Sketches (23 page)

That thought sent a chill up my spine. I'd forgotten about my mother and the posters. I wasn't even thinking about being a runaway. I thought about the way I'd stared at the cops when they came in and then watched them file into Nicki's office. They hadn't noticed me; they hadn't even looked in my direction.

“I'll go and talk to Ashley,” I said, and started to walk away.

“Oh, one more thing,” Brent called out after me. I stopped. “You can also tell Ashley that the three of us won't be sleeping under any bridge tonight. We have a warm, dry floor where we can lay out our stuff.”

“We do?”

“Yeah, Giz's place.”

“You have a place?” I asked.

“It isn't much. I rent a room on the top of a garage, but it's dry and warm. It even has a sink and a hotplate.” “Does it have a bathtub?” I asked.

“It doesn't even have a toilet,” he said. “Sorry.”

“No, that's okay, I'm sorry for even asking,” I said. “Thanks for letting us stay with you, we're really grateful . . .
I'm
really grateful. Thanks.”

“Hey, what are friends for? Besides, sometimes it's lonely living by myself. It'll be nice to have people around.”

I smiled. It
was
nice to have people around, especially people you could trust.

“And you're welcome to stay until you save up enough money for your apartment,” Gizmo said.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

I felt like throwing my arms around him, but I really didn't know him that well. What the heck? I went over to him and gave him a big hug. He looked shocked.

“That's okay, no problem,” Gizmo stammered. It looked like he was blushing.

“I'd better go and talk to Ashley. Can I tell her about staying at Gizmo's as well?”

“Sure. Always best to give some good news with the bad.”

I left them to work on their scooter and went into the pottery room. The big kiln in the corner was fired up and was baking some clay. It threw heat clear across the room.

Ashley was one of six kids working with one of the local artists who used the centre. She was at one of the pottery wheels, “throwing” a pot. I walked over until I stood right overtop of her. She looked up briefly, smiled, and then refocused on her work. Her hands were on a piece of clay that she was shaping into a tall, tall vase. She pumped one of her feet to power the wheel and it spun at an incredible rate, sending little splashes of clay-coloured water to splatter her arms and apron.

“It looks nice,” I said.

“It's getting there,” she said, “but every time it gets close to where I want it, tall and thin, it just tips over or tears or—
aaaaahhhh
!” Ashley screamed as the whole top of the vase came off in her hands and the rest collapsed onto the wheel.

“That's the third time that's happened! I give up!”

“It's a little early to give up,” the instructor said.

“But it is time to take a break. How about you go out for a smoke and then come back and try again.”

“The smoke I agree with, but the trying again part I'm not so sure about,” Ashley said as she got to her feet.

The instructor smiled. “You know you'll be back.” Ashley broke into a grin herself. “You want to come out with me while I have a smoke?” she asked me.

“Yeah. I want to talk to you.”

Ashley gave me a worried look. “Sure, let's go.”

We walked out of the clay studio and into the main studio area. The door to Nicki's office was still closed. Whatever they were talking about was taking a long time. We walked out the front door.

“Could you do me a favour?” Ashley asked.

“Sure.”

“Could you go into my back pocket and grab my cigarettes, please?” Her hands and arms were stained with the brown of the clay.

I dug into her pocket and pulled out her cigarettes and a package of matches. I put a cigarette in her
mouth, lit a match, and held it to the end of the cigarette. She inhaled, and the tip of the cigarette came to life. I shook the match and dropped it on the ground, stepping on it to put it out.

“I should probably give these up,” Ashley said.

I gave her a fake shocked look.

“They're not good for your health, you know,” she continued.

“
I
know that. I just didn't think I'd ever hear you say that.”

“Who knows?” she said. “Maybe I'll quit smoking and use the money I'm saving to take piano lessons, or a dance class . . . I know hip hop lessons would do me a world of good.” She started laughing, and I couldn't help but laugh along with her.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Ashley asked.

“There are cops, two of them, talking to Nicki.” “About the body?”

“I don't know for sure, but I think so. Why else would they send over two plainclothes cops? They've been in there for a long time.”

“Do you think she'll tell them anything?” Ashley asked.

“She might tell them a lot of things, but I don't think she'll tell them about us.”

“Then we just have to keep our heads down and wait for them to leave.” Ashley took the cigarette from her
mouth and tossed it to the ground. She'd hardly smoked it at all. “You want to do a pot?”

“Me, make a pot?”

“Yeah. Your easel is right up front. The pottery studio is in the back and out of sight.”

“I wouldn't know what to do.”

“Just watch what I do and I'll talk you through it,” she said.

“Maybe I should watch you so I can figure out what not to do. It didn't look like you were having much success in there just now,” I joked.

“Not with that vase. I was trying something really hard. I'll show you how to do something easy.”

“I have a few more things to tell you,” I said. I was looking forward to telling her about us staying at Gizmo's place.

“Tell me inside, in the studio. I don't want to be here when the cops come out. Come on, let's go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“
THAT
'
S QUITE IMPRESSIVE
.”

I looked up at Nicki. I hadn't seen her enter the room.

“You're impressed with
this
pot?” What could she possibly see in the hunk of clay I had spinning around on my wheel.

“That thing is a pot?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said defensively. It wasn't much, but after all it was
my
misshapen hunk of clay that was supposed to be a pot.

“You have to admit that it's a pretty sorry excuse for a pot,” Nicki said.

“Hey, I thought you were supposed to say nice things about everybody's work!” I exclaimed.

“I'm supposed to be positive,” she said. “Nobody said I had to lie.” She and Ashley both burst out laughing at me and my sad little clump of pot.

