The Middle of Everywhere by Monique Polak

Author:Monique Polak
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV000000
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2009-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

It’s only when I’m wrapped inside my sleeping bag that the images from Tarksalik’s accident come back: her body flying up in the air, the red pickup truck taking off, her blood on the snow-covered road.

I’m amazed that I didn’t think about the accident all day. I was too busy fighting the cold, helping with the dogs and the fishing net. We worked into the dark, and now I hardly have the energy to turn over. Winter camping’s even harder work than I expected.

Just fall asleep, I tell myself. I can hear Tom snoring lightly on the mattress next to mine. He even sleeps in squatting position—his legs folded under him, his chest and head stretched out in front of him so that his forehead touches the mattress. Lenny sleeps on his side, southern-style. The two of them conked right out. If only that would happen to me too.

I wish I could talk to my dad. Steve has a satellite phone—a clunky thing that must weigh three pounds—but it’s only for emergencies, so I haven’t had the heart to ask whether I could use it to call Dad and see how Tarksalik is doing. Besides, I can imagine the look Lenny would give me if he hears I’m still worried about the dog.

If I talked to my dad, maybe I’d also say something about that night he slept on the rock ledge. Maybe I’d ask why he never told me that story and why he told the kids in George River more about himself than he ever told me. But who am I kidding? I’d never say any of that to my dad. I’d ask about Tarksalik and then maybe we’d talk about the weather or how many assignments he’s got left to mark.

My triceps ache. It must be from helping Steve cut holes in the ice so we could set the net. He said nighttime is best for catching fish, since the fish don’t see the net. I’m starting to understand that surviving in the North means finding ways to outsmart nature.

We used a tuuk, a long wooden stick with a sharp metal end, to cut through the ice. It’s harder than it sounds, since the ice is, like, three feet deep. “You think this is thick,” Tom told me when I complained. “It’s nothing compared to how thick the ice was when my dad first took me fishing. Back then, the ice was at least five feet deep this time of year. You can thank global warming that we don’t have to dig so deep anymore.”

Lenny, who was about to take his turn, scowled. “Global warming,” he muttered under his breath. “The rest of the world screws up and we pay the price. It’s not right.”

I passed Lenny the tuuk. “You blaming me for global warming?” I felt my ears grow hot. That always happens to me when I’m angry.

“I didn’t say nothing about you,” Lenny said, but when he started cutting really hard with the tuuk, I got the feeling he did hold me personally responsible.

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