by Ria Voros
“Really — tell me,” I say.
“She’s an artist in New York. She’s had exhibitions all over the world — she’s really famous. And she’s a feminist.”
“Great.”
“Haven’t you ever been passionate about something?”
“No,” I say, but I don’t even sound convincing to me.
“Isn’t there anything you’re so into you can’t stop thinking about it and you want to live it all day, every day?” She doodles on the new page of her sketchbook without looking at it.
“Yeah, I guess. Maybe.” I lean against a tree trunk. But I screwed up my thing and I’ll never see it again.
“Well, then you understand. I love to draw.” She holds out the pencil and book again. “Come on. You won’t look stupid, I promise.”
Knowing this could be the lamest thing I’ve ever done, I take the book and the pencil.
“Now just choose something to draw. Anything.” She looks around. “How about that tree?”
I follow her finger. “The one with all the crazy branches?”
“Sure. It looks angry, don’t you think?”
I hold out her stuff. “Show me first. You’re better at it.”
“No, I’m not. You haven’t even tried yet.”
“Libby, this is stupid.” I feel even more stupid holding her stuff because she won’t take it back.
“Why? Because you might not like what you draw? Who cares? Who says it has to look a certain way?”
“I just can’t do it.” I reach down to put the sketchbook on the ground.
“Wait — draw this leaf.” She holds out a salmonberry branch. “Sit right there and draw what your hand sees.”
“And where’s the story there?” I ask, the sketchbook heavy in my arm.
She smiles, holds the leaf out. “It’s in whatever you draw.”
The whole time I’m drawing the leaf, J screams in my head about stupid artsy crap and how idiotic this all is. She is nuts. I’m nuts too.
It takes about two minutes of scratching on the page before my dark blob looks anything like the leaf. But it actually kind of does. J grumbles, but before he can start up again, Libby steps in front of me.
“See? You did great. It’s totally a leaf. Now try this flower.”
“Thanks, but I think it’s your turn again,” I say, handing back her sketchbook. “My hand’s tired.”
She shrugs and squats in front of the blue flower, already drawing. “You have to draw more, Jakob. You should practise.”
“What am I practising for? It’s not a sport.”
“I’ll draw one, then you draw one.”
J complains loudly that this will seriously kill the rest of the morning. “I think we should get back to the house,” I say. “My aunt’s going to be home soon.”
“You don’t have to be scared,” she says.
I want to shake her. “I’m not scared.”
“Fine. You’re not scared.”
I pull off a salmonberry leaf and shred it. “I’m not.”
She watches the pieces fall to the ground. “I know. It’s obvious.”
“What is?”
“That you’re not scared.”
I throw up my hands. “Man — are you like this with your friends?”
She goes back to her drawing.
On our way home from the creek, Libby starts going on about feminism and pop art as if I’m actually interested. I try to smile and nod, but after a while I can feel a headache coming on. I just want to get home, so I suggest we take a short cut.
“That’s where my mom’s new boyfriend lives.” She points down the street. “The blue house with the brown roof.”
“What’s he like?” I ask, not really caring, but happy that a question has made her stop the art lecture.
“He’s really nice. He has this cool dog. We took it for a walk yesterday.”
My stomach tightens, even though it could be any guy and any dog. What are the chances? J says the chances are pretty good. We’re only three streets up from my house.
“What kind of dog?” I ask, my heart already hammering in my chest.
Libby walks down the lane. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
She stops in front of a chain-link fence. I try to breathe normally as I come up beside her. The grass stretches from the fence to the back of the blue house. On the lawn are dog toys — bones and ropes and balls. Inside a big cardboard box, the kind used for fridges or stoves, is a black and white dog. He lies on his side, asleep.
“His name’s Chilko,” Libby’s saying. “He’s huge but Patrick says he’s not dangerous. Big dogs freak me out sometimes, but Chilko seems nice. Do you want to meet him?”
His name’s Chilko. His owner’s name is Patrick. Patrick’s dating Soleil.
My life just got more complicated in a million ways.
“Uh — no,” I say. “I’m not a dog person. I like cats better.” J keeps feeding me lies, but I clamp my mouth shut.
Libby looks at me. “Are you sure? He’s not a mean dog.”
“I just don’t like dogs that much.”
Footsteps crunch behind us. I freeze.
Libby turns around with a smile. “Oh, hi, George.”
A skinny blond guy is standing there. He looks too old for the skater T-shirt and jeans he’s wearing.
“Hi,” George says. “Libby, right?”
“Yeah, and this is —”
“I’m J,” I say, putting my hands in my pockets.
“Are you here to walk Chilko?” Libby asks.
George opens the gate and nods. “Yup. You guys want to come in?”
I say no at the same time Libby says yes.
George blinks. “Whatever. I’m just going to get his leash.” He walks across the lawn, whistling to Chilko. I wish I’d thought of doing that when we were out at night. Chilko springs up when he hears the whistle and comes bounding over to George. His tail makes a circle behind him.
“Are you nervous?” Libby asks, touching my hand that grips the chain-link fence.
I pull away. “Why would I be nervous? I just think we should go.”
