“We need to dig below the surface,” she said. “We need to discuss the deeper implications faced by Walter, and his owners, as he goes through this particular plight. Are there, for example, some weightier themes at work that we haven’t yet uncovered—”
“Oh my God!” I blurted in English. “He’s a farting dog!” The book we’d been assigned was Walter le Chien qui Pète.
“Felix, en français, s’il vous plaît,” Monsieur Thibault said.
Our “paragraph” became two pages, single spaced. At least we got an A. But I told Dylan I would never, ever work with Winnie Wu again.
I made that vow on a Friday.
And broke it the following Monday.
“The school newspaper is looking for volunteers to write a few pages of the September edition in French,” Monsieur Thibault announced on Monday, at the beginning of our third week. “It’s published once a month. There’s no extra credit, but it’s a great way to work on your language skills. Anyone who’s interested, we’ll have our first meeting after school in room 222.”
“I think we should try it out,” Dylan said later in the cafeteria. He was eating a ham sandwich. His braces caught a lot of it, enough for an afternoon snack.
“Me too,” I replied.
“Remember that magazine we wrote when we were kids? Stories from Ur Anus!?”
“You wrote an article called ‘Aliens Probed My Butt!’ ”
“You wrote one called ‘Martian Steals All of Family’s Underpants!’ ”
We cracked up. Dylan sprayed a bit of his sandwich on me in the process, but I didn’t mind; what’s a bit of masticated food between friends?
* * *
—
After school we made our way to room 222. Monsieur Thibault was there with the editor of the paper, an eighth grader who introduced himself as Charlie Tuyen.
“Looks like you two are the only ones coming,” said Monsieur Thibault. “So I guess we’ll get started.”
“Thanks for being here,” Charlie began, just as the door opened and a latecomer arrived.
Winnie.
She looked flustered; her red beret was askew. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Donald thought it would be funny to steal my beret and use it as a Frisbee.” Donald was a kid in our class, and he seemed like kind of a jerk.
Winnie took the seat in front of me as Charlie continued. “We want a French component to the paper, mostly for you guys in immersion, but also for the rest of the students who are doing regular French and want to practice their language skills. You can write about pretty much anything. We just need enough content to fill three pages.”
Winnie raised her hand.
“Yes?” said Charlie.
“That won’t be a problem. Not for me, anyway.” Her red lips curled into a tiny, smug grin. Dylan and I looked at each other and fake-barfed.
“Okay, well, there’s a crunch for the first issue, so if you could have stuff to me by Monday the thirtieth—”
Winnie raised her hand again.
“Yes?”
“I’m assuming you want hard-hitting stories? About politics, poverty, drugs?”
“Well, it’s a school newspaper. It’s meant to be pretty light and entertaining.”
Winnie’s hand shot up again.
“You really don’t need to keep raising your hand—”
“In other words, you want fluff,” she said, her lips pursed in disapproval.
Monsieur Thibault inhaled deeply. He exhaled slowly.
“Hey, write whatever you want,” said Charlie. “I don’t care. I just need it by the thirtieth. Meeting adjourned.” Charlie and Monsieur Thibault hightailed it out of the room.
“Let’s go to my house,” Dylan said to me as we stood. “Keep noodling ideas.”
Winnie turned to look at us. “Excellent plan.”
Dylan and I shot each other a look that said Crap. Winnie must have seen, because her bottom lip started trembling. “Oh. I get it. You didn’t mean me.”
There was a long pause. “You can come too if you want,” said Dylan, with zero enthusiasm.
This was where Winnie was supposed to grab a clue and say, “No, it’s okay.” Instead, her face lit up. “Goody! I’ll just go get my satchel.” She hurried out of the room.
I looked at Dylan. “Goody?”
“Satchel?”
It was going to be a long afternoon.