“Then just what are you so impressed with?” I asked.

“The fact that you have more clay on your arms, face, and apron than you have on the wheel.” And they laughed even harder!

She was right, I was filthy. I'd had trouble centring the clay and it had flown off the wheel a couple of times, landing in my lap. And then the water I'd been using to smooth it out kept spinning and spitting at me. I was wet and covered with clay.

“How about if you two get cleaned up and we'll talk,” Nicki suggested.

“Will it be a long conversation?” Ashley asked.

“Shouldn't take too long.”

“'Cause I was planning on working for a while longer, so it probably makes sense for me not to get cleaned up,” Ashley said.

“
I'm
getting cleaned up,” I said. “I think I'm finished with pottery . . . for life.”

“I was just kidding around,” Nicki said. She actually sounded kind of worried, like maybe her comments had driven me away from the pottery wheel.

“I know. I'm just joking too. I'll try again . . . some time . . . but not today.” I paused. “Are they gone?”

She nodded. “And you have nothing to worry about. I didn't tell them anything, although they were very persistent. They took a big chunk out of my day. I have places to go and things to do.”
Nicki looked at the instructor and the two other participants working away at the front. “Excuse me, I don't mean to be a bother, but do you think you three could take a break so we could have a little privacy?”

“No problem,” the instructor said. The two kids quickly rinsed their hands in the sink and they left, closing the door behind them, leaving the three of us alone.

“I'll talk while you're getting cleaned up,” Nicki said.

I took my hunk of clay and tossed it into the big bin with all the other unused clay. My shapeless lump didn't look much different from the clay that had never been used.

“The two officers, detectives, wanted to know who had told me about the body,” Nicki began. “They even threatened to charge me with obstruction of justice, but they were just bluffing, trying to scare me so I'd give them names.”

“And you didn't, right?” Ashley asked.

“Of course I didn't. I don't scare that easily. I told them that who told me wasn't important and that I'd given them all that I had. Then I turned the tables and started to ask them questions.”

“What sort of questions?” I asked.

“I wanted to know about the dead man.”

“And did they tell you about him?” Ashley asked.

“Not at first, but then they figured if they answered my questions I just might answer theirs.”

“What did they tell you?” I asked.

“His first name was James. They wouldn't tell me his last name. He was fifty-four years old and had been living on the streets for a long time. I think I might have known him.”

“You did?” Ashley questioned.

“After a while you get to know everybody on the street. It isn't that big a world. They thought he'd been dead about seven days.”

I thought back to the insects eating away the man's face.

“And do they know how he died?” Ashley asked.

“They didn't find any evidence of foul play. There was no evidence of a gunshot or a stab wound or a beating. It could have been a drug overdose—they won't know until they get the lab results from the autopsy—but they think that it was probably natural causes, like a heart attack, or pneumonia, the sorts of things that street people die from all the time.”

“That's sad,” I said.

“So after the police realized that I wasn't going to give them any more information, they lost interest and left,” Nicki said. “Although they might be back, the only thing you two have to worry about is getting the clay stains off your skin.”

“It is tough.” I was working hard at the sink to wash off my hands and arms, and I continued to lather and scrub away.

Nicki walked over. “What you need to do is really give them a good scrubbing with a brush or—” She stopped mid-sentence. She was staring at my arms. The crisscrossing scars seemed to shine bright against the rest of my skin. It was like the clay couldn't stain the scars the same way.

I started to lower my arms to try to hide them but Nicki reached out and grabbed hold of one of my wrists. I tried to pull my arm free, but she held on, tightening her grip. She turned my arm and examined the marks closely. When she looked up at me, I looked away. Finally she let go of my wrist and I pulled away and quickly rolled my sleeves down.

Nicki turned to Ashley. “Do you think you could leave us alone for a minute?”

“Dana?” Ashley asked.

“It's okay,” I said, nodding my head, my eyes still trained on the ground.

“I'll be just outside.” I heard her footfalls against the floor and then the sound of the door closing. I didn't look up.

“I'm sorry for grabbing you like that,” Nicki said. “I shouldn't have done it.”

“That's okay,” I mumbled.

“How long have you been cutting yourself?”
I took a deep breath. “A while,” I mumbled. “A couple of years.”

“So, a long time before you started running.”

“A long time,” I agreed.

“And have you been doing it lately?”

“Just once . . . on this arm,” I said, moving my left arm slightly.

“Can I look?” Nicki asked.

I wanted to say no. Instead I reached out my arm for her to see. Gently, carefully, she rolled up my sleeve and turned my arm over to reveal the scars.

“I've only done it once since I ran,” I said.

“Here,” she said, touching the most recent cut. It was almost completely healed but it still looked different from the others, the older ones.

“Does it hurt?” Nicki asked.

“Not now.”

“Does it hurt when you're doing it?”

I didn't want to answer that. It was something very private to me, something I'd never even talked to anybody about until that day with Ashley.

“Dana, do you cut yourself any place other than your arms?”

I couldn't say a word.

“I guess that answers my question.” Nicki paused.

“You
do
cut yourself other places, right?”

“Yeah,” I said at last, my voice barely loud enough for me to hear it.

“Those other places . . . do they include your legs . . . on the
inside
of your thighs?” she asked, touching one of her thighs with her hand.

I had never told anybody about that. Ever. “Dana?”

I looked up.

“Am I right? Have you been cutting yourself there?”

I nodded my head, ever so slightly. “Not now . . . but before. How did you know?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“I just started to put things together,” she said. “What things?”

“Come with me.”

She took me by the hand and led me out of the pottery studio. Ashley was standing right outside the door. She gave me a questioning look.