by Ria Voros
“We’ll meet you by the carousel,” Soleil calls, already following Libby.
Patrick and I wander through the crowd of kids, teenagers, occasional old people and hassled-looking parents. Cotton candy and hot dogs are everywhere — the smell of sugar and ketchup and that delicious, fake meat. My mouth starts to water.
Patrick glances at one of the stands and swears. “Is that what they charge for a hot dog around here? That’s robbery.”
“No, it’s Playland,” I say. “Isn’t it called a captive audience?”
Patrick laughs. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“How about mini doughnuts?” I suggest, thinking since hot dogs seem to be out, maybe I can score some of those. Aunt Laura didn’t give me enough money for a junk food spending spree.
Patrick saunters over to the doughnut stall. He doesn’t walk or stroll. I realize where I’ve seen that before: Chilko saunters too. It’s a loose kind of walking that makes you think they’ve got all the time in the world, but could move fast if they had to.
The doughnuts smell even better than the hot dogs — sweet and cinnamony, golden from the deep fryer. He hands over some money and we rip into the bag.
By the time the girls find us, we have sugar and doughnut remnants all over our hands and faces. “Watch out,” Patrick mutters. “My boyfriend senses are telling me we should have bought them a bag.”
“They can buy their own,” I say. “There’s lots.”
“Ah, young sir, but women always expect you to be the gentleman. Just wait.”
Soleil brushes a spot on Patrick’s face. “Hey, don’t save any for us. We’re fine.”
He looks guilty and smug at the same time. “Jakob here thinks you should get your own. They’re not going to run out.” He turns to me. “Did I get that right?”
“No way!” I splutter. “I didn’t say that. I just meant —”
“It’s okay, J-man,” Soleil says. “I’m sure it will never happen again.” She pokes Patrick in the ribs and they do that nauseating tickley couple thing.
Libby and I take one look at them and walk toward the carousel.
“So you missing your sketchbook yet?” I ask.
“Well, that guy over there would be great to draw.” She points to a blue face-painted man on stilts. “But otherwise it’s okay.” She watches the shiny horses go around the carousel. Kids and parents look out at us as if they’re on a stage and we’re the audience. Libby smiles up at them and says totally calmly, “By the way, I saw you sneak out the other night.”
The glaring carousel music suddenly switches off. The world’s sound switches off. I’m alone in the silence that follows her sentence. She watches the people as if nothing has changed.
“What do you mean?” I ask. Hope, hope, hope she’s joking.
“I mean, when you snuck out at twelve-fifteen two nights ago, I saw you.”
I’m not sure if I should cry or laugh. Thank god someone knows. Make something up, J says. Cover the tracks. “Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?” I ask instead.
She looks at me. Her eyes are bluer in the weird light of the carousel. “It wasn’t the right time. Was it?”
There’s no point in making up a story. Libby’s not going to buy it. Or she’ll act like she does but I’ll know she sees right through it, and me. Just like she does with her drawings.
“Are you in trouble?” she says quietly.
“No.” This time it’s not really the truth, but I don’t know how to explain it to her. In my peripheral, Soleil and Patrick are walking toward us. “Look, just don’t say anything. Please. I need to figure some stuff out. I just need time.” I hate that I’m bargaining with her. And that she’s known for this long.
“You mean you’ll go out again?” Libby asks.
Soleil calls to us.
“No. I won’t go out again. Just don’t say anything. Promise?” I put my hand on her arm, try to make her understand how important this is.
She smiles. “In that case, fine.”
“What’s fine?” Soleil asks, grabbing Libby from behind and making her shriek.
“Oh, Jakob was asking if I’d give him drawing lessons,” she says, grinning like a maniac at me. “And I said I would.”
We decide to split up so that Patrick and I can do some rides together while Libby and Soleil can browse the shopping stalls. Why they’d want an overpriced T-shirt covered in sparkles, I have no idea. I’m happy to get away from Libby for a while, but hanging out with Patrick has me kind of nervous too. He seems ready for the craziest rides, while I’m not sure I want to go on any.
