Last Chance for Paris Read online

  Last Chance for Paris

  by

  Sylvia McNicoll

  Copyright © 2008 by Sylvia McNicoll

  ePub edition copyright © September 2011

  Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside,

  195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8

  Published in the United States by Fitzhenry & Whiteside,

  311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Fitzhenry & Whiteside or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5, fax (416) 868-1621.

  By purchasing this e-book you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any unauthorized information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Fitzhenry & Whiteside.

  All inquiries should be addressed to Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited,

  195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Fitzhenry & Whiteside acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

  Design by Wycliffe Smith Design Inc.

  Cover photograph courtesy of Bob McNicoll. Pictured on cover Robin McNicoll

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  McNicoll, Sylvia, 1954-

  Last Chance for Paris / Sylvia McNicoll.

  ISBN 978-1-55455-061-6

  eISBN 978-1-55455-965-7

  1. Dogs-Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8575.N52L38 2008 jC813'.54 C2007-904596-0

  U.S. Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  (Library of Congress Standards)

  McNicoll, Sylvia.

  Last chance for Paris / Sylvia McNicoll.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55455-061-6 (pbk.)

  eISBN 978-1-55455-965-7

  Summary: When forced to spend the summer with her twin brother and

  their glaciologist father in the mountainous region of Last Chance Pass,

  Zanna takes in an injured puppy she names Paris. But when

  her brother goes missing, what had begun as a boring and rustic

  inconvenience turns into a matter of life and death.

  1. Dogs - Juvenile fiction. 2. Family life - Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  [Fic] dc22 PZ8.M2385La 2008

  For Sputnik, my fellow traveler for thirteen years.

  Special thanks to Dr. Richard M. Petrone.

  Also to Natalie Anne Comeau, dog trainer extraordinaire.

  CHAPTER 1

  Hey Zane,

  Mom’s trying to destroy me. I know I shared the womb with Martin once, and complained when they separated us four years ago, but cooping me up for a week in a pickup truck with him was her perfect revenge. He’s the poster boy for emissions control, and you should have heard Dad and him when we were driving through the oil fields. The first rig fueled the longest babblefest ever on alternative energy sources and greenhouse gas effects, blah, blah. They’re always trying to educate me! It’s been a rough ride crammed in together with them, the few earthly possessions I’ve been allowed, and all Dad’s tools. Up, down, around, and that’s just my stomach when they talk. “Look, there’s the new Ford hybrid!” I told them just to get them to breathe for a minute. It’s like I don’t exist to them otherwise. No Internet café in any of the towns where we’ve stopped. Dad wouldn’t let me use his satellite phone. Finally, when we arrived here at the Park Information Office in Last Chance Pass, there were two computers, one marked Out of Order and the other a too-slow chug-along. The connection is dial-up! Really. Last Chance Pass: our destination, the final frontier. Whose last chance anyway? “Only for one summer,” Mom says. Which might as well be forever for the two of us. I’m fourteen: I should have a say in my life! Still, don’t worry: I won’t let her break us up. The park attendant’s rushing me: someone is waiting, arrr. Who knew there were other people in this burg? Have to go. Martin is reaching for the keyboard. Love, Zanna

  I press Send a second before Martin can, then I swat his hand away from the keyboard.

  “Ouch. C’mon! Don’t you want to see our new home?” My wholesome brother towers over me. He’s grown a lot since we last lived together: too much fresh air and sunshine.

  “Not my home—my summer chalet!” I roll my eyes at Mr. Happy Face. Grinning, beaming brown eyes that look tiny in his smile creases, face round as a glow ball—he looks exactly like Dad. Why not; he’s lived with him for the last four years. Isn’t that what happens? We’re not identical twins, obviously— I’m a girl—but I don’t even think we look alike.

