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To: [email protected]
    Senorita Liza Maybird,
Our hearts are full of thanks. We have worked a long time to get the oil company to listen. But you got good and close to their ears!
    We will be thinking of you at the fiesta tonight as we dance to the marimba and eat tamales . We only wish you could be here too.
    En solidaridad,
    Los Campesinos de la Riviera Selequa

Chapter Ten
    It turns out that Slick wasn’t at work the morning of the protest. He was hiking up Bear Hill.
    â€œWhat a day,” Slick says as he sits down to dinner. “Beautiful weather. The sun always recharges me.”
    â€œSo you’re solar-powered?” I tease.
    â€œI heard about your protest, Liza,” Slick answers, his voice gravelly. He stares straight ahead. “On the radio, as I was driving back into town. I nearly had to pull over, I was so completely shocked.”
    The air in the dining room seems to go hard. None of us move. Slick glares into the distance. He seems to be thinking too. Is it possible to glare thoughtfully?
    â€œThe strange thing,” he finally says, “is that I was proud of you.”
    Then he brings Mom’s hand to his lips, and she makes that weird smile she gets when he’s around. My stomach lurches. I realize there’s a side of Mom that she doesn’t share with me. But I’m too excited about the protest to mind.
    â€œKiss,” Mom singsongs, then narrows her eyes challengingly.
    Silas doesn’t miss a beat. “Smooch.”
    â€œPeck,” Leland cries out.
    â€œSmack,” I say, making a smacking sound.
    â€œPucker up!” Slick makes fish lips at the fish in their tank. We laugh.
    â€œLock lips!”
    â€œMake out.”
    â€œBuss.”
    â€œNeck.”
    â€œFrench.”
    â€œSwap spit.”
    â€œTongue.”
    â€œUgh!”
    A few weeks after the protest, Mom flies to Northern Alberta to appraise a rancher’s collection of two hundred and twenty-eight boot scrapers. Yep, boot scrapers, like, to scrape mud off yer boots! The guy’s oldest scraper is four hundred years old. One was once used by Canada’s first prime minister, John A. Macdonald, and one was a murder weapon! Mom helped the same rancher sell a stirrup collection a few years ago.
    While she’s away, Slick picks me up from field-hockey practice. Here I am in the passenger seat of his roomy suv, with gps, iPod dock, surround sound, automatic tissue dispenser…It’s weird, riding high above the other cars. I feel like we are royalty. When he stops for gas, I don’t bite my tongue.
    â€œHow many kilometers do you get for a liter?” I ask.
    â€œSeven,” he answers, mumbling.
    â€œ Seven ? We get twenty-five!”
    â€œYeah. Your mom’s always rubbing it in.”
    â€œNo kidding. You’re wasting money. And spewing tons of carbon into the atmosphere.”
    â€œYour car isn’t perfect. You’re still spewing carbon too,” he says.
    â€œYeah, I know. Biking is best.”
    Slick hands his Gold card to the jockey. He looks thoughtful, then turns to me. “Hey, why doesn’t your girls’ group hold a bicycle workshop? You bring your bikes, learn to oil the chain, tighten handle bars, clean brake pads…”
    â€œWe’d need someone to show us how,” I say doubtfully.
    â€œDarryl in my running club runs a bike shop. He’d do it. Maybe even for free.”
    â€œNo, we’d do a trade!” Trades are totally DIY. “Ask him if he’ll take five bars of all-natural soap made by me. It lasts twice as long the commercial stuff. And three cool hand-knitted toques for, say, a two-hour workshop.”
    â€œThat would probably do it,” Slick nods. “Darryl likes hats. He’s balding.”

Chapter Eleven
    Two weeks later, Olive and I are up to our elbows making soap.
    Olive cuts the last bar. “Hey!” she suddenly exclaims. “Isn’t today the