Reading the Bones by Gina McMurchy-Barber

Hobbs’s house first thing and explain about the night before. I hoped she wouldn’t feel disappointed with me. I wondered if I should tell her about finding the ancient pendant and Mr. Grimbal’s sudden visit — and the big fight I’d had with Aunt Margaret. Maybe if she knew how unhappy I was she’d invite me to stay with her.
    As I slipped into my clothes, I had visions of Mrs. Hobbs adopting me as her granddaughter. We could collect shells together and make necklaces. And she’d always bake double chocolate chip cookies and berry pies for me. And I would live happily ever after. “Right!” I said out loud as I snapped myself out of the daydream. “Things never work out that well for you.”
    When I entered the kitchen, I heard my aunt’s and uncle’s hushed voices coming from the living room. I pulled on my old windbreaker and quietly slipped out the back door. When I stepped out into the chilly wind and steady drizzle of rain, I realized my worn-out jacket wouldn’t keep me warm. But there was no way I was going back inside the house.
    As I walked down Kidd Street and over to Agar, I felt as if I were wandering through a ghost town. All the streets were deserted, and even the gulls were nowhere to be seen. I tucked my arms close around me and ducked my head low. When I got to Mrs. Hobbs’s front door, there were no warm smells of fresh cookies or a kindly voice talking to Chester. I rang the doorbell twiceand heard it echo inside the house. When there was no answer, I tried pounding the door with my fist.
    After waiting a long time, I walked back out to the road and headed toward Blackie’s Spit, even though the storm was now whipping at the trees and rattling windows. I knew it was unlikely, but I still hoped I’d find her out on the sandbars looking for shells, with Chester waddling behind. When I reached the end of the narrow finger of land, I wasn’t surprised that no one was around. I turned back into the full force of the cold wind. For a few moments I opened my jacket and held my arms out wide to see if the gale would lift me into the sky like a kite — an unanchored kite tossed around the atmosphere, being pulled farther and farther from Earth.
    With nowhere else to go, I went back home. When I came into the kitchen, I noticed a book sitting on the table. A wild, stunning wolf on the cover jumped off the jacket at me. I read the words framing the eerie mask:
Cultures of the North Pacific Coast
by Philip Drucker. It was an old book, worn at the corners, and many of the pages had been dog-eared with pencilled notes in the margin.
    â€œPeggy, have you been out wandering around in this storm?” Aunt Margaret gasped when she came into the kitchen. “I thought you were still upstairs in bed sleeping.” Then she noticed me staring at the book on the table. “Dr. McKay dropped that off for you. She thought you might be interested in looking at it.”
    â€œDid she say anything else?”
    â€œNot much, just that she’d wait until the weather improved to come back and finish the excavation. Do you feel better now that you’ve had a chance to speak to Mrs. Hobbs?”“She wasn’t home,” I said without looking up from the book.
    â€œThat’s too bad, but I’m sure she’ll understand when you get a chance to explain.”
    â€œYeah, you’re right. She’ll understand because she gets me.” I avoided my aunt’s hurt expression and opened the book to the index in the back. There was a long list of references to the Coast Salish, like dance ceremonies, kinship structures, potlatches. I flipped to the section on potlatches. I already knew that the word meant
gift
and that they were traditional gatherings where people of different villages came together for days of ceremonies and feasting to honour someone who died or a chief who wanted his status to be recognized. I always