“Some of the students from your school had to be sent to Beaconsfield because there was not enough space at Riverdale. There are just so many families pouring into the city these days.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Lola says, nodding her head.
Okay, I know that I should be grateful to even be in school, and to be in one of the few remaining places in the world with an abundance of clean water and more than a trace amount of rainfall. However, I really don’t feel like having a discussion about the impact of climate change on the city’s population right now. I just want to know that I will be able to get out of that school and away from those weirdos.
“But I haven’t seen anyone — and I mean not one single person — that I know at Beaconsfield,” I protest. “And, besides, we live around the corner from Riverdale. Kids who live farther away should be going to that idiotic excuse of a school, not me.”
Mom shakes her head. “I know,” she says. “It doesn’t make sense to me either. There must’ve been some sort of lottery system. I’m going to speak to the superintendent, but can’t get in until late next week. That was the first available appointment she had, apparently.”
Mom runs a hand through my hair and kisses my cheek. The familiar vanilla scent of her perfume washes over me. “Pobrecita, I know it’s disappointing, but I just need you to go there until we figure this out.”
“Don’t worry,” Lola says. “I’ll go down with your mom if need be. I’ve got my ways of persuading people.” She winks at me. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you should be at that school either, my love.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I guess a few more days there won’t kill me.”
Mom smiles at me. Her relief at my response is evident. “Such a good attitude. My girl is really growing up,” she says to Lola before turning her attention back to the pot of rice.
“I’m just going to put my stuff in my room before dinner,” I say, leaving the kitchen.
“Can you get my Ibeji for me?” Lola calls after me. I don’t tell her how glad I’ll be to return it, and I just hope she won’t ask why I’m giving it back wrapped in a t-shirt because there’s no way I’m touching it with my bare skin again.
As I walk down the hall, I think about how much I hate lying to Mom. I really do. And I’ve never pulled anything like what I’m about to, but it’s for my own sanity. I know Mom will work things out, and I’ll get to Riverdale eventually. But until then, I’m not stepping foot back into that messed-up school.
Chapter 5
I’m getting ready to leave the apartment, trying to act as though I’m actually going to school today. My knapsack is on my back, and in it I’ve got a book about serial killers, my water bottle, and a chicken sandwich (because I know I’m going to get hungry). I also have thirty dollars on my swipe card in case I want to go somewhere or get something to eat or drink. It’s going to be a long day.
“See you,” I say to Mom, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She’s in surprisingly good health today: her eyes are bright and she looks well rested. And, though it could just be my imagination playing tricks on me, I swear she’s leaning less on her cane.
“Just a couple of days,” she says, kissing me firmly on both cheeks. “Remember that I am so proud of you. Especially the way you’re handling all of this. I know it can’t be easy.”
I instantly feel guilty and nearly change my mind about my plans for the day. But then I remember Mina’s insults and Mr. Khan’s nosiness, and I steel myself.
The air outside wraps itself around me like a blanket. It’s hot, so hot I immediately begin to sweat. Beads of perspiration trickle down my face and back. The wind is as dry as sand and sucks every bit of moisture out of my skin with the efficiency of a vacuum.
It’s weird. When I was younger, autumn weather usually brought a chill to the air, and its frosty nights meant warmer clothes. By Halloween it would rarely be sunny and warm. But if it was, Jade and I loved it because it meant we could go trick-or-treating without jackets over our costumes. She always dressed up as something pretty and nice, like a princess or ballerina. I, on the other hand, was usually a goth, a vampire, or — my all-time favourite costume — Edward Scissorhands. He’s a character from a really old movie, but it’s one of my favourites. And Mom worked really hard making that costume for me. She spent weeks making enormous papier mâché scissors, and then Halloween night she spent over an hour teasing my hair and gelling it just right. She even did my makeup so that it looked identical to Edward’s.
That was the last Halloween I ever went trick-or-treating. Jade disappeared a week later.
Now it feels like July in October, and our winters hit in November with ferocious storms and only the slightest dip in temperatures. Instead of blizzards, we get monsoons. They blow across the Atlantic from England due to changes in the jet streams.
At first most people loved the change in the weather, especially here in Toronto when our winters became warmer and there was no longer any snowfall. Climate-change scientists, however, continued to alert us to the doom ahead.
“Would all of you be smiling and happy if suddenly the sun shone twenty-four hours a day?” I remember one famous environmental scientist shouting during an interview on the evening news. It was a particularly hot evening, at the beginning of the massive power outages. That week there’d been major blackouts across most of North America due to excessive energy consumption. The environmentalists blamed it on all the air-conditioning we were pumping out because of the soaring temperatures. Now blackouts happen all the time because of the constant heat. And there’s no longer any real change in seasons. It’s as though winter, spring, and autumn have all become extinct, along with 60 percent of the world’s species.
I walk about five blocks toward downtown, trying to decide what to do with my day. At first I figure I’ll spend most of my time in a park somewhere far away from our neighbourhood, so there’s less chance of running into anyone who knows me. But it’s so hot I can’t stand the thought of being outside a minute more than I have to be.
