The Snowball Effect Read online

  The

  Snowball Effect

  Deb Loughead

  orca currents

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2010 Deb Loughead

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Loughead, Deb, 1955-

  The snowball effect / written by Deb Loughead.

  (Orca currents)

  Electronic Monograph

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 9781554693726(pdf) -- ISBN 9781554695362 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8573.O8633S66 2010 JC813’.54 C2010-903586-0

  First published in the United States, 2010

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010929084

  Summary: After a snowballing prank causes a car accident, Dylan deals with the guilt of lying about his involvement.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Jupiter Images

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  13 12 11 10 • 4 3 2 1

  For Pat and Chip, Duncan and Sam

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter One

  On Friday evening when Garrett called, I was in the mood for anything. I had my parka and my snow boots ready at the door. By six o’clock I was going antsy waiting for that call. I didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening at home with my grandma. Gran was desperate for someone to play cards with her. After three games of gin rummy, I needed to get out of the apartment.

  “We’re on at Matt’s for tonight,” Garrett told me. “You in?”

  “Of course,” I said. “The usual Friday-night feast. Wouldn’t miss it!”

  “Don’t forget your balaclava,” Garrett added. “For after the feast. You’re sticking around for that too, right? You’re not backing out on us, are ya, Dillweed?”

  My stomach twisted, and I paused.

  “Well?” Garrett said. “Can we count on you, or what?”

  I hesitated for only a second. I didn’t like to keep this guy waiting. “Yeah, sure. I guess I’m in. See ya in fifteen,” I told him. Then I started hauling on my winter gear.

  “If you’re going out, can you pick me up a bag of Cheezies at the gas station?” Gran called from the kitchen, where she was playing a game of solitaire.

  “Sure thing, Gran,” I told her. “I’ll grab some cash out of the sugar bowl.”

  Mom left some of her tip money for me and Gran to use whenever we needed it. She usually came home with some great tips from Rocky’s Roadhouse, where she worked as a bartender. Wintertime brought in the best tips of all. The curlers dropped by on their way to the arena, or on their way home, and knocked back some pints. Hockey players stopped in too, after their games. In Bridgewood everything was within walking distance, and nobody worried about drinking and driving.

  The exception was the snowmobilers. Those guys spent most of their free time riding snowmobiles on the trails that snaked through Bridgewood and cut a swath through the surrounding forests. They were decent guys, mostly, and Mom knew the law. She cut them off before they could be over the legal limit, and they respected her judgment.

  “Make sure they’re the good kind, not the no-name brand, okay?” my grandma called. “I can’t stand those cheap, cheesy Cheezies. Ha!” She laughed out loud at her joke. “Get it, Dylan?”

  “Yeah, I get it, Gran,” I told her. “Hope you’re not in a hurry though. I probably won’t be home till eleven thirty or so.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be waiting up for your mom anyway. There’s a good movie starting at midnight, so I can just eat ’em then.”

  “See ya later, Gran,” I called over my shoulder as I slammed out the door.

  I ran all the way down the six flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. When I burst through the front doors, I was punched in the nose by the windchill. My nostrils froze instantly. But the balaclava did a great job of protecting the rest of my face. The snow was crunchy underfoot. It was like walking on soda crackers. Winter had already set in with a vengeance, and it was only the beginning of December.

  In this part of the country, Old Man Winter sinks his teeth in early and stays late. Usually by November he’s settled in for the long haul. We get lake-effect snow, which happens when cold wind scoops moisture off the warmer lake water and dumps snow on us. A few inches of snow can fall in an hour. It’s like living in a snow globe that someone’s constantly shaking. Sure, it’s pretty. Pretty annoying! But we’re used to it around here. We find plenty to do for fun on a Friday night in the ice-cold darkness.

  Overhead the stars were bright pinpoints in the sky, the moon barely a toenail clipping. For a change, there weren’t any streamers of snow pouring off the lake tonight. I hurried along the sidewalk, sliding on patches of ice the way I always did. It was the closest I ever came to skating. Not having a dad to teach me or a mom who could afford the equipment, I’d never even learned to skate properly.

  I knew how hard it was for Mom to scrape up cash for groceries and the bills, even with the help of Gran’s pension. So I didn’t complain much. Now that I was fifteen, it was embarrassing to go to the ice rink and have all my friends, guys and girls, zoom past while I hung on to the boards. I avoided that rink.

  The closer I got to Matt’s place, the louder my stomach grumbled. I could practically hear it talking to me through my jacket. Hanging out at Matt’s was always the best part of Friday night. Matt’s parents were really cool, especially his dad. He liked to play pool with us, or sometimes even poker. He loved cooking too, and he always made the four of us his sous-chefs.

  When I got there, I walked right in without knocking on the back door. Their door was never locked. I tore off all my winter clothes and nearly sprinted to the kitchen. The guys were all gathered around the counter as usual. Garrett, Matt and Cory each had a task to do. Matt’s mom was sitting at the table sipping a glass of wine while she watched the show.