But Chilko’s seen us. His ears are up. His eyes lock onto mine. It takes him two seconds to cover the distance between us.
He almost knocks me over with his paws and Libby jumps back. It’s her turn to look scared.
“Whoa, he really likes you,” she says. “I only saw him act like that with Patrick.”
I don’t meet her gaze.
Chilko’s wagging his tail for me, sniffing my clothes and turning around so I can scratch his back. He moans a little in his wolfy way. I bury my fingers in his fur, feeling like I haven’t seen him in a year. And how great it would be if I could walk him in daylight.
“You make him crazy,” George says, walking up with the leash. “Do you know huskies?”
“No,” I say, stepping back. “He just ran over.”
I can feel Libby’s eyes on me, but I can’t look at her. I’m glued to Chilko. He’s acting like all his favourite people are here. I’ve never seen him so happy. At night he acts more quiet and aloof.
“We better get going, buddy,” George says. “You guys want to come?”
“Well,” Libby begins.
“We can’t,” I finish for her. “We have to get home.”
“Sure. Nice to meet you, Jake,” George says.
“It’s J,” I say.
“Right, J. See you around.” He leads Chilko out of the yard and up the alley.
“Bye, Chilko,” Libby says quietly beside me.
As we walk across the next street, I try to find the right words. I know she’s suspicious. She hasn’t said anything, and that’s unusual.
“I guess I’m a dog whisperer or something,” I mumble. Right after, I wish I hadn’t listened to J on that one. I want to tell her the truth or ask her if she knows, but even I know that’s the stupidest thing I could do.
We walk into the next alley, past a fence with a yapping d
achshund that waddles along beside us, protecting his yard.
“There was a story in all that, wasn’t there?” Libby says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask too quickly.
She stares ahead, as if trying to see something far away. “The way he greeted you. His wagging tail. It was pure happiness. I’d love to draw that.”
Getting home is a blur because of all the new complications floating around in my head. Aunt Laura actually keeps her promise and takes Libby and me to the beach, but I can’t do anything but lie in the sand and think. It doesn’t even feel like thinking — it’s bouncing from one problem, one lie, to another. I can’t count how many I’ve told so far. It’s a pretty big number.
My mom always knew when I was lying. It was some kind of superpower, like she could see inside me and find the lie circling around in my bloodstream. When I was five I lied about taking cookies from the package we were saving for a party. She stared me down until I started blubbing and confessed, in tears. From that day on, I couldn’t lie to her. Her power was too strong. But now that she’s not here, I can lie any time I want and get away with it. Part of me feels free when I lie, but another part gets a little more trapped.
Libby wades in the water with a bucket, looking for crabs. Seagulls fly above her. Aunt Laura leans against a log and reads a magazine about the broken marriages of movie stars. It could be a scene from a perfect afternoon. Any stranger seeing us would think so. Only I know the truth.
I must have dozed off because next thing I know, Libby’s shaking my foot.
“What?”
“Time to turn over,” she says. Her head blocks the sun and for a second it’s like she’s surrounded by a halo.
I must be losing it. “What?” I ask again.
“You’re burning. Time to do the other side.” She points at my legs, which are getting pretty lobsterish below my shorts. Aunt Laura offered me sunscreen but I was too lazy to put it on.
“Or you could come help me with the crabs,” Libby says.
“What?” I glance over at Aunt Laura but she’s asleep under the tent of her magazine.
“You say ‘what’ a lot.”
“Well, you’re kind of random.”
She kneels beside me, holding out a crab in her palm.
I sit up, worried she’ll drop it down my shirt or something, but that would be what Grant would do.
“I caught a bunch in a bucket and now I’m going to —”
“Let me guess. You’re going to draw them.”
She rolls her eyes. “No. I was going to make a race track for them. Didn’t you ever have crab races when you were a kid?”
So we end up making an oval Formula One track in the sand, shored up with rocks and more sand and with a round hill in the middle to discourage the crabs from getting off course.
I haven’t played like this at the beach for a long time — probably since my parents took me when I was a kid. We’d make huge sandcastles. The bigger the better. Dad and I were the builders and Mom was the decorator. She searched the beach for small black pebbles or white shells while we put up the walls and towers and drawbridge. When it was finished, I’d put a stick through the top as a flagpole and we’d eat lunch and watch the sea come in and wash the foundation away.
Libby stands back from the oval track and smiles at me. “I think it’s ready.”
“Wait.” I get on my knees and reach over the track’s short wall. I trace a line with my finger in the sand. “We need a starting line. Right?”
“Great. Now, how many should be in the first heat?”
“Heat? Is this the Olympics?”
Libby looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I have done this before. Trust me. We’ll have to do a few heats. If we put them all on the track, it’ll be a free-for-all and a big mess.”
“Of course. Stupid me.”
“So, I say we start with five.” She reaches into the bucket.
“Do you want to make lanes too? And we could put little numbers on their backs.”
“Don’t take it so seriously, Jakob. It’s just fun.”
I stare at her with my mouth open. “Uh, yeah. Was that not clear from my sarcasm?”
