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  BY THE TIME people finished texting the address of Jeff’s party around to everybody they knew, eighty kids had shown up. The front door was wide open when Fiona and Ryan got there. Girls and guys were hanging out on the front porch, soaking up the late-evening sunshine. It was an older crowd, some from different schools. Fiona didn’t know a lot of them, so she was doubly nervous about how she would fit in.

  Inside, bodies crammed the living room. Fiona and Ryan wove their way through the crowd looking for Jeff, whose parents were away for the weekend. It was so loud that everybody had to shout, which just made it louder. In the kitchen, Fiona was relieved to find her friend, Rick Yee, chugging a beer while a bunch of other guys chanted, “Do it, do it, do it!”

  Rick finished and wiped his mouth. “Fee!” he yelled when he saw her, slobbering a bit as he lifted the empty bottle in victory. “Pokémon!”

  Fiona had known Rick since grade one, when Pokémon was their shared obsession.

  “Pokémon!” she yelled back.

  “You gotta catch up,” Rick told her, wiggling the bottle in her direction.

  But he was wrong. Fiona was already more buzzed than she wanted to be. Before the party, she and Ryan had stopped at the park to chug down half a water bottle of vodka Ryan had pinched from home. He said it would help her relax. Fiona wasn’t into drinking, and the vodka was making her feel woozy and out of control—the opposite of relaxed—but she didn’t want Ryan to know that.

  Fiona had been dating Ryan for five weeks, since the beginning of May. Practically married, according to some people. But Fiona was still getting used to the idea of having a boyfriend. She liked Ryan—she just wasn’t sure if she liked him liked him. He was pretty average looking, but then so was Fiona, with mouse-brown hair that was too bushy and a face that, in her opinion, was too broad and too freckled. Ryan was tall and ridiculously skinny. They were both B-list popular. Well, Fiona thought she might be more like B+.

  Ryan found a couple of rum coolers in Jeff’s fridge and handed her one. “You’ll like it. It tastes like lemonade,” he told her. He was right—in a few sips, half of it was gone. “C’mon,” he said into her ear. “Let’s check out downstairs.”

  He took her hand and led her toward the basement. How are you supposed to know what you feel? she wondered as he pulled her through the crowd of kids jamming the stairway, down to the family room, where the lights were low and the music throbbing. People were slow dancing, even though the music was fast. She could see couples kissing while they danced, and some were full-out groping. What exactly is Ryan expecting from me? Fiona’s stomach fluttered in sudden panic. She could taste the rum cooler in her mouth, and the vodka behind it.

  She spotted her friend Lacey along the wall, in the middle of a group of girls with their heads bent over their phones. Fiona leaned close and told her, “I don’t feel so good.”

  Ryan threw her a questioning look, but with the music so loud, he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  “Tell Ryan you want to leave,” Lacey advised. She was sipping a beer, buzzed but not drunk. Trust Lacey—tall, model-thin, and confident—to look like she belonged here. “Do what feels right,” she said.

  But Fiona didn’t want Ryan to think she was being a drama queen, so she let him lead her to a leather sectional in the corner, full of kids making out. He found a spot for them and pulled her down so that she was sitting on his lap. Then, without warning, he pushed his tongue into her mouth. His kiss was hard and wet. She tried to respond, but she felt like she couldn’t breathe, and the music was giving her a headache.

  Ryan broke off the kiss and whispered in her ear, “The bathroom’s free.”

  At first Fiona wasn’t sure what he meant. Then she glanced over and saw Jeff and his girlfriend emerging from a bathroom. Ryan and Jeff were a year older than Fiona and her friends, who were still in grade nine. Maybe grade tens were more into sex than her crowd was, but as far as Fiona knew, none of her friends had done the deed. Girls were expected to put out in other ways, though—blow jobs, hand jobs—neither of which she had ever done. She felt panic rising again, which made the nausea worse.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, and staggered for the staircase, her head spinning.

  “Fee?” said Lacey as she passed her. But Fiona kept moving, craving fresh air.

