It feels so good to have plans, to have to be somewhere at a specific time. Einstein had theories about time, but I doubt he ever knew how it felt to have every day run into the next until they meld together.
When I lived with Micha and Jordan, my life was ruled by time: when they came home from school, when their stomachs got hungry, when their favourite television show came on. On the street, seconds and minutes disappear and time is measured by light and dark, by relief and fear.
My eyes fall on the opened page and I grin as I read. Seems good old Albert couldn’t find a job, until a friend got him one in a patent office in Switzerland. As I turn another page, I check on Twitch.
He followed me here, walking a block behind, and now he’s at the fiction bookshelves, running a finger over the spines. Occasionally, he peeks at me, but he quickly averts his face when I look up. It’s annoying.
I launch myself out of my chair and nearly fall flat on my face, having forgotten about the strap around my ankle. What’s scary is that not one person notices my clumsiness. Am I invisible? When I’m begging for money, people sweep past like I’m not there. Maybe I really am not there. Goosebumps rise on my arms as a new theory occurs to me. If no one acknowledges my existence, will I cease to be? I’m getting weird. Like the Garbage Man. Heart pounding, I grab my backpack and make my way to the fiction section. Twitch shrinks against the shelves, so, obviously, he sees me.
“Quit doing that,” I say to Twitch.
“What?” he whispers loudly.
“Walking behind me. Hiding in the books. I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
How can a person be mad at him? He’s pathetic.
“Listen. I have a job interview at two.” A new fear assails me. Am I jinxing my chances by telling my news? “I’m going to the washroom. Don’t follow me.”
His face falls.
“It’s not because I’m mad. It’s because I don’t want anyone noticing me go into the bathroom,” I explain. It’s like I’m talking to Micha. And if it’s like I’m talking to Micha, I reason, I may as well treat him like I do Micha. Promise a reward for good behaviour. “Sit down quietly until I come back and I’ll let you walk to my interview with me.”
It works. Twitch sits in a chair. He puts a hand on his knee to stop it jiggling, then both hand and knee bounce.
A school class comes into the library, and in the resulting confusion I slip past the Checkout desk and into the washroom. I push each stall door. Empty. Good. I don’t want some creep eyeballing my chest.
I pull my shirt off, lather soap and water together, and wash the pits well. I sniff my T-shirts, pick the least scented one, and tug it over my head. That’s when I notice my hair. It’s matted and dirty, but I can’t wash it in the sink. I wet and smooth it as best I can with my fingers, give myself one last check, and decide I’ll do.
Twitch and I leave the library. Legs a blur, he walks in front, then beside me, back and forth, making me dizzy.
“It’s not sex,” he says out of the blue.
“What?”
“It’s not sex,” he says. “With Brad. It’s just a way to make a quick buck, have a warm bed for the night. But it’s not sex. I’m not gay.”
I merely nod, hoping he’ll shut up. Talk like this makes me uncomfortable, but I know what he’s getting at. There’s a three-block stretch downtown where the hookers and hustlers have their turfs staked out. It’s a busy place after dark. Cars slowly cruise up and down checking out the girls in skirts that barely cover their asses, while others approach the boys on their stretch. It’s a desperate place too: laughing, crying, arguing, and fighting. How could anyone think it’s about sex?
“Have you seen Jenna?” I ask.
“No,” Twitch says, slowly.
“But . . . ?” I prod him.
“Brendan’s mad at her for taking off with you like that. You need to watch out.”
My heart skips a beat, but before I can give it any further thought, we’re at the coffee shop.
“Okay, this is it. You stay out here,” I say.
“You want me to look after your bag?” Twitch asks.
I think it over but decide to take it in with me. The truth is, I don’t trust him.
“That’s okay,” I say.
“Sure, man.” Twitch shoves something into my hand. “This is for you.”
It’s the Einstein book from the library, the back cover and spine torn off to remove the security tape strip.