“Doom Mountain or Gravitator?” he asks. “Your choice.”
Gravitator reminds me of my dad.
“Doom Mountain.” I eye the lineup.
“Does it go upside down?”
“No,” I say, wondering if he thinks that’s good or bad. I don’t think I — or even J — could handle going upside down.
Patrick gets in line behind a couple of guys covered in tattoos. “I guess we’ll meet our doom, then.”
He means it as a joke, but my stomach shudders.
“I think it’s great that you’re getting along with Libby,” he says. “She hasn’t had the easiest time. Soleil says she’s never had many friends.”
The tattooed guys laugh about something and shove each other around. “She’s weird, but also kind of cool,” I say, and I realize it’s truer than I first thought.
He nods. “I’m really impressed with her art. But she’s sensitive and that’s hard for a kid. Most people probably don’t get her.”
“How do you know that?” I haven’t been able to explain her, but he’s right.
Patrick shrugs. “I was like that once. An artsy kid, in my own world. I talked to people who lived in my head. Drove my mother crazy. I had only one friend in high school. He’s still my friend, all these years later.”
I don’t know what to say to that so I just stare at the blobs of dried gum and flattened bits of popcorn on the ground, thinking of something else. “What does the name Chilko mean?’
“Ah, well.” Patrick pulls out his wallet. “It’s an area, the Chilcotin, near where I grew up. Chilko means red ochre river.” He hands me a worn photo of a blue river with a sandy shore under a puffy-cloud sky. A white and black puppy plays in the water. “And Chilko’s mom was a red and white husky, so it’s kind of an homage to her too. You a dog guy, Jakob?”
My mouth feels dry. “How’d you know?”
He glances at the roller coaster as it swoops down and back up again. “I could have pegged you for one, but George mentioned you might be.”
“I’ve wanted one forever,” I say, then wonder if I’m giving something away. “My parents always said next year.” I let that hang in the air, not sure how much he knows.
“What about your aunt?”
“Yeah, right. She’ll never let me keep a dog in the house.”
“Well, you’ll just have to hang out with mine,” Patrick says. “We’re always looking for buddies to walk with. He’s actually a pretty fine escape artist. I have to keep him roped because he was getting out of the yard. Huskies are famous for climbing fences.”
“I know,” I say, feeling the sweat break out on my neck. “I read about it.”
He takes a few steps to close the new gap between us and the tattooed guys. “And he got sprayed by a skunk last week. Man, that reeked. No more roaming around for him.”
My face feels hot and tight and I pretend to be interested in a couple of girls walking by.
“George said Chilko really took to you,” Patrick continues.
“Yeah, I don’t know why,” I mutter. “He must be really friendly.”
Patrick shrugs. “Not with everyone. Huskies are kind of aloof. They’re like cats that way. They’ll decide to like something or not.”
“And they’re independent,” I say, thinking of how Chilko never really needs me when we’re out together.
“Yup. And cr
azy-strong. Mind of his own when he wants to go somewhere.” Patrick looks at me. “I had to interview a few people to find George. I needed someone big, able to handle Chilko’s weight and stubbornness.”
We’re getting close to the front of the line and I’m getting to the end of my rope. J wants to tear into Patrick for not letting me prove myself as a dog walker, for assuming I couldn’t do it. I also want to curl up somewhere and block out all the noise. I’m not sure which way is better to fall.
We stand in awkward silence for a minute and I try to think of something to break it. “How long have you had Chilko?” I ask.
“Since he was a pup. You could say he came from a broken home.”
“How come?” Something tells me whatever Patrick’s going to say will only make this crazy situation harder, but I can’t stop myself.
“It’s kind of a sad story.” Patrick shakes his hair out of his face. “He was the smallest in the litter, if you can believe that. There were four. Three girls and him.”
The roller coaster comes back to the station and kids scramble out of it, laughing and shouting.
