No Fixed Address

by Susin Nielsen

  “You’re wearing rubber boots with your dress pants. And your shirt has a little grease stain—”

  “What are you, the fashion police? I know, okay?”

  She fell silent.

  For three seconds.

  “I take it that was your mom,” she said as we hurried down the second-floor corridor, following the signs that read WHO, WHAT, WHERE, WHEN—AUDITIONS.

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you shouting at her?”

  “She’s the reason I was late.”

  “Do you shout at her like that a lot?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “Because whatever your mom did, I’m not sure she deserved that outburst—”

  “Winnie, please, I beg you, just shut up.”

  Her whole expression sort of imploded. She slowed her pace. Her voice quavered when she spoke. “Did you honestly just tell me to shut up?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I have been raised to have a strong feminist perspective and a healthy sense of self. Therefore I cannot go out with someone who verbally abuses and bullies me.”

  “Who said we were going out?”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Winnie, come on. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get my focus back. I’ve had the worst morning—”

  “That’s what bullies do. They make excuses. Then they do it again. Besides, the way you spoke to your own mother—”

  “It’s complicated! You have no idea how complicated!”

  We’d reached the doors to the audition space. “By the way,” she said, “your deodorant is completely overpowering.”

  “Who’s being verbally abusive now?”

  * * *

  —

  “You two cut it awfully close,” said the woman sitting at a table just inside the doors. “One more minute and we would have turned you both away.”

  “I apologize,” said Winnie.

  “Me too. We’re usually very prompt.” I checked out the rest of the room. It was filled with folding chairs, and the chairs were filled with kids. At least forty of them.

  “I need to see some ID, and your parental consent forms.” Luckily I’d packed all the documents I’d need into a folder the night before. I handed them to her now.

  The woman gave us each a badge number that we had to pin to our shirts. “Wait over there until your name is called.”

  I sat down. There was an empty chair beside me. But Winnie took one at the other end of the room, as far away from me as she could.

  I got up and asked the woman at the desk if I had time to go to the washroom. She nodded, but told me to make it quick. I dashed down the hall and had a pee, then I scrubbed my hands for a good four minutes. I took a paper towel and wet it, then stuck it down my shirt and pants to wipe away some of the deodorant’s perfume. I ran my hands through my hair. I tried to pull my dress pants over my rubber boots so only the toes would show, but the pants were too narrow. I knew I looked like an idiot. I told myself I’d just have to own it, pretend it was part of my look.

  They called people into the audition room in groups of fours. After an hour and a half, Winnie’s name was called, along with three others. I tried to give her the thumbs-up on her way past, but she refused to make eye contact.

  I sat waiting, trying not to think of the gnawing hunger in my gut.

  About twenty minutes later, the doors opened and Winnie stepped out with two of the other kids. She wouldn’t glance my way. But she looked miserable.

  I stood up to go to her, but the man with the clipboard came out and said, “Alicia Jones, Sherman Wong, Felix Knutsson.”

  My stomach twisted like a pretzel. I followed the other two into the adjoining room. It was bigger than the first, and they’d set up a sort of mock Who, What, Where, When set, with podiums for us to stand behind. There were buzzers at each spot. Two people stood behind studio-sized cameras, ready to tape us. A small group of men and women in suits sat behind a table in comfy leather swivel chairs.

  Horatio Blass was not among them. I felt a surge of disappointment.

  A girl from Winnie’s audition, Sari, had been asked to stay behind. She stood at the podium on the far right. I was guided to one of the middle podiums. I kept my armpits firmly at my sides so as little BO and/or deodorant would be released as possible.

  The man who’d led us in introduced himself. “Hey everyone, I’m Gouresh, head of contestant relations.” He gave us a quick lesson on how to use the buzzers.

  Then one of the suits, a severe-looking woman with skin color like mine and white hair, said, “I’m Nazneen, one of the show’s producers. We’re going to do a mock round of the game. We assume, obviously, that you’re familiar with the format.”

  The four of us nodded. My stomach growled.

  “Oops. Someone didn’t have breakfast,” said Nazneen, and the suits all laughed. My microphone had picked up the sound. I felt the blood rush to my face.

  “Okay, let’s begin.”

  The mock round lasted for what felt like half an hour, but was probably only about ten minutes.

  “In what city did Romeo meet Juliet?” (Verona)

  “What is the name of the river that forms the boundary between Earth and the Underworld?” (Styx)

  “Which Roman emperor had a palace built for himself out of gold?” (Nero)

  “What pop singer hails from Stratford, Ontario?” (Justin Bieber)

  “To visit the ruins of Persepolis, you would have to travel to what country?” (Iran)

  They packed in tons of questions. It took me a moment to get familiar with the buzzer, but then I was off to the races. I answered quite a few questions before the others, and almost all of them correctly. So did Sari.

  The suits’ expressions revealed nothing. Some of them didn’t even look at us. One guy scrolled through his phone. “Okay, thanks very much,” said Nazneen. “Sherman and Alicia, you can go. Sari and Felix, please stay.”