As I get closer to the downtown area, the shops change from bargain stores and small, family-run vegetable and fruit shops to smart boutiques and trendy chicory cafés. There’s less garbage on the streets and in the alleyways and more people wearing suits and looking stressed out and impatient, rather than strung out and sad.
I stop to readjust my knapsack. My T-shirt is soaked through from where the pack was sitting against my back. Gross. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, as well, making them sting uncomfortably. I rub at them, which only makes things worse. That’s when I decide to go underground.
I walk toward a set of stairs that leads underneath the sidewalk. At the entrance, sitting just off to the side, is an older woman with badly bleached, tornado-like hair and skin that’s so wrinkled it looks like it needs a good ironing. She’s sitting on a squashed cardboard box, wearing a red-and-white wool poncho. Just the sight of it makes me want to faint from heat exhaustion.
There’s a Styrofoam cup plunked in front of her, but she’s just sitting there, staring at her hands, rather than asking people for money. Someone’s put an unopened bottle of water down beside her.
I try to leave as much space as possible between me and this lady. Not that I have anything against homeless people or people with mental illness. I’m just afraid she’ll smell, and considering the way the heat is making me feel, I don’t want to lose my breakfast all over the sidewalk.
“Stop,” she says, looking up from her hands and directly at me as I pass.
Great. I always seem to attract the freaks and weirdos. Still, Mom taught me never to be rude to my elders, and I’m sure this woman is treated badly by strangers every single day, so I stop for a moment, making sure I hold my breath as much as possible.
“Pardon?” I say, taking one tiny step backward.
I’m suddenly struck with an intense feeling of d
éjà vu.
Her eyes are this amazing blue colour that glitter like ocean water. They seem so young and out of place compared to the weathered and wrinkled face framing them. And her gaze is focused and clear. In fact, she doesn’t look like a crazy person at all.
“Listen closely,” she says, leaning forward. “One of you is not what you seem and will make the ultimate sacrifice.”
Yep. This was exactly the kind of thing I expected she might say. I guess I was wrong about her not being crazy. She’s certifiable.
“Okay, thanks,” I mumble, skirting around her and continuing to the stairs.
“You need to listen to me,” she says, her voice rising sharply as I descend the first few steps. “Don’t go down there. They’re looking for you. The door has been opened.”
Even though I know her words are just insane babble, they still cause a sudden chill to snake its way up my spine. And though I can’t put my finger on it, there is something very familiar about her.
I tell myself that I’m just being paranoid because of all the weirdness in my life lately, and I continue down the stairs.
The cool thing about Toronto is that there’s practically another whole city underneath it. There are hundreds and hundreds of stores, restaurants, hair salons, offices, and chicory shops that exist under the main part of the downtown. They’re all connected by underground pathways that go on for kilometres and kilometres. The best thing about it on a day like today is the fact that the whole place is air-conditioned.
And I’m not disappointed. The air here is like a long, cool drink of water. Immediately I feel more energized and awake. I begin to walk, though I’m not sure where to go. I know I can get to the subway from down here, so I decide to get on it and explore a part of the city I’ve never been to before.
I follow the signs and crowds of people to the subway entrance. Fifteen dollars is just enough to cover my fare both ways. That leaves me with fifteen dollars to get something to eat.
Staring at the subway lines, I try to choose which station will be my destination. I put my finger on the High Park stop. I’ve been there only once, when Jade was still alive, during a third-grade field trip to study birds, mammals, and insects. It’s a massive park with a small lake and loads of trees, so it should be a bit cooler than other places in the city. If the lake hasn’t dried up, that is.
I hold my card against the reader and walk through the sliding gates.
Looking around the subway platform at all the people standing beside me, I feel happy. I’ve got this overwhelming sense of freedom, probably because I’m skipping school while my friends are stuck in math and geography classes. This thought makes me smile.
The train pulls up in a rush of hot air and the doors slide open, allowing passengers to squeeze their way out, past people who are too impatient to wait before trying to force themselves on. This is definitely a busy station.
“Can’t ya just wait until we get off?” a woman with a face the colour of a tomato snaps, spittle flying from her lips onto the face of a young man trying to shove his way into the car.
I decide I don’t want someone spitting all over my face, so I wait and slide in just as the chimes sound, signalling the doors are about to close.
Now for the fun part: finding a seat beside someone who a) won’t talk nonstop to me; b) doesn’t stink and/or isn’t eating something that stinks; c) isn’t doing something decidedly unhygienic, like picking his nose or cutting his nails; and last, but not least, d) isn’t muttering to herself while shooting looks of death toward other passengers.
After some careful searching, I decide to take a seat beside a middle-aged woman reading a romance novel. Books are a pretty rare sight these days. I figure since I’ve got one of my own in my bag, it might be a sign that she’s a safe choice.
I sit down and glance up at the subway map, which is posted above the doors. Only a few stations before I have to change to a westbound train.