  I’m the brooding type. Learned it from Mom. Bony face, big dark eyes, and hair to match, if I let it. Instead, I streak it a bright yellow, kind of a tiger effect, so that people will stop saying we look alike. They still do anyways. Moody Mom, moody Zanna. Dad’s already told me a dozen times on this trip how much I remind him of her. I’m just not one of those people who smiles all the time without a reason, and right now, I’m searching hard for a reason to smile at all. I follow Martin out of the backwoods office to the truck where my father has packed even more of the backseat with groceries.

  Outside, I breathe in the thin air. The panorama of iced mountains looks postcard pretty, but the houses across the street spoil the foreground, the trim and window frames blistering with old paint, the yards overgrown with weeds. The sidewalks buckle and crack in places. There’s a “used-to-be” feeling to the place.

  An old lady inches by, gripping a walker marked with a jaunty maple-leaf flag. She’s openly staring at the ATV sitting in the back of our truck. It looks like a cross between a Hummer and a tractor: yellow, flattened-down roof, high cabin, and large treads. And yeah, Dad and Martin have already discussed replacing it with a more fuel-efficient model.

  “We’re filming the next James Bond movie,” Martin explains brightly, nodding toward the strange vehicle. “We’re the first of the film crew.”

  I elbow him hard, as her eyes open larger into watery-gray camera lenses and her mouth opens too. I’m about to tell her the truth but she doesn’t say anything. Is she not from this country? Or is it not the custom to speak in Last Chance? Instead, I find myself playing along with Martin. We’re a team again. I like it. It’s my first reason to really smile, and I do. “Yes, and I’m the actress they hired as the new Pussy Galore.” Still no reaction.

  Martin loses interest in her and scrambles into the front seat. “Shotgun!”

  “So immature,” I answer, climbing back onto the hard jump seat beside the supplies. He’s only seven minutes younger, but since he’s a guy you have to multiply that by seven years, I think. I’m still smiling though, because I’ve missed all his stupidity over the last few years.

  My father turns and grins. “Not long now.”

  Wincing, I fold my arms across my chest as we drive out of Last Chance. I count the streets, and there’s maybe ten, max, all lined with more old clapboard cottages. At the town limit, two larger-than-life grizzly bears
stand on their hind legs, massive brown wooden paws clawing at the air. Wilderness art. They look like the newest structures in the tiny burg.

  We’re beyond nowhere, I think as I watch iron-gray rock structures and scruffy green fir trees whiz by. As we turn, a bag of canned goods tips over and spills tinned Spam onto my lap. I push it back in, shuddering. I try never to be that close to dead flesh, canned or not.

  “Look, quick! That’s an eagle!” Dad jabs the windshield at the top.

  The large, winged speck circles, and the truck wobbles. “Watch the road, Dad!” I call, even as I keep staring at the bird. It swoops lower; I can see its white head and black body clearly. Suddenly it dips out of sight, like a story we’ll never read the ending to, and we continue to drive. I turn around to hunt for it through the back window, but it’s no use. I sigh. Boy, if I could fly, I’d be outta here too.

  I don’t even want to reach the end of our journey; I’m so scared of where I’ll be stuck this summer. I’ve seen pictures of the places Dad lives in when he’s in the Arctic. Maybe it will be a cabin with no electricity, running water, or even dial-up. That won’t bother my father and brother. They’ll like that: “We’re reducing global warming single-handedly,” Dad will say. Then he’ll thump the wall with his fist and explain how the logs are prepared and put together. “Cool!” Martin will say when he spots the outhouse. “No showers or baths all summer!” And neither will care about communication with the outside world. They have each other: what do they care? Of course, somewhere, holed up in a quaint little flat with a view of the Eiffel Tower, Mom will be sending I Love You and Wish You Were Here messages through to [email protected]. My stomach clenches into a fist.

  “Check out the waterfall!” Martin calls out.

  At the base of a mountain, water crashes into a cloudy white stream bubbling alongside the road.