* * *
—
Winnie was just as annoying as we’d expected; possibly more so. First there was her expression when she entered Dylan’s house. Her perfect red mouth became a little O of horror. She tried to cover. “It’s so…charmant.” She refused our offer of pizza pops and chips. “Empty calories. Also, I could tell you all the reasons you should eat less meat for the sake of the planet—”
“Please don’t,” said Dylan.
In the living room, she spread her jacket on the couch before she sat down. The couch was covered in cat hair, but still.
“So. Should we just toss out ideas?” asked Dylan.
Winnie took out a leather-bound notebook and a pen. “I’ll keep minutes.”
“I’ll keep hours,” I said, chomping on a pizza pop.
“I’ll keep seconds,” said Dylan, shoveling chips into his mouth.
Two out of three of us cracked up.
“I could do a crossword,” I said. “And maybe an article on fun French facts. Like, stuff the French invented, or moments in history.”
“Great idea,” said Dylan.
“Where’s the edge? Where’s the journalistic rigor?” Winnie tapped her pencil on her notebook.
“Hey, I know,” said Dylan, ignoring her. “I could write about poltergeists!”
“Perfect,” I said.
Winnie wrinkled her nose. “Why would you do that?”
“Because they’re cool and interesting,” said Dylan. “Because we have one.”
“Pfft. Please. Poltergeists don’t exist.”
“How do you know?” I asked, feeling defensive on Dylan’s behalf. I had my own theories about Bernard, but I knew to keep them to myself.
“Because. Any thinking person knows that ghosts aren’t real.”
Dylan started to make sputtering sounds. I pointed at the cross around her neck. “Do you believe in God?”
“I do,” she said.
“So how is that any different?” asked Dylan. “Have you seen God?”
“Have you seen your poltergeist?”
“No, but I’ve seen proof. He plays a ton of practical jokes. But he also looks out for us. Like, the other day, my sister slipped on the stairs, and this invisible force kept her from falling.”
Winnie opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself. “Fine. I can tell there’s no use arguing with you two. Do your weird pseudo journalism. I’m going to write an investigative piece about asbestos. Our school was built a long time ago, meaning there’s probably asbestos in the walls.”
Dylan looked at me. “Sounds super,” he said.
“Super boring,” I added.
Again, two out of three of us cracked up.
As September drew to a close it got colder, especially at night. This is something you become acutely aware of when you live in a van.
But we adapted. As Astrid likes to say, living in a Westfalia definitely makes a person more resourceful. “Resourceful, Felix, is a good life skill to have.”
And we are nothing if not resourceful. Take Wi-Fi, for example. When we need it, we go to a coffee shop, or find an unsecured network. When something needs recharging, like a phone or batteries for our headlamps, we plug in somewhere like the Laundromat. Sometimes we plug in at a power source outside an empty house. On the west side of Vancouver, there are a lot of big, brand-new houses with no one l
iving in them—Astrid says they are “investment properties.” It’s one of her pet peeves. “Our city is becoming a playground for the rich. Enormous, empty homes, when so many people who live here can’t find affordable housing. Our politicians should be ashamed of themselves,” she says. Over and over and over and over.
Astrid is very good at picking out which houses are people-free. “All the blinds drawn, check. Lights go on at the same time every night, check. Junk mail piles up, check. Sprinkler system on even if it’s pouring rain, with zero consideration for water conservation, check.” It is surprisingly easy to pull up outside one of these houses as darkness falls and use their electricity. We fill up our water containers with their outdoor hoses at the same time. We’ve never broken in, unless you count—
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We are also resourceful when it comes to food. A Westfalia kitchen is pint-sized. The tiny two-burner stovetop doesn’t allow for elaborate meals, and we can’t keep much stuff in the teensy fridge, so we eat a lot of stuff from cans. Habitant pea soup, vegetarian chili—my mom even lets me eat Chef Boyardee once in a while, even though she says it is “toxic waste.”
But to be clear, I am not malnourished; not too badly, anyway. I don’t think I’m suffering from scurvy or a vitamin deficiency or anything like that. We shop at the No Frills, where you can get really good deals on produce they’re about to throw out. And once in a while my mom will—
But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
I won’t lie; some aspects of life in a Westfalia never get easier.