I take out my book and open it to the chapter on Myra Hindley. In the 1960s, she and her lover, Ian Brady, kidnapped and murdered several children and teenagers in England. I stare hard at the photo of her, studying her eyes. Since Jade was taken, I’ve read hundreds of books and newspaper articles about serial killers, especially ones that took children. And the first thing I always do is look at their photos. I want to see if their eyes hold any clues about what kind of person can do such terrible things.
The lights of the subway car flicker on and off a couple of times. A few passengers around me suck in their breath in anticipation. None of us wants to get stuck down here during a power outage.
Blackouts underground often mean evacuations — walking out along the tracks with transit police leading the way. If you’re in the wrong spot when the power comes back on, bad luck for you, because it can mean instant electrocution.
Suddenly, the train jolts sickeningly to the right. This time a few people scream. I might be among them.
And that’s when everything falls apart.
Chapter 6
The same thunderclap I heard when I touched the Ibeji booms through the subway car. My body goes all jiggy as that electrical feeling surges through me again. Except this time I feel a sense of power from it, like I’m a superhero changing form.
Both my knapsack and book fall from my lap onto the floor. As I bend to retrieve them, I notice something. The woman’s legs beside me have changed. Swear to God, she was wearing white linen pants two seconds ago. Now she’s actually got some sort of tan-coloured makeup smeared all over her legs, and they’re bare. To top it all off, it looks like she’s taken eyebrow pencil and drawn a line up the back of them.
The train lurches once more, this time sharply to the left. My knapsack skitters across the floor like a cockroach, and I notice something that causes me to jam my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming in real terror. That something is the floor of the subway car. It’s changed. It’s now made of wood. Subway cars in Toronto do not have wooden floors. This much I know for sure.
Before I can think about it a second longer, we’re plunged into darkness again. I pull my knees to my chest and close my eyes, wishing for all of this to go away. If this is what going crazy is all about, I want no part of it. It’s terrifying. What if I’m still on a normal subway train in Toronto, sitting with my knees up to my chest, whimpering like a terrified puppy? Everyone must be looking, except I wouldn’t know it because I’m clearly delusional.
Then the singing begins. At first I can only hear it faintly, but it slowly grows louder. The song isn’t familiar, but the people singing it sound happy and energetic.
Roll out the barrel,
We’ll have a barrel of fun!
Roll out the barrel,
We’ve got the blues on the run!
Gathering every bit of courage I can, I open one eye and then the other.
The lights are back on. But I’m no longer on the train. I’m on a subway platform. The woman with the book is also gone; a different woman sits beside me. She glances over and shoots me a reassuring smile. She’s wearing bright red lipstick, and her hair looks the way Mom’s great-grandmother’s hair does in old photos. And she’s pretty dressed up considering we’re all sitting on the floor.
I look around. There are actually hundreds of people down here, and more are arriving by the minute. Most have blankets and pillows with them. Some of the kids have stuffed bears. The singing is coming from a group of men and women standing at the other end of the platform. One of the men is playing an accordion. He’s wearing an old-fashioned suit and sports a funny moustache that curls up at the edges.
“You all right, love? Do the air raid sirens scare you?” the woman asks. She has an English accent.
I shake my head. It doesn’t really matter what I say because clearly this is some sort of psychotic episode. God only knows what I’m doing back in real-time on the subway. May
be I’m screaming my head off like a lunatic. I imagine this is what Alice in Wonderland must’ve felt like on the wrong side of the looking glass. But then she’s not real either.
Suddenly sirens begin to wail from somewhere above. People try to carry on talking and singing, but the air thickens with an undercurrent of fear.
“Are your parents with you?” the woman asks. Her face is creased with concern. I stop myself from reaching out to touch her, to see if she’s solid or just some apparition I’ve conjured up.
“No,” I answer. “My mom is at home.”
The concern on the woman’s face grows. “Is she on her way here? I suspect those Gerries are really going to give us a pounding tonight.”
What is she talking about? I nod, trying to seem as if I have some clue as to what’s happening. But I don’t. Everyone is dressed funny, and something pretty strange must be going on to make all these people gather below ground.
I glance around. There’s a poster on the wall showing a fierce-looking lion in front of the British flag. The words The Spirit of 1943 are printed below the lion in large, red letters. Beside it is another poster of an old, round, and mostly bald man. He looks a bit like a serious Santa, minus the beard and red hat. The poster of this man is emblazoned with the words Keep Calm and Carry On.
“Do you have your gas mask with you?” The woman’s still looking at me.
“Gas mask?”
Her brows furrow. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?” she says. “I’m asking if you have your issued gas mask. Don’t the schools remind you to keep it with you at all times? Remember, Hitler won’t give a warning.”
I pause and try to decide whether or not to ask this woman where I am and what year it is. Could I have stumbled onto a movie set? There are always loads of films being shot in Toronto, and sometimes they’re historical with costumes and old cars and stuff. Maybe this is a movie set, and she’s just trying really hard to stay in character.
Finding Jade Page 3
