by Ria Voros
“You’d better get out of here,” he says. “I’ll put the rest away.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“Go. Get home. Maybe I’ll get a sainthood for this someday.” Mason pulls a mop out of the storage room.
I reach my hand out. It feels right to do it.
He shakes my hand and smiles. “You’re all right, J. Come by sometime, bring the dog — during the day.”
I grin back, saying I’ll try, but of course I can’t. Not with Chilko.
“Or give me a call,” Mason says. “We could hang out.”
This is the first phone number I’ve programmed into my phone that wasn’t a relative or Grant. I can’t stop smiling.
After that, Chilko’s in a mad rush to get to water — he runs through the park as we head for home, and as soon as he sees the fountain with the rock sculpture in the middle, he heads straight for it. The park is still shadowy and deserted. I glance at the houses around, but no lights are on. It’s 4:48. My legs are heavy and move slower than I want them to.
Chilko splashes in the fountain, sticking his nose under and shaking his whole body. I throw water over his back to get rid of the last of the shampoo and dirt, but at this point I don’t care. I just want to get home.
When Chilko is as clean as he’s going to get, I start walking away toward the street that leads to my house. He’ll get the picture. I pull out my phone to check Mason’s number one more time. Chilko’s still jumping around in the fountain.
“Idiot dog,” I mutter, but it makes me smile. I snap a photo. Evidence of this crazy night I can send to Grant. In the end I have to call Chilko, but when I do he comes sprinting over, his ears pressed against his head. He rips past me, spraying water from his tail. We walk the rest of the way quickly. It’s 5:07 and a couple of cars have passed us. Aunt Laura will be home in a few hours. How on earth am I going to act like I slept all night?
On the corner of Sixth and Chesterfield, Chilko wants to head up the hill, but I need to turn left to my house. I take that as the place we have to part. He must live up there somewhere. I kneel beside him, braving the smell, and put my hand on his neck. He leans into me a little, and I don’t even mind that my pants will be stained.
I point down my street. “Time to go home.”
He looks at me seriously. There’s a spot of crusty white foam on his forehead.
There’s no way I’ll see him again. His owner will know he got out and was sprayed by a skunk and now he’ll keep him inside at night. I don’t even know where he lives. Suddenly the world seems like such an unfair place where everyone I care about ends up leaving. I shiver, pulling my hood up.
Chilko turns and trots away up the hill. I watch him go.
A wave of tiredness drops onto me, and as I turn to keep walking, a car drives up and stops. I freeze.
“Hey, aren’t you Laura’s nephew?” a woman’s voice asks.
I try to turn my face away. “No, I’m —”
“Jakob! That’s you, isn’t it?”
Crap. I turn back, trying to think of a good excuse. Why hasn’t J made one up, ready to use?
“It’s awfully early to be out, isn’t it?” the woman says. She looks sort of familiar — maybe she lives down the street.
“I was — looking at the stars,” I mumble. “I wanted to find some constellations.”
The woman frowns. “Well, most stars are gone now. You should try midnight, not six in the morning.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “I’ll try that next time.”
I back away and give a little wave. “Bye!”
The woman drives slowly beside me. “Where’s your aunt, Jakob?”
I pause. “At work.” No point in lying. I know Aunt Laura will hear from this lady by noon today.
“So you’re home alone?”
“No, we have tenants downstairs.” I keep walking, hoping the woman will give up.
“Well, it would be a real shame if you’re getting into trouble,” she says.
“I’m not in trouble,” I say quickly. “I just walked to the park to look at the stars.”
The woman raises her eyebrows. “Then why are your clothes so dirty?”
Chapter 7
I wake up to Aunt Laura’s footsteps in the hall. My head feels fuzzy and like it’s made of lead. My eyelids are glued shut. Every noise — ticking clock, creaking floor — sounds so loud. I burrow deeper into the covers, but then I remember: my clothes are in the washing machine. I fell asleep before I could put them into the dryer. I sit up, rubbing my eyes so they’ll open.
