Sketches (6 page)

“Some of them actually seem to enjoy it,” Ashley said. “Some people like causing other people pain, you know.”

That made me remember the pervert who had got me in trouble with the police. He'd looked like a nice enough guy.

“Maybe we should get a dog like Squat,” I suggested. “It's not worth it. Besides, they don't really have the dog for protection.”

“They don't?”

Brent shook his head. “They have the dog so they can take care of it. It's more like their baby than their pet.”

“He's right,” Ashley agreed. “And I guess it's better to have a dog out here than a kid.”

“Nobody would have a kid,” I said.

“You think because you live on the street that you can't get pregnant and have a baby?” Brent asked.

“No, I just can't imagine anybody living out here with a baby. There's no way you could raise a kid out here.”

“I've seen it,” Ashley said. “Although they don't keep the kid for long. The police and the child welfare people come and take the baby away. It goes into foster care.”

“That would at least be better than living out here,” I said.

“Obviously you've never been in a foster home,” Ashley muttered.

I looked at Ashley. Had she . . . ?

“I've been in a few,” she said, in answer to my unasked question. “And a couple were the kinds of places they should have been taking kids away from. Although a couple were pretty good . . . better than living with my mother.”

Ashley didn't talk a whole lot about her family or her past. I wondered if maybe she was going to open up about it now.

“Let's not talk about it any more,” she said, abruptly.

“I agree,” Brent added. “No more talk about foster homes or getting a dog. Anyway, I already have two pets,” he said.

“You do?”

Brent smiled. “Yeah . . . their names are Ashley and Dana . . . and it's enough work taking care of them. Now, are we going to finish selling these newspapers or what?”

“We'll sell this time,” I said. “How about if you take a seat here and watch the papers and Ashley and I will go out and do the dirty work.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“
OKAY
,
LET
'
S SEE WHAT WE
'
VE GOT
,” Ashley said.

We started emptying our pockets onto the picnic table. Along with selling all the papers we'd also done some panhandling.

“I don't think we have enough for a room,” Brent said.

“We only need twenty-five bucks,” I pointed out.

“We need at least forty if we're going to eat and have cigarettes, too,” Ashley said.

“And I wouldn't mind buying a couple of joints,” Brent added.

I wanted to say something, but didn't.

Brent started to go through the bills and coins we'd dumped on the table. It was obvious there wasn't going to be enough. Maybe if we saved some of the money from today and got more money tomorrow we could get a place the next night.

“What's this?” Brent asked as he picked up a card— the business card from that guy that I'd stuffed in my pocket and then forgotten about. It had been tangled up with the change I'd pulled out of my pocket.

I reached out and took it from him. “It's nothing . . . just something some guy gave me.”

“What sort of guy?” Ashley asked.

“A street worker guy. He wanted to know if I wanted to go to some drop-in centre.”

“Which one?” Brent asked. “I think I've been to every one in the city.”

I looked at the card. Under his name it said the name of the centre. “It's called Sketches,” I said. “Have you been to that one?”

He shook his head. “Never been, but I've heard of it.”

“He said it was like an art drop-in centre.”

“What does that mean?” Ashley asked.

“He said it's where people can go if they want to do some art.”

“Why would people want to do that?” Ashley questioned.

“Lots of people like doing art stuff,” I protested.

“Sounds like something you'd do.”

“He saw me spray-painting the wall under the bridge by the tracks,” I explained. “He said it was good.”

“So, did you take art lessons before or after your hip hop classes?” Ashley asked, with a smirk.

“Before and after. I took art lessons for years,” I said. I didn't care if she did make fun of me. “I like art. It was my favourite subject in school. I was good at it.”

“Mine was lunch,” Brent chipped in. “And I was
really
good at it.”

“So you're thinking of going there, to that drop-in centre?” Ashley asked.

“I was thinking about it . . . maybe.”

“I know it. It's over on King Street, close to Bathurst,” Brent said. “They have a storefront sort of place.”

“And it's legit, right?” I asked Brent.

He shrugged. “Must be . . . the guy has cards. Now how about getting back to the important stuff. We don't have enough for a motel room.”

“Could we stay at that place where Spencer and Anna and Squat are staying?” I asked.

“I don't think so,” Brent said.

“Why not?”

“There are lots of people staying there.”

“But he also said there was lots of
space
.”

“Doesn't matter how much space there is. The more people there are, the more chance some of those people won't be good people. Besides, a crowd attracts police, and it's best that we stay away from them as well.”

After my encounter with that cop I wasn't going to argue with him. “So where will we sleep?”

“Don't worry. I know hundreds of places.”

I believed that, but I was still going to worry.

CHAPTER FIVE

I STOPPED
on the opposite side of the street, directly across from the drop-in centre. In big, bright, colourful letters it said “SKETCHES.” There were some kids standing out front, leaning against the glass, talking, and some were having a smoke. They were the sort of people who I would have crossed the street to avoid if I'd seen them coming toward me a month ago. Now I was still cautious, but I'd learned not to be afraid. Or at least not to look like I was afraid. Showing fear was the worst thing you could do. You had to look cool, in control, like you belonged there. Brent and Ashley knew how to do it. They had the look, and the walk— the saunter.

I tried to look around the passing cars and trucks and buses to see through the window of the storefront. The sun glaring off the glass made that impossible. All I saw was a reflection of the activity on the street. Either I
had to get closer or just stop wasting my time and leave—but leave for where? To join Ash and Brent killing time on Yonge Street?