She fake-flings a crab at me, making the same open-mouthed face I did. “Uh, yeah, Jakob. Didn’t you know I could be sarcastic too?”
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I reach into her bucket and pull out the biggest crab, which pinches me on the finger. He drops into the track and scuttles along the base of the hill.
“Head start — no fair,” Libby says. “We need to choose five and start them together.”
“Fine. You do it.” I squat beside the track and fold my arms across my knees.
“I can see you haven’t done this before,” she says again, reaching into the bucket with both hands and bringing out four crabs.
“And you’re some kind of expert crab racer?”
She puts the crabs near the starting line, grabs a stick and sweeps them all in the same direction. For a moment, it works. They all skitter away from the stick. Then a couple decide they want to go backwards and two more attack each other. “I used to do this with my dad,” she says.
“I didn’t even know you had one,” I say. “Does he live here?”
“Calgary,” she says.
“So you don’t see him much?”
She shakes her head, eyes on the crabs, which she’s still poking forward with the stick. One is actually making progress around the track. My big one is almost at the top of the hill, waving a claw around.
“What’s he like?” I’m not sure why I’m asking. Maybe because I’d never thought about Libby having a dad, or Soleil having an ex-husband.
She shrugs. “He has the same colour hair as me. He plays guitar in a band. He has a new family, though. He got married two years ago and had a baby.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Once. The baby was kind of cute, but he drooled everywhere.”
For someone who wouldn’t shut up the past few days, she isn’t saying much now. “Does he know about your art?” I ask, thinking this might be something she’ll get more excited about.
The first crab makes it back to the starting line, thanks to Libby’s prodding. She picks it up and puts it in the bucket.
“You should send him some,” I say. “I bet he’d like to see what you’ve been drawing.”
“I have,” she says. “Twice. And he didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe he didn’t get them,” I say, even though it’s stupid. I’m not sure why I’m doing this.
She plucks my big crab off the hill and puts him at the starting line. “He got them. He sent me some pencils to use. Only they were the wrong ones. He used to call me Creative Girl, like I was a superhero or something. It seems pretty stupid now.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I lie.
Libby straightens her legs and picks up the bucket. “I’m going to put these guys back.”
“But that was only one heat.”
“It’s not working. It never worked. Dad used to make these funny commentator voices, but — never mind. I’m ready to go anyway.”
I sit beside the track, watching my big crab hike the hill again. By our log, Aunt Laura is packing up her stuff.
Chapter 8
* * *
i found the AWESOMEST place for skating, j. kicks the butt of anything we used to try. johannes and i go there almost every day — you’d be so stoked too. hope you can see it someday :)
* * *
Mom and Dad are in the living room looking through his telescope. It points out the window but the sun shines in. No way are they seeing any stars. I wonder for a second if they’re spying on someone, but the telescope is too powerful for that — it’s for things thousands of miles away. Come take a look, Jakob, Mom says when she sees me. What is it? I ask, worried it’s not something I want to see. Just come and look, Dad says. He waves me over, smiling. I just want to hug him, stand next to him and feel his
hand on my shoulder, but they’re both so into the telescope that I can’t stop myself from leaning in and looking into the eye piece. It’s amazing what this beauty can show us, Dad says. He pats the scope as I squint into the yellow light of a hundred stars. It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t make sense — it’s not nighttime. I straighten up to tell him this, but they’re gone — the room, the house, is gone. I’m back on a dark street that shines with rain. I start jogging, then running. A strange feeling creeps up the back of my neck. Just around another corner, another street. It’s so close, I know it. I hear the heartbeat of the car, smell dirt. Someone sobbing.
The Cosmic Turkeys scream “Bite Me” in my ear. I pull out my headphones and sit up. A question is fading from my brain. This time I almost got close enough to think it. I’m so close to remembering, I can taste it.
I grab my backpack, stuff in the map. Fence or not, I have to take Chilko with me. This is the only way.
I make it out of the house without waking Aunt Laura, and judging by the darkness in the suite, without waking Soleil and Libby. I feel like an experienced burglar sneaking around with black clothes, tying my laces in front of the hedge, hidden from the road. The night is mine again.
The walk to Chilko’s house seems to take seconds. I stand in the street looking at the lights on in the blue house. Patrick lives in the bottom suite, like Soleil. None of the lights are on down there. I can just make out the grey shape of Chilko in the dark. I can’t use my flashlight or someone might think I’m breaking in. I wait, try to breathe normally, wait for J to find the guts to make a move.
A cat screeches behind me and I jump into the fence, which makes a ching sound and wavers a little. I scramble for cover, diving behind a blackberry bush. Thorns rip into my hands and neck. I don’t care. It’s hard to hear anything because my heart thuds in my ears.
A minute passes. No more cat, no shouts or footsteps. No doors opening. I take three deep breaths. Inch closer to the fence. The same two lights are on upstairs. I crawl along the fence a few feet. Something snuffles around.
I look up and Chilko’s wet nose is sticking through the chain-link. His eyes shine in the dark, looking into mine. His tail wags silently. I’m so relieved he knows it’s me that I almost want to stay where I am all night. Just lie here with him and then go home. Wouldn’t that be enough?