Free Wake The Stone Man by Carol McDougall

know.”
    â€œWell, do you…”
    â€œLook honey, why don’t you just get on home.”
    Just then Mr. Starke came to the door. He saw my dad waiting in the car and he told his wife to go back inside.
    â€œYour friend doesn’t live here anymore.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œI got nothing to say. Go on home.
    At school kids were talking. The rumour was there was five hundred dollars missing from the office — money the students had raised for the trip to Quebec. Mr. Starke said he found it in Nakina’s bedroom.
    I didn’t get it. Everyone knew Mr. Starke was a jerk. Why didn’t Nakina just tell the police the truth? I was worried but Anna told me not to get my knickers in a twist. Said it would all get sorted out and Nakina would get in touch when she was good and ready.
    I retreated to my basement studio and started a new painting. I took the painting of Nakina off the easel and laid it against the concrete wall. I put up a fresh canvas and began to paint the waitress from the Lorna Doone with a cigarette balanced between her lips.
    ***
    By December I had three canvases done. The one of the clock tower wasn’t bad. Like all the paintings it was mainly black and white, but the hands of the clock were red. I was happy with the one of the dance class but I was having a hard time with the one of Nakina in the Lorna Doone. I kept messing up her face and painting over it. And the reflection on the glass from the neon lights was hard to get. I wasn’t happy with it but I thought it would have to do. I decided to give it to Nakina. Maybe I just needed a reason to go looking for her. Only problem was I didn’t know where she lived. I went to the office and gave Mrs. Balcomino, the school secretary, the third degree.
    â€œSorry, you know I can’t give out personal information.”
    â€œIt’s not for me, it’s for my parents. They want to invite her for Christmas dinner. They said you’d understand and you wouldn’t want her to spend Christmas alone.”
    Bingo — that did the trick. I walked out of the office with “last known address,” 761 Simpson Avenue, Fort McKay South.
    I finished the painting and wrapped it up in brown paper. Got it done in time for Christmas Eve, which seemed like a good time to give her the gift. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad about my plans, maybe because I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing.
    â€œMolly, you ready?” Mom asked. “We’re heading over to Uncle Harry’s in an hour.”
    â€œNot going.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI’m going to hang out with Nakina.”
    â€œNakina? You found out where she’s living?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œDowntown.”
    â€œThat’s good, but can’t you go another time?”
    â€œNo, I already told her I was coming.” I didn’t normally lie to my parents but it seemed easier than explaining. Still, it would have been nice to go with them. Mom had been in a good mood lately and we were having fun together doing Christmas baking like the old days.
    I helped Mom wrap up the Noel Log — a thin chocolate cake rolled up with mocha cream inside, then covered with chocolate icing. I always made the bark pattern with a fork. It looked like real bark. Then we’d put a plastic holly berry thingy on top. Fort McKay tradition. Like George the Porter, who’s this black railway porter guy who drives Santa’s sleigh. Seriously. George the Porter. In Fort McKay Christmas was a weird mess of Jesus, Mary, Santa Claus and George the Porter all mixed up like a tub full of guts.
    â€œSo what’s Nakina doing now?” Mom asked.
    â€œNot sure.”
    â€œIs she going to finish her grade twelve?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œHere, put tinfoil over the cardboard.”
    I wrapped the tinfoil around the cardboard so Mom could put the Noel Log on it. The kitchen