No More Pranks (4 page)

But she wasn't talking now. She was staring out at the water as if it contained some secret message only she could understand.

“My uncle says the St. Lawrence reminds him of this girlfriend he once had. She was really moody,” I said, trying to make conversation.

“This isn't the St. Lawrence anymore,” she said, still without turning around. “It's the Saguenay River. The Saguenay is a saltwater fjord, the largest in Eastern Canada. It empties into the St. Lawrence.” She was starting to sound like a tour guide again, but at least she was talking to me. Well, sort of.

“Look out over there,” I said, “at about eleven o'clock.” From here the water looked very black, and I'd spotted some white blotches bobbing up to the surface.

“Belugas,” she said as she turned to the left. This time her voice sounded excited. There were three or four of them. Unlike minkes, who tended to travel alone or in pairs, belugas, my uncle had told me, were more sociable, often traveling in large groups or pods. They were the most endangered of all the whales in this area. “Belugas are the only whales that stay here all year long,” Rosalie said.

“Where do the rest go?” I asked. I couldn't tell for sure whether she was still mad at me, but I didn't think so.

“No one knows,” she said. Her voice sounded sad. “Why do you do things like that?” she asked suddenly.

“Like what?” I asked, though I knew she wasn't talking about whales. I was beginning to notice that Rosalie had a habit of just changing the subject out of nowhere.

“Like pretending you choked to death,” she said. The last couple of words sounded as if she were spitting them out.

“It was just a prank.”

“A prank?” She didn't seem to know the word, and I didn't know how to say “prank” in French.

“You know, kind of a joke.”

“Why do you do them—pranks?” Rosalie asked. You could tell she was trying out the word for the first time.

“I don't know,” I said. It was true—I didn't know why I pulled pranks.

“My mother says it's probably because you lack attention,” she blurted out.

“What does your mother know about it?” I asked. I was beginning to get pissed off. What business did Rosalie's mother have trying to figure out why I pulled pranks? I'd never even met the woman, but I could tell I wouldn't like her.

“Jean and Daisy told her what happened to you at school. How you got kicked out for saying those things on the radio about—” She stopped herself, as if she knew she'd said too much.

“You know about that?” I asked.

“Everyone knows. Tadoussac's a small place,” she said.

That made me wonder who else knew. Did Réal and the other guys on the work crew know? Was that why the lady in the cheese shop gave me a disapproving look whenever I came in with Uncle Jean?

“Maybe you do pranks when you feel angry,” Rosalie suggested.

“You don't
do
pranks—you pull them,” I said, correcting her English. I guess right then I
was
feeling angry. Who did this girl think she was, trying to figure me out? And there I was, thinking I'd come to Tadoussac with my past behind me, only to find out that everyone here knew about the trouble I'd gotten into at home. Darn right I felt angry.

“It does get me angry when you talk to me like I'm on a tour—and you're the tour guide. And it gets me angry when you drag me around from one exhibit to the next. Maybe you're right, maybe I
do
pull pranks when I'm angry,” I said, feeling kind of embarrassed when I realized how loudly I was talking. This middle-aged couple standing at the other end of the balcony were giving me funny looks. I hoped they didn't understand English.

I couldn't help wondering, though, about what Rosalie had said. I'd been angry at Mr. Quincy about the detention. On the other hand, I hadn't been angry at that woman who found the frog in the life jacket. I hadn't even known she'd be the one to take that particular life jacket. But maybe I'd been angry at Réal and the other guys on the crew for giving me all the rotten jobs and for treating me like an outsider.

“It's after two,” Rosalie said. “Your Uncle Jean and Aunt Daisy will be waiting. Let's go,” she said, taking my arm. “Oh, excuse me,” she added shyly, dropping my arm. “I forgot you don't like being dragged around.”

“That's okay,” I said, hooking my arm through hers. “But Rosalie, there's one thing. Don't say anything to Jean and Daisy about the prank, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, smiling up at me. “But no more pranks, okay?”

“No more pranks!” I said with a laugh.