  Sherman and Alicia slunk out of the room. Then the suits brought in two other kids from previous rounds who’d been asked to stay. We played another mock round, harder this time. This time, I was the only one asked to stay.

  “We have a few personal questions for you now, Felix,” said Nazneen. “About your home life, your hobbies. Tell us about your family.”

  “It’s a small family. Just me and my mom.”

  “Are you a fan of Who, What, Where, When?”

  “Oh yes. I started watching it with my mormor when I was young. I even have a gerbil named Horatio Blass.”

  The guy who’d never taken his eyes off his phone glanced up.

  “No!” said Nazneen.

  “It’s true. I named him after the host, because it’s my favorite show ever.” A couple of the suits wrote in their notebooks. Then my stomach growled loudly again. “Sorry. No brekkie. Nerves.”

  “So tell me, Felix,” asked Nazneen. “What would you do with the money if you won?”

  “There’s money?” As ridiculous as it sounds, I hadn’t thought about money. I knew the adults played for money, but I didn’t know the Junior Edition would have cash prizes, too.

  “Sure. A thousand for participating. Twenty-five hundred each to the four finalists. And twenty-five grand to the winner.”

  My ears started ringing. I had to grip the podium.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars.

  Nazneen was waiting for my answer. “I would give it to my mom,” I said. “To help us get a decent place to live.”

  The suits glanced at each other, even phone guy. “Okay. Thanks,” said Nazneen. “You’ll hear back from us within two weeks.” She held out a box of doughnuts that sat open on the table. “Take one for the road.”

  I grabbed a jelly-filled one, my favorite kind. “Thank you. Thank you so much.
”

  * * *

  —

  I walked to the bus stop, shoveling the doughnut into my mouth. Little puffs of icing sugar cascaded down onto my dress pants and into my rubber boots, but I didn’t care. There was only one thought running through my brain.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars would mean no more cold nights.

  No more public washrooms.

  No more shoplifting.

  No more lies.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars was more than enough to pay rent for at least a year.

  It was enough to turn our fortunes around forever.

  It was lunch hour when I got to school. I saw Dylan at his locker and clomped toward him in my rubber boots. “Amigo!” he said. “How’d it go?”

  “Pretty good, I think.”

  “Winnie’s been back for a while. With a little black cloud over her head.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think it went so well for her. And also, she’s mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “I told her to shut up.”

  “Oh. Well. I can see the temptation.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you should probably say you’re sorry. You know, for all our sakes.”

  I nodded. “Wish me luck.”

  He patted my shoulder. “Luck.”

  I walked down the crowded halls toward the cafeteria. I spotted Winnie’s yellow beret in the distance. But it wasn’t on her head—it was being flung like a Frisbee by Donald and Vlad.

  Winnie was between them, jumping up and trying to grab it as it flew by. “Cut it out, you guys. It’s not funny!”

  I felt really angry all of a sudden. Angry on Winnie’s behalf, yes. But my anger felt like an octopus; it had many tentacles.

  I really had grown a lot since September, because the next time Donald tossed the beret I grabbed it effortlessly in midair. I handed it back to Winnie.

  “What’d you do that for?” said Donald. “We were just having fun.”

  I grabbed Donald’s ball cap off his head and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. “Did that feel fun? Or did it feel kind of aggressive and threatening? Because maybe that’s how it feels to Winnie.”

  “Don’t speak for me, thank you very much,” she said. Then she added, “But he isn’t wrong. It does feel aggressive—”

  “Hey,” Donald interrupted. “That’s mine.”

  “What?”

  He was staring at my chest. “That shirt.”

  “No, it’s not. I just bought it.”

  “Not new, you didn’t. Look, it’s got the grease stain from my bike and everything. That’s why my mom gave it away. To the poor people’s place.”

  I felt sick. “It’s not a poor people’s place. It’s the Salvation Army.”

  “Yeah, where poor people shop. I mean, what regular person would buy a used, stained shirt?”

  Thanks to my growth spurt I had a good two inches on Donald. And yet I’d never felt as small as I did right then.

  Winnie turned to him, her hands planted on her hips. “You’re an idiot, Donald. Tons of cool people shop at thrift shops. Not that you would know.”

  Donald shrugged. “Hey, whatever. I’m just saying, it’s where my mom donates all the crap we don’t want.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to donate you,” Winnie snarled.

  It was Donald’s turn to look offended. He plucked his ball cap out of the garbage bin. “Whatever. You two freaks deserve each other.” He and Vlad walked away.

  I knew my face was red. I could barely bring myself to look at Winnie. I looked at a spot on the floor instead.

  “Three things,” she said. “One, Donald’s a turd. Two, that shirt looks great on you. And three, while I am partially grateful for your knight-in-shining-armor routine, it does not forgive your earlier behavior.”

  Then she placed her beret on her head and walked out the front doors.

