by Ria Voros
It’s him.
My chest tightens as I hold my breath — a flash of memory runs across my brain so fast I can’t chase it. This dog definitely triggers something. I scramble for my hoodie. J is back and ready to go.
The air is a little cooler than last night so I’m glad I brought a tuque. I sneak behind the neighbours’ bushes so there’s less chance to be seen. The dog waits on the sidewalk, his tail wagging. It’s a bigger wag than last time and I take that to mean he remembers last night. It’s almost like he’s picked me — I’m the winner.
“Good to see you too,” I say, and squat down beside him. He comes close and sniffs my hand. I stroke his back, feel the layers of thick fur. He lets me pet him for a minute but then he trots away, like he’s saying, Come on, let’s get out of here.
Then I notice a collar around his neck. “Hey, wait,” I say. “Let me see that.”
The dog stops and watches me. His ears are up in listening position.
He stays and I grab the band, looking for a tag. There’s a blue plastic circle with a name printed on it and a phone number: Chilko 554-9850.
Chilko. My hands freeze.
The dog tugs to get away and keeps going down the road, looking back to see if I’m coming. This is the dog from the blue stickie — I know it. How many dogs are named Chilko?
My mind races. He must live close — maybe even down the street. The owner on the phone said they just moved to town. I haven’t noticed any moving vans or for sale signs around here.
But should I take him, knowing that he’s escaped from his owner’s yard? Of course, J says. He’s here to roam. It’s his owner’s fault that he got out in the first place.
The dog — Chilko — is waiting by a driveway. Finally my feet wake up and I start walking. Then I start jogging. Chilko thinks it’s a game and takes off at full speed ahead of me. I pull into a run and it feels good. Chilko paces me, almost smiling.
It’s all laid out for us. Tonight we’re going to search for the place I see every night in my head. Who knows — maybe Chilko’s even the key to unlocking my memory. I won’t wake up with that helpless, disappointed feeling because I’m out looking for real. And even though I still don’t know what I’m looking for, if I look hard enough, I might just find it. We break into a sprint and launch off the curb into the empty street.
After a while, running gets sweaty and tiring, so we walk. Toward the water again, but the way we get there is new. Chilko wants to take some back alleys. We get off the main road and onto a gravel lane behind a bunch of houses. It’s not illegal or trespassing, but I feel a little strange walking past people’s old cars and garbage cans and stacks of newspapers. It’s all the stuff you don’t see from the front, the personal stuff. J thinks it’s pretty cool to check out people’s secrets. Only here it’s in the open, spread out like a garage sale. Chilko trots ahead, sniffing and peeing on telephone poles, trees, bushes and even car tires. I look into every yard to see if there are lights on in the houses. A few are, but no one looks out at us. I’m glad I wore my grey hoodie for camouflage.
Suddenly there’s a scratching sound and a cat launches past me in the other direction. Chilko’s seen it and charges back, his legs blurring underneath him. I had no idea he could run so fast. The cat shoots into a small hole in the side of a garage and Chilko gets there a second too late — and rams into the garage. The whole thing shudders. He looks a little startled, and walks away unsteadily. He glances at me proudly as he trots by, his tail high and waving.
After I’m done laughing, I look around to make sure no one’s coming out to check on the noise, but everything’s still. I follow Chilko out of the alley and onto Third Street.
As he checks out everything for new smells, I try to find Sirius. First I have to find Canis Major, the big dog, and after a few minutes, I think I have. My dad could always point them out way before I found them. Years of obsession, he said. It’s like rereading my favourite book. The constellation doesn’t look like a dog at all, but Dad said most of them don’t really look like their names. You have to draw lines between the stars to get why they were called the hunter or big bear. And even then, it’s hard to see the shape.
We cross another street, into an area I’ve never explored before. Chilko takes a left to follow a good smell. I call to him and he turns his head. But then he keeps going.