“I saw you reading it. I thought you’d like it,” he says. He’s jumping out of his skin, he’s so excited. “That is the right book, isn’t it?”
“How many Albert Einstein: Father of the Theory of Relativity books could there be?” I ask him.
“Yeah, really.” He nods and grins, and wipes his nose with the back of a hand. “You won’t say anything about . . . ?” He stares at his toes and I see Micha pleading with me.
I hold up the book. “Our secret,” I say.
“No. No. I mean about—Brad.”
“Oh, that. No, I won’t.” The kids out here are hard on each other. I’ve no desire to see Twitch beaten to a pulp.
“Thanks,” he says.
His eyes water up and I think that he is going to grab my hand and cover it with kisses like I’m the Pope or something, so I quickly back up. “Thanks for the book. I got to go.”
As I push open the door to the coffee shop, I’m enveloped in caffeine fumes. I’d have no problem staying awake in this place. I stare at rows of coffee bins. If I got the job, I’d soon know all the names of them.
“Can I help you?” a man asks.
“I’m here to see the manager about the part-time job,” I say.
“That’s me.”
His eyes take me in from head to toe, and they miss nothing: the scuffed shoes, frayed pants, ragged hair, backpack, sleeping bag—shit, I should have left it with Twitch.
“Have you worked in a coffee shop before?” he asks.
“No, but I’m a fast learner,” I reply.
Shouldn’t he be interviewing me at a desk, instead of in front of these people sipping their coffees and pretending not to listen?
He fires off rapid questions. How old am I? Worked anywhere before?
“I’m available all hours, even at night,” I tell him. Warning bells immediately go off in my brain. Wrong answer.
“So you’re not in school right now,” he says.
I can’t think fast enough. I need that desk between us.
“What’s your address?”
I’m stumped. My eyes wildly roam the coffee shop as if I might find the answer printed on the chalkboard with the listing of desserts. That’s when I see the computer geek from the office tower sitting at a table near the window.
The manager leaves to wait on a customer. I’m so stupid. I should have just rattled off a fake number and street name. My shoulders droop. I’m not getting the job.
The manager returns and sets a coffee on the counter. “Come back when you have a permanent address and you’ve cleaned yourself up.” He nods at the cup. “On the house.”
I want to tell him what I think of his stinking shop of flavoured beans. Tell him to shove his cup of coffee. But my hand reaches out and picks up the cup. As I turn to leave, I see Vulture sitting in a corner. He dabs at his mouth with a napkin and smiles at me. He’s overhead everything. Predator eyes follow me out of the shop.
Chapter 7
I don’t know why I always let myself get so excited. I should have known my mother was not going to make a new start. I should have known each new school was going to be tough. And I should definitely have known I wouldn’t get that job. That’s it. I refuse to have any more expectations.
I’m sitting in front of the office tower waiting for the church bells to toll the noon hour. Wind throws hard, hurting pellets of snow into my face. People will pull up their coat collars and rush right by me to the warmth of a restaurant or store.
They won’t want to linger and search for change. It’ll be worse when the cold months of January and February strike.
The sidewalk in front of Holy Rosary Cathedral is empty. It’s been that way for a couple of days, and I worry about Jenna.
I stick my feet into the sleeping bag and pull it over my knees. As I tuck the flap between my butt and the cold cement wall, a photograph falls to the ground. I snatch it up before the wind catches it.
It’s my grandparents’ wedding picture, in black and white, though it would be truer to say in shades of grey. The photograph reminds me of early morning. Like this picture, dawn is the time before colour comes into the world, when there’s a magical play of light and dark: nuance, subtlety, gradations, and shadows. The entire texture of the city is different at dawn, softer.
I took this photograph from my grandma’s dresser drawer one day. I guess that’s stealing, but I needed it. I only steal things I need. In the photograph, my grandparents smile shyly. Blossom-laden branches stretch over their heads, so I know it is spring. Shadows are short, so it must be around noon, when the sun is highest. The day must be warm because a woman in the background holds a paper to her face, like a fan, and the man beside her has a jacket folded over his arm. I want to be there, in that picture. I want to feel sun warm my skin, soft wind pass through my hair, hear laughter and talk, smell the mingled perfumes of women and apple blossoms.