  “Rock flour.” My father answers an unasked question. He’s a geomorphologist—a fancy name for a guy who studies rocks and glaciers; most people call him a glaciologist—and he can’t help sharing. “See the dusty color? Fine particles of stone cause it.”

  Looks unnatural, I think, like a witch’s brew. To me, all the scenery has a sinister, rough look to it. Slate- and pewter-colored stones shoot up on all sides; they feel like fortress walls. So desolate. We veer around another dark bend. “How much further?” I ask, thinking we’ll never be able to get to town on our own. No malls, no theaters, no arcades—just fresh air and nothing else. I shake my head.

  “Not long now,” Dad answers.

  “That’s what you said three hours ago.” Martin takes the words right out of my mind, not even my mouth. It’s an uncanny ability he still seems to have, even after our years apart.

  “Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it? Three hours is nothing compared to two weeks, right?” Dad ruffles Martin’s hair and Martin grins. I sigh. All their camaraderie makes me feel lonely for Mom, which is strange because we haven’t even been able to agree on toothpaste flavor lately.

  The truck turns onto a dirt road surrounded by huge, tall cedars, its wheels straddling the grass and weeds in the middle of the track. We bump, bump, bump around and then finally, we shudder to a stop.

  My mouth and heart open wide as the sky. This is it. Three similar-looking Heidi houses perch in a clearing. “That one’s ours!” Dad points to the first and largest one. With a red shingle roof and honey-colored log walls, the cabin blinks at the world through three tiny red-shuttered windows. I inhale deeply and the fist in my stomach unclenches. A lake in front of the houses sparkles with diamonds of sunlight. The rest of the lake is that unbelievable shade of aqua you see in those postcards of Greece that show the sea, except in spots where it mirrors the silver-capped mountains. I can’t help smiling again. It’s awesome.

  “Glacier silt in the water reflects back the light,” Dad explains. “The iron oxides make it that color.”

  Mediterranean blue, I think, a spectacular shade spoiled by too much scientific knowledge. What’s Dad going to talk about in fifty years if all the glaciers melt away by then? I squint at the lake as I breathe out. My heart actually aches. Where’s the tour bus, the T-shirt stand, the crowd of tourists with cameras, my mom? She’d love this scenery. I sigh. There’s something terrible about a beauty this big and wide and lonely.

  “Wow! Look!” My brother points. A large brown creature with a huge rack of antlers on its head stoops, lapping at the water. Is it real? It looks exactly like the stuffed one on display at the Park Information Office. The elk hears or smells my brother, lifts its head full of branches, and swings around toward us, slow and cowlike. Molasses-brown eyes don’t blink, and there are no rat-quick city nerves; he stoops again to finish his drink. To the side of me, I hear Dad’s camera click.

  Golden body and chocolate-dipped head. The elk strolls through the diamond water, barely making a ripple. I have the urge to jump at it, to make it run, kind of the same way my brother tapped on the lizard’s glass back at the Park Office to get some kind of reaction from within. I can’t take the elk’s slow, nothing-happening pace. Something has to happen. Someone has to free me from this slow-mo dream. The elk lifts its head again, ambles up the shore, and walks into the trees.

  Click! “Let’s check out the house!” My brother switches channels like a remote control. He stomps up the staircase that leads to the balcony and the front wall, that’s really just one large window overlooking the lake. Martin jiggles the handle of the sliding door, noisy and loud, shattering the silence, cracking open the tranquil-nature mood.

  Still under the spell of nature, I follow more slowly.

  “Just a minute, I’ve got the keys here.” Dad climbs up after him and fumbles through his collection. He slips the right key into the slot, twists, and we’re in.

  “Cool,” Martin says.

  I just stare. Like the elk in the lake, it’s not what I expected.

