Sketches (8 page)

I hadn't meant to stay, but on my way out I'd started talking to this girl who was painting, and then one thing had led to another.

“What were you doing all that time?” Ashley demanded.

“I was working with acrylics . . . painting.”

“I know what acrylics are,” Ashley said. “It's just that while we were working, you were playing.”

“Cut her some slack,” Brent said. “She was just having some fun.”

“We all have to work if we all want to eat,” Ashley pointed out.

“Eating is important,” Brent agreed. “But just because this isn't something that interests you or me doesn't mean it isn't important to her.” He turned to me. “And painting makes you happy, right?”

I nodded. And I realized then that he was right—that an hour or so at the drop-in had made me happier than I'd felt in a very long time.

“Then you should go there sometimes,” Brent said firmly, as though this were his official decision. “We all know that finding a little happiness out here isn't the easiest thing in the world.”

MY EYES POPPED OPEN
and for a split second I didn't know where I was and I was scared. Then it came back. I was in the abandoned building, sleeping on top of two desks pushed together against the wall. Ashley was beside me, and Brent was beside her on the outside. He was always on the outside. He made sure he was always
between us and whatever could hurt us . . . and there were so many things.

My ears perked up. I heard something moving around in the darkness. I slowly sat up and peered over Ashley and Brent into the darkness. I couldn't see anything, but I could still hear it. There was somebody moving around in the room. I felt a rush of panic. I heard more rustling . . . not loud. Carefully, slowly, I reached to the place where I remembered that Brent had left the flashlight. I fumbled around until I found it. I turned it on and shone the light around the room and—a big brown rat sat up, its red eyes gleaming back at me! A shudder shot up my spine. The rat raced away from the light. I could hear it even after it had disappeared from sight.

I wanted to wake up Brent and Ashley and tell them about the rat . . . but what was the point? It wasn't like they didn't know there were rats in the world. It wasn't like we hadn't seen rats before. It seemed as though there were rats everywhere in this city, but that still didn't make me feel any less spooked by the appearance of this one.

I lay back down. I didn't know if I'd be able to get back to sleep but I had to try. I clutched the flashlight tightly against my chest, holding it like a shield or a sword. I focused the beam of light up onto the ceiling above my head and moved it around. That was what I
used to do in my bedroom when I was little—shine a flashlight up onto the ceiling and make it dance all around. The beam would reflect off the little stars and moons that my mother had stuck onto the ceiling, shining green in the darkness. Here there were no stars or moons. There was just peeling paint and water stains.

I turned off the flashlight and the room became thick with darkness again. Maybe it was better not to look. Seeing bad things coming didn't stop them from coming, and there were lots of things in the world that were worse than rats. Lots of things. At least I was safe from some of those other things here.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I PEELED BACK
the little opening on the plastic coffee lid and took a sip. It was hot and it tasted really good. I took another sip, a bigger one this time.

I was never allowed coffee at home. My mother thought I was too young to drink it. Funny how you can be too young for something but old enough for something else altogether.

“Good coffee, huh?” Brent said.

“The first cup in the morning is always the best,” I told him.

Ashley nodded her head.

“Doughnut?” Brent asked, offering me the bag. “Thanks.”

“Definitely,” Ashley agreed.

I reached into the bag and picked out a double chocolate. Doughnuts and coffee—our version of the
elegant breakfast buffet, even if we were sitting on the curb outside our squat.

I stretched, trying to work some of the kinks out of my back. When I woke up in the morning I was usually so stiff that I felt like an old woman. Sleeping on the ground, or a desk, or a concrete floor didn't ever make for a good night's sleep. Being on the streets meant always being sore, or hungry, or tired, and sometimes all three at once.

“So what's up for today?” Ashley asked.

“I figured we hang, see some people, kick around . . . you know, the usual,” Brent answered.

“But what about making some money?” I asked.

“Taken care of,” he said.

“It is?” Ashley asked.

“What did you think I was doing when I was on my own yesterday?” Brent asked.

“I can think of a lot of things you could have been doing,” Ashley replied.

It wasn't unusual for Brent to go off by himself. Sometimes he'd be gone for twenty minutes, sometimes hours and hours. He'd get in a mood, like he was restless, irritated—or maybe like he had something better to do, someplace more important to be. If he hadn't felt so responsible for me and Ashley, he probably would have been gone more often. One thing we could count on: he never left us overnight.

“What I was doing was taking care of us. I got everything we need for today. Everything except water.”

“Water?” I asked.

He nodded. “You can't squeegee without—”

“Wait! No way! I'm not doing it!” Ashley snapped.

“Doing what?” I asked.

“I won't be a squeegee kid,” Ashley said. “You've seen kids standing on the streets cleaning windshields, haven't you?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said.

“And did it look like a lot of fun to you?” she asked.

“It isn't supposed to be fun. It's a good way to earn money,” Brent said, patiently. “Besides, I've already got the pail and the squeegees.”

Brent took the pack off his back, set it down, and opened it up. He produced three squeegees—the metal-and-rubber things you use at a gas station to clean off your windshield.

“You bought those yesterday?” I asked.

“Bought?” Brent asked, sounding shocked. “You are such a kidder! Nobody said anything about buying. I said I got them yesterday.”

“I don't care whether you
made
them with your own hands,” Ashley said. “I don't want to do it.”

“We have to do something if we want to eat today,” Brent replied.

“Then let's just panhandle.”

“But we can get more money by doing this,” Brent said, holding up one of the squeegees.

“And we can get more hassles that way, as well,” Ashley said, emphatically.

“Sure, there could be some hassles, but—”

“It's nothing
but
hassles!” Ashley shouted, cutting him off.

“And because you don't want to do it, then we just don't do it, is that what you're saying?” Brent demanded. “Does that seem fair?”

