True Colours

YOU.

CHAPTER 1: SQUIRRELLED AWAY

All units on standby—suspect is in position. Do you copy that, Dancing Raven? Hello?

Yeah, I gotcha. This is so gross, Zoe; I’m kneeling in cat poop here.

Insufficient response, Dancing Raven, I require a roger-roger on that.

Fine, roger-roger!

I am also to be addressed by my code name when on duty . . . Striking Serpent.

Whatever . . . can we move now?

This impatient, slightly bored tone was something that I was used to hearing in Shanisa’s speech these days. I was getting good at tuning it out.

I exchanged my walkie-talkie for a pair of binoculars. From behind my family’s camping trailer, I peered undetected into Mr. Coombs’ backyard. He emerged from his woodshed minus the traps he had been carrying upon entering. He closed the heavy wooden door and secured it with a padlock, and then he walked away with an unmistakable look of triumph on his face. This could only mean one thing. I knew that I would have to act quickly, or it would be too late.

Yo, Striking Serpent . . . look, if you don’t answer me, I’m going to the mall!

I fumbled with my protesting walkie-talkie; fighting the static was bad enough without having to deal with the voice snarling at me on the other end. That voice belonged to my best friend, Shanisa Davies.

We’d been tight ever since the sixth grade, having shared everything from hooded sweatshirts to school lunches, and even a bad case of poison ivy during one disastrous camping trip. Since the summer before seventh grade, she and I had been in business together as animal freedom fighters, defending animals of all kinds from the cruel fates of homelessness, abuse, abandonment, and some cases. . . . death. Shanisa and I are the two (and only, for that matter) official members of the group Animal Freedom Fighters Anonymous (A.F.F.A), a title that had to be revised from my original Federation of Animal Rights Tribulations, which, Shanisa had pointed out, abbreviated to spell F.A.R.T.

For as long as I could remember, I’d been passionate about animals. I volunteered on Saturday afternoons at the local animal shelter and hoped to someday be a veterinarian.

Several times throughout middle school, Shanisa and I had discussed owning our own emergency animal clinic. It was a common goal that we both cared deeply about, a pipe dream, as my dad would say.

Although Shanisa and I may have been like-minded in the animal welfare department, when it came to appearances, we were about as opposite as you could get.

While she was dark-skinned, I was pale (so pale, in fact, that even the freckles that most redheads get skipped me altogether, finding my face to be too plain a canvas, I suppose).

Her eyes were so brown, they were almost black. Mine were a swirled shade of hazel that oscillated somewhere in the green-grey spectrum. Her dark mane of hair cascaded down her back in a perfect deluge of curls, while my own shoulder-length auburn tresses read me the riot act every time I attempted the simple manoeuver of trying to gather them into a ponytail.

And lastly, but perhaps most poignantly, she was tall and curvy . . . in all the right places I might add. And while I had the height gene in my favour (thanks, Mom), I was completely flat-chested, and so skinny, I could be mistaken for a bean pole if I stood sideways in my mother’s garden. I’ve always been that way. That’s where I got my nickname String from. My dad made it up when I was little, because my stature so closely resembled a string bean. Cute when you’re five, not so much when you’re fifteen.

In the four years that we’d been hanging around together, I’d pretty much stayed the same person, but Shanisa had changed greatly, especially in the last year or so. The Shanisa of the past would not have hesitated to drop everything she was doing to climb a tree with me to rescue some poor, skittish cat. The Shanisa of today was way more interested in clothes and hairstyles, giving excursions to the mall in search of the perfect pair of shoes priority over scoping the parks for lost or homeless animals: you wouldn’t believe how much I’d had to beg and guilt her into coming to help me today. (My mother would have been proud of me . . . if that were at all possible.)

ZOE! ARE YOU THERE?

Roger–roger, Dancing Raven, I’m in position, ready when you are.

Copy that, Striking Serpent . . . I’m going in.

I watched as my beautiful friend emerged from behind the shrubs of my neighbour’s front yard with an armload of wicker baskets. She gingerly pressed the doorbell and smoothed down her denim skirt. When the front door opened, I made my very calculated move and dashed from behind the camping trailer, over the fence of our backyard and raced up to my first mark of cover—one of the oak trees that separated our property from our neighbour, Mr. Coombs.

Now before you judge him, I feel I should explain: he’s not a bad man. In fact, Mr. Coombs had been very good to our family, especially last spring when our basement flooded. But he had grown up as the eldest of seven children to farmers who lived through some very difficult times. To Mr. Coombs, animals were not seen as pets or companions, they were either a source of food or a nuisance to be dealt with.