The van was waiting at the top of the parking lot. To my surprise, Uncle Jean and Aunt
Daisy didn't ask about our visit to the center. When we slid into the backseat, they were in the middle of what sounded like an important conversation.

“I can't say no,” Uncle Jean was saying. “It's too big an opportunity.”

“But we don't have enough employees to staff an overnight trip,” Aunt Daisy said. “And I can't spare you at the B&B. It's our busiest season.”

Uncle Jean turned around to look first at me and then at Rosalie. “I may need some help from the two of you.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Bien sûr,” Rosalie said at the same time.

“I've been asked to organize an overnight kayak trip. I'd like you two to go along. If your parents agree, Rosalie, you and Pierre can set up the tents, and prepare meals.”

It sounded like fun. And it didn't hurt when Uncle Jean said he'd pay us each double the minimum wage for our trouble.

“Besides yourselves and Réal, there'll be four people going on the trip,” Uncle Jean
explained as we drove back along the winding highway that led toward the Whale's Tale. “They should be waiting at the B&B when we get there.”

Aunt Daisy nudged Uncle Jean as the van pulled up in the driveway. “You'd better warn the kids about the names,” she said. From where I was sitting, I could see Aunt Daisy suck in her cheeks. My mom does that when she's trying not to laugh.

Uncle Jean turned around to face us. Though he was grinning, his voice was serious. “Your Aunt Daisy's right. There is something I'd better warn you about. Those four people going on the trip—they're all named Mike.”

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Mike,” said a tall red-headed guy standing in the doorway at the B&B. He took my hand and pumped it hard. “This here's my buddy, Mike,” he said, gesturing to another guy, who was crouched on the floor, surrounded by a mound of clothing. He seemed to be looking for something inside his suitcase.

“Found it,” the second Mike said as he turned to greet us, the thing he'd been
looking for—a huge bottle of insect repel-lant—in one hand. As he stood up, he swatted his own arm. “Gotcha,” he said, examining the bloody remains of a mosquito on his fingertips. From the look on his face, you'd think he'd defeated some mortal enemy.

“I'm Mike,” announced a third man as he walked out of the bathroom and adjusted his glasses. “I'm his brother-in-law,” he said, lifting his chin in the direction of the first Mike, the one with the red hair.

Just as I was thinking I'd never seen so many Mikes in one place, another one came down the stairs. I figured he was a year or two older than me. And because he was tall, with red hair and wide shoulders, I had a feeling he was the first Mike's son.

“That there's my boy, Mike—”

“Junior,” I said, finishing the first Mike's sentence.

“It's one of the most common names in the world,” the Mike with the glasses explained. “Of course, there are variations—Mike, Michael, Miguel…”

“Michel,” added Rosalie, who was standing in the hallway.

I couldn't help thinking that the possibilities for pranks here were endless. I could get up in the middle of the night and yell “Mike!” to see how many of them answered. Or I could make each of them a nametag with the name Mike on it. “Just so I can tell you guys apart,” I'd say. That'd definitely be fun.

Then I remembered my promise to Rosalie. She'd kept her end of the deal by not telling Uncle Jean and Aunt Daisy about what had happened at the interpretive center. But maybe, I thought, pulling pranks was just part of who I was. Maybe I couldn't help pulling pranks any more than Mike Junior could help having red hair, no matter what Rosalie and her mom had to say about it.

The Mikes were spending the night at the B&B. If the sky was clear, we'd head out first thing in the morning. Our destination was Ile des Lièvres, a small island a couple of kilometers from the mouth of the Saguenay.

Réal dropped by after dinner to review the route with Uncle Jean. I watched them hunched over a map of the area. “As long as it's not too windy, the only tricky part is crossing between the ferries,” I overheard Uncle Jean say.

During the summer months, ferries leave every twenty minutes to cross the Saguenay to Tadoussac. There are ferries at night and in winter too, but they're less frequent. We'd need to time things just right so that none of our kayaks were caught in the path of the huge passenger boats.