“Is it fair that we do it just because you want to?” she demanded.

“How about if we vote?” he proposed.

“Fine with me.”

They both turned to me. I hated it when they did this. No matter which way I went it was guaranteed that somebody would be mad at me. You should never put somebody in the middle like that. It made me think of the last days before my parents finally separated. When it happened, I was almost grateful—at least nobody was yelling at anybody any more. Little did I know what would happen after that. It would make me wish my parents had never split up.

“Well?” Ashley asked me. “What do you want to do?”

“Um . . . I don't really know.”

“Don't be a wimp,” Brent said. “Yes or no?”

“Yeah, make a decision.”

“How can I make a decision when I don't even really understand what you two are arguing about?”

“Come on, Dana, you can't tell me that you never saw kids cleaning windshields at street corners.”

“I've seen it,” I admitted.

It was hard to miss if you hung around downtown at all. I even remembered the first time I saw it happen. I couldn't have been more than seven or eight. I was with my mother and we were heading downtown to meet my father for lunch. I was in the back seat—my sister was in her car seat beside me—and we stopped for a red light. These kids came running toward the car. My mother hit the door-lock button and told me not to be scared. I hadn't even thought about being scared until she told me not to—then I was. These kids surrounded the car and started cleaning all the windows. One of the kids—a girl—smiled and waved at me through the window, but I was too afraid to wave back. Then, just before the light changed, my mother opened the window just a crack and handed them a dollar and we drove away.

“So what is it you don't understand?” Brent asked. “You walk out into the street when the cars stop and ask if they want their windshields washed. If they don't, you don't. If they do, you do. There's nothing more to it.”

“Nothing more except for getting run over!”

“Come on, Ash, nobody's going to run you down!” Brent argued.

“I've heard of people getting brushed by cars as they speed away. And how about that guy . . . what was his name? . . . Kevin, I think . . . who got brained by the side mirror of that truck?”

“His brain was scrambled before he got hit by the mirror,” Brent said. “In fact, that's probably why he got hit. It won't happen if you're careful.”

“Well, what about the cops, then?” she said. “It's illegal to squeegee.”

“It's not illegal to squeegee. It's illegal to be on the road,” Brent corrected her.

“Well. Unless people start driving on the sidewalk, that's the only place where you can squeegee,” Ashley said.

“It's just a ticket if they catch you, and most of the time they don't even want to catch you,” Brent said. “They just chase you away, that's all.”

“Has either of you ever gotten a ticket?” I asked.

They both shook their heads.

“Has either of you ever been hit or brushed by a car?”

“Not me,” Brent said.

“I was almost hit once,” Ashley said.

“Almost doesn't count. So, are we going to do it?” Brent asked.

“You said the money was better, right?” I was thinking about another night in a motel room, and we needed money for that.

“It can be very good,” Brent said.

“Ashley, can we earn more doing this than panhandling?”

She reluctantly nodded her head.

“Then let's try it for a bit. Okay?”

Ashley didn't answer right away. Then she muttered, “I don't like it, but I'll do it.”

“All right! So let's get to it,” Brent said. “First, we have to find a good corner.”

“How about this one?” I asked.

“I was thinking of going down closer to the lake.”

“What's wrong with here?” I was pretty sure I'd actually seen squeegee kids on this street before.

“Yeah, let's just stay here,” Ashley said. “It's bad enough having to do this without having to go on a major hike first.”

Brent looked around hesitantly. “I guess this would be okay.”

He got up and walked around to the back of the building we'd slept in, and when he came back he was carrying a pail. He must have stashed it somewhere out there the night before. He offered it to me. “Get this filled with water.”

“Water? Where do I get water from?” I asked.

“One of these stores. Just go in and ask,” Brent said.

“Why me?”

“Think about it,” Brent said. “Who are they more likely to help, me or you?”

“He's got a point there,” Ashley agreed.

“Maybe you should come with me, then,” I said to Ashley.

She shrugged. “Why not?”

“Try the doughnut shop first,” Brent suggested, handing me the bucket and dropping the three squeegees into it.

Ashley and I made our way over to the doughnut shop and walked in. There was a lineup at the counter and most of the tables were occupied.

“Let's just go to the washroom and fill up the—”

“Get out of here!” A man—balding and wearing a dirty white apron—came stomping toward us. He looked angry, his eyes blazing, a scowl on his face. I started for the door to leave.

“We just wanted to use the washroom,” Ashley said, standing her ground.

“Washrooms only for customers!” he screamed.

“We are customers,” Ashley said, holding up her coffee cup with the store's name emblazoned across it.

“You not customers! You
filthy
squeegee kids! Get out of my store!”

“Come on, we just want to—”

“Out! Out! Out!” he screamed, lurching toward us in a threatening manner. I backed away farther, but Ashley wouldn't budge.

“Stavros! You stop!” A woman charged across the shop and parked herself right between the man and
Ashley. The two of them, hands flying in the air, began yelling at each other in a language I didn't understand. This was our chance to get away. I grabbed Ashley by the arm and tugged. She shook her head and stayed put.

Finally the man scowled and walked away. The woman turned around to face us.

“Ignore husband. You girls need water to do squeegee?” she asked.

“Yeah . . . yes, please,” I said.

“Come, come,” she said.

She led us away from the washrooms and behind the counter, and we followed. The man eyed us walking by and muttered something under his breath. I was grateful I couldn't understand what he was saying. The woman led us through a set of swinging doors into the back room.

“Give bucket,” she said, taking it from Ashley.

She put it into one of a set of big double sinks and turned on the hot water, then grabbed a bottle of dishwashing liquid and squirted it in. “Make better clean,” she said. “How old you girls?”