The Daring Game Read online

  Praise for Kit Pearson

  “Kit Pearson is a great talent in Canadian children’s literature.”

  —The Guardian (Charlottetown)

  “One of Canada’s best junior fiction writers.”

  —The StarPhoenix (Saskatoon)

  “Pearson is a strong writer whose work puts to shame most of the books that kids spend so much time reading these days.”

  —Ottawa Citizen

  “Kit Pearson gives young readers a strong testament of the interlocking nature and power of reading, writing and living.”

  —The Vancouver Sun

  “Another magical tale from the master.”

  —Toronto Star

  “Dazzle. It’s not the right word for what Kit Pearson manages to do … but it’s close. Closer would be a word that catches the irregular glint of light reflected on water, street lights suspended in fog, an opalescent fracturing of time and genre to create something with its own unique glow.”

  —Edmonton Journal

  “Through the vivid observation of two summers, Pearson weaves a summer out of time and weaves as well a spell over her readers.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “The very best in fiction for young adults. Kit Pearson does herself proud.”

  —The Windsor Star

  “Kit Pearson’s careful and exact research brings the period vividly before us.”

  —The London Free Press

  “The woman is a brilliant writer.”

  —Kingston This Week

  “Pearson superbly and gently captures the welter of emotions that beset a young teen who is experiencing the onset of adolescence and having to cope with its physical and emotional demands.”

  —CM

  “This is a writer at the top of her craft.”

  —Quill & Quire

  “Pearson’s real strength … lies in her ability to convey the texture of a specific time and place…. So vividly and lovingly evoked that it is almost possible to smell the pine trees.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  PUFFIN CANADA

  THE DARING GAME

  KIT PEARSON was born in Edmonton and grew up there and in Vancouver. Her previous seven novels (six of which have been published by Penguin) have been published in Canada, in English and French, and in the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, the Netherlands, Germany, Great Britain, China, and Korea. She has received fourteen awards for her writing, including the Vicky Metcalf Award for her body of work. She presently lives in Victoria.

  Visit her website: www.kitpearson.com.

  Also by Kit Pearson

  A Handful of Time

  The Sky Is Falling

  Looking at the Moon

  The Lights Go On Again

  This Land: An Anthology of Canadian Stories

  for Young Readers

  (as editor)

  Whispers of War:

  The War of 1812 Diary of Susanna Merritt

  A Perfect Gentle Knight

  The Daring Game

  KIT PEARSON

  PUFFIN CANADA

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, Auckland, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196 South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1986

  Published in Puffin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada),

  a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1987

  Published in this edition, 2007

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (OPM)

  Copyright © Kathleen Pearson, 1986

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the U.S.A.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-14-305694-2

  ISBN-10: 0-14-305694-8

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request.

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior c onsent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at www.penguin.ca

  Special and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see

  www.penguin.ca/corporatesales or call 1-800-810-3104, ext. 477 or 474

  For Joe and Anne Pearson

  and for

  the Class of ’65

  “Semper Fideles”

  (“Always Faithful”)

  ASHDOWN ACADEMY MOTTO

  PART 1

  Fall

  1

  Ashdown Academy

  Eliza sat alone in the headmistress’s study, trying to stop her knees from trembling. Tugging her dress over them, she wondered again if she should have worn her uniform.

  She didn’t want to begin boarding school with any mistakes. It was bad enough having to start a day late because her uncle’s car had broken down on their camping trip. She slipped off one shoe and swung it from her big toe nervously. Perhaps her white knee socks weren’t correct either; did grade seven girls in Vancouver wear socks or nylons?

  Taking a steadying breath, Eliza looked around the room. An oak desk beside her was covered with orderly piles of papers. A daily calendar stood beside them, and her own name leaped out at her in upside-down precise writing: “September 6, 1964—Elizabeth Chapman 11 a.m.”

  On one wall of the crowded study was an oil painting of a stern-looking woman with frizzy grey hair. Eliza stared at her face, trying to imagine it relaxing into a smile. She listened to the rattle of the rain on the veranda roof and the even tock tock of a clock in the hall.

  “Ah, Elizabeth.” The brisk voice brought Eliza to her feet with a start, fitting on her shoe hastily.

  “I’m so sorry to be late. How do you do? I am Miss Tavistock.” The tall angular woman looked so much like the one in the picture that, for a second, Eliza thought she was dreaming. But Miss Tavistock had brown hair, not grey, and her firm handshake was very real.

  Shutting the door, the headmistress pulled a chair from behind the desk to face Eliza. “Please sit down. I’m delighted to finally meet you after we’ve both been delayed.”

