A girl we go to school with waddles past. Pregnant, her belly sticks out from under her T-shirt. A plastic grocery bag swings at her side.
I look at Lincoln, at how the taut, shiny skin of his scar is lighter than the rest of his face. “It’s just a school. It doesn’t change who I am. We’ll still paint together.”
Lincoln nods, but the corners of his mouth turn into a frown.
Dad puts a bowl of hot buttered noodles in the middle of the table. Father Dom sits across from me at the dinner table. “Father O’Shea, the principal, is giving you a clothing allowance to use at the campus uniform store,” he tells me.
“Thanks.” I nod, but keep my head down, shovelling food into my mouth.
“You see?” Dad looks at Father Dom, but points at me with his fork. “No gratitude! Nothing. He has a gift from God and he acts like it’s a punishment.”
“I said thanks, Dad!”
He blows a puff of air at me. “That was no thank you. After all Dominic has done for you!”
I put my spoon down. “Thank you for doing all this,” I say, looking him in the eye. I turn to Dad, but he scowls at me.
It isn’t the first time Father Dom has been pulled in as the mediator between us. He leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together over his stomach. “Opportunities like this don’t come along every day. There’s a reason it’s come to you.”
“Oh, yeah? You think God is looking out for me?”
Dad opens his mouth to say something, but Father Dom quiets him with a look.
“Yes, I do.”
The matter-of-factness of his words shuts me up. It is what he truly believes, and I’m not going to argue. But if God is looking out for me, why’d he let my mom die? And my dad get hurt? I’d asked Father Dom these questions before. He’d given me his version of why, but what I really wanted to hear was that God screwed up, not that life isn’t without pain, or that we all have burdens and God gives us as much as we can handle.
If that’s the case, I’d also like to know, from God, exactly how much He thinks a crippled single-father can handle.
“God is not cruel. I know, sometimes, it might seem that way. I struggle to see his ways, too.” Father Dom wrinkles his eyebrows. “But hard times push us in two directions. Either we accept them and look to God for help, or we turn away and let the devil take us on his path.”
“You’re getting kind of heavy.”
Father Dom waves a hand at me and smirks. “Occupational hazard. Don’t be a smartass.”
“I told Lincoln about St. Bart’s,” I mutter.
“What did he say?” Father Dom asks.
I shrug. “Not much he could say. He doesn’t want me to go.” I look at Dad. “It’ll probably push him closer to his brother. He just got out of prison, you know. He’s in a gang.”
I thought telling Dad about Henry would sway him, but my plan backfired. “More reason for you to get away from this neighbourhood,” he says with satisfaction.
Father Dom nods in agreement. Arguing against them is a waste of time. I’m going to St. Bart’s whether I like it or not.
Lincoln
I can’t keep my feet still. One leg keeps jittering on the pavement. I stand up a couple of times to pace the sidewalk. We’re waiting in a bus shelter in front of a gas station. Been waiting for over an hour.
“Nervous?” Henry asks. He’s got sunglasses and a baseball hat on so I can’t see his eyes. But I bet they’re half-closed and lazy, like we’re not about to do what we’re about to do.
“Just do like we practised,” Henry says. Easy for him to say. He’s jacked about a hundred cars. Gas fumes, exhaust, sometimes the smell of burnt coffee from inside the gas station store, are giving me a headache.
“Hey.” He slaps my leg to make me pay attention. “That one,” he says, pointing. “The Accord. He left his keys.”
The guy went in to pay, maybe buy some smokes. Henry and I dart quick across the gas station lot and slide into the car. All of a sudden, my mind goes blank. I forget what I’m supposed to do. Shit! I scream in my head. Henry’s watching. I can’t screw this up.
I look at the cashier inside. I can’t see the guy; there’s a pile of firewood in front of the window. “What the hell are you waiting for? Put it in drive!”
My heart’s pounding. I look down. The gearshift. My foot’s on the brake. I move it to drive, then press the gas.
