One
Ali Sloane knew her father was about to launch into his first-day-at-a-new-school lecture when he literally transformed into her. As in, features rearranging themselves, bones and muscles contracting, hair lengthening, and plaid work shirt and jeans morphing into a purple hoodie and black leggings. He didn’t stop until Ali was staring at a mirror image of herself. It would be impressive if it weren’t her father and her face.
“Remember: be yourself, Ali-Cat, and everything will be fine.”
They stood in her great-grandmother Gigi’s living room and waited for Ali’s mom and Gigi to come downstairs for the obligatory first-day-of-school photograph.
“Seriously? Says the man who just turned into his twelve-year-old daughter?”
Digger, which was what everybody called her father, including Ali, shrugged.
Ali sighed. She didn’t like it when he turned into her; it made her uncomfortable. This morning’s transformation was his long-standing trick to get her complete attention. But she wasn’t three years old anymore, she was twelve, and all he had to do was ask. Besides, it was the same speech he delivered every time she started a new school.
“I don’t know why you tell me to be myself. You know I can’t be anything but myself.” She turned her attention to her knapsack, double-checking that everything on the seventh-grade supplies list was accounted for, along with her library book.
Digger refused to be put off. “I just worry when every report card says you’re too concerned about getting along with people, to the detriment of yourself and your schoolwork.”
Ali snorted. If Digger had had to change schools as often as Ali—this was new school number ten—he would understand why she tried so hard to fit in. She yanked on the knapsack’s zipper and it caught on the canvas. After trying to fix it herself for a full minute, she gave up and passed it to Digger. “Can we please not have this conversation again?”
ALI’S LIST OF TOWNS (SO FAR)
Kindergarten: Campbellton
Grade One: Bathurst
Grade Two: Miramichi
Grade Three: Milltown
Grade Four: Lawrence Station, Harvey Station
Grade Five: McAdam, Woodstock
Grade Six: Sussex
Grade Seven: Saint John
It was odd to watch another version of herself unstick the zipper. A blink later and he was himself again, all sympathetic eyes. “I know it’s hard, Ali-Cat.”
They were interrupted by Gigi, who hobbled into the room resplendent in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, a fresh coat of red lipstick, and leopard-print mules. “Ginger will be right down. She wants to take the picture outside. And Ali’s right, Digger; leave her be. Are you worried about her being herself or that she’ll turn into a Copycat? Because if it’s the latter, you know Copycats begin to change soon after birth.” Despite being almost one hundred years old, Gigi’s ears missed nothing.
Thrilled to have an ally, Ali added, “How many times did you test my abilities when I was little?”
“Too many to count,” said Digger.
“See? I’m not a Copycat, just a regular old person like Mom. Stop worrying.”
“Don’t change the subject, Ali-Cat. You know that’s not what I was talking about. I know it’s hard to change schools, but the best way to make new friends is to be yourself.”
Like Digger had a clue about friends. He had only one friend: Ali’s mom, who was hurrying down the stairs toward them, applying her lipstick as she went.
“You’re supposed to be outside, people! We need to hurry; I just got a text from my supervisor. They need me as soon as I can get there.” She’d started work at a local nursing home the week before and, to make a good impression, went in early and stayed late.
Two minutes later, Ali and her parents stood on the front porch and watched Gigi struggle to adjust the camera lens.
“Stupid fog,” Gigi muttered. “It makes you look like ghosts.”
Ali, too nervous to sleep, had watched the fog roll in from the bay at five a.m., a thick line of chalky mist as unstoppable as the waves that broke on the shore. Within half an hour it had swallowed both the city and the sun, and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees.
When Ali had moved in, Gigi had given her a dusty old book about the fog by some long-dead Sloane relative. A quick skim revealed it to be the most boring book ever. Even worse, it smelled funny, and there were stains on the cover. The only interesting thing about it was that Digger and his cousin Teddy had written funny notes to each other in it when they were Ali’s age, probably because they thought it was as boring as she did. Besides, if she wanted to learn about fog, she could borrow her mom’s cell phone and search the latest scientific information.
“Hurry, Gigi,” Ali’s mom said. “I’m half frozen!” She was dressed in the nurse’s-aide scrubs Ali loved best, the ones covered in cheery daisies.
“I’m hurrying,” Gigi said, but she stopped to tighten the belt of her robe instead. “You three need to squeeze together. All I can see of Digger is his ear.”
Digger muttered something and moved closer.
“I need smiles!” Gigi ordered.
“For heaven’s sake, Digger, smile,” Ali’s mom directed through a toothy grin and chattering teeth. “Ali and I have to go.”
In response, Digger sprouted a tail and wagged it against Ali and her mother, who giggled. Satisfied that he’d lightened everyone’s mood, he smiled for the camera. Ali didn’t need to look to know that his smile was awkward. Digger loathed having his picture taken.
“Perfect!” Gigi cried, and snapped three pictures in a row.
“I’ll never get used to this fog,” Ali’s mom grumbled. She broke away and hurried toward their rusty car. “The weatherman says it’s sunny and twenty degrees warmer fifteen minutes outside of the city, can you believe it?” She had said the same thing every foggy day since they’d moved to Saint John two weeks ago. Which, because Ali liked to keep track of things, was nine days out of fourteen.
Talking about the fog was the number-one pastime of Saint Johners: how thick it was, when it would burn off, how it compared to yesterday’s fog, if there would be fog tomorrow, bay fog versus inland fog. Everyone except Ali agreed that the city would be perfect if there was less fog. For her, Saint John equaled fog, but it also equaled Gigi, her own bedroom, and maybe, if she was lucky, staying put. Fog was something to celebrate, not moan about. Of course, it wasn’t always convenient. Today’s fog was damp and frigid and plastered Ali’s hair against her head.
Ali took a deep breath to calm the familiar queasy lurch in her stomach. “Have a nice day, Gigi,” she said as she wrapped her arms around her great-grandmother’s bony frame. She inhaled Gigi’s comforting scent of lavender talcum powder and Ivory soap.
“You’ll be fine, Alison. We Sloanes are strong. Don’t you forget that.”
Digger waited beside the front passenger door. “Everything will go well, Ali-Cat.” Like he could possibly know that. When he went around to kiss Ali’s mother goodbye, it was impossible to miss the uneasy smiles they exchanged. If the past was the best predictor of the future, Ali would be anything but fine.
It was a twenty-minute walk from Gigi’s house to Princess Elizabeth School, but Ali’s mom insisted on driving her. “At least I can start you off on the right foot the first day,” she said, as if that made up for the fact that she could never attend school functions because of her shift work. “Try not to be nervous. Digger went to Princess Elizabeth School and liked it a lot.”