No Fixed Address

by Susin Nielsen

  “Did you have breakfast this morning?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I lied. “No.”

  He held out a banana. “It’s bruised. I can’t sell it. You’d be doing me a favor. I hate having to throw out perfectly good fruit.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be hungry.”

  “You do?” I asked, my mouth full of banana.

  “My wife and I lived in a refugee camp for two years before we came to Canada.”

  “Oh. That must have been really hard.” My guilt over my small theft—and over Astrid’s numerous small thefts—grew on the spot.

  “Do you want to tell me the real reason why you aren’t at school today?”

  I looked down at my feet. “Do you have any close friends?”

  “My wife. And Oscar and Mohammed. We play chess twice a week.”

  “Do you keep secrets from any of them?”

  He thought about this for a moment. “It would be easy for me to tell you no, but that would not be entirely truthful. There are certain things I don’t share with my chess mates. Things from my past that I feel are best left there. But from my wife, I hide nothing.” He laughed suddenly, a big belly laugh. “Except when I eat doughnuts at Tim Hortons. She thinks they make me fat.” He patted his stomach and laughed again. “And they do!”

  His laugh was contagious and I laughed a little bit, too.

  “I don’t know what your secret is,” Mr. Ahmadi said. “But I can tell you are burdened by it. Is there someone you would like to tell?”

  I nodded.

  “Someone you can trust?”

  I nodded.

  He raised his bushy eyebrows. “Then what are you waiting for?”

  As I considered this, Mrs. Ahmadi called to her husband from inside the store.

  “Time for lunch,” he said, removing his gloves.

  “I’ll go—”

  “You will not. You will eat with us. Mrs. Ahmadi would be very insulted if you didn’t.”

  We walked behind the counter. Mrs. Ahmadi had laid out a tray with sandwiches and cold drinks. “Eat, eat,” she said. Mr. and Mrs. Ahmadi sat on stools; I sat on a milk crate. I ate three sandwiches. Mrs. Ahmadi took away the tray and returned a moment later with a pot of tea and cookies, round and white with a pistachio pressed into the top of each one. “Those look amazing,” I said.

  “Homemade,” said Mrs. Ahmadi. “Syrian recipe.”

  “Help yourself,” said Mr. Ahmadi.

  I had two cups of delicious sweet tea and four cookies. Then I helped Mr. Ahmadi unpack more boxes of produce. When I left, Mrs. Ahmadi gave me a Tupperware container filled with the cookies and a bag full of fruit. “For all your hard work,” she said.

  I left the store with the cookies and the fruit and my mind made up.

  I was sick of lying to my two best friends.

  It was time to try the truth.

  * * *

  —

  By the time I got back to school it was almost two o’clock, so I decided not to go in. I texted Astrid. Where r u?

  Job hunting. Home by 6.

  Perfect.

  I waited just outside the school’s main doors. When Dylan and Winnie came out, Winnie slugged me on the arm, hard. “Where were you all day? We were worried.”

  “Do you have to go home right away?” I asked.

  They both shook their heads.

  “Good. Come with me.”

  * * *

  —

  We walked toward Carnarvon Park. It was raining, but not too hard. “Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” asked Dylan.

  “It’s easier if I show you.” They were unusually quiet, so I tried to fill the silence. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I got a spot on Who, What, Where, When.”

  “Felix, that’s awesome,” Dylan said.

  “Yeah, great,” Winnie added. But I could tell she was distracted.

  It took us about ten minutes to get to the park. “Before I show you what I’m about to show you, I need you to know that it’s strictly temporary. Especially now that I’m going to be on Who, What, Where, When.” I pointed up ahead. “That’s where I live.”

  “That house across the street?” asked Winnie.

  “No. There.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Dylan figured it out first. “The van?”

  I nodded. “It’s a Westfalia.”

  “Wow. Um…why?”

  “My mom hasn’t had great luck with jobs lately.”

  “Oh.”

  “How long have you been living there?” asked Winnie.

  “Since August.”

  “That’s four months. That doesn’t sound temporary.”

  My jaw tensed. “Well, it is. Because one way or another I’m going to win enough money to get us an apartment. I’ll get at least a thousand dollars, just for participating.”

  “A thousand dollars is nothing in Vancouver,” Winnie said. “And winning—no offense, but it’s a serious long shot.”

  I wanted to yank her beret down over her eyes.

  “Can we see inside?” asked Dylan.

  “Sure.” I unlocked the side door and slid it open.

  Winnie covered her nose. Astrid and I hadn’t washed the sheets or our sleeping bags in a while, plus I’d farted an unusual amount that morning. “It’s just because it’s been closed up all day,” I said.

  Dylan didn’t seem to notice the smell. We climbed inside. First I introduced them to Horatio Blass and I let them take turns holding him. Then I showed them all of the Westfalia’s features. I popped up the roof to show them where I slept. “That is so cool!” said Dylan. He looked toward the dashboard. “No way! Mel! I totally remember your tim-tom.”