  There’s a kind of fake colonial theme running through the cabin. Sparkling new, with a stone fireplace in the corner, a maple-colored log interior, and bright red couches lining the walls, the house opens up at the top into a loft and, in another corner, a galley kitchen. I walk toward it. It only takes about eight steps to cross the cabin. Microwave, built-in stove, oven, fridge—and there are two more doors to the left, off the smallish passageway: a bedroom with a double bed and a bathroom.

  What a relief! There’s a tub, shower, toilet, and sink. No outhouse usage necessary this summer, even if it does conserve water.

  I open a closet door and a curtain rod falls down, barely missing my head. There’s a stack of fabric in it, purple with red and blue poppies—drapery of some sort.

  Dad picks up the rod and shoves it back into the closet. “Probably left over from the cabin’s model-home days.” He looks at the poppies on the curtain. “No accounting for taste.”

  “I like them,” I tell him as I move to shut the door.

  “Zanna likes something? Really? Let me see.” My brother pushes in and stares at the curtains. “Yeah, I can see why.” Insincere tone. He touches my forehead as if to feel for a temperature. Then kicks the door shut. “Come on. Let’s check out our bedroom!”

  “Excuse me? Our bedroom?” Back when we were ten we had bunk beds, and I loved it. Martin always kept my nightmares in check, kidding me out of them: “Did the monster look like this?” He’d cross his eyes and hang out his tongue, and he’d give me tricks for avoiding them. “Never face the wall if you want to have good dreams.” But we’re fourteen now, and the nightmares I have are totally different.

  I follow Martin around the corner. He climbs the steep stairs to the loft, and I scramble up behind him. “It really is only one room. You weren’t joking.” The room stretches across half the house, bigger than any other. At either end are identical beds, bureaus, desks, and cupboards, bland hotel-lodge-type furniture. A small window doesn’t quite light up the room from the center back wall, and of course, nowhere is there a dividing privacy wall. No privacy
from my brother’s half or the living area down below. “Dad, I can’t share a room with Martin. No offence, bro. A girl’s got to have some privacy!”

  Dad pokes his head into the loft area. “You’re not sharing a room, Zanna. Think of it as a backwoods adventure pad. This is as good as it gets!”

  Martin and Dad chuckle while I crouch and paw frantically at the baseboard behind the desk for a telephone jack. Nowhere, nothing. “How do we get Internet out here? Do we have broadband?” I look back at Dad.

  He shakes his head. “You can go to the Park Information Office anytime you want.”

  “No, no I can’t.” I stand again. “Have you noticed how far away it is? It’s not like I have a driver’s license or even a set of Rollerblades. Or do we have horses?” I ask hopefully, parting the window’s red curtains to look around the property. No barn anywhere. I sink down onto a bed.

  “Just think how fit you’ll get from all that hiking. You won’t miss your gym membership at all.”

  “Yeah, but will I still be able to have cybersex with multiple partners on a public computer?”

  Dad’s eyes bug out and his mouth drops open. Him and his stupid jokes; that’ll teach him. Martin sees the look on his face and falls onto the bed laughing. It’s a deep throaty chortle, and I can’t help laughing too. “Gotcha!” It feels great to know we still share the same sense of humor.

  But then Martin’s laughter sputters out and he switches channels again.

  “I’m starved!” he says.

  “Let’s unpack,” Dad answers. “Then we can have lunch.” They stomp down the stairs without even glancing back to see whether I’m coming.

  I ignore them and fling myself back onto the bed, staring up at the wood-beamed ceiling. I’m not even hungry; why should I help? Still, at the thought of food my stomach rumbles to life. Unbelieving, I sit up, touch it, and feel the complaints. After a week of traveling together, surely Dad remembers that I’m vegetarian, doesn’t he?

  The front door slides open and closed again and again as they empty the car. At least I can miss that joy. I hear the fridge clinking as they stock it with bottles, the cupboard doors banging, bags rattling. I hear the click-click of a manual can opener—how old-fashioned—and, not for the first time, stare down at the strawberry on my left ankle that started this whole ordeal.