We lurch a few feet ahead and then I slam on the brakes. I’ve only practised driving in an empty parking lot with Rat. On the street, there’s too much to look at. Cars, people, signs; everything comes at me and I feel dizzy.
“Go!” Henry hisses. I press on the gas again, gently. Henry’s slouching down in the passenger seat, keeping an eye out. Focus, I think. I turn the wheel to get onto the road, out of the parking lot, but I’m going too fast. I step on the brake again by accident and we jerk to a stop.
Henry slams his hands on the dash. “What the fuck, Link! Drive!” I kind of want to cry, I’m so scared and it doesn’t help that Henry is beside me, breathing down my neck. I press on the gas again, careful to keep the wheel straight, but there’s a parked car in front of me. Swear words hammer in my head. I know I have to switch lanes, but my mind and my body aren’t working together fast enough. My foot hasn’t come off the gas yet, and the car’s coming up fast.
“Shit!” Henry yells. “Get in the other lane!”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I swerve. A horn blares and I speed up, flooring it to an intersection. I turn right, too fast. The car fishtails, but I hold the wheel tight until it fixes itself.
We’re on a quiet street now and I loosen my grip on the wheel. Henry cuffs the back of my head. “I thought you were going to get us killed.” I ease the car to a stop at the stop sign, no jerk or nothing.
The alley that leads to the chop shop is at the end of the block. I’ll turn in, park in the back garage. The plates will be changed, and an hour from now, it’ll be lying in ten parts on a cement floor.
“You did good.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Think you can do it on your own next time?”
I kind of choke on the idea of a next time. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Henry’s eyes drill into me. “There’s always a next time. And no matter what the club asks of you, you do it. That’s what it means to be in the Red Bloodz.”
I forget to brake as I pull into the garage driveway. In a flash, the chain-link fence is in front of the car and then I’m driving over it, mowing it down till Henry shifts the car into neutral. We stop inches from the wall of the garage.
“Holy shit,” I gasp.
Henry leans back in his seat shaking his head. He gets out and slams his car door. My face burns with embarrassment. Rat’s outside now, watching me reverse. He’s waving his hands and cursing me out for wrecking the fence.
I reverse and park the car properly, but don’t get out right away. I think about taking off on foot and running home. But they’ll tease me even worse. Finally, I ease myself out of the car, taking a deep breath before I go inside the garage.
Henry pulls me into a headlock and my hat falls off. He rubs my head and slaps my cheek. “That’s my boy!” His shouts echo off the concrete walls, the wrecked chain link fence forgotten.
Rat passes me a cold beer and clinks his can against mine. “Here’s to a shitty driver and worse parker!”
I laugh and take a gulp of beer, wondering if anything will ever taste so good again.
Jakub
I slide my arms into the sleeves of the jacket. The St. Bart’s crest, embroidered with golden thread, shines on the chest pocket. Stiff and rough, like sandpaper, the collar cuts into my neck. But when I look at my reflection, I’m not Jakub who lives in a West End rooming house; I’m one of them, a boy from St. Bart’s. The uniform hides the truth; that I’ll have to wake up
at 5:00 a.m., catch a bus, and transfer three times before I arrive at school.
“You need a tie.” Father Dom holds up a navy one. “And a few shirts.” We’re in the Nearly New shop at the school, the faint tang of cast-offs fills the air.
“I have some here that would fit,” the woman working at the desk calls to us.
The soles of the scuffed dress shoes feel heavy and stiff as I walk over. “Here,” she says, handing me two shirts. “Try these.” I wince at the thought of having the pressed and starched collars tight on my neck. And all the friggin’ buttons.
“You don’t like them?” she asks. She’s got a tag clipped to her blouse that says “Volunteer.”
“I have to wear one of these every day?”
Father Dom and the lady laugh. I hold my mouth tight. I didn’t mean to be funny. The woman stops laughing quickly. “There are polo shirts on Fridays.”
“What’s a polo shirt?”
The woman walks past, and a cloud of perfume carries me along behind her. “These are polo shirts.” Grey, collared shirts that feel like heavy T-shirts hang on a rack. “How many do you want?”