Unfortunately for them, the family of squirrels that had made their nest in his woodshed had fallen into the second category. Mr. Coombs had been complaining for weeks about the mess they had been making in there, and I just happened to overhear his plan for exterminating them while he was venting his troubles to my mother as she was hanging out the wash. (Okay, okay . . . I was totally eavesdropping; don’t pretend that you’ve never done it.)

Despite the anxiety about my time-sensitive task, part of me wished I could be a fly on the wall and hear Shanisa deliver another Academy Award-winning performance. She had rehearsed her sales pitch on me earlier; her plan was to attempt to coax Mr. Coombs into purchasing baskets made by an organization of disabled individuals. An impossible task, but if anyone was up for it, it was Shanisa; she is an incredible actress. She could give Meryl Streep a run for her money.

Another sprint brought me to the back of Mr. Coombs’ woodshed. I could feel the heat of the late August sun beaming down on me as I popped open the screen of the window and hoisted myself inside. My nostrils were immediately filled with the mixed scent of newly-chopped wood, fresh lawn soil and the residue of a gas-powered lawn mower that had been used earlier in the day. With the door closed, very little light came into the shed, making it difficult to see. I removed my pocket flash light and turned it on. A quick survey of the floor produced what I was looking for: the traps.

To my relief, they were still empty. Okay, first order of business. I dropped to my knees in front of the traps set in the far right corner. I quickly slipped off my backpack and rummaged around for the popsicle sticks I had packed earlier. With hands slightly shaking from the adrenaline, I removed them from my pack, all the while trying to block out the intruding thought of how angry my parents would be with me if they had known what I was doing.

What Mr. Coombs does on his property is none of your business, my dad would say.

I didn’t raise my daughter to break into other people’s wood sheds. I expected more from you, my mom would add. And I had to admit, I didn’t feel great about my current situation, although I strongly stood by my conviction that I was acting for the greater good. I just couldn’t sit around and let those squirrels die in Mr.Coombs’ woodshed. I’d never be able to live with myself.

So one by one, I poked at the traps with the popsicle sticks, and they all produced a sickening snap sound that closely resembled the noise that had come from my brother’s arm last summer when he had fallen from our tree house. It’s too bad it wasn’t his neck that he broke. I know that seems like a rather harsh thing to say, but you don’t know my brother.

Moving as quickly as I could, I disabled all the traps I found, confident in Shanisa’s ability to keep Mr. Coombs occupied at the front of his house, trilling away about the virtues of woven bamboo baskets. I had just zipped up my backpack and was prepared to jump out the window again when a fury of squeaking coming from behind the last woodpile in the far left-hand corner caught my attention. I removed the flashlight from my bag to illuminate my path to the source of the commotion. To my horror, I discovered five baby squirrels huddled around their mother, who was lying dead in a trap I hadn’t noticed at first.

A sickening feeling washed over me as I looked at the helpless babies. What was to become of them without their mother? I forced myself to swallow back the lump that was building in my throat. No time for tears.

I moved swiftly, gathering up all the babies and tucking them safely inside my bag. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the mother squirrel again. With that done, I hoisted myself up through the window, replaced the screen and snuck back to my own yard. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do with five baby squirrels, but before I planned out my next course of action, I first had to give Shanisa the all clear sign. Entering our large, two-storey home through the back entrance of the sun porch, I raced past the laundry room, dining room, and kitchen, through to the front hallway. I picked up the watering can in the corner, opened the front door and stepped onto the landing to begin my inconspicuous task of watering the flower pots on the front steps.

Good afternoon, Mr. Coombs, I called politely, nice day, isn’t it?

Hello, Zoe, it certainly is.

All right dear, I’ll tell you what . . . he said, turning his attention once again to Shanisa.

I’ll give you double what your ‘organization’ wants for those putrid baskets if you promise to leave my property and never return. I don’t want to be on a mailing list or approached for donations at Christmas. Understood?

Before she could reply, Mr. Coombs had stuffed a crisp twenty dollar bill into Shanisa’s well-manicured hand. And you can keep the baskets, he added before shutting the door on the unwelcomed saleswoman.

Shanisa did not appear to be fazed by his rudeness. She bounced off the front steps and down the driveway, probably debating what shade of glitter gloss to purchase at the mall. I retreated to the treehouse.

What took you so long? I snapped over my shoulder a few minutes later, upon hearing the secret knock on the trap door.

I had to go around the block, Shanisa replied as she went inside, so he wouldn’t see me come directly here. Standard procedure . . . what’s gotten into you?

I don’t know what I’m going to do with them. I could hear my voice begin to quiver.

Do with who? Shanisa inquired impatiently.

I pointed to the makeshift nest I had thrown together for the baby squirrels in the cedar chest that just moments ago had been occupied by my younger brother’s Lego collection.

Shanisa immediately softened once I recounted the horrid tale of their mother’s gruesome fate. Ah, Zee, don’t cry, hon, you did the best you could.

