April Raintree (10 page)

I was glad I still had Jennifer as a go-between on letters because in January, I got another fat envelope from Cheryl. I was rather disappointed when I opened the envelope and found most of it was a speech on the Metis.

That evening, at the chicken house, I read the letter out loud to Rebel I knew he didn't understand what was written but it was a little more comforting to be able to share this one joy in my life. And with the last friend I had around here.

January 26, 1963

Dear April,

How are you? I just know you're waiting for my next speech with anticipation, right? Well, here it is. Actually, it's not really a speech. I'm just caught up in this stuff. I don't think…Scratch that, it's a silly expression. I think my fellow classmates might not be able to hack another speech on Metis people. I was going to deliver this speech but now I've decided I will keep it among my papers on the history of the Metis. I think it's important that we know our own history. It's rather a short history compared to other nationalities but it's interesting as I've already stated and I wouldn't have minded one bit living in those days. Mrs. MacAdams used to have so many good books on the subject of Natives. I've been babysitting lately and next time we go to Winnipeg, I'm going to spend all I've got on books. I wish I could afford to buy every book there is. Sally says I'm going to need glasses. I doubt it. I'd hate to have to wear glasses. Wouldn't you? It's un-Indian.

Oh, I made the volleyball team. We'll be going around to different places and playing other schools. It's too bad you couldn't try out for after-school sports. I know you'd be good. Come spring, I won't join any outdoor stuff because I'd rather practice riding. I've been trying to do trick-riding but all I've got to show for my efforts are bruises.

Write back to me, April, and tell me what you think of my project. I'm going to work on something about Riel. I need a few more books though. Well, I'll sign off for now. Got a load of homework to do.

Love,
Cheryl

Then I dutifully read through her essay. Again, she wrote about the Metis with a touch of pride.

“…The two armed parties met at Seven Oaks. Grant sent an emissary to Semple, demanding his surrender. An argument ensued and a settler fired. The sound of gunfire brought a nearby group of fifty more Metis to the scene. The battle-experienced Metis fired their round of shots and then fell to the ground to reload. The settlers, thinking they had shot these men down, began to cheer. The Metis, with their guns reloaded, charged the settlers. Terrified, most of the settlers turned and ran. The horsemen took over as if running buffalo. They overtook the settlers and shot them. Within fifteen minutes, twenty settlers and two of Grant's men were dead…”

Cheryl went into further detail describing why The Battle of Seven Oaks had happened. I hated dates and company names. And how come all this mattered to Cheryl so much that she planned to keep it among her papers. It almost sounded like she was going to be a History professor or something. Did it help her accept the coloring of her skin? Was that why we thought so differently? That and her superior intelligence? One had to be super-intelligent to find this kind of thing exciting. Skin coloring didn't matter in this school. Everyone treated me like a full-blooded Indian. I'd never forget being called ‘Gramma Squaw'. I hated those DeRosier kids so much. I sure wished I knew what they had been up to this time.

A few months later, I did find out. The Guidance Counsellor, Mrs. Wartzman, was waiting for me in the hall one day at lunchtime. She said she wanted to see me in her office. The Counsellor came right out and said what was on her mind. “April, I've heard some disturbing things and I feel I should talk this over with you. I know that you're a foster girl and perhaps that's the reason. You feel a need to be loved. Well, what I'm really trying to say is that you shouldn't be letting Raymond and Gilbert fondle you. They're only using you, you know.”

I sat in the chair with my mouth open. I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me. A tidal wave, I might add. I was sure my face was red. I thought later that Mrs. Wartzman probably assumed I was embarrassed because she knew all about my ‘indiscretions'.

“Perhaps it's not my place to be talking to you. It's such a sensitive issue. I know that you're doing well in your grades and I want to warn you that a pregnancy would disrupt your life. Let's see if we can't get your life on the right track again. And if Mrs. DeRosier has taken this up with your social worker, I can say that we had this little talk. Okay?” Mrs. Wartzman finished it with a smile.