“His mom was a beauty — pale blue eyes, that reddish fur,” Patrick says. “She lived around town, apparently had been someone’s at some point, but she’d been a stray for a few years. I’d watched her since the spring, when I first noticed she was pregnant.”
“She was just wandering around?”
“That’s what strays do. She looked in good shape, though. She was getting food somewhere.”
“But how did you know where she’d be?” They’re about to load the ride again and suddenly I just want to step out of line. I just want to talk to Patrick about Chilko like we’re friends and everything is normal.
“I was painting this house next to a lot that hadn’t been built on yet,” he says, strolling up as the guy takes our tickets and sends us through the turnstile. “Lots of shrubs and tall grass. Perfect for a dog to have her pups. I looked over one day from the top of my ladder, and there she was, holding one of the pups in her mouth. After I finished work, I went over there and watched her.”
We get into the first car of the roller coaster. Patrick’s still talking, seems relaxed, but I’m tightening up like a spring. I can’t make my hands unclench. Dr. Tang’s words of warning fill my head. I try to ignore them by focusing on Patrick’s voice.
“She’d made a nest in an old refrigerator box,” he’s saying. “Pulled in some leaves and rags and made this great den for the pups. I didn’t get that close because she was watching me with that mama look, but after I’d been back, brought her food a few times, she let me sit beside her.”
A bell rings and the operator comes by to check we’re strapped in. Tells us not to put our hands out while the ride is moving. I try to picture Chilko and his mom and sisters — little furballs in an overgrown field, Patrick sitting there watching — but I keep coming back to the present, the bump of the car as people move behind us, shouts from kids waiting in line.
“Well, this is a first for me,” Patrick says. “Got to admit I’m a little freaked.”
“You are?” I look at him.
His face is pale under his tan. “Yeah, I’m not really great with heights. Or G-forces.”
So he hates pretty much everything about these rides. Holy crap. “But you paint houses. Don’t you go up ladders?”
The guy pushes a button in the control room and we jerk forward, start moving up the track.
Patrick grips the sides of the seat. “Yeah, but ladders don’t go fifty kilometres an hour.”
“Great. So neither of us wants to be here,” I mutter.
Patrick doesn’t hear me.
The car starts to climb. My heart is ramming into my ribs and my palms are sweaty. The strap on my chest feels tight and familiar. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to stay here at Playland, another hot summer day, but suddenly I’m flying back to dark, wet streets — glowing street lights move past the rainy window. We’re driving through an intersection. I force my eyes open. The roller coaster thunders and shudders under me. Then we’re slipping, the car is spinning in a circle. My neck strains, a yell coming from deep in my throat.
Something squeezes my arm. I flash back to present, where we’re riding the track up and up, the loud gears vibrating through me.
Patrick’s holding onto my arm. “It’s okay, right? How bad can it be?”
As we reach the top of the track, hesitate, I look out over the city, blinking in the bright sun. I can’t answer his question.
“We’re okay,” Patrick says as we start the descent, the people behind us already screaming. “Just remind me not to do this again.”
My reply is lost in the roar of the machine.
Chapter 11
The light from the street lamp outside the house paints my walls a faint orange. It’s 11:00 pm. Aunt Laura went to bed early — headache. There’s no TV or music on downstairs. It’s a warm night, clouds covering the stars. I won’t be able to find Sirius, but at least I know where I’m going now.
After we stumbled off the ride, Patrick and I wandered through the crowds looking for a place to sit down. He looked ready to puke but I was a little distracted. I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind.
I see myself standing on the side of the street as our car spins, then tumbles down the bank. I pretend to be a witness. I still can’t see what it was that caused the crash. It’s the last piece of the puzzle. Maybe when it’s complete, I’ll stop dreaming about finding it.
Because the floor creaks and Libby might be listening, I slide the stiff frame of my window up as high as it will go. I haven’t tried to get out this way since I was nine and playing spies with a kid from across the street. I fell out and sprained my ankle. I’m hoping now I’m tall enough to make the drop.
