Farmed Out by Christy Goerzen Page A

clapped her hands together. “I’ve always wanted to learn about living off the land.”
    â€œSince when?”
    I flipped through the rest of the book. Come build a sweat lodge with us, said a farmer from Nelson. You’ll enjoy our organic fertilizer operation , said a guy named John van Horne in Kaslo. There were cheesemakers, herb farmers and even sheepherders.
    â€œWe only have to work for four hours a day,” my mom said. She took a gulp from her coffee mug. “We’ll learn so much, us urban gals.”
    Having to work “only” four hours a day didn’t make this trip sound better. I crossed my arms and gave her the classic Maddie Turner stare.
    â€œMom, these people are complete nutbars.”
    My mom stopped smiling. She raked her fingers through her long blond hair. It’s not her natural color. She bleaches it.
    â€œMaddie,” my mom continued, her voice raspy. It gets like that when she’s annoyed. “You’ve never felt earth between your fingers. You’ve never known what it’s like to till the soil with your own two hands.”
    â€œDon’t they have machines for that?” I said.
    â€œYou were born and raised in the city. Your high school is in downtown Vancouver. We live in a tenth-floor apartment.” Mom plucked a couple of mint leaves from the clay pot on the table and held them up. “This is the closest we get to nature. Every fifteen-year-old girl should get in touch with the earth.”
    â€œNo,” I said, slapping my hand on the table. “Fifteen-year-old girls should spend the summer sleeping in and hanging out with their friends as far away from manure as possible.”
    â€œCome on, Maddie, it’ll be good for both of us to get out of the city for a week.”
    â€œA week!”
    â€œWe leave Saturday morning.”
    â€œSaturday morning!” I spluttered. “In, like, two days? But what about the Canvas art contest? The deadline is eight days away!”
    Another thing about our adventures is that my mom never gives me any notice—or asks my opinion. She says she likes to “maintain the element of surprise.”
    â€œYou could do it before we leave.”
    â€œI can’t! I’m babysitting all day tomorrow!” I could feel my face tense with frustration.
    â€œWell, honey, maybe you’ll find inspiration on the farm. A lot of great artists lived in the country. Bring your art stuff along with you.”
    â€œI can’t get inspiration on a stupid farm! I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!” My eyes were hot with tears. My mom was going to ruin everything .
    â€œMadison, calm down. Deep breath.” My mom put her index fingers and thumbs together, yoga-style, and inhaled loudly through her nose. “It’ll all work out.”
    I crossed my arms and kicked the table leg with my toe.
    â€œHoney, this will be fun,” my mom said, her hands still in the yoga position.
    â€œCan I go stay with Dad?” I said, interrupting her. I said that just to make her mad. My mom looked like she might cry.
    â€œNo you may not . This is our mother-daughter trip.” She stomped into the living room and turned on the TV .
    â€œYou’re mad?” I called after her.
    â€œI’m the one watching all my hopes and dreams crumble!”
    Like all of our mother-daughter adventures, I didn’t have a choice. I was going to Quiet River Farm whether I liked it or not.
    By Friday night I still hadn’t packed. I sat on my bed and looked at myself in my dresser mirror. I had just cropped my blond hair short and added bright blue streaks. I wondered what the farmers would think of my hair.
    I yanked open my dresser drawer and started throwing all my most fabulous clothes into a duffel bag. You can take the girl out of the city, I thought, but you can’t take the city out of the girl. I wasn’t planning to pack the ratty old T-shirts