I walked out of her office in a daze. It was a warm spring day so I went outside to eat my lunch. I really wanted to avoid the lunchroom and have some privacy to myself but there were kids outside. When they saw me, some of them snickered. I wanted to die, crawl away into some hole and never be seen again. Instead, I sat and nibbled my sandwich. If it had been Peter I was accused of fooling with, I would have been embarrassed. But Raymond and Gilbert? Both? At the same time? Not only were they ugly and pimply but they passed their grades only because of their age and their size. I didn't have anything against them but I'd have to be plumb out of my head to even look at them in ‘that' way. Well, it was no wonder Jennifer and Peter stayed away from me. Bet then, how could Jennifer believe that of me? And had Raymond and Gilbert gotten that same kind of speech? Probably not. Only girls got pregnant.

For the rest, of that week I walked around thinking about it. On Saturday, I found myself at the riverbank, talking to my old friend, Rebel.

“I know I shouldn't feel so sorry for myself. I know that other kids go through much worse than me. But knowing that doesn't make it easier. At least, Gilbert and Raymond are getting out of this rathole. I wonder who they're going to accuse me of doing things with next. I'll bet Mrs. DeRosier knew all about their rumors too. Rebel, I have to get out of this place. I just have to. Do you know how hard it is to walk around that school with those rumors over my head?”

Rebel came over, put his paw on me and licked my face. I just continued grumbling. “And if they don't get some other boys, I'll probably have to take the bales off the fields all by myself, on top of all the other work I have. How could Jennifer believe all those things about me? How could she? I thought she was such a good friend. Maybe she doesn't believe them. Maybe she's just scared to be seen with me. Boy! I'm going to get even with those DeRosiers. I don't know how, but somehow, some way, I'm going to get them. And when I get through with them, they're never going to get another foster kid. Never!”

CHAPTER 6

I had no idea how I was going to get even with the DeRosiers for those horrible rumors. It just made me feel a little better to think I could. I would entertain different ideas but I discarded them all. Talking to my social worker was futile because she'd already proven to me that she could be fooled too easily by the DeRosiers. And the same thing went for the teachers at school.

Since I never saw Jennifer over the summer months, Cheryl and I didn't write to each other. It was when I went into Grade Ten that an opportunity presented itself. I didn't recognize it as such. Jennifer came to me with a letter from Cheryl in September. I expected her to walk away but she stayed and after an awkward pause, she said, “April, about last year… I guess I should have told you what was going on when I first heard about it. But there are these sayings, you know, about being judged by the company you keep. Well, I didn't want to get the same hassles you were getting. I'm chicken. I couldn't take that kind of thing.”

I looked at her and said, “Did you believe any of it?”

“No. I knew you. I knew you wouldn't do anything like what they said. I'd like for us to be friends again.”

“I'd like that, too,” I said, gratefully.

“One more thing, April. I'm sorry I didn't stand by you,” she added.

I smiled. “It's okay, Jenny. I understand. You've done a lot for me, already.”

In October, Mrs. Gauthier, our English teacher told us that the
Southern Journal
was holding a competition for Christmas stories and we'd have two weeks in which to submit entries. At lunchtime, Jennifer and I talked about the competition. English was my strongest subject and compositions were easy for me. It was mostly just a matter of choosing a topic that would attract attention.

“Why don't you write about your life with the DeRosiers?” Jennifer asked with a grin.

I thought it was a great idea. But then I said, “It has to be a Christmas story and they have a way of destroying Christmas for me.”

For a week I pondered over how I could work my life at the DeRosiers into a Christmas story. Finally, the idea came to me and I started on my story at lunchtimes. The title was the usual—“What I Want for Christmas” and I ended the story with the sentence: ‘What I want for Christmas is for someone to listen to me and to believe in me.” I handed it in to Mrs. Gauthier.

The next day, Mrs. Gauthier asked me to stay at lunch. I waited and was surprised when Mrs. Wartzman came into the room with my story in her hand.

Mrs. Wartzman said to me, “This is an incredible story, April. Is this really what's been going on?”