I have two choices. Get up now and tell Aunt Laura about the woman in the car, so she hears it from me first. Keep to my “looking at the stars” story. Claim my clothes weren’t messy. Choice number two: go back to sleep and deny everything when it comes up.
I pull the covers over my head.
“Jakob?”
“Mrph,” I answer from under my pillow.
“Jakob, it’s noon. Are you sick?”
“Nuh.”
A hand touches my shoulder. “Do you have a fever?”
I can’t put it off any longer. I turn over. My room is baking hot — the curtains are open and sun streams in. My pyjamas are soaked. Maybe I do have a fever — or feel like I do to Aunt Laura. I decide to play that angle.
She sits beside me and feels my forehead. “It’s roasting in here. And why does it smell like skunk?”
“I don’t feel good,” I say. “My stomach is upset.”
She wrinkles her forehead. “Do you feel achy?”
I nod.
“Why would Mrs. Lester leave a message on the machine about you being out at night? She said she saw you wandering the streets at six this morning.”
Crap. I consider choice number one again.
“I was reading one of Dad’s star books,” I say slowly. “I wanted to see Ursa Major, so I went to the park. I was only gone a little while.”
Aunt Laura narrows her eyes at me. “But why did you have to leave the house? And why did Mrs. Lester say your clothes were filthy? Were you rolling around in the dirt or something?”
I gulp. My throat is completely dry. “I need some water,” I croak.
She reaches for the glass on my dresser.
“I wanted to get away from the lights,” I say, making it up as I go. “Dad said stars are easier to see without light pollution, and I thought the park —” I groan and hold my head.
Aunt Laura looks half sceptical, half believing. She stares at me for a long time. “You’re too young to be out like that. I don’t want to see you in Emerg — or worse.”
I nod. “I know. Sorry.”
She gets up. “I can make you some broth for your stomach.”
I turn over and face the wall. I’ll have to keep up the sick act all day, but in reality I could eat three meals at once.
Once Aunt Laura’s out running errands, I eat two huge bowls of cereal and sneak out of the house without seeing Libby, although I keep looking over my shoulder until I get three streets away, just in case — I can never be too careful with her. It has to be the hottest day of summer so far and in minutes my back and neck are sweating. Kids with bikes and skateboards stream in and out of Gerry’s Corner Store with slushies and candy. I stand across the street for a moment, watching. I was here just hours ago and everything looked so different — was so different. I feel for the change in my pocket. Just enough to cover what I owe him.
Inside the store it’s much cooler, which must be why there are kids and a few adults hanging out in the aisles, obviously not buying anything. Mason’s behind the counter looking about as tired as I feel. He has a bad case of bed head.
I get in line behind a girl with giant slushies in each hand. Normally the sight would make me want to buy one, but today the cups overflowing with neon pink and green make me feel sick. I guess my mom would be happy about that — she could never understand how Grant and I could throw back a giant slushie every day. It’ll make your insid
es bright pink, she’d say. Mmm, pink insides, I’d reply, slurping from my straw, and Grant would laugh.
“J — what are you doing here?”
I’m suddenly at the front of the line. Mason blinks at me tiredly. “I came to pay you back,” I say.
He looks surprised. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. Hey, I’m going for a sanity break now.” He looks over his shoulder. “Want to meet me around back?”
I wait beside the double doors into the stock room feeling a little like someone with a backstage pass at a concert — only there are no famous bands or crazy parties. Right now I’m just a little cooler than the kids in the candy aisle. There’s still skunk stink hanging around, but no one would guess what happened last night.
One of the doors opens and Mason pops his head out. “I didn’t mean you had to pay me back within twenty-four hours or anything. I mean, it’s cool that you’re here, but —” He looks around, motioning me inside.
The stockroom is even colder than the front of the store. I could hang out here all day. “I was just walking by and I had the money,” I lie.
