Finding Jade Read online

  To Robert — for making every moment brighter

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  It’s my first day of grade nine. I’m standing at the front desk in the office at Riverdale, my new high school.

  And I think I’m losing my mind again.

  “But this is where I’m supposed to go,” I say. I pull out my acceptance letter, hand it to the secretary, and plaster a smile across my face. As Mom always says, “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

  “Sorry, Jasmine,” the secretary begins, sliding the letter back across the desk at me. There’s this massive silver ring with a weird, blue-sky coloured stone on her right index finger. I can’t help staring at it. “You need to attend Beaconsfield. They’re expecting you.”

  I can’t believe it. My acceptance letter is sitting there on the desk, complete with a cheesy welcome message from the principal. It’s pretty obvious I’ve been accepted to this school, but she’s refusing to even look at the letter.

  “But I’m supposed to go here.” I point at the acceptance box, which is clearly ticked with a black check mark. Every last atom in my body is shrieking with rage. I want to shout at this woman, but know doing that will only make things worse — if they can get any worse.

  I slide the letter toward her again. My hands are shaking. I feel like a volcano that’s ready to blow. The morning bell rings.

  “Beaconsfield is that new school, right?” I ask through gritted teeth. “It’s at least a twenty-minute bus ride from here. There’s no way I’m supposed to go there.”

  “You’ll attend Beaconsfield,” she says flatly, running her well-manicured fingers through her bleached hair.

  “Can I speak to someone else about this, then?” I ask, digging my nails into the fleshy part of my palm to keep from screaming. I look down. Tiny crescent-shaped nail marks dent my skin.

  “Sorry. Everyone else is busy.”

  That’s when I notice that the office is nearly empty. Other than this weirdo secretary, there’s just an elderly caretaker dumping out wastepaper baskets into a large garbage bag. And he doesn’t even seem to notice us.

  I open the office door and check the hallway to see if my friends Desiree and Aisha are waiting for me. Maybe they’ll have better luck convincing this insane woman to let me into class. But they’ve already gone to their homeroom classes, likely thinking I’d be right behind them.

  I go back in and glare at the secretary. This is so stupid. I practically live around the corner. There’s no way I can be out of district or anything like that.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll call my mom. Believe me, she’s going to come down here and lose it if you tell her everyone’s too busy to see her.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait for her reaction.

  The secretary gives me this little knowing smile, like we’re sharing a secret, like she somehow knows that Mom is in the hospital getting treatment right now and can’t be reached.

  Then she takes off her black-framed glasses, rests her forearms on the desk, and leans toward me as if she’s about to share her deepest, darkest secrets.

  “Jasmine, you have no choice in this matter. You must go to Beaconsfield,” she says, her tone serious. I want to ask who died and made her God, but I don’t think that would go over very well.

  “Come on,” I say. “You know not letting me in is crazy. I live, like, two minutes away. Kids from my junior high always go here.”

  “We’re done having this discussion.” Her calm attitude makes the situation even more infuriating.

  I pick up the letter and rattle it in her face. “Can’t you read?” I shout.

  The woman shakes her head. “Go to Beaconsfield, Jasmine,” she says, before getting up and walking across the room to the photocopier.

  Dumbfounded, I snatch my knapsack off the floor, open the zipper, and stuff my acceptance letter inside. I’m so angry I want to kick things. Instead, I fling open the office door so that it hits the brick wall behind it with a satisfying bang and storm out.

  Then I reluctantly make my way to Beaconsfield Collegiate.

  It’s only as I’m climbing the stone steps to enter Beaconsfield that I realize something. The secretary hadn’t even looked at my acceptance letter. So how did she know my name?

  Chapter 2

  One thing you need to know about me is that I detest speaking in class. When I have to, even if it is just to give a quick answer, it’s like my voice freezes up and my brain stops working. Sometimes I even stutter. These days I only seem to be able to find my voice when I’m angry. Thing is, I wasn’t always this awkward. It’s something that started after my twin sister, Jade, disappeared.

  That’s why I hate the first day of school. Every single teacher alive seems to think making students introduce themselves is a great idea. Like we care. We’ll figure out the names of the people we actually want to talk to soon enough.

  I was hoping, considering it was practically mid-morning before I got to Beaconsfield, that all of this first day, ice-breaker garbage would be done and over with by the time I entered a classroom. No such luck.

  As my turn gets closer, any hint of moisture in my mouth immediately leaves and travels to my palms. I wipe my hands on my jeans and practise what I’m going to say in my head.

  Hi. My name is Jasmine Guzman. My mother is dying a slow, painful death, and my sister, Jade, was abducted when we were ten years old. Soon I will be an orphan. P.S.: My sister’s body was never found.