I cast an anxious glance at Father Dom. The principal of St. Bart’s was willing to pay for a uniform, but I couldn’t ask for anything more. Fumbling for words, I let my hands drop to my side and shrug at her.
She gives Father Dom a knowing look. “I’ll speak to Father O’Shea, he’ll understand,” she says softly and grabs two of the shirts. My cheeks burn.
Father Dom stands with his hands in his pockets while the woman moves around the store, clacking through hangers until she finds pants that fit and grabs some thin, beige socks from a bucket. She doesn’t say anything, but I guess my white sport socks aren’t the right thing to wear. They’re grey with dirt, anyway.
With all the pieces of the puzzle on my body, I stare in the mirror. It looks like me, but completely different.
“You look like you belong here,” the blond woman says.
I catch Father Dom’s eye in the mirror and he gives me a satisfied smile.
“Jakub, there’s a call for you.” Laureen stands in the doorway holding the cordless. We haven’t had a phone for months; it kept getting disconnected. Laureen lets us take calls on hers. Not that there are very many. I take it from her and bring it to my ear slowly, waiting to say hello until I hear her shuffle halfway downstairs.
“Hello?”
“I’m on a cellphone! Henry got me one of the pay-as-you-go deals. In case he needs to get a hold of me.”
I let a beat go by. Lincoln knows as well as me that there’s only one reason a guy like Henry buys an untraceable pay-as-you-go phone. But I’m not in the mood to be an asshole. I drop my voice in case Laureen is listening. “What time do you want to meet up tonight?”
Link pauses. “I can’t tonight.”
My mouth twitches with disappointment. “I wanted to throw up that piece we did on the train. I found the spot for it.”
“Sorry, man. I can’t make it. I have to do this thing.”
I don’t ask him to clarify. He’s choosing Henry over me. Rubbing a hand through my hair, I take a deep breath. It’s temporary, I remind myself. In a day, a week, a month at the longest, Henry will get busted for something and Link won’t have to choose between us. “Okay, whatever. Hey, what’s your number?”
He hesitates. “I can’t give it out.”
I wish Link was beside me so I could slap him, wake him up from his delusional dream. “Pay as you go and can’t give out the number. Got it. Sounds totally legit.” I press the disconnect button and sit fuming on the stairs.
Laureen’s watering plants on the front steps when I bring the phone to her. She’s wearing an old T-shirt, so big her arms stick out like twigs. Her stringy brown hair hangs down her back. She smells like cigarette smoke. I look at the shrivelled-up sticks that used to be stems and wonder why she bothers. The water gets soaked up in a second.
“Father Dom picked you up today, eh?” Laureen doesn’t leave the apartment much. She watches things from her window, keeping track of our life like it’s a reality show. “Were you helping out at the church?”
I shake my head. “Something with Father Dom, but” — I use the line Dad has trained me to say if she gets too nosey — “it’s kind of personal.”
She raises her eyebrows and nods. “Everything’s okay, though?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” I reassure her.
“I guess so, now that you got into St. Bart’s!” She calls to me as I go back inside. I give her a wave and retreat.
My suit jacket hangs on the bathroom door. I pull it off the hanger and slip it over my T-shirt. I stare at the golden crest on the pocket. Once I get to St. Bart’s, with the uniform on, and sit in a desk, I’ll become one of the boys I saw in the photos. I get an ache in my gut, like a hunger pain, thinking about it.
Maybe all the shit with Lincoln and Henry is a sign. God’s way of pushing me away from this place. I don’t want to get messed up with a gang. I don’t have a family connection, not like Lincoln. Dad’s right; there has to be a reward for all the stuff we’ve been through. Maybe this is it.
Lincoln
I’m kind of on a high after stealing the car. I wonder if anyone saw me, noticed it was me driving the car away. Taking someone’s car is kind of anonymous, like graffiti. The thief could be anyone walking down the street. You just never know.