Before I climb out, I throw the backpack onto the grass, cringing as I wait for a thud. It makes almost no sound. Libby’s bedroom window is under Aunt Laura’s room, so with any luck she won’t hear or see me, even if she’s awake.
The walk to Patrick’s house — it’s hard to call it Chilko’s anymore — is fast and slow at the same time. I’m pulled forward by finally knowing what happened the night of the accident, but my gut tells me I’m letting everyone I know down. Including myself.
As I walk along the lane, scouting for lights on in the houses, my skin gets goosebumps. This is the last time. After this, no more lies.
Chilko lies in the middle of the lawn with his head between his paws. I can’t see from here if he’s asleep or not, but his ears are up, so he knows something’s going on. There are no lights on in the house. For a second I wish there were.
“Hey, Chilko,” I whisper, putting my nose through the chain-link fence.
He’s up instantly, tail wagging. He’d know me anywhere.
We walk the same route as before. I take the lead, making sure to keep us on track so I know exactly where the intersection is.
A few cars pass us, but no one slows down or looks at us. We’re invisible tonight. I start to breathe normally. Maybe this is going to work out.
After Ridgeway Avenue we walk past an empty, overgrown lot. Big trees and tall grass fill the space between two houses. My mom always warned me to stay out of places like this. Never know what you might step on.
Chilko heads right into the jungle.
“Hey, come back,” I whisper.
He ignores me.
I try to step where the grass has been pressed down into a trail. He disappears behind a round bush. Homeless people live in places like this.
And around the bush I find what I’m afraid of: cardboard boxes and shopping carts and garbage lying around. Someone lives here. Or did. And Chilko’s inside their house.
He sniffs inside a big box, every corner, turns around and wags his tail.
“That’s someone’s house,” I whisper. “Let’s get out of here, Chilko.”
He seems to understand because he takes one more look at the box, then trots past me,
back toward the street. I wipe sweat off the back of my neck.
We walk on, in sync with each other, me and my dog. I reach over and rub his ears and he grins at me. I’m connected to him in a way no one else is. I want this feeling to last forever. Somehow everything will be okay.
Chilko stands at the next street corner, sniffing the air. I give him a pat and we cross together.
The problem is, the person I’d like to talk to right now, who’d maybe understand what it feels like to be on my own — who’d probably see some kind of art in being surrounded by silence and the hum of the city — thinks I’m at home in bed. Because I promised her I would be.
I start to get nervous as we come to the corner of Keith and Brooksbank. One block to go. Chilko is happy to wander in front, sniffing bushes and peeing on everything as usual. My spine tingles. It’s like waiting for the doctor to give you a shot — you know it’s coming, just not when.
The intersection is empty and quiet. On one side, the houses sleep, office buildings dark and deserted. On the other side, the woods that lead down to the river.
I take hold of Chilko’s collar as we come to the spot where we stopped last time. My thoughts spin like a dust storm.
Dad’s voice is in my ear. We’ve been through this a thousand times, Jakob. The answer’s still no. Not until you’re older.
Chilko’s warm fur keeps me from slipping all the way back. I grip his collar tighter.
“But Dad,” I hear myself say. “I can handle the responsibility, I swear.”
I’m losing patience with this. Let’s talk about something else. Dad’s voice is hard and I know I’ve lost.
“What, like stupid astronomy? That’s all you ever want to talk about. Maybe I don’t want to go camping next summer.”
Dad blinks but says nothing.
Then I see it. In my mind I see myself see it in the road ahead. “Dad, look — there’s a dog in the road,” I say.
“I’m warning you, don’t push me on this, Jakob,” Dad growls, looking back at me.
“No, really —”
Mom gasps. Her finger points. “Oh my god, Charlie!” The moment my dad sees it, his mouth opens. His hands jerk the wheel. The flash of something in the headlights, something black. Something furry. It slips out of sight a second before Mom screams. We spin, spin, hit something — a curb — then roll. My mom’s ragged voice — Jakob! — rips my eardrums and I shake my head back to the present.