That’s when a cop car pulls around the corner. I duck behind a hedge. The car moves in slow motion, riding along the curb behind Chilko, and he doesn’t notice, just keeps on sniffing. I hope the hedge hides me enough, then call him loudly, but the cop is getting out of the car and Chilko’s seen him. He thinks the cop’s friendly.
I hold my breath as the cop leans down and pets Chilko, gets a tail-wag. Then he grabs Chilko’s collar and looks at the tag — pulls out his phone and starts dialling.
I don’t think — just scramble out of the hedge and make as much noise as I can, waving my hands and calling Chilko’s name. He strains at the cop’s grip, and the cop is surprised enough to let go.
“Hey — is that your dog? Wait!” he yells, starting to run after Chilko. “Do you live here? Stop!”
I don’t stop. Chilko reaches me and we sprint together down the sidewalk, turn the corner, not looking back. I hear the cop rev his engine and drive after us, but we take a left and double back into an alley. I scan the dumpsters and parked cars for a place to hide. Chilko runs ahead, loving the game. “In here,” I tell him, and we duck into a garage that stinks like pee and rotten food. My hand touches something sticky.
Tires crunch gravel as the cop car slowly drives past us. The guy’s on the radio, answering a crackling voice. I press myself into the concrete and try not to think about the sticky stuff I’m covered in. Chilko shifts beside me, his ears forward. I reach for his shoulder in case I need to hold him back. Touching his fur makes everything a little less crazy.
Suddenly blue and red lights flash into the garage — blue-red, blue-red — and then the tires squeal and the cop car spins out of the alley, turning on its siren as it takes the corner. Chilko moans, then breaks into a howl as the siren fades.
“Bad timing,” I whisper, waving my hand in his face. “We’re trying to hide here.”
He closes his mouth, swallowing the sound, then gets up to explore the garage.
I sit in my sticky spot for a few minutes, just trying to breathe normally as Chilko sniffs around the dumpsters.
I step out and look at my hand — brown goopy slime coats it. I can’t bring myself to smell it, but from here it looks like nothing I want on my body. Got to find some grass to wipe it on.
When my hand is mostly clean, I straighten up and look around. The neighbourhood is quiet. I strain to listen for a far-off siren, anything. We’re alone. We got away.
J rises up, filling my head with his roar. I jump in the air, making Chilko bounce on his feet, not sure what kind of game this is. We escaped a cop. It was so close. Grant won’t believe me when I tell him. I’m too excited to think about a plan, so we walk farther from the alley and I try to take deep breaths. My hands shake so much I have to put them in my pockets. Chilko trots along like nothing happened. Just another adventure.
I replay the whole scene over and over and by the time I check the next street sign, I realize we’re far from where I thought we were. Cygnet Street. The name sounds familiar but I don’t know why. Big, dark houses. Lines of parked cars. I look up to find Sirius, and it’s in the same spot, as if we haven’t moved at all. The sky’s so big that we basically haven’t.
Something’s nudging me about the street name. Cygnet. I close my eyes. That’s a constellation, Jakob. My dad’s voice pulls me back. I’m in the car, he’s driving, Mom’s in the passenger seat. We’re going on Christmas vacation. Cygnus is the swan, Dad said as he turned this corner, on this exact street. It’s easier to see in the summer. We can look for it when we go camping in July. I wasn’t really listening — I’d heard it all before. He said it had another name too,
something about a cross. I stare at the street sign, then up in the sky. I don’t even know what Cygnus looks like. I’ll never find it just standing here.
Chilko sneezes beside me.
A piece of the puzzle just dropped out of the sky but I have no idea where to go from here. I wish I could remember. “Let’s go,” I mutter. “This is stupid.”
We walk two more blocks along Cygnet Street but nothing gets more familiar. I get grumpier. How am I ever going to find anything like this? My eyes feel sandy. It’s 2:15. At the next intersection, I turn left, then left again. Chilko follows silently. By the time we get back to my neighbourhood, I’m counting the steps to my computer. Research. I can’t walk the whole city at this pace. I need a map. And my dad’s star chart. He never would have thought I’d use it for anything, especially not this.