  “Tomte,” I said.

  I gave them each a granola bar and made up the table. I turned the front seats around so all three of us could sit. “See? It’s not so bad.”

  Winnie cleared her throat. “If it isn’t so bad, why have you been lying to us?”

  “My mom thought it would be for the best.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s worried that if people find out, the Ministry of Children and Family Development will get involved and I’ll be put into foster care.”

  “Zoinks,” said Dylan.

  “How come your mom doesn’t have a job?” asked Winnie.

  “She’s had lots of jobs,” I said, feeling a prickle of irritation again. “But they don’t always work out.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because her bosses are jerks. And because—” I stopped. Because she threw drinks. Because she was mouthy. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

  “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “I’m not an interview subject for your next hard-hitting article, Winnie. We can’t all be as lucky as you. We can’t all have two parents with good jobs.”

  “What about your dad?” asked Dylan.

  “You have a dad?” asked Winnie.

  “Of course I have a dad.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Toronto.”

  “Does he know you’re living in a van?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “He should. If he knew—”

  “I’m fine, okay?” I was beginning to regret telling them the truth.

  Winnie’s brow creased. “Felix, you’re not fine. There are days when you fall asleep at your desk. There are days when you don’t have any lunch and you’re starving.”

  “Days when you smell,” added Dylan. Coming from someone who ranked hygiene pretty far down his list of priorities, that stung.

  But before I could respond, the van door slid open. “Well, hello!” said my mom.

  * * *

 
—

  Astrid smiled broadly. Too broadly. I wondered how much she’d overheard. “Dylan, it’s nice to see you. My goodness. How you’ve grown.”

  “Hi, Ms. Knutsson. Long time no see.”

  “Please, call me Astrid. And you”—she turned to Winnie—“you must be Winnie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Felix’s mom.”

  “I see Felix has been showing off our temporary digs. Once the fumigators are done, we’ll be able to move back into our apartment. In the meantime, we’re having fun, aren’t we, Felix?”

  The silence went on for a long time. “Um. Astrid. They know. Dylan stopped by Soleil’s house on the weekend.”

  A flash of anger—or maybe fear?—flitted across Astrid’s face. “I’m sorry, how do you know Soleil?” she asked Dylan.

  Dylan threw me a look. “Um, I didn’t. I don’t—”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, giving my mom a pleading look. Please don’t make this worse in front of my friends. “I can tell you later.”

  The tension settled on us like a heavy blanket.

  Winnie cleared her throat. “Well, nice to meet you, Mrs. Knutsson—”

  “Ms.,” Astrid corrected her.

  “We’d better get going. Right, Dylan?”

  Dylan took Horatio out of his coat pocket and handed him to me. “Affirmative.”

  They climbed out of the van. Astrid stood by the open door, her teeth bared in what was meant to be a smile but instead looked like something out of a horror movie.

  Winnie put a hand on my arm. “See you tomorrow. We’ll talk more then.” It sounded like a threat.

  It probably was.

  * * *

  —

  I told Astrid everything as we walked around the park. The more I told her, the faster she walked, until, when I finally reached the end, I was struggling to keep up.

  “What did Dylan tell Soleil?”

  “Not much. He just asked if I was home. Soleil figured it out.”

  Astrid pushed her hands against her forehead. “Fanken!” she yelled. A dog walker looked our way, even though she’d sworn in Swedish. “What did Soleil say?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “Felix. Don’t even try to lie to me. You’ve proved you’re no good at it.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be good at it, Astrid! Maybe I don’t actually think that’s an awesome skill to have!” The rain had started to pick up. Astrid still had on her coat; I was in my ancient I GERBILS T-shirt.

  “Just—please tell me what Soleil said.”

  “She said she’d been trying to get in touch with you. She said she was pretty sure you’d broken in. She said—” I stopped.

  “She said?”

  “She was worried about me.”

  Astrid ran a hand through her hair. “Oh, that’s rich. That’s just rich. She had a full-time nanny who practically raised those kids, and she questions my parenting skills?”

  The wind had picked up, too. My T-shirt and jeans were soaked through. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering. “Mom,” I said. “I’m freezing.”

  She glanced at me, like she was really seeing me for the first time. Her face crumpled. “Oh my God. Felix, you’re drenched.” She pulled her coat off and draped it around my shoulders. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Home. Good one.”

  She ignored that as we started fast-walking back toward the van.

  * * *

  —

  In spite of Astrid’s best efforts I could not get warm. She made me strip down to my underwear and crawl into a sleeping bag, then she put her sleeping bag on top of mine.

  She heated up some cans of chicken noodle soup for dinner. I was so sick of soup. I was sick of food in cans. But I ate what I could, still wrapped in the sleeping bag.

  While she was washing the dishes, she said, “Did Dylan tell Soleil what school he goes to?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “So she knows what school you go to.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t trust her, Felix. She could try to make our lives miserable.”