  Yeah, I know. But I’d love to say that and just watch the look on the teacher’s face. You asked us to tell you something important about ourselves, right? Well, here it is. Still think your little introduction game is great?

  This teacher, Mr. Khan, looks pretty young. It’s probably his first year teaching and some old fart likely gave him this idea about the stupid-ass introductions. One way you can tell that a teacher is just starting out in their career and wants to make a good impression is by the way they dress. Khan wears a sharply pressed blue-striped dress shirt and a tie that looks brand new. I’ll admit I like his hair. It’s so black it’s almost blue, and he has it kind of spiked. He isn’t bad looking either, just way too eager. Teachers that have been kicking around for a long time never dress like Mr. Khan. Those dinosaurs usually wear something that looks like it was picked out of a laundry hamper in 2004 and never washed again. Sometimes they even have chicory stains on their shirts or enough cat hair on their clothing to kill a kid with allergies. Gross.

  Eventually my turn comes around, and, as usual, I can barely chok
e out my name.

  “Hi.” My face is as hot as a chicken on a rotisserie spit. “I’m …” My vocal cords have constricted, turning my voice into a frog-like croak. Now I’m getting pained looks of sympathy from some of my classmates and Mr. Khan. “Jasmine … Guzman.”

  A loud snicker comes from the girl with the long, mahogany-coloured hair sitting directly behind me. Great.

  “Would you like to tell us anything else about yourself, Jasmine?” Mr. Khan interjects. Clearly, he’s trying to save me from further embarrassment.

  I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

  “Well, welcome,” he says, shooting me one of those overly enthusiastic smiles that teachers who really enjoy their jobs seem to always have in reserve.

  “Yeah, welcome, midget,” the girl behind me says quietly.

  “Did you have something you wanted to share with the class, Mina?” Mr. Khan asks. He leans his slender frame against his desk and casually tosses a tablet stylus up and down in the palm of his right hand.

  “Well, actually …” the girl begins. Her voice oozes confidence. I’m not about to turn around, but can visualize in my head the smug smile she’s wearing. “Most of you know me, of course. Mina James for those of you who might not. Something important? I was in a music video this summer. Nothing big. You might have seen it on Music Online. Just a little something with me dancing for Drizzy Junior.”

  She’s getting looks of admiration mingled with a bit of awe and fear. Okay, not only am I the shortest person in this homeroom, but it seems like I might be the target of bullying by the popular and pretty girl who just happens to dance in videos for the hottest rapper ever in her spare time.

  As the next person introduces himself to the class, Mina leans in close to me. I don’t turn around; I’m not going to give her that satisfaction.

  “Just stay out of my way, midget,” she hisses. “I don’t want you around me in case your ugliness is contagious.”

  I don’t say anything. As far as I’m concerned, me even being at this school is a massive mistake — one that Mom will hopefully sort out tomorrow. I wonder how Desiree and Aisha are doing. They’re probably freaking out, wondering what happened to me.

  As the introductions continue, I notice something strange. There are five sets of identical twins in our class. Okay, I know all about fertility treatments and the spike in twins because of them, but this is too weird. And what’s even weirder is the fact that all of the twins are girls. What kind of a freak-show school is this?

  When the day ends, I immediately contact Desiree. It’s hard to hear her over the passing cars and city trams, but I can’t wait until I get home to talk to her. I need to let her know the hell I’ve been through.

  “Where have you been?” she asks as soon as she picks up. “Check your video messages much?”

  “That crazy secretary wouldn’t let me in,” I explain, holding my video watch to one ear while cupping my free hand over my other ear to hear better. “She said I was enrolled at Beaconsfield, and she sent me here.”

  “That’s insane. There’s no way you’re supposed to go there,” Desiree says. “You’re not even in district. And why am I suddenly staring inside your ear?”

  I stop to sit on a bench outside a shabby chicory shop. There’s a group of cab drivers chatting nearby, and they turn to gaze expectantly at me. I shake my head to let them know I’m not going to be their next fare.

  “I know that and you know that,” I say, moving my watch back to show my face. “But someone needs to tell the crazy, bleach-blond secretary that. She wouldn’t even look at my acceptance letter. What a bitch.”

  There’s a pause from Desiree. “Jazz, the secretary at our school has long, brown hair,” she finally says. “And she’s the one who registered both me and Aisha. No one else was at the desk.”

  My stomach drops like an out-of-control elevator while my mind races back to this morning. Okay, Desiree and Aisha were in line ahead of me. Then they each talked to the secretary, but I couldn’t really see what she looked like because they were standing in front of me, kind of blocking my view. They registered with no problem and were given their timetables. I told them I’d see them in a minute, and then, when I turned around, the crazy secretary was standing at the desk. I remember she’d had this weird look of anticipation on her face before I even said anything.

  And she knew my name.