  Somehow she got outside. On her knees on the front walk, she gave in to her retching stomach and threw up under a bush. When she leaned back briefly, Lacey was by her side.

  “Get it out,” she told Fiona, holding her hair back. “All out.”

  Fiona puked again, and, when she was done, felt a bit better. When she sat up, she saw Ryan beside Lacey, watching her with concern.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Sorry,” Fiona told him, feeling gross and like an idiot. A gross idiot.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ryan replied.

  “Want me to take her home?” Lacey asked Ryan.

  “Nah, I’m good,” he said. He put his arm around Fiona and helped her up. “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” she apologized again.

  “Happens to everybody,” he said, but he seemed disappointed.

  JEFF’S HOUSE was in the posh Point Grey neighborhood of Vancouver. Fiona lived with her mom further east, in Kitsilano. By the time they reached her place, she was a little less woozy. She glanced up to the fourth floor of the low-rise building and saw that the lights were on in their apartment. Her mom was probably waiting up for her.

  “Can you smell it on my breath?” she asked Ryan, pausing at the security gate.

  “The puke or the booze?”

  He seemed a little disgusted, and he wouldn’t look her in the eye. Fiona felt guilty for making him leave the party. She hoped he wasn’t going to break up with her over this.

  “I’m really sorry, Ryan.”

  “Hey, it happens.”

  “My mom is going to freak if she finds out,” she said.

  “Just go right to your room. Don’t let her get a whiff.”

  “Is that experience talking?” she asked, trying to joke with him.

  “Whatever,” he shrugged. It seemed like he was in a hurry to get away from her.

  “You should go back to the party,” she told him, although she didn’t want him to, not with all those other girls there. Maybe this was how you knew you were with the right guy—when the thought of him being with somebody else made you jealous.

  “Maybe I will,” he said, and started off down the sidewalk without even kissing her goodnight. Fiona supposed she could hardly blame him, considering she hadn’t had a chance to rinse her mouth out. He tossed back, “I’ll call you later,” so casually that Fiona wondered if he would. Ever.

  She took Ryan’s advice when she went inside and kept the conversation with her mother, who was reading in the living room, to a minimum. Yes, I had fun. No, I’m not hungry. She was pulling on pajamas in her bedroom when her cell phone pinged with a text. It was from Ryan.

  “ok wth mom?” he asked.

  “ok,” she texted back. “sry about 2night”

  “ddnt go xactly how i xpctd”

  “wat did u xpct?”

  “dunno. u r so sexy”

  He thinks I’m sexy! So he wasn’t mad at her after all.

  “wat r u doing?” he asked.

  “gting rdy 4 bed”

  “wat r u wearing?”

  The truth was she was wearing flannel pajamas with little skating penguins all over them. But in the safety of her bedroom, she felt sexy.

  “nthing,” she texted back.

  “lets c”

  Fiona hesitated. Really? Would she dare? Another text arrived.

  “pls? u r so prty”

  He thinks I’m p
retty! Fiona felt warm all over. This is what it means to have a boyfriend, she realized. Sharing secrets—feeling hot for each other. Another text arrived.

  “sho me u lke me”

  I do like you! she thought. Maybe she even loved him. Before she could talk herself out of it, Fiona held her cell phone at arm’s length, puckered her lips in a vampy kiss, yanked up her pajama top, and clicked a selfie. With another click, she sent the photo to Ryan.

  “sb,” he wrote. Smiling back.

  Fiona smiled, too. It was only later, when she was lying in bed, her head spinning from the booze, that she started to worry about whether she’d turned herself into a sexting cliché, sending a shot of her bare boobs out into the cyberverse for anyone to see. Friends. Teachers. Her parents! Get a grip, she told herself. Ryan was her boyfriend. She trusted him not to send it to anybody else. Besides, it was just a joke. What harm could come from that?

  SUNDAY MORNING, Fiona’s alarm went off at eight. Her head was pounding and her mouth tasted like it was stuffed with compost. But there was no time to feel sorry for herself. Her dad was picking her up in half an hour for a softball game—he was the coach, she was the pitcher. She threw off her blanket and got to her feet, feeling the floor rock beneath her and her stomach rise. More than anything, she wanted to lie down again, but she knew her father was already on the bridge, driving over from West Vancouver. She couldn’t let him down.