After I finish the beer, I wander out back. My new phone is in my pocket. I like the weight of it, how the screen lights up. I call the number I use for Koob. Laureen answers and by the time Koob gets to the phone, all the excitement about the car is bubbling up in me. I never had a rush like that before. I want to tell him everything, but Henry would lose it if he knew I blabbed. We don’t talk long. Koob’s pissed cuz I can’t give him my number and hangs up. I’m not ready to go back inside the garage. I want to walk off the adrenaline, let some of it seep into the pavement like a trail behind me.
I head to Mountain and a girl is taping purple flyers up on poles. She wraps each one with packing tape, top and bottom, and moves on to the next one. Like she’s planting a garden. She’s done a whole row of them all the way down Mountain Avenue. I stop to look at one. “MISSING: Rachelle Fontaine.” There’s a blurry black-and-white photograph of the girl. Below is some information: how tall she is, that she has long, black hair and a fairy tattoo on her foot. I get a jolt when I read that and look at the photo again. It’s Roxy.
“Have you seen her?” The girl shoves a colour picture in my face. Roxy’s smiling in this one.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Will you take a poster? Put it up somewhere. Anywhere.” This girl has black hair, too. A breeze blows some of it into her face.
“How long’s she been missing?” I ask.
“Couple weeks.” Her eyes are tired and I wonder if she’s been looking for her the whole time.
“Is she your sister or something?”
She nods. The corners of her mouth and eyes turn down at the same time, like her face is melting on the sides. “If you see her, call 911, okay?”
I walk away, past the row of Roxys, whose real name is Rachelle. She never told me she ran away. I carefully fold the flyer and put it in my pocket.
Jakub
Painting isn’t the same without Lincoln. It’s lonely on the roof. The piece I’ve been working on looks even better on bricks and mortar than it did on paper. I stand back to admire it, wishing that Link was with me. It’s real art, as real as any of the other pieces all-city writers are doing. This piece will get me noticed.
It’s after three in the morning when I walk up the rooming-house steps. Some music from apartment 1D floats under the door, and a rhythmic knocking against the wall. Mr. and Mrs. Domestic Abuse must have made up. My key scrapes in the lock, turning with a click.
“Where were y
ou?” Dad asks in a hoarse whisper.
I jump back against the door, my backpack slipping out of my hands. It clatters to the floor, the half-empty cans knocking together. “Shit, Dad! You scared me,” I say, catching my breath.
Dad stands up, walks toward me, and flicks on the kitchen light. He’s tired. His eyes are narrowed and puffy from lack of sleep. “Where were you, Jakub?”
I squint against the fluorescent glare.
“Out.” I pick up the backpack and stash it in the back of the closet.
“What were you doing?”
My hands, blackened, sticky, and sore, dig into the pocket of my hoodie. I don’t say anything. There are new drips of colour on my shoes.
“What’s this?” He fingers the bandana that hangs around my neck. I forgot to take it off. Standing so close, I can see the folds of his flesh sag together; a few whiskers he missed shaving hide in the crevices. He moves past me and takes the pack out of the closet. He hauls it onto the counter and slowly pulls out my black book, a bag of tips, and three cans of paint. He bangs each one on the table with a metallic clang. The labels are smudged with colour and drips from the nozzle. Proof of my guilt. I wait for Dad to say something.
“I needed to know. Where does my son go until three in the morning?” He looks at the cans. “Now I know. This” — he waves a disgusted hand at the cannons — “is done for you. No more.” It’s an order.
“Dad —” I start to explain that it isn’t what he thinks; I’m not some gang tagger wrecking stuff, but he holds up his hand and shushes me.
“This school is right here.” He holds his palm open in front of my face. “If you get caught, that’s it,” he hisses. “I know you think — what you’re doing — is so important. I see you working in your book. I ignored it. Coming home so late, the backpack …” He glares at the cans on the counter. “I thought, he’s a good boy. Let him have his fun. In Poland, we would do graffiti, too.” He looks different, harsh. For a second, I forget he’s my injured dad. “But now, it is done.” He stares at me for a long minute until I look away.
Blood Brothers Page 4