I have pictures of Micha and Jordan with me in a small album, one of the few items I grabbed as Mom pushed me out the door. There’s a picture of her, too. I ripped a corner of it one day, planning to tear the whole thing into bits. But in the end I didn’t. Once you do something, it can’t be undone. Granddad told me that.
I tuck the photograph between the pages of the Einstein book, a proper place for it, I believe, since photographs are all about time. Frozen time. Somewhere I’ll always be three, five, and six.
Suddenly, the book is snatched out of my hand. Startled, I look up to see Vulture leafing through the pages. “So you’re the brainy type,” he says.
I grab it back, and now it’s Vulture who’s startled. Not too many people cross him. But he lets it go. He sits on the wall beside me and casually crosses one leg over the other.
“I could use someone with brains working for me,” he says.
“I’m not looking for a job.”
“So that’s why you left the coffee shop with your tail between your legs?” He smirks.
I feel heat rise in my face.
“It’s only going to get worse out here,” he continues. “The weather. And people get nastier the colder it gets. You haven’t been here long enough to see that. I have. It can get real bad.”
I give an involuntary shiver.
“Work for me and you’ll have steady money coming in, food, a warm place to sleep.”
It’s tempting. I will admit it’s tempting, but . . . “I’ll do fine,” I say.
“Out here? In the winter?” Vulture laughs unpleasantly. “All those nickels and dimes will dry up. You’ll freeze your ass off, if you don’t die first.”
I glance over at the church.
“Oh, she’ll be there,” Vulture says with complete certainty, as he follows my gaze.
“Why? You just said there wasn’t any money to be made out here when it’s cold.”
“There isn’t,” he agrees. “Jenna’s in . . .” He stops and thinks a moment, then smiles. “Training.”
I don’t think I’ve hated anyone as much as I hate him right now. Not even Pete when he was hitting me. He was ignorant. What Vulture is doing is deliberate.
“I’m not working for you. Now or ever,” I tell him.
Vulture gets up and brushes off his pants. “You’ll be begging me for a job before the month is up.” He points across the street to where Jenna has arrived. “See? Right on time. She does what I say. A word of warning.” Vulture leans in close and stabs my chest with a finger. “She’s mine. You stay away from her, and anyone and anything else that’s mine, or you’ll get hurt.” He jabs me a second time, then saunters away as the bells strike twelve. My fists clench in helpless fury.
As I expected, most people scurry by, intent on spending as little time as possible in the miserable weather. I still ask for money, but I get nothing.
“Cold today.” The computer geek holds out a steaming sausage to me. He gestures to the cart. “He’s packing it in for the season. Thought you’d like one last grill.”
I feel like a dog being tamed with tidbits of food, but I take the warm bun without comment. It might be all I eat today.
He sits beside me on the wall, so close his thigh nearly touches mine. I immediately move away. I knew there was a price. Tame dog.
“I don’t do that,” I say, voice wrapped around the sausage.
“Do what?”
“What you want.” Do I have to spell it out for him? Shit, he just about sat on me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shakes his head, perplexed.
Is he for real?
“Sex. I don’t have sex with guys. I don’t care what you pay.” I might have no expectations any more, but I still have standards. My body is mine.
His eyes widen at my words, then a small smile parts his lips. “Well, that’s good,” he says. “Because neither do I. Have sex with guys. Or pay for it,” he adds.
“Oh.” I lick the last trace of onion from my fingers. What does he want, then?
“My name’s Glen.”
He holds out his hand. I give it a brief shake. “What’s your name?” he asks.
I hesitate, then, “Dylan.”
He stands. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the job at the coffee shop, Dylan. Keep trying.”