I nodded, unable to speak because that perpetual lump in my throat was back. I was sure they were going to throw my story in the garbage after giving me a good scolding. Maybe they would even show it to Mrs. DeRosier.

Mrs. Gauthier's next words gave me hope. “I believe the story. I've heard the rumors about April and she's never done anything to indicate that they were true. She's a very good student. One of the best.”

“Oh, I'm sure she is. I've checked with Cheryl's former Grade Five teacher and she confirmed what you wrote, April. I can't believe that workers would place children in this kind of home.”

“Why didn't you ever tell your social worker or one of us?” Mrs. Gauthier asked.

“We tried. We tried to tell our workers but they would only believe what Mrs. DeRosier told them. And when you said those things to me last year…” I looked at Mrs. Wartzman.

“I owe you an apology, April. I am so sorry I jumped to conclusions,” Mrs. Wartzman said.

It was decided that my story would not be entered in the competition and they urged me to write another one in its place. From what I understood, Mrs. Wartzman was going to call my social worker herself. That was good enough for me.

I waited impatiently. In November 1963, something happened in the United States which made me forget my impatience temporarily. The President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, was shot. I was just coming back from lunch when I heard the news. The whole class was subdued and I was shocked. Cheryl and I had talked about him a few times. She admired him for many reasons. In the weeks which followed, I saved clippings from the newspaper on his funeral and his family. I wasn't allowed to watch television so I missed an awful lot, including the death of Lee Harvey Oswald. I planned on giving my clippings to Cheryl. We were supposed to have a visit but for some reason it was put off.

I returned to my impatient waiting. Had the wheels of motion begun or was nothing going to come of my story, after all? Christmas passed and then it was 1964. The only consolation I had until then was that two grown-ups were aware of my predicament. Then in January, I got a letter from Cheryl.

January 16, 1964

Dear April,

How are you? I got your letter and obviously you didn't know you missed a visit with me. I waited at the Children's Aid office all afternoon December 23rd. Then Miss Turner came and told me that Mrs. DeRosier called to say she wasn't able to make it to town because she'd gotten stuck. Is that true? Anyways, I'm glad you've gotten through to your teachers. Have you heard anything further? We are getting a new social worker, did you know that? I sure hope she's going to be better than what we've got now.

Wasn't it terrible about President Kennedy being assassinated? I wanted to see you so much to talk about it. I cried all that night and the next few days. I read a lot on history and politics. All the Kennedys were so interesting and young and vital. I used to collect items on them. I'm sure that Robert Kennedy will get in as President, though. I hope he keeps the same speech writers. Kennedy's speeches were just marvellous.

Anyways, I've enclosed my historical piece on Riel at the Red River Insurrection. You ought to see this rubbish we have to take in History. I don't know if you took the same textbook. It makes me wish those whitemen had never come here. But then we would not have been born. At least, the Indians would have been left in peace. Nothing those tribes ever did to each other matches what the whites have done to them. Whoa, there, Cheryl. You probably don't agree with me, do you, April? But history should be an unbiased representation of the facts. (Unfortunately, I'm not unbiased but fortunately, I don't plan on writing a history book.) And if they show one side, they ought to show the other side equally. Anyways, I'm writing the Metis side of things but just for myself. And you. I don't really know what I'm going to do with it otherwise, but it makes me feel good.

Well, I hope you like my essay. I'll sign off for now. Let me know what happens. Sure is taking a long time.

Love,
Cheryl

As I read her letter, I was infuriated to learn of Mrs. DeRosier's usual deceit. Stuck, was she? Well, she'd be stuck once the social worker got through with her. Any new social worker had to be better than what we had now. Then my feelings changed to regret when I read about her reactions to President Kennedy's death. That had been so unnecessary, so senseless. Suddenly, a thought hit me. Had Mrs. DeRosier learned of my essay? And maybe now, she was going to stop me from seeing Cheryl? I felt a chill. She did know. As usual, it was going to be me who got stuck… stuck here until when? It just wasn't fair.