“You'll need to pack light,” Uncle Jean told the Mikes when he joined them later around the fireplace in the living room. “There isn't much storage space in a kayak. And there are plenty of necessities to carry—tents, sleeping bags, food and water.” He and Réal had already begun to organize supplies. The corridor between the kitchen and the living room was lined with cardboard boxes piled high with some of the stuff Uncle Jean had described. I spotted a box of dry cereal, several packets of noodles and a box of granola
bars. From the looks of it, Rosalie and I wouldn't be doing any gourmet cooking.

Mike Junior slept on a cot in my room. His feet hung over the end of the mattress, but he didn't complain. I thought he was okay, except for his snoring. After a while, when the noise really started to get to me, I took one of the pillows from my bed and threw it at him. It landed—bull's eye—right over his mouth. I was glad he didn't wake up—and that he quit snoring.

Kayaking, especially in the choppy waters of the St. Lawrence and the Saguenay, can be hard work. In all, we were four kayaks. Rosalie and I had led the group out of the Tadoussac harbour. A cruise ship was pulling out at the same time. Several passengers on the deck waved as they passed us. Réal, the only one in our group in a single kayak, had stayed toward the rear so he could keep an eye on the rest of us. Though the sky was clear, there was some wind. Luckily, it was moving in the same direction we were.

This time I sat in the stern. Rosalie's braids were tucked under her sun hat. As
we rounded the first cove, we reached the confluence—the point where the St. Lawrence and the Saguenay meet. From here, the St. Lawrence looked bigger than ever. I tried to imagine what it must have been like to be one of the early explorers, arriving in this area for the first time. Though the St. Lawrence dwarfed the Saguenay, I knew that the quick-moving waters of the fjord could be just as dangerous.

Réal whistled—a sign we were to wait for him to catch up with us. “Got any snacks?” Mike Junior called out as the kayak he and his dad were in approached ours. I passed him a granola bar I'd tucked into the pocket of my life jacket the night before.

“Sure is beautiful out here,” Mike Junior said, unpacking the bar. The wrapper flapped in the wind. For a minute I thought he was going to toss the piece of foil into the water, but he seemed to change his mind, stuffing it instead into one of the pockets on his life jacket.

Réal pulled up just after the other kayaks. “Okay,” he said, checking his watch, “we
should be at the ferry crossing in about ten minutes—which gives us another ten minutes before the next ferry. Do you want to try to do it, or should we take a break and wait till after the next ferry crosses?”

The Mikes exchanged looks. “Let's go for it,” Mike Junior's dad announced. Even after just a morning out on the water, his face was sunburned a fiery red.

“The wind is with us,” said Réal, eyeing some bushes near the shoreline. Like the foil wrapper Mike Junior had been holding in his hands, the bushes were blowing west—the same direction we were heading down the fjord. “Let's go then,” Réal announced. He pressed the end of his paddle against the back of our kayak—his signal that we were setting off.

Across the channel, a ferry was docking. In the distance we could see cars disembarking, and along the nearby road a long snaking line of cars and trucks waiting to get on. Keeping my shoulders straight, I used my forearms to paddle ahead. Tiny droplets of sweat glistened on the back of Rosalie's neck.
She hummed as she paddled, but I couldn't make out the tune.

Just then a gust of wind lifted Rosalie's hat from her head. “I liked that hat,” I heard her mutter.

Without thinking, I let my paddle slide and reached into the air for the hat.

“Don't do that,” Rosalie said in a voice I hadn't heard her use before. The hat flew off, close to the water, like one of the cormorants Uncle Jean had told me about.

Rosalie's hat was lost, but at least the kayak was stable. If I'd reached any farther forward, we might have tipped. I couldn't help thinking of the woman I'd pranked the other day. Even though I was wearing two layers over my wetsuit, my body felt chilled.

The hat took off into the sky like a balloon. Then something suddenly occurred to me. Rosalie's hat was blowing east, not west. The wind had changed direction.

“Pierre! Rosalie!” Réal's shouts echoed across the water. When we turned to look at him, he was pointing at the ferry. It was headed right for us.

Even if the ferry captain had seen us, there wasn't much he could have done. The ferry was attached to underwater cables that pulled it from one side of the Saguenay to the other.