  “About time, Dillweed,” Garrett said. “I planned on scarfing down all of yours if you didn’t show up soon to help.”

  Matt and Cory laughed along with Garrett. I cringed, because I knew he probably meant it.

  “Don’t worry, I would have saved you some,” Matt’s dad said with a huge grin. He was a big guy with sandy hair and a wicked sense of humor. “I need you here on Friday nights. You’re my chief cheese grater, you know. Wash your hands, buddy, ’cause it’s pizza night and the oven’s hot.”

  He handed me the block of c
heese and the grater after I dried my hands. “Okay, get to work, Dylan,” he said, then started rolling out pizza dough.

  “How come Dylan always gets to grate?” Garrett said, struggling to chop the onions. “I hate doing onions. They always make my eyes water.”

  “Because Dylan’s such a machine,” Matt’s dad told us. “Jeez, don’t cry about it, Garrett,” he added, then passed him a box of tissues.

  We all snickered.

  “Hah, that’s just hilarious,” Garrett said. He glowered at me, like he wished he was being called a machine instead of me. “My eyes are actually burning, you know.”

  “Oh, you’ll survive,” Matt’s dad said, patting him on the back. “Suck it up, bub!”

  “Yeah, you think chopping’s hard. I get stuck pitting these olives,” Matt complained. “It’s impossible. Why don’t we have the pitted ones this time?”

  “And these disgusting anchovies totally reek.” Cory grimaced as he tried to twist off the tin lid.

  “Ever smelled Matt’s hockey bag? Trust me, those anchovies are roses,” Matt’s dad said. “Boy, you guys are whining like little girls tonight. What’s up with that?”

  I laughed out loud.

  “But, Dad, this is taking forever, and we’re all starving,” Matt said as he carefully pried out another olive pit.

  “Well, don’t drool all over the veggies and cheese, boys,” his dad warned us. “Mom doesn’t like extra sauce on her pizza.”

  “Okay, that’s gross,” Matt’s mom said, rolling her eyes. “I guess I just don’t get your goofy guy humor. And I think I just lost my appetite too.”

  “Great, my plan worked! More for us,” Matt’s dad said, and we all cracked up.

  Chapter Two

  By 8:00 the kitchen was all tidied, and Matt’s parents were sitting by the fire. The four of us put on our winter gear and headed outside.

  “We’re just going over to the gas station to get some junk food for later,” Matt yelled to his parents.

  “Hurry back,” Matt’s dad called. “I’m gonna kick your butts at pool tonight.”

  A thrill fluttered in my chest as we charged through the snow-choked streets toward the bridge. When we took a shortcut through the gas station, I waved at Bud Wilkins, who was working the evening shift.

  “Okay, you ready? Let’s do this, dudes!” Garrett said, leading the way up the slippery incline to the top of the bridge. It was an overpass, and the main road through town ran right under it. It was the perfect spot for the Friday-night game of “snow-bombing.”

  That’s what we called the ritual we’d started a few weeks back. It was Garrett’s idea. We’d stand on the Forest Road bridge and watch the road below for approaching headlights. Then we’d bombard the passing cars with a volley of snowballs.

  We’d laugh our guts out when the drivers honked and yelled curses at us out their windows. Sometimes the drivers circled around to try and find us on top of the bridge. But by the time they came back, we’d slithered back down the slope and disappeared into the wintry darkness.

  It was a totally lame pastime, I’ll be the first to admit. But when that’s what your friends do for fun, either you go along with it, or you get called a wuss. I had lousy aim. I almost never managed to hit a windshield, and the other guys always laughed at me. But at least I was there, playing along with them, all for one and one for all.

  We stood on the bridge, shivering in the howling wind. There weren’t many travelers on the slippery road that night. In the distance we could hear the whine of sleds zipping along the trails that sliced across the frozen lake.

  Then, finally, we saw the first set of headlights shining in the distance, heading northward into the night.

  “Here we go, boys,” Garrett yelled. He raised his arm to hurl the first frosty rocket. “Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes!”

  We had it perfectly timed. Firing just before the car reached the underpass was the best chance you had for smacking your target.

  “Okay, fire away, guys!” Garrett yelled again. We all blasted our snow bombs over the railing.

  “Yeah! Nailed it,” Cory cried, raising his arms in triumph.

  “Me too,” Matt said.

  “Me three!” Garrett told us.

  “Missed again,” I admitted after watching my snowball smash to bits on the road.

  “Big surprise, Dylan,” Garrett said. “Have you ever hit a car?”

  “Hey, that guy didn’t even honk at us.” Matt sounded disappointed. “Maybe they just thought it was snow falling off the bridge or something.”

  “The snow’s not wet enough,” Garrett said. “The balls just fall apart on impact. We’ve got to give them something that they’ll really notice.”

