Like a Duck, page 1
Title Page
Dedication
For my Dahlia
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Dear Papa
How It Started
The Spot
Exploring Zee Joy
Friend or Food?
Be Like a Duck
Where Beaches Go
Doctor’s Orders
Cheesed
Snake Skins and Troll Dolls
Bad Omens
Sizzling Bacon in a Garden
Ripping Out Pages
Last Night
It Goes Like This
The Great Omelette Kerfuffle
Worse than Mucous Shoes
Gone
Duck, Duck, Loose
Search Party
Grandma Style
D Stands for What?
Speechless
You and Me Day
All the Words
Eye of the Storm
It Happened on a Fuzzy Morning
Back to the Beach
Feather Butt
Sandcastles in the Spot
Gigi’s Secret
Café 113
Lunch Is Served
Deleted
Paddling Furiously
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Deborah Kerbel
Copyright
Dear Papa,
My birthday’s tomorrow.
One more sleep and I’ll officially be old enough to …
1- babysit
2- legally ride in the front seat
3- swim unsupervised at the community centre pool
Which means I’ll be technically practically almost an adult.
Do you ever think of me on August 27th? Or is it just another regular day in summer?
Is it even summer where you are?
Your daughter,
Sarah
How It Started
The first crack in my busted-up summer showed up on the night of my twelfth birthday. Inevitably. Because no matter how much you might think you deserve just one single, perfect, cake-filled, problem-free day a year, something bad always has to come along and mess it up. Amirite?
I was scraping up the last smudges of icing from my plate when Mombo broke the news.
“That’s a joke, right?” I said, pausing with my fork in mid-air. I glanced quickly at Webster to see if he knew anything about this. But his raspberry-stained face seemed just as surprised as mine.
“I know you’re disappointed,” my mother replied, her thin eyebrows doing that twitchy, jerky thing they do when she gets upset. “But we’ll still have our evenings together. And it’s just for one short week.” Her words came out slow and steady — kind of like how you’d talk to a growling dog. Definitely not a funny-ha-ha kind of voice.
Which meant this was for real.
My fork dropped to my plate with a clatter. Mombo flinched. These were her best dishes — dug out from the depths of the china cupboard just for special occasions.
“But this is my birthday week,” I said. “Our one ‘You and Me’ week of the year. You know that.” The last week of summer has always been reserved for the Lasagna girls. Mombo books holiday time off work and it’s movies, manicures, breakfast in bed, take-away dinners, and monster marshmallow smoothies for seven whole days. We’ve never had money for a proper vacation, so we’ve been doing this ever since I can remember. And it’s always just the two of us and sometimes Gran joins us for a movie or two (even though she’s a Cameron, not a Lasagna). And Webster is included, of course. He’s the only male allowed.
“I know, I know …” Mombo replied, putting down her teacup with a sigh. “But Helen fell and broke her ankle this morning, and Doug and Shayna are off on vacation — not together of course — and Jill really needs me to cover for her—”
“I won’t go to French cooking camp!” I crossed my arms tightly in front of me.
“—and there’s nobody else to ask because we’ve been short-staffed after our last intern quit in June …”
“Not. Happening.”
“… and it’s not like this was my choice …”
I shook my head so hard my neck hurt. “Uh-unh.”
“But, darling …”
“Don’t even try to make me!”
“Oh, crumb,” Mombo said, slumping in her chair and letting out a long sigh. She looked like a tiny blond balloon slowly leaking air. Unfortunately, my heart was too busy imploding to sympathize.
I should have known something terrible was going to spoil this day. Because it had been going so great up until this point — I guess too great. This morning I’d somehow managed to convince Mombo to let me get neon green elastics on my braces at my next orthodontist appointment, even though she said they would look “vulgar” and everyone will probably think I have lettuce stuck in my teeth. And then this afternoon, she drove us down the coast to an actual beach so Webster and I could go body surfing, and the ocean was warm and the sun was shining and the waves were just the right height. And then tonight before dinner, I finally got the phone I’ve been begging for all year. I didn’t even care that it was Mombo’s hand-me-down, and that she got the shiny, straight-from-the-box new one. All I cared about was that it worked. And that I had my own number and enough memory to download the FindYourPeeps app I’d seen advertised on the back page of the travel section of Grandad’s newspaper. It had been a perfect day up until this moment. And now, with my birthday candle smoke still fresh in the air, she decides to drop this cooking camp bomb on my head?
I could feel tears starting to pile up in my eyes. Losing something you love stings. Mombo knew this just as well as I did.
“I … I don’t even speak French!”
She laughed wearily and lifted her hair off her neck. Two delicate trickles of sweat ran down the sides of her face. “Don’t be silly,” she said, fanning herself with her spare hand. Two days ago, the A/C in our apartment broke down for the third time this summer. It was literally like a sauna in there. And I’m not saying literally just to be dramatic. I mean, if Webster was capable of perspiring, he’d probably be dripping right along with us. “You don’t have to speak it. Just cook the recipes.”
Please, let this be a nightmare. “I. Don’t. Cook. You know that!”