Like not having a bathroom. I miss that more than anything. We always try to stop for the night near a public restroom. We do our business in coffee shops, or McDonald’s restaurants, which have nice facilities. We do a lot of armpit and bit-washing in sinks. Twice a week we go to a community center and have long showers.
We do our best. But still. What I wouldn’t give for a toilet to call my own.
There is also the lack of privacy. Two people, in a small space like that—I dare anyone to try it and not have it get on their nerves once in a while. It doesn’t help that my mom snores like a trucker sometimes, even though she totally denies it.
And let’s just say there are certain things an almost-thirteen-year-old would occasionally like to do, private and very personal things, that are impossible when the almost-thirteen-year-old’s mother is sleeping three feet away.
That is all I will say about that.
But in September we were sure our living arrangement was temporary, so we managed. My mom moved the Westfalia every few nights so we wouldn’t arouse suspicion. I secured Mel to the dashboard so he could watch over us. On the days we couldn’t shower at a community center I headed to school early and locked myself in the handicapped washroom, which was private and spacious. I kept a small toiletry kit in my locker with soap and deodorant, a spare toothbrush and toothpaste. I’d peel off my shirt and give my armpits a good, thorough wash. I’d scrub my face and brush my teeth and comb out my hair. And every time I was at Dylan’s house, I would make sure to use his toilet to do a number two.
I told myself it wasn’t gross.
I told myself it was resourceful.
* * *
—
And then came the day that I told Dylan and Winnie my first No One Gets Hurt.
It was Friday, and our articles were due on Monday, so we agreed to get together on the weekend to do final edits. “We can’t go to my place,” Dylan said. “A bunch of our relatives are visiting from back east.” He looked at me. “Could we go to yours?”
“I live pretty far.”
“That’s okay,” said Winnie. “We can bus.”
I opened and closed my mouth. Then I heard myself say, “My mom’s got the flu. Vomiting, diarrhea—the works.”
Winnie’s mouth formed that little O of horror. “Well then, you can come to mine.” She gave me a stern look. “But if you’re contagious? I will murder you.”
* * *
—
Dylan and I took the bus together to Winnie’s place on Saturday. It was in a brand-new eight-story building at Fir Street and Seventh Avenue. She buzzed us up.
“Take off your shoes,” she whispered as she opened the door. She guided us down a narrow hallway into a small living room. It looked like something in an Ikea catalog, only not as tidy. Sliding glass doors led to a balcony with views over the ocean and the North Shore Mountains. A pretty jade bird sat on the mantel above a gas fireplace. “Have a seat,” she whispered again.
“Is there a reason we’re whispering?” I asked in a whisper, taking half of the love seat while Dylan took the other half.
“My mom’s sleeping. She’s an obstetrician. She delivered two babies last night.” Winnie said this with pride. “Dad’s a nurse. They met during a C-section fifteen years ago. Dad helped Mom pull the baby out. Pretty romantic, don’t you think?”
Dylan made a face. “Pretty gross.”
We went through our pieces one last time, arguing in whispers. “Your articles are silly,” Winnie said.
“Your article is a snorefest.”
She ignored our comments, and we ignored hers. But we did let her correct our spelling and grammatical errors, because there were loads of them.
Mr. Wu came in as we were finishing up. He was tall and skinny and had a friendly smile. His arms were weighed down with bags of groceries. “Would your friends like some lunch?” he asked, also in a whisper. “I just got back from T & T Supermarket.”
My stomach growled loudly in response. Astrid and I had eaten day-old doughnuts from her coffee shop for breakfast, but that was hours ago.
Winnie jumped up. “I can make sandwiches with my homemade bread.”
Ten minutes later, the four of us were crowded into their tiny kitchen, which was still twenty times bigger than the Westfalia’s. Winnie served cheese sandwiches. “You really made the bread?” I asked. It looked delicious.