  “My au
nt and uncle were sorry they couldn’t stay,” said Eliza, her voice croaking. “The baby started crying and they had to take her home.” Then she remembered another message. “And Mum and Dad said to say they were sorry they had to go to Toronto so early and couldn’t come with me to meet you.”

  “Yes, I had a very nice letter from your mother explaining it all. At least we’ve got you here, and that’s the most important thing. Welcome to Ashdown, Elizabeth. I hope you’ll be happy this year.”

  The headmistress’s huge, deep blue eyes, the only round feature in her bony face, looked kind. Eliza began to relax slightly. “You can call me Eliza,” she ventured.

  “We believe in proper names here,” said Miss Tavistock, in a tone which didn’t expect any arguments. “And Elizabeth is such a beautiful one,” she added more gently.

  Eliza wasn’t sure she liked this; she was never called by her full name. But she didn’t seem to have a choice.

  “I’ve asked for some tea, so we can get acquainted,” said Miss Tavistock. “Now tell me what you think of Vancouver.”

  Eliza sat up straighter. “I think it’s … really nice.” It sounded so lame. She wished she could express how attached she already felt to this city. Vancouver made the Alberta prairies look drab. The mountains that rose straight out of the bay surprised her continually; their massive, tree-covered shapes were a different shade of blue each morning.

  She was shyly describing the beach on Vancouver Island where they’d gone camping, when a tray with a silver teapot on it was passed around the door by invisible hands. The headmistress poured Eliza a cup without even asking if she wanted it.

  “Just milk? There you are. Now let me tell you about Ashdown. The other girls are all at church. We go to the cathedral every Sunday, but I went to the early service at St. Mary’s so I could meet you. They’ll be back in about an hour. You will be in the Yellow Dormitory with four others—Caroline Olsen, Pamela Jennings, Jean McQuiggan and Helen Beauchamp. They’re all new boarders like yourself, except for Helen. She’s been with us for three years now.”

  She paused, and Eliza thought she gave a slight sigh, but then she continued. “I’ve put the five of you together because you’re the youngest of the grade sevens-two of you are still eleven.”

  Eliza nibbled on a chocolate-covered cookie as she stopped listening and tried to remember those four names.

  “… and the school was founded in 1910 by my great-aunt, Miss Dora Peck. She’s still alive, although she’s very old—that’s her picture.”

  So that was why they looked alike. Eliza tried to concentrate on balancing her cup, saucer, cookie and napkin on her lap as Miss Tavistock told her the aims of Ashdown Academy. There seemed to be a lot of them.

  “… and, most important of all, whenever there is a conflict between one’s personal desires and the general good, I hope that an Ashdown student would choose the school over herself.” The headmistress paused and looked expectantly at her. Eliza’s knees wobbled and she spilled tea on her dress. She knows I’m not paying attention, she thought unhappily.

  “Well, I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty living up to Ashdown’s standards, Elizabeth,” said Miss Tavistock with a quick smile. “Now, you probably would like to have a little quiet time in your dormitory before the others return.” She pressed a buzzer. “Miss Monaghan will show you where everything is.”

  Before Eliza knew what was happening she was out the door, her sloppy cup and saucer retrieved from her and her dress wiped by Miss Tavistock without a word. The first ordeal was over.

  “I DON’T HAVE much time, you know. I have to be out of here in ten minutes. She certainly kept you long.” Eliza hurried up the stairs behind Miss Monaghan, straining to catch her words. They passed the open doors of rooms cluttered with suitcases, turned down a narrow hall and went into a square room with windows across three of its yellow walls.

  “Here we are—this is your dorm. It looks like they’ve left you the upper bunk, I’m afraid. Here’s your dresser and your suitcase. You can start putting your clothes away. The closet’s here, and your dorm has its own bathroom.”

  The matron led Eliza back into the hall. “Look, here’s your hook, with your towel and washcloth on it.” She pointed to a closed door across from the bathroom. “Your matron sleeps next door.”

  “Aren’t you my matron?” Eliza asked, as she was whisked from the bathroom into the dorm again.

  “Me? Oh no, I’m the school nurse, and I also take care of the juniors. We’re on the top floor. Your matron is Miss Bixley. You’ll like her—she and I aren’t as fussy as some of the others.”

  Miss Monaghan had an odd, twanging accent. “Are you English?” Eliza asked her.

  The matron shook her mop of hair vigorously. “Heavens, no, I’m an Aussie! Over here for a few years to see your beautiful country. Now I really must be off. It’s my half-day and I’m meeting some friends downtown. Will you be all right by yourself? The others will be back soon.” Eliza nodded, and the energetic young woman almost ran down the hall.