“Well then, this would be a perfect time to learn, wouldn’t it? You’re twelve now, darling. Not a baby anymore.”
“Then why are you treating me like one?” I shoved my plate away so hard, it flew across the wooden table and very nearly dropped off the other side. Webster let out a squeak and shrunk back in his seat, his dark eyes round with concern.
I shot up, pushing my chair back with a floor-ripping screech. “You don’t understand,” I said, struggling so hard to keep my voice from breaking. I knew if I cried, it would be game over. I had to stay strong if I wanted to hold on to any chance of changing her mind. “I want to spend the last week of summer with you. Like we always do. Not rolling dough in a stupid kitchen with a bunch of pre-teens sharing sob stories about our life-ruining parents.”
Mombo straightened back up slowly and let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, darling, but you don’t have much of a choice.”
“Webster and I could stay with—”
“I already asked,” she said, standing up to clear the table. As usual, her lace-trimmed apron had not a wrinkle, stain or crumb on it. And as usual, my T-shirt had all of the above. “Gran says she’s sorry but she can’t have you there. Grandad will be recovering from his hernia operation and needs peace and quiet.”
Was it my imagination or was she clattering the dishes a little louder than normal?
“We could be quiet.”
“She said it’s doctor’s orders.”
“So, let us come with you to work.”
“That’s an option, but you’d have to come alone. You know how Jill feels about having Webster in the shop.”
Jill is the owner of the gourmet catering business Mombo manages. She has strict rules about hygiene.
I slumped against the wall, searching my brain for a way out of this mess. Normally, I would ask to stay at London Bruin’s, two floors below. London is in my grade at school. She has four sisters, and their apartment is so crowded and loud, her parents never seem to notice (or care) when I come to visit. Plus London is super nice to Webster, which makes her okay in my book. But the Bruin family was leaving on holidays to PEI tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn. I really wish there was room in their van for two more! But I’m not that lucky. I never am.
“Couldn’t it at least be an interesting camp? What about arts and crafts? Or lacrosse? Or … anything else?”
Mombo ripped off a sheet of aluminum foil and scrunched it down around the leftover cake. “Believe me, I checked everything else.”
“What about that gymnastics camp I went to last month? I liked it there. I think I know some kids who might be going back …”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I tried. But this was the only camp with any space available at such short notice.”
“I bet.”
“Come on,” she said, rinsing out my favourite IGNY mug. “They said you could bring Webster. It’ll be fun.”
“No, it won’t.” I closed my eyes to keep the tears from showing, all too aware that I was on the verge of losing this battle. “Anyway, I’m twelve now. Isn’t that old enough to stay home on my own?”
“For short lengths of time, yes. But not all day for a full week. Especially when we’ re without a working air conditioner. It would be utterly irresponsible.”
“Ugh hic why do you have to hic be so overprotective?”
Great. Stress hiccups. I seem to come down with a honking case of them whenever I get upset. It’s like my body’s own ridiculous allergic reaction to anxiety. I opened my eyes and noticed Webster was watching me closely.
“Because I love you.”
“You don’t understand … You’re hic—”
“Ruining your life. I know.” Mombo placed the dishes in the sink and turned around, hands on her hips and dimpled chin tilted defiantly in the air. “Forgive me if I don’t like the idea of leaving my only child alone all day in a two-bedroom oven.”
“But I wouldn’t be alone,” I said, nodding my head toward Webster, still patiently sitting in the chair beside mine, propped up on a thick pillow so he could see me. My memories from that time are fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure it was the chair Papa used to sit in. None of this would be happening if he was still around, I thought grimly.
“Yes, of course you have Webster, darling. You know I love him with all my heart. But let’s be honest, he’s not exactly a reliable caregiver.”
Well, that was uncalled for. Webster let out a sigh and hopped down from the table. I marched over and gathered him into my arms, quickly covering the spots where I was pretty sure his ears were located. “How can you hic say that?” I hissed. “You know how sensitive he is.”
A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “But darling, he’s, you know … a duck.”
“So?”
“So? Really? I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation. Ducks can’t watch over children. I mean, what if there was an emergency?”
“Okay hic, maybe he wouldn’t be much help in a fire. Or if a burglar was making off with our TV. But Webster’s the one you hic want with me in case of a flood. He’s the best swimmer I know.”
Webster, having successfully wriggled his ears free from my hands, quacked softly at the sound of his name. He craned his neck and nuzzled his beak into my throat — his way of giving kisses when he knew I was upset. Webster has always had extrasensory perception when it comes to human emotions. Somehow, he seems to know exactly when I (and even Mombo) need him the most. Don’t ask me how, but he always knows. I pressed my cheek to his and wiped the bits of raspberry juice from his beak.
My mother came over and put a hand on my shoulder. Even though I was only twelve, I was already taller than her by several inches. Which isn’t as strange as it probably sounds because she’s pretty short for a grown-up. Gran’s short too. “You must get it from your father’s side,” she told me back when I was eight and we had to start buying my sneakers from the adult section of the shoe store. I don’t know if it was on purpose, but she managed to make your father’s side sound like a bad thing.