She nodded. “I started last year after I read an article about all the preservatives in store-bought. This one’s gluten-free, with quinoa and chia seeds.”
I took a big bite and started to chew.
It took all my willpower not to spit it out. The bread tasted like sawdust and had the consistency of tree bark. I could tell from Dylan’s face that he was struggling, too.
Winnie held out a plate to her dad. “You sure you won’t have one?”
Mr. Wu patted his stomach. “Wish I could. Still stuffed from a late breakfast. Honey, do you mind getting my water glass? I left it in the other room.”
The moment she was gone, he motioned to us. “Quick. Take out the cheese and hand me the bread.” We did as we were told. We wolfed down the cheese while he slipped the bread into the garbage, making sure to put other items on top of it. When Winnie returned, he told a Give Peace a Chance. “Your friends are bottomless pits! I’m making them lunch number two.” He started pulling stuff out of his grocery bags. “Steamed pork buns, anyone?”
“Bà, what have I said about pork?” Winnie chastised.
“Once in a while I need my fix,” he said. I ate four of them. They were legit delicious.
Mr. Wu seemed like a very good dad.
Before Dylan and I left, I used the bathroom. It was white and clean and smelled like lavender potpourri. They even had a heated toilet seat.
I sat there for a long time, feeling the warmth radiate through my bum. And suddenly, out of nowhere, tears pricked my eyes.
I longed for a toilet.
And I longed for my dad.
The first edition of the Blenheim Bugle came out on Wednesday. Monsieur Thibault gave us time to read it before lunch. It was eight pages, with the three French pages at the end. My article was featured first. I’ll try to translate from memory. It went something like this:
FUN
FRENCH FACTS, PART 1
By Felix Knutsson
The French invented many things: The Braille system. Pasteurization. Hot-air balloons. But I am going to tell you about a bloodier invention: the guillotine.
It was made by a doctor named Joseph-Ignace Guillotin in the late 1700s. He was against capital punishment. He made the guillotine because it was a nicer way to execute someone than with a sword or an ax. He was very sad when it was named after him. The guillotine chopped off tens of thousands of heads. Executions were big public events. People brought picnics and bought programs with the names of those about to be killed. The guillotine chopped off the heads of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette at the end of the French Revolution. It was used for the last time in 1977….
Et cetera. Dylan’s article came next.
POLTERGEISTS: FACT OR FICTION?
By Dylan Brinkerhoff
Poltergeist means “noisy ghost” in German. Poltergeists are different from regular ghosts because they can move things and even throw things. Some people think they mean harm, and maybe some of them do, but our poltergeist does not. That is right: We have a poltergeist. His name is Bernard. He is sometimes annoying, but I think he likes being a part of our family. I think he protects us in his own way….
Et cetera. Dylan and I had had to look a lot of words up and keep the grammar simple because we didn’t have a big French vocabulary yet. My simple crossword rounded out the second page.
Winnie’s article was last. Because it was so long, Charlie had made it single space to fit.
EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT ASBESTOS AND MESOTHELIOMA
By Winnie Wu
Mesothelioma is a cancerous tumor that starts in the cells of the mesothelium. What is the mesothelium, you ask? Well, it is a membrane that protects a lot of your internal organs. The one that protects our lungs is called the pleura. Actually, there are two layers, and the inner layer is called the visceral pleura and the outer layer is called the parietal pleura. Anyway, they are made up of cells. Those cells are called mesothelial cells. And sometimes they act up! They change and sometimes turn into cancerous cells. Why does this happen? Well, guess what: the culprit is often ASBESTOS. Asbestos fibers are very fine. And when someone breathes them in, they can get in—you guessed it—the mesothelium. The link between asbestos and mesothelioma has been known for years and lots of people die from it, and even though it is now illegal in Canada we still export it to other countries, which, in this reporter’s opinion, is sick and wrong. But also—news flash—it is still in the walls of many old buildings and—news flash—that includes our very own school….