  Fiona faked her way through the game, counting herself lucky to stay standing. In the end, she gave it up ten to three—not so bad, she figured, given that her brain was working at half speed.

  “What happened out there?” her dad asked as they headed across the grass toward his car.

  “I think I may have the flu,” Fiona told him.

  He put his hand to her forehead and then pulled her into a hug. “Poor pumpkin,” he said. “Home to bed for you.” Sometimes her dad was way too easy.

  Inside the car, Fiona rummaged in her bag for her cell phone to see if Ryan had texted, but she couldn’t find it. She was foggy about a lot of things that morning, but she was certain she’d put the phone in the bag. Had it fallen out, or had somebody taken it? There had been tons of people in the park, and the bag had been lying in the grass, where anybody could have gotten at it. Suddenly, Fiona really did feel feverish—with anxiety. Losing her phone was bad enough, but she was mostly freaking out about what was on it. What if somebody found the boob shot?

  Wait, she told herself, I erased it. At least, she remembered thinking she should erase it. But had she? Yes, she was certain of it.

  Fiona glanced over at her dad as he drove, so cheerful and clueless in his tidy white team shirt, tucked in, and wire-rimmed glasses. He’d flip if he found out Fiona had lost the phone—he was big on being responsible—but if he found out she’d sexted Ryan? He’d bust a vein.

  When they pulled up in front of Fiona’s mom’s place, her dad gave her a funny look and asked, “Everything okay? I mean, apart from the flu?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  It was only half a lie. Everything would be fine—if she got the phone back. As she watched her dad drive away, Fiona’s head was suddenly crystal clear. She had to find that phone, before anybody else found it.

  SYLVIE WALKED STEADILY AND CAREFULLY, balancing a heavy sack of ground maize upright on her head as she made the long trek back from the food distribution center. Her arms ached from the heavy bags of beans and rice she carried in each hand, and her flip-flops kicked up red dust from the bone-dry track, dust that parched her throat and coated her skirt and blouse.

  Nyarugusu Refugee Camp was huge—over sixty thousand people in seven zones and more than fifty villages. Every two weeks, Sylvie had to make the half-hour walk to the food distribution center from Zone 3, where her family had lived since fleeing to Tanzania five years ago, to stand in a long line for their rations—maize, dried beans, cooking oil, and a little salt. Some said they were lucky to be here, away from the fighting back home in the Democratic Republic of Congo. But it was hard to feel lucky when every day was filled with work and worry.

  As she got closer to the cluster of mud huts where she lived with her mother, brothers, and little sister, Sylvie could hear the shouts of young boys playing football. She listened for her brother Olivier’s voice—easy to pick out because he was the loudest of the boys in their village—but his was not among them. So he had not returned from wherever it was he’d disappeared to this time. Mama would somehow find a way to blame Sylvie for his absence.

  When she came into the common space that served as a playing field, she saw that her younger brother, Pascal, had the ball. His bare feet controlled it effortlessly as he dodged the other boys, making steady progress toward the opposing goal, marked by two tin cans. Soon he’d be as good at the game as Olivier, although he was only nine. Olivier would be fourteen next month, old enough to come and go as he pleased, as he never tired of reminding Sylvie. But Sylvie was fifteen and still the eldest, even if she was only a girl. For now, at least, the boys minded her, their second mother.

  Why do the boys get to play, when I must do all the work? Sylvie let the bag of maize slip to the ground. “Pascal!” she called. “Bring this inside.”

  With a swift kick, Pascal landed the ball between the rusted cans and scored. His teammates slapped his back and shouted his name. Sylvie’s heart softened when she saw his broad smile. For a moment, she was back in their home village, watching their father playing ball with Olivier and Pascal in the yard of their house. It was a real house made of cement blocks, with two bedrooms, a sitting room with proper furniture, and a kitchen with a cook stove—nothing like the one-room mud and thatch hut they lived in here.