“We live on the fourth floor,” Mombo pointed out. “I’m not worried about a flood.”
“Okay. Then what exactly are you hic worried about?”
Her lips smashed together into a thin pink line and I got the distinct feeling she was struggling to hold something back. Webster stretched his neck down and nibbled sweetly on her earlobe while we waited for her to answer. A few seconds of heavy silence wedged between us before she pointed to the clock above the stove and said, in a voice so quiet I had to strain to make out the words, “Time for bed.”
Which everyone knows is international mother-code for: This conversation is over.
Seven Things You Should Know about Webster
1. He’s lived with us since I was two and a half.
Which was the year our family broke. And also the year I forgot how to talk … or decided I didn’t want to anymore. I couldn’t tell you exactly which one because I don’t really remember a lot from back then. Most of what I do know comes from bits and pieces Mombo’s told me over the years. She remembers it must have been around Easter, because that’s when all the new spring babies were born and she’d seen an adorable commercial for chocolate eggs featuring a cute baby duck. A few days before, our family doctor told her that a pet might be “therapeutic” to encourage me to speak again. I can’t say for sure but I’m guessing our doctor was probably suggesting a dog or a cat or even a guinea pig. But Mombo had made up her mind about getting me a duck. So the two of us drove over to the Spring Hill Farm and picked him out of a wriggling box full of peeping, tumbling yellow fuzzballs. He was five days old and so tiny I could hold him in one hand. For the next few weeks, he had to sleep in my room in a special crate with a heat lamp and eat from our hands. He was just a baby back in those days, and the vet said we wouldn’t know if he was a boy or a girl for a while — so we decided to give him a name that would work for both. I think we chose a pretty good one.
2. He’s emotionally supportive.
As it turned out, our doctor was right about the therapeutic thing. Apparently I began finding my words again within a few weeks of adopting Webster. Just a word or two to him at first, but then eventually to Mombo and then Grandad and then everyone else who’d listen. Because he was so great at speech therapy, Mombo got him registered as an official emotional support animal so our landlord couldn’t kick him out of the building. I guess she worried I might stop talking again if he wasn’t around. I don’t know. Maybe I would. But we’ve never been apart long enough to test that theory out.
3. People stare at us. All. The. Time.
It’s true. Although I really don’t understand why people think it’s strange to have a duck for a pet. I mean, how is it any more normal to have a fish? Or a ferret? Or one of those Furby things? Love is love is love. Amirite?
4. He wears a special duck diaper.
Ducks poop a lot. And they can’t be house-trained. So unless you live in a barn, diapers are the only way to go. We order special duck-sized ones in bulk off the internet.
5. He thinks I’m his mother.
This is not an exaggeration. It’s because of a natural duck instinct called imprinting and it’s pretty cool. And I guess in a weird way, I kind of am his mother. I mean, he wears a diaper, sleeps in my room, and has gone everywhere with me since he was a newborn duckling. He probably doesn’t even remember much about his life on the farm, so technically I would be the closest thing to a mother he’s ever known. I think that over the years, people in the Spot have gotten used to seeing Webster tag along wherever I go. Everyone loves him. Well, almost everyone. The ones who stubbornly remain not on Team Webster are Mombo’s boss, Jill, and Ms. Petri, the old lady who lives in the apartment beside ours. I don’t know why, but they’ve got these wild theories that ducks belong in ponds. Personally, I believe both their stone-cold hearts would benefit from the love of a pet. Even something smelly and cold like a turtle.
6. He has lots of nicknames.
Websie-Woo
Feather Butt
Quackalicious
Bird-Foo
Prince Weblington
Waddle-Bunny
Duck-Duck
Donald D.
Daffy McDuckface
and Beaker
7. He’s my best friend.
Webster is the world’s most supremely fantastic listener. And he’s fiercely loyal. And smart and funny. And adorable. And softer and more cuddly than any doll or toy. He’s the best pet ever. As long as you live walking distance to a large body of water. And don’t mind finding the odd feather in your food. And can handle the quacking.
Dear Papa,
I downloaded a free language app on my brand-new-used phone. Webster and I are learning Italian together! Well, I’m learning it. Webster’s just listening to me practise. But only when Mombo’s in the shower or sleeping or away at work. She doesn’t like hearing Italian. Things that remind her of you make her sad.
Possibly, likely, unfortunately including me.
At least it feels that way sometimes …
So, I’m officially twelve now.
If you ever come back, you’ll have someone to speak Italian with.
Do you ever think about coming back?
Arrivederci,
Sarah
The Spot
“So, are you excited to get cooking?”
“Hardly,” I grumbled, staring out the window.
We were on our way to the BBTS Community Centre. BBTS is an acronym for Blackhead by the Sea — our town’s official name. Yeah, I know. So gross. The old dude who founded it all those centuries ago must have thought it would be a funny joke to play on all the dermatologically challenged future young residents. Thankfully, nobody who lives here uses the official name. We just call it the Spot. Which is still not great, but anything’s better than Blackhead by the Sea.
