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Calla

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Calla

Maddox Kase.

The name is well-known around the Okanagan because he's the son of Roman Kase. He's been all over the news, especially last year when he was busted for dealing cocaine and fentanyl while having illegal possession of firearms. Maddox's name was hidden from the media due to personal reasons, but it isn't hard to figure it out when you used to go to school with him. Maddox is a year older than me – when he was finishing his senior year at Mount Boucherie Secondary School, I was finishing grade eleven. I didn't talk to him much, but I did see him in the hallway sometimes. But even then, he was very elusive, always sticking to the sidelines or the shadows. Except when he was playing basketball. Whenever I watched the basketball games at school, I was always enthralled by how good he was. He made sinking a three-pointer look like a walk to the park. 

Social skills aside, when I weigh the small exchanges we had, he was always polite and kind, despite the ugly bruises he normally came to school with – or tried to cover up. He definitely had a talent for using makeup to cover bruises, but a well-trained woman in the art of makeup like me can tell when an amateur is at work. There would always be smudges on his face, ones that needed some serious blending – especially beneath the gaudy fluorescent lighting.

I had always wanted to ask Maddox what happened or if he was okay, but something always stopped me. Maybe it was the fear of associating myself with someone who has a very powerful, abusive father. Or maybe it was because I already knew what was happening; the rumours around MBSS were toxic. So toxic, in fact, that after Maddox graduated, he never looked back. He never took up the coaching job he was offered, let alone attended grad, which, in my opinion, is highly overrated. Who would want to spend hundreds of dollars on a dress, makeup, and other useless shit when you could be up here, riding?

I give my blueberry compote a final stir and step back from the stove, wiping my sticky hands on a damp cloth. Bacon is sizzling on the stovetop, beside a fresh pan of hash browns. In the oven, there is a plate of eggless pancakes. I don't know why my family ever started the tradition of providing breakfast when they do job interviews, but I have to uphold it. Although I'm only feeding two people, I don't know how much I'm supposed to make – I'm used to cooking for one. Not one plus two young men who can probably down five plates in one sitting. I roll my eyes, carelessly flipping a piece of bacon over. In the back of my mind, I can hear my mom scolding me for getting bacon grease on the stove.

When the food is done, I step back and admire my work. This is the first time entertaining. Hell, it's my first time staying up here as the camp host, period. Honestly, I have to say I'm a little shocked that my parents would allow me to be the camp host instead of my older sister, Lindsay. She does have two kids to look after, but she's invincible, that woman is; my niece and nephew don't slow her down.

Glancing at my watch, I realize that I still have about ten more minutes before Maddox and Vance Cameron arrive. Out of the twenty resumés I received for camp leader roles, they're the only two who had enough experience with dirt biking. I just hope it's easy to get along with them. If not, I might be handling large groups of kids on my own this summer.

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