  “I think you mean more miserable.” I couldn’t help it.

  Astrid either didn’t hear my dig or pretended she didn’t. She put the dishes away in the little cupboard. “I think it’s best if you change schools.”

  “No.”

  “It’ll take a little bit of doing, but I can get you transferred somewhere else. Maybe we should consider another town. Maybe somewhere on Vancouver Island—”

  “No. Absolutely not, no way.”

  She sighed. “It’s not really your choice, Felix. I’m still the parent here.”

  I snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m happy, Astrid. Not with this”—I swept my arm around the van—“but with school, with French, with my friends. You can’t take that away from me.”

  “I’m just trying to keep us safe.”

  “Are you? Maybe you’re trying to keep you safe. I’m not sure that you’re thinking about me much at all.”

  She looked stung. “That is not true. You’re all I think about.”

  “Then please, please listen. I am not going anywhere. If you try to make me, I’ll run away. I’ll tell my friends. I’ll tell my teacher.”

  “And you’ll be put in a foster home—”

  “At least in a foster home I’d have a freaking toilet!”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then the waterworks started.

  I stayed where I was. I didn’t want to hug her. I didn’t want to touch her.

  “I’m sorry, Felix. I’ve tried so hard. I hope you see that none of this is my fault.”

  I thought about that. Then I said what I was thinking. “Well. Maybe not none of it.”

  That made her cry even harder, but I didn’t take it back.

  I woke up the next morning with a cough.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go to school,” said Astrid as she handed me a mug of hot lemon tea with honey. I could tell she was feeling guilty, which suited me just fine.

  “And do what, stay in the freezing-cold van all day? Yeah, that’ll help.”

  She sighed. “I suppose that as a master of sarcasm myself, it should not surprise me to see you’ve become so good at it.” She rummaged around in one of the cupboards and pulled out a container of six grocery-store muffins. She handed me two of them.

  “Did you pay for these?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll understand why I’m skeptical.”

  “Felix. Enough.”

  When I arrived at school, Winnie and Dylan were already waiting for me by my locker. I took a deep breath and strode up to them like nothing was wrong. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Dylan.

  “Can you shove a bum so I can get into my locker?”

  They moved over. Neither of them said a word.

  “I know, I know,” I said. “You’re in awe because your friend got onto Who, What, Where, When. Suddenly I’m like a celebrity, and you’re speechless in my presence.”

  Dylan laughed a little. “I am super stoked for you.”

  “It is very good news,” Winnie admitted. “But—”

  “But you also want to tell me that you’ll do anything you can to help me prepare for the show, which is only two weeks away.”

  “Definitely,” said Dylan. “I told Alberta and Henry last night, and they totally want to help.”

  I felt a twinge in my duodenum. “You didn’t mention the other stuff, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But about that other stuff—” Winnie began.

  I slammed my locker door. “We’re going to be late for class.”

&nbs
p; Winnie pursed her lips. “Felix, quit prevaricating. ‘Prevaricating’ means—”

  “ ‘To beat about the bush, be evasive.’ I know what it means. Might be a question on the show—”

  “Felix!” Her voice rose an octave. “You are homeless!”

  I glanced around, terrified that someone had overheard. “I am not homeless.”

  “You live in a van. A smelly, leaky van.”

  “There is only one leak, and it’s a small one.”

  “You can’t keep living like that.”

  “And I told you, we won’t keep living like that—”

  “How do you know? What is your mom doing to fix things?”

  “She’s looking for work.”

  “But you said yourself, she can’t keep a job. Has she asked for help? Like, for social housing or welfare or something?”

  “No, because as I keep telling you, this is temporary. And besides, my mom has a lot of pride.”

  “So she’s proud that her kid has been living in a van for close to four months? Proud that she can’t hold down a job? Proud that you’re not eating properly?”

  My entire body was trembling, I was so mad. I looked to Dylan for support; so far he hadn’t said a word.

  He just shrugged. “She has a point, compadre. Quite a few points.”

  “Your parents aren’t perfect, either,” I shot back.

  “Far from it,” said Dylan. “My dad tells the worst jokes. And my mom and my dad are terrible cooks—”

  “And your house is a pigsty,” I added. Cruelly. Deliberately. Hating myself immediately.

  “Dude,” Dylan murmured.

  “And your dad hates your bread and just pretends to like it,” I fired at Winnie, just to hate myself even more.

  Winnie’s bottom lip trembled. “That is all different, and you know it.”

  “Whatever the two of you may think? Astrid is a great mom.”

  “Is she?” asked Winnie. “Is she really?”

  “Winnie.” Dylan said it like a warning.

  Winnie opened her mouth. Then closed it. I assumed that for once in her life she’d decided to think before she spoke. She took a deep breath. “I still think we should talk to someone. Like Monsieur Thibault. He’d know who to get in touch with—”