  * * *

  —

  I found her at one of the picnic tables, laying out her lunch: two sandwiches, two egg tarts, a mandarin orange, a cheese stick and a bag of rice crackers.

  I sat across from her. “Aren’t you cold out here?”

  She took a bite from one of her sandwiches. “Did I say you could join me?”

  “No. And I’ll leave in a minute, I promise. I never should have snapped at you this morning. I’m sorry. There’s just— I have a lot of stuff going on, stuff I can’t talk about. But I never should have taken it out on you.”

  She looked up from her sandwich. “Why can’t you talk about it?”

  “I’d be breaking someone’s trust.”

  “Your mom’s?”

  I nodded. She didn’t say anything, so I stood to go.

  “Wait. Where’s your lunch?”

  “I forgot it,” I said. An Invisible Lie.

  She slid one of her sandwiches and one of her egg tarts across the table. “Eat.”

  I sat back down. I was so hungry, even her bread didn’t taste half bad.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “Am I what?”

  She kept her gaze on the table. “Poor.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “We’re okay. Really. It’s just temporary.” Winnie passed me half her cheese stick and half her mandarin, which I accepted without a word. “I’m sorry things didn’t go better for you this morning.”

  “I tanked. I froze with the buzzer.”

  “I bet a lot of smart people tanked. It was stressful.”

  “How did you do?”

  “Pretty good, I think.”

  “What happens next?”

  “They said they’d let us know in two weeks if we’ll be on the show.”

  She held up her bag of rice crackers and gestured for me to open my hands. Then she poured in a bunch. “I’m happy for you,” she said.

  And this time, she sounded sincere.

  * * *

  —

  Astrid texted me the new location of the van. She said she was job hunting and would be home by dinner.

  It was a long walk. She’d parked the Westfalia on a quiet street in Dunbar, far from the Point Grey garage. I noticed that she’d rubbed the license plate with mud to make it less visible.

  I climbed in and closed the door behind me. I took off my coat and peeled off the red polo shirt, then put on my hoodie.

  I climbed back out. I walked to a nearby park and tossed the red polo shirt into a garbage bin.

  * * *

  —

  “I got you these today,” Astrid said when she got back. “I hope they fit.” She held out a pair of barely used black Converse sneakers. I took them without a word. I didn’t want to know where, or how, she’d gotten them.

  I continued my silent treatment throughout dinner, which was tinned stew. “I know you’re still angry with me,” she said. “And I don’t blame you. But will you tell me about your audition? I really want to know.”

  “It was fine.”

  “Come on, Böna. Please?” Her eyes were glistening.

  I caved. I told her about the entire morning in great detail, except for the part about the prize money; I didn’t want to get her hopes up.

  Later, when we were lying in our beds, Astrid said into the near darkness, “Things will get better soon, Felix. I promise.”

  I used to believe her when she said that. Then for a while I thought it was more like a Give Peace a Chance.

  But now? Now it felt like a Someone Might Lose an Eye.

  Astrid fell into another Slump. “I’ve been trying so hard to find work,” she said from under the covers a few days later. “I don’t understand why no one will hire me.”

&nb
sp; I had my own theory: For weeks she hadn’t been putting the same care into her appearance. Her clothes were wrinkled. She looked worn and haggard. Her wavy hair was unkempt. If I could see all these things, so could prospective employers. But all I said was “I don’t understand, either.”

  A Give Peace a Chance.

  Then I came down with a nasty cold. The stress, dampness and lack of sleep had finally done a number on my normally excellent immune system. Even though I felt like death warmed over I dragged myself to school, because the thought of spending the day trapped in the van with my depressed mother was too much to bear. Besides, the October edition of the paper was hitting the stands, and I wanted to see it.

  This time, Winnie’s article appeared first in the French section. From memory, and translated into English, it went something like this:

  “YOU THINK IT WON’T HAPPEN TO YOU”

  By Roving Reporter Winnie Wu

  Imagine: It is cold and rainy and dark. Instead of crawling into your warm bed in your warm house, you crawl onto a piece of cardboard in a doorway, huddled in a filthy, moldy sleeping bag, just trying to get some shut-eye and not get shooed away or beaten up. This is the life of Bob the Bard. He’s been homeless for twenty years, and, as he says, “You think it won’t happen to you. But it can happen to anyone.”

  And it can! Did you know that Bob the Bard used to have a regular job? He went to university. He had a wife and kids. And now look at him! A few unfortunate events and wham! But so many of us look at him like he is not one of us, like he is barely human, instead of someone who got down on his luck and stayed down. Our mayor and our premier talk a lot about ending homelessness, but talk is not action! Talk the talk and walk the walk, politicians!

  As for the rest of us, let’s try to be kinder! Because—I’m just being frank here—I have noticed that certain people in our very own school are not very nice toward those who may be less fortunate than them. But you know what? Just because you have less money does not mean you’re a lesser person. In fact, sometimes the more money you have, the more of a jerk you are!…