If only I had been faster, I sobbed. Just a few moments earlier, and I could have saved them all. Now they don’t have a mom.

Well, maybe not, but now the babies have us to look after them, and that’s almost as good. We can do this, Zee.

With those words, she threw her arms around me, giving me the reassurance I so desperately craved. For the first time in quite a while, I had the old Shanisa back with me, and I couldn’t think of any person I needed more.

CHAPTER 2: CONFESSIONS OF A NOT-SO-SHOPAHOLIC

I was wakened the next morning by my mother’s impatient knocking on my bedroom door.

Zoe, it’s after nine o’clock. We have a lot of running around to do today before the Davies’ barbecue If you don’t get a move on soon, we won’t be able to get any of your school things.

Okay, Mom, I’m coming, I answered grumpily.

Reluctantly, I pulled myself out of bed and headed towards the bathroom I shared with my brother. It had been an unsettling night. Over and over again, my mind replayed the events leading to the stay of my new house guests holed up in the cedar chest inside the treehouse. As soon as I was showered and dressed, I would have to sneak out to check on the babies. My head was still foggy with the remnants of sleep when I turned on the shower. I mindlessly slipped out of my T-shirt and into the shower stall. Somewhere in between sealing the curtain shut and reaching for the shampoo, I faintly detected the scent of brewing coffee. Chalking it up to some sort of brain synapse misfiring due to a crappy night’s sleep, I filed it under whatever and began the task of lathering up.

Closing my eyes, I fought with my thick, unruly (did I mention frizzy?) hair, forcing it back into the spray of the shower. I began to ponder what exactly I would say to my parents about the baby squirrels when they were discovered, which would be anytime later today after my brother Dylan returned home from a sleepover at his friend’s house. Dylan was three years younger than me, and staying true to the reputation that younger brothers have with their older sisters, he was an absolute pain in the ass. At the ripe old age of twelve, Dylan had two passions in life: #1 playing practical jokes, and #2 getting into my business and ratting me out to our parents. I was going to have to think of a really good bribe to keep Dylan from opening his mouth about my furry little refugees, once he became aware of their presence.

After rinsing away the shampoo from my eyes, I opened them and reached down for the soap. To my horror, I discovered murky brown suds of soapy water surrounding my feet. A jolt of fear and disgust ripped through my chest. I couldn’t possibly be that dirty, could I? It was then that I noticed the brown water cascading from the shower head.

Oh my god! I shrieked, frantically twisting at the taps, trying to turn the water off. I leapt out of the shower, nearly taking the curtain down in my hysterical attempt to escape. Then it hit me again: the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. As I surveyed the brown water that dripped from my body onto the bathmat, I slowly began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. I cautiously approached the shower head and unscrewed it from the nozzle. Just as I thought; the shower head had been filled with coffee grinds.

I dumped out the remaining mushy grinds in the garbage, turned the shower back on, and let the rest of the brown guck go down the drain before stepping back in, all the while standing stark naked and freezing on the bath mat, vowing to kill my brother, revive him, then kill him again, only slower.

After my second shower, I dressed quickly, grabbed a cinnamon-raisin bagel and bolted out the back door up to the tree house. It was a great relief to find all five babies huddled together keeping warm in their new nest.

Hey guys, I said, trying to speak softly, how we doing today?

I noticed that the pile of seeds and bowl of water lay untouched beside them. That confirmed my fear that they were too young to feed themselves.

Don’t worry, little guys, I’m gonna figure something out . . . .I’ll look after everything, I said, although I wasn’t sure who I was trying to reassure more, them or me.

I had just begun packing more straw into the squirrel nest when I heard my mother sound the horn of her car. HONNNNNK! Zoe! Let’s go!

I finished tending to the babies as quickly as I could then scrambled down the ladder of the tree house, holding my bagel between my teeth.

If there was one thing I definitely was not in the mood for this morning, it was a lecture from my mother on punctuality. She had a schedule to keep today and woe betide anyone who was not in line with it as well.

Physically, I am almost an exact replica of my mom. I had gotten my dark auburn hair and hazel eyes from her, as well as my tall, skinny body. But that is where the similarities ended.

My mother’s approach to life was that of a well-organized, neatly folded, watch me tie the perfect bow, iron the pillow cases because, yes, it does make a difference, control freak.

She worked as a local TV personality, hosting her own homemaking show on cable television. There she enlightened the domestically challenged population of Alder Springs, Ontario, pointing the way to the path of perfection via her fail-proof method of whipping up a meringue topping for your lemon pies, creating safe and chemical-free cleaners to deodorize and disinfect your home with supplies you already have in your pantry, or lecturing on the virtues of bringing starch back into your ironing.