He grins. “That was a crazy night, man. My mom was super-suspicious — she still thinks something fishy happened here.”
“Or something skunky.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, it did,” I say, pulling out the change.
“So did Chilko get home okay?” Mason drops the coins into his back pocket without counting them.
I stare at a huge box that says Doritos on the side. “I guess so.”
“You guess so? Don’t you know where he lives?” Mason stares at me a little too hard.
“Yeah, of course,” I say. “I just mean he was still pretty messed up from the skunking. It was rough.”
“Tell me about it. My mom’s making me work here for the next five days with no time off. I have a summer to live, you know?” Mason kicks the leg of a metal rack but it doesn’t budge. From the look on his face I can tell he hurt his toe.
“Yeah, I know. So, do you skate?” I ask.
Mason shakes his head. “I ride. You?”
“Like, mountain biking?”
“Yup.” He takes it from my question that I don’t. “The North Shore has the best riding in the world. Lots of technical trails and crazy stunts. You’ve got to take advantage of that. Do you have a bike?”
“Yeah, but it’s —”
“You should come with me sometime. You’d need full-suspension, though. I could get my buddy’s bike for you to borrow. I’ll take it easy on you, of course.” He swings his arm to slap my shoulder.
“Uh, yeah. That’d be great,” I say, even though the thought of mountain biking with Mason, who could be semi-pro for all I know, kind of scares me. But the idea of hanging out with him doesn’t. “When do you usually go?”
“Oh, every day when I’m not here.” He scowls at the boxes and cans around us. “And sometimes after work too.” He looks at me. “I bet you’d be a good rider. You’re pretty fearless, right?”
“Hey, Mason — where’re the rolls of pennies?” A guy pokes his head around the doorway. “We’re kind of slammed here.”
“Ugh. I’ll have to get them,” Mason grumbles, rolling his eyes at me. “Talk to you later, J?”
It’s not until I’m walking home, sweating bullets again, that I really get what happened back there. I have a new friend. It was pretty easy too — except for the whole skunk night. Who knows what will happen, but at least I’m a little less alone now.
The rest of the day goes by so easy it’s like time is sped up. I actually find something decent to watch on TV while I pretend to be sick. Aunt Laura brings me more soup and lemonade. I daydream about riding the trails with Mason.
* * *
j, i had the most awesome time with johannes. it’s like he’s you but german. he’s only been skating for a few months, but we did some pretty hard tricks. if you ever come to visit, we could all hang out. i don’t really know what sirius is. wasn’t he in harry potter?
* * *
My alarm jolts me out of sleep at 11:50 pm, but then I remember. It’s stupid to even wait for Chilko. His owners will have seen his filthy, skunk-infused coat and kept him in their yard or inside. There’s no way he’ll be roaming around tonight.
But what if he does show up? My backpack is ready to go. I’ve got the map. I could go alone. I lie back in bed. Yeah, I could go alone. I haven’t thought about that before. The idea of wandering around looking for someplace I can’t even describe seems way crazier if I don’t have Chilko with me.
I pull out the map and turn on my bedside light. Maybe if I can find another street name that triggers something. I stare at the little roads and parks until my vision gets blurry.
I wake up with the map over my face, but that wasn’t what woke me. There’s a sound coming from the living room. I open the door, needing to pee anyway, but before I get there I realize what the sound is. I peek around the wall.
The TV’s on but muted. She sits on the couch with her back to me. Her shoulders are hunched and every so often they shudder. She sniffs.
I back away, sliding my feet on the floor, praying there are no creaks.
“Jakob?”
I close my door silently and listen. No footsteps. I walk over and open my window. This isn’t the first time I’ve peed on the bushes outside my room. Then I turn off my light, lie down and throw my blanket over my head.
Try not to think of her sitting out there. Stare at the dark and breathe.
The next morning there’s a note from Aunt Laura beside the box of cereal on the table. She’s got an appointment, back by noon. Says she’ll take Libby and me to the beach.