  Eliza climbed up onto her bed. It slumped in the middle but had a good view. She didn’t mind sleeping up here. It made her feel safe, being so high above the floor.

  The Yellow Dorm. Her dorm. The room looked much as she had imagined it: four narrow beds pushed against the walls, one with her bunk above it. They were neatly made with worn blue bedspreads. Stuffed animals—a bushy white dog and a purple hippo—were perched on two of them. So that was all right. Eliza hopped down, opened her suitcase and pulled out John, her small furless bear, whom she had hidden under her clothes. She positioned him carefully on her pillow and immediately felt more at home.

  She walked around and looked at everyone’s things. A sheaf of bright ribbons was knotted together and fanned across someone’s dresser. Someone else had a tennis racquet and a mysterious-looking curved stick lying on her bed. On the pillow with the dog on it lay The Incredible Journey, a book Eliza had read many times.

  The bed under hers had a string of nametapes strewn over it; a uniform blouse had been abandoned in the middle of sewing one on. “Helen Beauchamp,” the tapes said. Eliza felt sorry for this person. All her own clothes were neatly labelled. It had been a mistake to use her full name, although now that Miss Tavistock was calling her by it, it seemed appropriate. “Elizabeth Norah Chapman” in Cash’s Woven Nametapes was two and a half inches long. Stitching each strip into place on every sock and piece of underwear was an endless task, and Eliza’s mother had ended up doing most of them herself.

  Eliza looked at her watch—twenty more minutes. She might as well unpack. First she put on her dresser the picture her mother had framed for her: Mum, Dad and the Demons, smiling in the snow. They were in Toronto now, unpacking in their new place. Unexpected tears swelled in Eliza’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “Silly,” she told herself, “you wanted to come here.”

  She stuck a photograph of Jessie under the frame of the dresser mirror. The golden labrador’s adoring eyes gazed out at her. To stop more tears, Eliza shifted her glance to her own face instead.

  The back-to-school haircut she had just had was too short: her straight light brown hair looked ridiculous, like an inverted bowl on her head. She examined her grey eyes and snubby nose nervously. The others would probably think she looked really young.

  Tumbling her clothes helter-skelter into the drawers, Eliza shut them with a bang and clambered onto her bed again. If only the time would go faster. The longer she waited for her new dorm-mates to arrive, the more frightened she became. What if she didn’t like them? Or, worse, what if they didn’t like her? Leaning back against her pillow with John in her arms, she tried to think of something else.

  SHE HAD ALWAYS WANTED to go to boarding school. Her English grandmother had sent her many books over the years with titles like Fiona of the Fifth or The Turbulent Term at St. Theresa’s. They depicted a dramatic world of odd rituals, ordered busyness and loyal friends. Of course, a Canadian boarding schoo
l might be different, but there must be some similarities.

  Her mother had said that Eliza might be able to go away to school in grade ten. There was a girls’ school in Vancouver with an excellent reputation. Her father, however, wasn’t so sure; he thought private schools were snobbish.

  “Am I a snob?” Mum teased him. “After all, I went to one in Toronto.” But Dad would only say that, although he wanted Eliza to have a good education, they had lots of time before they even had to consider it.

  Then Eliza’s father, who was an ophthalmologist, had been asked to help start an eye clinic at the Toronto General Hospital. They were all supposed to move east for a year: Eliza, her parents and the Demons, her two-year-old twin brothers. Her mother was excited about going back to the city where she’d grown up and where her parents still lived; her father had been waiting for an opportunity like this for years.

  But Eliza didn’t want to go. For weeks she had fought a campaign to go to Ashdown Academy in Vancouver instead.

  “You’re much too young,” her parents both said at once. “You’ll be terribly homesick and we’ll miss you too much.”

  “I’m not too young,” insisted Eliza. Some of the girls in her books were even younger than eleven. “Of course we’ll miss each other, but it’s only for a year. And Aunt Susan and Uncle Adrian are there. And I would have had to change schools this year anyway.”

  She didn’t tell them how the prospect of attending the huge junior high school terrified her. Eliza didn’t want to become a teenager. She was the youngest, although the tallest, in her class, and all her friends were changing. Already they were talking about movie stars and back-combing and dating.

  “Eliza, sweetheart, are you sure it’s not because of the twins?” her mother asked anxiously. Eliza sighed. Ever since the Demons had been born, she’d had to keep convincing her parents she wasn’t jealous of them. She loved her brothers, but she wished they would hurry up and become normal people instead of two screaming tornadoes who kept getting into her room. She couldn’t tell her mother it would be a rest to be away from them for a while.