Jill MacLean - The Nine Lives of Travis Keating

The
Nine
Lives
of
Travis
Keating

Jill MacLean

Text copyright 2008 by Jill MacLean
EPub edition copyright July 2011
Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside,
195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8
Published in the United States by Fitzhenry & Whiteside,
311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

MacLean, Jill
The nine lives of Travis Keating / Jill MacLean.
Target audience: For ages 9-12.
ISBN 978-1-55455-104-0
eISBN 978-1-55455-953-4
I. Title.
PS8625.L4293N46 2008 jC813.6 C2008-902322-6

U.S. Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data
(Library of Congress Standards)
MacLean, Jill.
The nine lives of Travis Keating / Jill MacLean.
[224] p. : cm.

Summary: Only some strange characters and a dangerous class bully seem to take an interest in Travis when he moves to a small town in Newfoundland after his mothers death. But the discovery of a colony of feral cats gives Travis a chance to put aside his own grief and anger to care for them.
ISBN: 978-1-55455-104-0 (pbk.)
eISBN 978-1-55455-953-4
1. Feral catsFiction. 2. CatsFiction. I. Title.
[Fic] dc22 PZ7.M3643Ni 2008

Fitzhenry & Whiteside acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

Cover image courtesy of Tara Anderson
Design by Kong Njo

For Stuart,
who asked me to write him a book

One
Day 363and Counting

S ome Sunday nights, you should go to sleep and not wake up until Tuesday.

Its Monday. Monday morning, and the school bus has just stopped at the end of the driveway. Not a chance in the world itll take me back to St. Johns and 24 Willow Lane.

Bad enough changing schools. Worse doing it five weeks after school starts.

I tramp down the driveway. The winds blowing off the sea, sharp and salty, tugging at my jacket, sneaking down my collar. A north wind, straight from Labrador.

When I climb on the bus, the driver says, Youre Travis Keating, right? Hi there. Im Mr. Murphy. Sit anywhere you want.

Im the first one on. I sit midway to the back, and we drive away. Next we pick up a girl he calls Prinny, who has a straggly brown ponytail and sits at the front. A boy with ears that stick out gets on after her. His names Hector and he sits at the front, too. Then we drive to Fiddlers Cove.

So there are only two kids my age in Ratchet. Total population: sixty-seven.

The first guy to get on in Fiddlers Cove is tall and skinny, with hair slick as molasses. Looks like hes in grade seven or eight. When Mr. Murphy says, Hi, Hud, he doesnt say anything, just slouches down the aisle. He sees me and stops, holding the rail as the bus starts. His eyes are pale gray, like slob ice.

Youre in my seat, he says.

Theres lots of other seats.

You deaf, squirt? He reaches out, grabs me by the ear, and twists it. Im not in the mood to take guff from anyone, even if he is twice my size. I punch out at him.

One of Dads rules is Think Before You Act. Thing is, I usually act before I remember the rule.

Hud, lay off, Mr. Murphy says. Hes looking in the back mirror like he was expecting something like this to happen.

Sneering, Hud knuckles my cheek. See ya at recess, he says and clomps to the back of the bus. My ear feels like he held a match to it.

Other kids get on, but no one sits near Hud. As the bus fills up, a boy plunks down next to me and starts to talk. His names Cole Sugden, and hes in grade six like me. Tells me how he plays hockey, left wing, but the rink isnt open yet because theyre waiting for parts for the Zamboni.

Another downer. Hockey was how I planned to make new friends.

Cole sticks with me all the way to our homeroom. The teachers name is Mrs. Dooks, and she looks like she just ate six sour apples.

She says, This is Travis Keating, class. His father is the new doctor. Travis is from St. Johns.

She says St. Johns like its the planet Krypton. A couple of kids snicker and my neck goes red. But the work seems okay, pretty much what Im used to, and then its recess. Coles playing ball hockey with some other kids, so I go stand by the fence. Tomorrow Ill bring my old stick and keep it in my locker.

A gull swoops past. Klee, klee, kleeee, screaming into the wind like it lost its best buddy. I jam my hands in my pockets and scuff a hole in the ground with my sneaker. The first days bound to be the worst.

Im lining pebbles up in little rows with my toe when something makes me look up. Huds sauntering toward me, stuffing his face with ripple chips. Although the winds scudding around the schoolyard, his hair stays glued to his scalp. The teacher on yard duty has her back to us, over by the main door. All the kids go quiet, like the movie just started at Empire 12.

I click into stubborn mode. Im scared, you bet I am, but Im not going to let it show.

Hud stands so close that I have to crane my neck. You from away? he says.

St. Johns.

Townie, eh?

Whats the difference? Im here now. For 363 more days, to be exact.

We dont got much use for townies round here. He drops the empty bag, scrunching it into the dirt with his heel. Specially runt-sized ones.

My dads six feet tall. I figure Ill catch up.

Dont gimme lip.

Im not giving you anything.

You talk funny, you know that?

Theres a reason I talk funny, although Im not about to tell him why. He moves closer, crowding me into the fence so the wire mesh digs into my back. He stinks of sweat and stale cigarette smoke.

Keep away from the other kids, okay? he says. I wouldnt want em to start talking fancy like you.

He steps on my toe with all his weight, grinding it into the ground. I make my face go tight, then I hide behind itFuneral Face, thats what I call it. His jackets black. St. Fabien Furies embroidered on the pocket.

Hud turns around and says in a loud voice, Dont none of you guys cozy up to the townie. You got that?

The other kids sidle out of reach. He looks down at me. And you better not blab to old Dooks. She and my ma are tight as crabs in a trap.