I waited for a break in the traffic and then crossed, dodging the cars. I skipped up onto the sidewalk and stopped. I didn't know if I should go in. I didn't know who was there or what they'd say. I felt my gut get all tight. Part of me wanted to just take off, leave, go, but a bigger part wanted to go through the door and find out what was inside. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled card. I unfolded it and tried to smooth it out. I guess it was sort of like my invitation to go in. And I realized that that was what I really wanted to do. Most of what we did every day we did to survive, to get enough money to eat and a place out of the wet or wind or cold nights. There was hardly anything I did that made a difference or made me feel like I was somebody. Painting that concrete wall with those spray cans was the closest I'd felt to that. Maybe here I could do more.

The kids standing in front of the place ignored me as I walked by. I stopped at the front door. There was a sign: “Sketches is a working studio for street-involved, homeless, at-risk youth. This is a drug-free, violence-free, feel free to play space.” That sounded good to me. I opened the door and was startled by the loud
ping
of a bell. The music I could hear from the outside was a lot louder inside. It was a band I knew but didn't really like.

Carefully I looked around. There were maybe ten or twelve people. Everybody looked older than me, but nobody much older. It was also pretty obvious that everybody looked street . . . piercings, tattoos, clothes. I suddenly felt like a kid from the suburbs again, not sure of myself, not sure that I should be there. I wished I looked tougher, but who was I kidding? I didn't look or feel tough at all.

Four kids were sitting on some broken-down old couches. They were munching on some apples and talking and laughing. Three others were standing in front of canvases, painting.

“Hello! How are you?”

I spun around. It was a woman. She had a big smile on her face and her hair was all spiked and shooting up into the air in a dozen directions. She was wearing a large white T-shirt that was covered in splotches of a dozen different colours of paint.

“I'm fine, I guess,” I answered.

“Welcome to Sketches.”

“Thanks.”

“My name is Nicki. I'm the director of this program.” She reached out her hand and I awkwardly shook it. “And you are . . . ?” she asked.

“I'm Carolyn,” I lied. Carolyn was my mother's name, and it was the first one that popped into my head.

“Is this your first time here?” she asked.

“Yeah, my first time.” At least that wasn't a lie.

“It's great to have you here.”

That was something I hadn't been hearing too often from people these days. Mostly they were just happy for me to be somewhere else. People in stores, people in their cars, cops, people walking on the street—they all wanted me to go away. That is, those that didn't just pretended I wasn't there.

“So how did you hear about our program?” Nicki asked.

I held the card out and she took it.

“He saw me doing some painting . . . under a bridge.”

“Under a bridge . . . were you using a lot of purples and oranges?”

“Uh, yeah, I was,” I admitted, wondering how she'd know that.

She furrowed her brow. “Robert told me about you, but I thought he said your name was something different.”

I swallowed hard. “I might have told him I was Dana,” I admitted. “Sometimes people call me Dana.”

“That's a nice name,” she said. “Would you rather we called you Carolyn or Dana?”

“It doesn't matter . . . whatever you want.”

“No, it does matter. It's about what you want.”

“I guess Dana would be okay.”

“Then Dana is what it'll be. I really like your work, Dana.”

“You saw it?”

“Very vivid, bold—exciting. I'm only sorry I didn't get to see the original.”

“What do you mean?”

“I only saw the photographs Robert took.”

“That's right, he said he was going to do that.”

“And it's a good thing he did because the original has already been destroyed,” Nicki said.

“It has?”

“The city doesn't care if it's a beautiful work of art or a scrawl and some swear words, they just cover it up with grey paint.”

Damn. I'd known it wasn't going to be there forever, but somehow I'd hoped it would last longer.

“When did they do it?” I asked.

“A few days ago. I'm sorry.”

That seemed so typical. The good things never lasted.

“Just bad timing. The city maintenance crews were working in that area,” she said. “So, would you like a tour?”

“Sure, I guess,” I said, although there really didn't seem to be that much to see.

“This,” she said, spreading her arms and motioning around us, “is our main studio. This is the place where our clients have a chance to work in visual arts. This studio is dedicated to painting in a variety of media, including watercolours, oils, acrylics—”

“I like acrylics,” I said.

“It sounds like you've had some experience.”

“My mother . . . she enrolled me in all kinds of art lessons.”

“It sounds like she appreciated your artistic side,” Nicki said.

“Yeah she did.” It felt strange to talk about my mother. It felt strange to even think about her. I wondered what she was doing right now, what my sister was doing. Were they thinking of me? Were they worried about me?

“Come on and I'll show you the other studios,” Nicki said.

“There are others?”

“Just follow me.”

As we walked past one of the painters, she reached out and put an arm around the girl's shoulders.

“That is really beautiful,” Nicki said.

“It's nothing, really,” the girl replied.

“It's
something
, something to be proud of!”

“It's really not that good. I think—”

“I think you're forgetting something really important,” Nicki said, taking the girl's hand.

The girl nodded her head and a slight smile came to her lips. “Thank you,” she said. “It is pretty good.”

“Almost as good as the person who made it.” Nicki gave the girl a big hug and she broke into a huge grin.

We walked away and Nicki turned back toward me.

“Hardest thing around here isn't to help people to create beautiful art, but to convince them that they have created it. Can you imagine somebody not liking that painting?” she asked.

“It was good,” I agreed.

We walked through a door and into another room. The music on one side of the door was replaced by music on the other—this time more metallic and blaring. The room was filled with workbenches, and tools lined the walls. There was one guy in the room.

“This is our industrial arts studio. He's creating and customizing gas-powered scooters!” she yelled over the music.

The guy looked over at us, waved, and gave a goofy smile. He had thick glasses, hair that shot up in a thousand different directions, and he looked as though he ought to be in the audiovisual club at school. Compared to him I looked downright street. He turned back to his work.