  “You can’t boss me, Sylvie,” replied Pascal.

  “I’ll spit in your fufu,” she threatened, referring to the sticky dough she’d make from the maize she was carrying.

  “Then I’ll eat yours instead of mine!” he said, laughing.

  “Help me,” she coaxed, “and I’ll give you Olivier’s share.”

  Pascal came over and struggled to lift the heavy sack, his thin arms barely reaching around it. “What if Olivier comes home?” he asked.

  “I’ll make sure you get more than him,” she promised.

  Sylvie carried the other rations into their hut, dipping down to clear the doorway. Inside it was dark, like always, the only light coming from the open door. They’d had to construct it quickly when they first arrived. There was no time to make windows, and since then, no will. Pascal followed her in with the sack of maize, dropped it onto the dirt floor, then ran back outside to join his friends.

  Sylvie’s mother, tiny and frail, propped herself on an elbow where she lay on a sleeping mat against the curved wall. “Did they have cassava?”

  “You ask that every time, Mama,” Sylvie replied, placing the beans and rice inside the metal bucket they used to discourage rats. “They never have cassava. Only maize.”

  “Ph!” she replied. “They expect us to eat that.”

  Today was a bad day for Sylvie’s mother. Her mind was only half with them in the present, and she had barely stirred from the mat. Lucie, who was six, looked up from where she was playing on the dirt floor with the doll Olivier had carved for her out of a piece of wood.

  “I’m hungry, Sylvie,” she said.

  “You think I’m not hungry?” she chided. “I just walked for an hour, and had to line up for another!” She picked up the yellow plastic can that they used to carry water from the communal tap and swished the contents around. “You and Pascal must go and get more water later.” Kneeling down she took their battered pot and began mixing maize and water. She could hear the boys’ shouts from outside. They were playing again. “Pascal!” she called through the open door.

  “What?” he said a moment later, popping his head through the doorway.

  “Start the fire.”

  “That’s Olivier’s job!”

  “Do you see Olivier here?” replied Sylvi
e sharply, and immediately regretted giving her mother the opening.

  “It’s because of your bad temper, Sylvie,” she pronounced from the woven mat. “That’s why he stays away.” Sylvie wanted to bite back that it was misery, not her, that kept Olivier away. “When Patrice arrives,” Mama continued, “he will beat sweetness into you.”

  Sylvie and Pascal shared a look. So it was one of those days—a day when Mama refused to believe that Papa was dead, insisting instead that he was only delayed in joining them.

  “Please make the fire so we can eat,” Sylvie told Pascal evenly.

  Mama gave a short nod of approval. With a shrug, Pascal gave in. He took the matches from the bucket where the beans and rice were kept and headed back outside.

  Sylvie poured water into a second pot they had rescued from another family’s castoffs and added some beans to let them soak. As she worked, she made a silent vow that she would never become like her mother—depressed, defeated, even crazy some days. Sylvie was determined that she would have a different life, a better life.

  “Men like women who are sweet-tempered,” her mother lectured. “Just ask your father. But maybe it doesn’t matter,” she added. “Maybe you’ll never have a husband anyway.”

  “Why will Sylvie never have a husband?” asked Lucie.

  “Because of this,” replied Mama, dragging her finger in a diagonal across her face.

  At the mention of it, Sylvie could feel the long scar on her face—from above her right eyebrow, across the bridge of her nose to her left cheek. Was she actually feeling it, or only imagining she did, the way other people imagined limbs that were no longer there? The way Mama imagined Papa. Either way, Sylvie told herself she didn’t care about how she looked. She was glad she’d never have a husband. Instead, she’d stay in school. Her father had been educated at a university, and she would be, too. Maybe she’d even become a doctor, just like Doctor Marie in the camp hospital. She would make Papa’s spirit proud of her—as proud as her mother was ashamed.

  “Olivier’s here!” called Pascal from outside.

  A figure filled the doorway, blocking the light so that for a moment the hut was in darkness. Then Olivier stepped inside, lit from behind like a god descending from heaven—and just as pleased with himself.