A block from where we met, Chilko crosses the road.
“Where are you going?” I ask, but then it’s obvious. He’s going home. Wherever that is. We meet, we roam, we go home. He’s my partner. I give him a wave and watch him slip around the corner. For a moment I want to run after him. He’s so much smarter than me — knows how to travel, how to take care of himself. Doesn’t get worried or scared. Just lives.
Chapter 5
* * *
hey j, you’re having some crazy nights, sounds like. kinda wish it had happened when i was still there. i don’t really get what you mean about the stars — isn’t the northern cross a medal they give soldiers? i’m going out to skate with this guy i met next door. you’d like him. he’s from Germany. ttyl
* * *
I’m in another boring social studies class trying to focus on the teacher’s droning voice when I look over and Dad’s sitting at the desk beside me. He’s all hunched over as if he’s writing a note. It looks so ridiculous, I laugh. No one else looks up. Dad, I say. What are you doing here? He glances at me, hiding whatever he’s writing with his arm. Hey, Jakob. Thought I’d try school again, he says. He’s not doing a great job of it if he’s already goofing off in class, but I don’t have time to tell him this. Someone taps me on the back of the head. I almost jump out of my seat when I see my mom sitting behind me. Hi, sweetheart, she says. Having a good day? I look back to see the teacher motioning me to the front of the class, a stern look on his face. As I take the ten steps to the board, it turns into an open window looking onto a dark street — here we go again. I don’t even look back to see if my parents are still sitting in the class. I just climb through the window and hit the ground running. Nothing seems familiar — until I see a street sign with no words, just a picture of a swan. That’s new. I run past it and far off, a siren sounds. Not a police car, an ambulance, more than one. The heartbeat of the car fills my ears and my chest is tight. I turn in circles trying to find the right way. I look so hard I wake myself up.
Bumps and thuds echo from the kitchen: 8:54.
“Morning,” Aunt Laura says as I emerge, dressed and yawning. I must look like I thought it was a school day, but really I didn’t want to sit in sweaty pyjamas for breakfast.
“So today’s the day,” she says, putting toast onto a plate.
“For what?” I ask.
“Libby. Your new friend?”
“She’s not my friend.”
“Right. She’s your summer buddy.” Aunt Laura hands me the jam.
“God, stop it. She’s nothing, okay?”
“But you’re doing it.”
“Doing what? You make it sound so weird.”
She sighs, hands me a knife as I stick my finger into the jam. “You’re looking after Libby. Like you promised Soleil.”
“Whatever.” I spread too much jam on my toast, the way I like it. “It’s temporary. Soleil said until she found work.”
Aunt Laura looks at me. “Gee, Jakob. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.”
I glare at her.
“Just treat her nicely, okay? That’s all I ask.” Aunt Laura rubs her eyes. “She might actually be someone who understands what it means to be alone.”
Libby comes out of the basement suite with a pad of paper and a box of pencils, sets them up at the picnic table and starts drawing. Her long black skirt hides her feet and drags on the ground. There’s a bright orange gypsy-looking thing around her shoulders. I really don’t get how girls choose their clothes.
I stay on my side of the yard, half-pretending to read a book about stars. The other day I found out that Cygnus is also called the Northern Cross, which makes it much easier to find because it’s cross-shaped.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” Libby says suddenly. She stares at her paper.
“I’m not,” I say, stating the obvious.
“But for the rest of the day. You can just do whatever. I’ll pretend you’re not there if you want.”
“I don’t care.” She’s making me uncomfortable, but it’s my yard, so I refuse to leave. We both go back to what we were doing — or in my case, not doing.
A car blasting rock music drives past the house. It’s the Cosmic Turkeys, a band Grant loved — “Water From Stone,” from their second album. I whisper the lyrics under my breath until the car takes the music away.
