as if I was worth about ten cents, so I said, “Dime.” No one asked why, and the nickname stuck. So did the feeling.

  I changed my Metallica T-shirt and started to unpack. I was just setting my stuffed rabbit onto the bed when the door buzzer rang.
I ran to the apartment door and opened it. There stood my boyfriend and my best friend, grinning at me.

  “Darren, these are my friends Gabe and Tiff,” I said. That was when I realized I’d forgotten to ask Darren if they could come over. Oh well, it was my apartment too.

  “Hey, great chair! Sometime I’ll race you on my bike,” Gabe said, going over to the fridge.

  Tiff laughed, but Darren’s face went blank. Stupid jokes about my brother’s wheel-chair make me want to punch someone. But you can’t punch your boyfriend, especially if his ex is still hot on his trail. I shrugged at Darren and he rolled his eyes.

  “Hey, see anything in there to eat? I’m starved,” Tiff said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  My friends were embarrassing me. They wouldn’t have done this at my parents’ place — not that I could ever have them over much. Why were they acting like this here?

  “There’s some pop,” Darren said.

  “How ’bout this pizza?” Gabe asked, opening the freezer.

  “That’s for Dime and me,” Darren said.

  “But we’re dying of hunger right here in front of you!” Tiff wailed.

  I stepped in and said, “Here — suck on this sugar cube. It’ll bring you back to life.”

  I shoved the bowl of sugar cubes at her. Then I pulled the pop out of the fridge and closed the door.

  “Let’s sit down,” I said.

  Darren joined us at the table. Gabe grinned at him and said, “Hey, man — you don’t need a regular chair.”

  “No, I’ve sort of got one stuck to my body,” Darren said.

  “So, how are you going to drink your pop?” Gabe asked.

  “The same way you do — down my throat,” Darren said.

  Why couldn’t they just drink their pop and shut up? Or talk about the weather? Gabe kept staring at Darren’s fingers. My brother’s hands look unusual because of the way he uses them. After the accident, he couldn’t move his finger muscles. That made his hands curl up. Now he holds things between his palms. At first he couldn’t even lift his arms. The doctors told him he’d never be able to, but Darren surprised them.