  He pulled a walnut-sized rock out of his pocket and held it up. “This should work just fine, boys. Here.” Garrett handed us each our own rocks. “Try it. Come on. Hurry up, before we miss our chance. Hardly anyone’s on the road tonight!”

  He’d really come prepared tonight. It made me uneasy. Garrett always seemed to have a new surprise up his sleeve when he was looking for fun on Friday nights.

  “Are you sure, Garrett?” I said, watching him squeeze the snow between his bare hands. The extra body heat always formed more solid balls, we’d discovered with practice. “That could break the windshield, don’t ya think?”

  “You wimpin’ out on us again, Dillweed?” I hated it when Garrett called me that.

  “I’m just sayin’,” I told him as I stared at the rock in my hand.

  “I dunno, Garrett,” Cory said. “It’s kinda dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, don’t be such sucks, you guys. It’s just gonna scare them, that’s all,” Matt told us. Cory and I stood there watching Garrett and Matt work their tightly packed balls of snow. We’d never used a rock inside a snowball before.

  When I thought the others weren’t watching, I dropped my rock over the bridge. When I looked over, Cory was staring at me. I just shrugged and grinned. Cory smirked, then dropped his own rock over the side. We both worked our snowballs into nice round comets, perfect for pitching.

  Okay, so I was wimping out, but I really didn’t want to do any damage. And at least with Cory here, I had a fellow wimp. I wasn’t the only one who thought the rock was a bad idea. Snow-bombing was a good time waster for a Friday night, but I didn’t want to make trouble for anyone. I was a true wuss at heart, I guess.

  “Okay, get ready,” Garrett hollered. “’Cause here comes one now!”

  I watched the distant headlights approaching along the snow-covered road. It was so cold that even the salt-and-sand mix the town maintenance crews had spread could barely get a melt going. The car wasn’t moving quickly. This cautious driver wasn’t taking any chances on the slick roads tonight.

  I felt a sudden pang of guilt at the thought of catching the person off guard and pummeling the car.

  But when Garrett yelled “Fire,” I fired.

  And finally I did it! My snowball hit the roof of the car with a satisfying thump.

  The other sound we heard, though, was the loud crack of a rock meeting a windshield. It wasn’t a good sound.

  The driver slammed on the brakes, and the car went into a spin and disappeared under the bridge. We heard metal scraping against concrete, followed by a sickening crunch and a tinkle of broken glass. Then nothing.

  It’s strange how deafening silence can be. The wind whipped little snow tornadoes around us as we stood there for a moment in disbelief.

  Then we slowly leaned out over the guardrail for a better look. There was nothing to see below us except for skid marks in the snow.

  “Crap,” Cory said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Garrett said.

  “I’m right behind you, dudes,” Matt said.

  “Are you all crazy?” I yelled at them. “We can’t just run away and leave that car! What if somebody got hurt?”

  “I’ll call nine-one-one on my cell phone,” Cory said. “T
he cops will be here in a second. But we can’t stick around here. They’ll know it was us!”

  “I’m going down there,” I told them, then spun around and headed for the slope.

  “Don’t do it,” Garrett said. “You’re the one who’s nuts. You’ll get caught, and then we’ll all be screwed!”

  “I’m going,” I told them, then started sliding down on my butt.

  My whole body had gone numb, and I couldn’t even feel the cold anymore as I bumped and tumbled my way to the bottom. The voices of my friends and their thudding footsteps faded into the night as they bolted for cover.

  Chapter Three

  When I reached the bridge abutment, I was afraid to look. My feet felt frozen to the pavement, and a voice in my head was yelling, “Run for it while you still can, you moron!” But I didn’t listen. I just couldn’t leave that car there. I peered around the abutment and sucked in my breath at what I saw.

  The car had crashed into the bridge wall. The front end on the driver’s side was crumpled up like a crushed pop can. The headlights cast an eerie glow under there, and I could hear the car radio playing tinny music.

  As I edged closer to the wreck, a panicky feeling surged inside of me. My blood was picking up speed in my veins as my heart hammered behind my ribs. I didn’t have a clue what I should do next.

  By then I was close enough to the car to see the driver slumped over the steering wheel. It was an old car, probably didn’t even come equipped with air bags. The driver didn’t seem to be moving at all. I had so hoped that the driver would be standing by the car and assessing the damage.

  I had already made up a little lie about what I was doing there, to cover my butt. I was heading out to get some Cheezies for my grandmother, was what I’d say. And when I heard the crash, I ran over to check on the driver. But no such luck. I didn’t need my cover story. The driver wasn’t moving at all.

  There was an impact spot on the windshield where the rock had met its target. It was almost like a bullet hole, with a web of large and small cracks spreading out from the center. The side window was damaged too, as if the driver’s head had smacked against the glass. I had a sick sinking feeling that I might be looking at a dead body, until I heard a low groan.