  How is any of this possible?

  My hand drops from my face.

  “Jasmine?” Desiree says, waving at me from the video screen. “Hello?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. My voice sounds tiny and far away. “I’ll get hold of you later, okay? I need to get some things for Mom before going home.”

  I end the call and stand up. My palms are sweaty with fear. After talking to Desiree, I’m sure I’m going insane again.

  Chapter 3

  I don’t know about you, but I’m never certain what I’m going to find when I get home at the end of a school day. There must be other kids that feel the same way I do: ones whose parents have drinking or drug problems or live with domestic abuse. They probably hate the thought of coming home and finding a parent strung out and lying on the couch, or nursing a black eye. I don’t worry about anything like that.

  My mom has a disease called lupus. She’s had it for a while now, and it’s awful. Basically, Mom’s body is attacking the healthy parts of itself, and it’s killing her. At first she was just really tired, and still had some really good days. Then the disease attacked her joints, causing her hip to hurt so much that she needs a cane to walk now. But the worst thing of all is that the disease is causing her kidneys to fail. She has to go to the hospital for dialysis a few times a week just to stay alive. We’re waiting for a kidney donor, and I really hope that we find one soon. Otherwise, I’m going to lose my mom, and she’s the only family I have left.

  So, because of the lupus, I never know when I walk into our apartment if Mom is going to be feeling really awful or not. Sometimes I worry she might be dead.

  By the time I reach the landing outside our apartment, beads of sweat cover my forehead. We live on the tenth floor, and the elevator is out again. To top it off, despite the fact that we’re already a week into September, the sun is still scorching hot, and temperatures continue to hover in the mid-forties. I’m in good shape because I like to run, but today I’m carrying bags of carrots, potatoes, and oni­ons, so the stairs nearly kill me. Dealing with the heavy cloud of smog outside hasn’t helped, either.

  Not that the air inside is much better. People let their dogs piss in the stairwells rather than taking them outside, and, occasionally, drunks decide to use the stairs as their personal toilets as well.

  I put the groceries down on the worn tile outside our door and rub my hands together, trying to get rid of the white indentations criss-crossing my fingers and palms where the handles of the bags dug into my skin. Then I take a deep breath, unlock the door, and go inside.

  “Is that you, Jasmine?” Mom calls. The apartment is dark except for a faint light from the living room. Mom’s probably been on the couch since getting home from her treatment. I hate that I can’t be home sooner to help her when she’s like this.

  “Yeah,” I say, nudging the hall light on with my elbow and kicking off my silver ballet flats. “Was Lola here?” Mom’s friend Mopelola, or Lola for short, is the only other person who comes to our apartment anymore.

  “She dropped me off a few hours ago,” Mom replies. “But she has to work tonight and couldn’t stay. She told me to tell you she owes you a hug.”

  I smile to myself. Lola is nearly six feet tall and always wrapping me in these massive octopus-like hugs whenever she sees me. I tell her I hate it, but secretly, I love those hugs and she knows it.

  I drop the bags off in the kitchen on my way to the living room. Mom is lying on the couch with a thin, blue fleece blanket
pulled over her and a pillow from her bed behind her head. The curtains are closed. A small table lamp beside her casts a gentle light over her face. She looks small lying there, so small and fragile it makes me want to cry.

  “Stupid elevator is out of service again,” I say, sitting down on the blood-red velvet armchair opposite the couch. Despite its polka-dotted pattern of moth holes, the chair is still my favourite piece of furniture. Instead of turning on more lights, I let my eyes adjust to the shadowiness of the room. Bright light can give Mom headaches when she’s feeling particularly tired.

  Mom smiles as she pulls herself up onto her elbows. “Someone’s cranky. Bad day?”

  Before I can answer, my lungs spasm, and my body is thrown into a fit of coughing.

  “You didn’t wear your mask, did you?” she asks, her gaze darkening with concern.

  I shake my head, unable to answer. Between coughs, I’m trying to gulp down mouthfuls of air like a dying goldfish. A few years ago, the government began giving out masks to help people breathe when pollution levels get über-high, like today. Of course, they only did so after young children and the elderly began dropping like flies. At that point it was pretty much impossible for our leaders to continue denying the existence of climate change.

  Holding up a finger to signal that I’ll be right back, I go to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. After a few gulps, my coughing subsides. I go back and sit beside Mom on the sofa.

  I explain to her what happened with the secretary and about being sent to Beaconsfield. Though I hate giving her anything extra to worry about, I really need her to talk to someone at the school and sort things out.

  She frowns. “That doesn’t seem right at all. I’ll call first thing tomorrow. And if they don’t resolve the situation, Lola and I will drive over to Riverdale, and I’ll personally speak to them. Especially that secretary.”

  I get up and give her a gentle hug. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”