I pour cereal into a bowl and then add milk, watching as the cereal escapes over the edge. If I eat slow enough, maybe I won’t have to deal with Libby until Aunt Laura gets back. I’m feeling bad about the drawing she did of me and if I see her I might say something stupid, like “I’m sorry.”
But after three bites, there’s a knock on the back door. Libby’s face peers in through the window. Because she’s pulled her hair back really tight, her forehead looks huge.
“I’ve been reading about Carmen Rosemont’s nature series. I need to draw fish,” she says after letting herself in. A pencil is already in her hand.
I’m not sure how to take her randomness. And though I know she wants me to, I do not want to ask who this Carmen Rosemont is. I keep shoving cereal into my mouth.
“What kind of cereal is that?”
“I don’t know. Something healthy. Go to the Aquarium. Lots of fish there.” I fill my mouth so I can’t talk anymore.
“Carmen says you have to be in the real world, the true, harsh world, to really get the experience on the paper. I want natural habitat. Mom said you know where all the rivers and streams are around here.”
I shrug. Thanks, Soleil.
“Will you show me? I’m all ready to go.”
I glance at the clock. Three hours until Aunt Laura gets home. I don’t know why, but I find myself saying yes.
After tapping the table with the eraser end of her pencil and grinning at me, she sort of flies out of the kitchen and I turn back to my cereal, wondering why I was feeling so guilty before.
“Is there another creek? This one doesn’t have any fish,” Libby says as we pick our way along the crusty, muddy stream bed. It’s July. What did she expect?
There’s MacKay Creek, but I really don’t feel like walking another half an hour for some stupid fish. “This is it,” I say.
She squats beside a rock covered in dry moss. “I guess I can sketch some plants. I really wanted fish.”
“Doesn’t Carmen talk about flexibility?” I mutter.
“Huh?” She’s busy peering into the middle of a giant fern.
“Never mind. What about birds?” I say as a robin hops along the trail a few metres away.
“Birds are good,” she murmurs, her eyes on the robin, following the way it moves. Without taking her eyes from
it, she opens her sketchbook, grabs a pencil and starts making lines.
The robin hops under a salmonberry bush. Its tail goes up and down as it looks for food.
“See those white and black speckles around his eyes?” Libby says quietly.
“Yeah?” I squat down.
“Aren’t they beautiful?”
I wouldn’t call them beautiful, but I don’t say that. The robin comes back onto the trail, something in his beak. He tilts his head, pauses, then flies up into a tree.
“Got him,” Libby says.
“You’re done? That was, like, ten seconds.” I walk over to where she’s sitting and look over her shoulder.
At first it looks like scratchy lines and shadows, but as I look closer I can see his tail, the fan-shape and the way it moved as he leaned forward to pick something up. It’s not really a bird she’s drawn, but since I was there, since I saw him, I can see him on the page.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
“It’s just drawing the story. Like you said, ten seconds. Carmen does this to warm up before she works on a new project. Some of her sketches are in her exhibitions. There’s this really amazing one of a turtle …” She turns the page of her sketchbook over. “You want to try?”
I stand up. “No thanks. Drawing’s not my thing.”
“It’s not about being good. It’s about looking for the story.”
“I’m not good at stories either.”
Libby gets up, holding out her sketchbook. “That’s not true.”
“Look, you don’t know me.”
“I don’t need to know you. Everyone knows stories. Everyone can see things happen. Just draw it.” She holds out the book. Her eyes are way too serious. I can imagine how creeped out the art camp kids were.
“I’m just the tour guide here.” I hold up my hands.
“Carmen says —”
“I don’t care what Carmen says,” I snap. I don’t really want to know, but the look on Libby’s face — like she’s been slapped — makes me feel bad. “So who is Carmen Rosemont anyway?” I hate that I feel bad. “Was she your art teacher?”
Libby shakes her head, looking at her knee.