I stay a while longer, begging for money, and finally a fourth person I ask reaches into his pocket and dumps a handful of change into my palm. Once I get it sorted, I see it’s enough to buy me a burger and fries and a hot drink to keep me through the night at Mandy’s.
“Hi, Dylan.” Jenna comes up, head tucked into her chest, hands thrust into her pockets for warmth. She’s pasty-faced, and her eyes are red-rimmed, but whether from cold or tears or tiredness I’m not sure. Niggling at the back of my brain is Vulture’s warning, but hey, she came to see me.
“Miserable day.”
I spread out my sleeping bag so she can sit beside me.
“How are your brothers?”
“Doing okay. My mom’s getting married.”
“Another father,” she says.
“Yeah. I hear Brendan isn’t too happy with you.”
She grimaces. “No. He isn’t. Doesn’t want me taking off like that any more. He says it’s because he worries about me.” She reaches up and pushes her hair back, and I see a yellowing bruise on her temple.
“Did he do that?”
She lets the hair fall back down. “It was my fault,” she says. “I made him mad.”
I snort my disbelief.
She looks away from me, embarrassed. “I’m freezing, sitting on that pavement, and I made shit. Then Brendan took it all.” She begins to cry. “I have no money and I need . . . I need feminine things, you know?”
Feminine things? This sudden delicacy takes me aback. I’ve heard her swear with the best of them out here. I give her some of my change. “Get yourself a hot chocolate, with milk. It’s better for you. I’ll meet you at the donut shop in a couple hours,” I tell her.
She nods listlessly and wanders away. And I, the white knight, her rescuer, head in the opposite direction to find—feminine things? I’ve been meaning to get some soap and deodorant anyway, so what’s a few more items.
Rather than rip off the stores downtown where they’d recognize me, I walk steadily for half an hour and come across a pharmacy in a strip mall. Red and green Christmas lights are strung across windows frosted with fake snow. Inside, I grab a shopping basket, pull my hood up over my head, then, deciding that looks too suspicious, push it off again. Face tilted to the floor, I go do
wn an aisle, hoping no one has had the bright idea to install surveillance cameras underfoot. I’m used to stealing, done it most of my life, but still my heart beats rapidly. I won’t take a CD or watch or something I just want. I can live with wanting. But I can’t live with needing. I grab a bar of soap and slip it into a pocket in my coat, followed by a deodorant stick. I throw a couple items in the basket so I look legit. Now for Jenna’s stuff.
Following the signs suspended from the ceiling, I find the Feminine Products aisle. I stop, dismayed by the wall of merchandise in front of me. Light days, heavy days, tampons, napkins, wings . . . wings? It’s like a secret female language! I have no idea what Jenna would use. I hear giggling behind me and whirl about to see two girls grinning at me—a male in the female aisle. My face reddens. I walk farther down the aisle, my mind frantically trying to decipher the feminine code. The girls’ laughter reaches hysterical pitch. I focus my eyes and discover I’m in front of the condom display. At the moment, I have no need of them, but pride makes me take a pack anyway. As I barrel up the female aisle, I reach out a hand and grab the first package I touch. It’ll have to do. Face burning, I drop the basket, while deftly shoving the stolen items into my coat pockets. I walk rapidly through the security scanner, breaking into a run as a siren shrieks. Dodging people, across a street, dodging cars, down an alleyway, dodging drunks, through a second alley that exits onto a crowded street. Here, I stop running and match the pace of the people around me. Adrenaline thrums loudly in my ears. Exhausted, I lean against a wall and close my eyes, breathing hard.
“Hey, you!”
My eyes fly open. Cops. Two of them. It flits through my brain how embarrassing it will be to be caught with condoms and feminine products. Take that to court and even the judge will snicker.
“Have you seen this girl?” One officer holds out a picture. Jenna stares back at me.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” I look the cop directly in the eyes.
“Well, let us know if you do. She’s a runaway. Her parents are looking for her.” He tucks the picture back into his pocket. “She’s fourteen.”
Theories of Relativity Page 4