“You know that song?” Libby asks.
“I thought we weren’t talking,” I say.
“I said you didn’t have to talk to me. If you want to, you can. It’s a personal choice.”
“Well, I choose not to. You know, out of respect. You asked me the question.”
She takes her eyes off whatever she’s drawing. “You know, I thought you were kind of cool when I first met you.”
“Let me guess. That’s all changed?”
She rolls her eyes, goes back to her drawing.
The sun bakes me inside my clothes until it feels like I’ll melt right here on the grass. I need water — cold, with ice.
“You want a drink?” I ask, forgetting we’re not supposed to be talking.
She looks up, startled. “Yeah. Thanks. With ice, please.”
I stumble across the lawn, a little dizzy. From behind her, I get a glimpse of a drawing that fell out of her sketchbook.
I stop. “What’s that?” I try to keep my voice steady. It’s not perfect, but a creepy-close drawing of a black and white husky.
“It’s a dog,” she says. “Doesn’t it look like one?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure,” I say, to cover my shock.
“Are you just going to stand there staring into space?”
I take a few steps back, not sure what to do next.
“You know, people think I’m weird but you’re kind of freaky yourself,” she says.
I shrug, turn toward the house. How does she know Chilko? I’m positive it’s him on the page. I bet she’d tell if I asked. No way, J thinks. She’s not trustworthy. She’ll ask questions.
“I should show you how to draw,” Libby says. Her voice sounds far away in my brain.
“No, thanks,” I mutter, while J tries to convince me not to say anything else.
“Well, I’m drawing you next,” she says, flipping to a fresh piece of paper.
I stare at her. She’s looking through her box for the right pencil.
“I’m not posing,” I say.
“I didn’t ask you to. I know what you look like.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Why? It’s not a nude study.”
I shudder as I slowly take the steps. My head aches a little from this strange conversation.
By the time I come back out with the water the questions are piling up inside me. There’s a drawing of Chilko over there. Did she see him that night he was in the yard? I was sure he got out before she saw him, but maybe …
She’s concentrating so hard, she doesn’t even notice me. Her hair has fallen in front of her face. I have no idea how she can even see what she’s doing. I put her glass on the table and lie down beside my book. Even with my eyes closed I see the drawing of Chilko, the rope she held up after he escaped.
<
br /> Someone clears their throat. Libby’s looking down at me. Up close I can see freckles on her nose. Her eyes are pale blue. She stares at me, waiting.
“What?”
“I asked if you wanted to see your portrait.”
“It’s done?”
“It’s just a sketch. I wanted to capture you quickly.”
The way she says capture makes me squirm. No wonder she has no friends.
When I don’t reply, she holds the paper over my face.
I take it and sit up. Before I can say anything, she’s sitting cross-legged beside me.
“It’s the way I saw you the other night when you were out here.”
It’s a figure, blurred around the edges, with an oversized head and huge eyes. But they are my eyes. The face looks surprised, like it’s been caught doing something. Behind it to the right is a street lamp, a stream of light coming down to the ground. On the other side of me is a coil of rope. If I was a stranger looking at this, I might think the figure was going to hang himself or something. Is that what she thinks? I’m glad there’s no dog in the picture but I can’t help feeling she knows too much. Maybe not from seeing Chilko that night, but it seems too much to be a coincidence. I don’t want to see the next thing she draws.
“What do you think?”
“It’s original. Different,” I say. I’m surprised my voice works.
“Carmen Rosemont says most people don’t understand true art. She doesn’t show her work to any friends or family — just has it in galleries and strangers and critics love it.” She shrugs. “I don’t care if you don’t like it. That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” I don’t say that I’m not a friend or family member and I don’t ask who Carmen Rosemont is.
She gets up, sweeps the paper from my hand. “The point is to tell a story. Even one that lasts a second. That’s the story of you the other night.”