Crash (7 page)

I was headed toward the cafeteria to meet up with Mac when I heard Jenna screaming. By the time I got there, a crowd of students had formed a circle around them. Jenna was screeching at Mac, who was just standing there looking frightened and pale. I tried to push my way through to get her out of there, but Davis, the bastard, grabbed me from behind and pulled me backward. I tried to slug him, but as I turned around, I lost my balance and fell to the floor. Nobody tried to help me up.

When I got to my feet and pushed through the mob, Jenna was down on the floor and Mac was on top of her, delivering a serious blow to her face. A couple of Jenna's friends grabbed Mac's hair and tried to pull her off. She screamed and flailed out at them. All the while, the idiot crowd cheered and yelled. Someone grabbed me again and pulled me backward and onto the floor. Somebody else kicked me in the ribs. I was ready to start punching anyone who got in my way.

By the time I was back on my feet, Mr. Brewster and the school security guard had arrived. Brewster grabbed hold of Mackenzie and pinned her arms, then began walking her to his office. He was glaring at the other students.

I followed them to the office and barged in. Mac was in a chair, looking angry and ready to explode. Mr. Brewster didn't ask me to leave. He just closed the door and sat down at his desk. I gave Mac a hug. She was tense and shaking with anger. “It's going to be all right,” I whispered.

“No, it isn't,” she said. “I'm never coming back here.”

Chapter Sixteen

Mr. Brewster listened to Mac's story about what had happened and said he was sorry but had to at least give her a suspension. She just sat there silently and didn't say a word in her defense. I tried to reason with Brewster, but he said his decision was final.

“The two of you head home for the day. It's best to have you out of the building.”

“Sure,” I said. I stood up and tried to take Mac's hand, but she pulled it back.

Outside the school, Mac was still shaking with rage. “Home,” she said. “Did you hear that? He knows we don't have any home to go to.”

“This will all blow over,” I said.

“Cam, this is all your fault,” she said, glaring at me.

“No, it's not.”

“Yeah, it is. You convinced me going back to school was the right thing. It wasn't. You think stuff like that hasn't happened to me before? I'm never going back.”

She stopped and looked at me. “I think I need to be alone for a while.”

She started to walk away.

“Wait,” I said.

“I just want you to leave me alone,” she said. And then she began to run.

I wanted to follow her, but I had seen something in her eyes. She was on fire with rage over what had just happened, and she was angry at the world. She was pissed off at me, even though it wasn't my fault. I had to give her some space.

It was a long, hard afternoon and a worse evening. I looked for her everywhere on the streets. No luck. She didn't meet me at the coffee shop that night and she wasn't at Eddy's at midnight. No one had seen her. I didn't have Eddy's twenty bucks. I'd only scrounged a mere nine dollars. But he let me stay. “Just this once,” he said. “And don't tell anyone I'm letting you do this.”

The next morning I felt terrible. I was worried about Mac, and to be honest, I felt abandoned. What if she'd taken off to another city? What if she was gone, and I never saw her again? I had a big hollow feeling in my chest. It was like my heart was about to burst.

I didn't go to school. Maybe I'd never go to school again either. Maybe my optimism about the future was a load of crap. I left Eddy's with Ozzie, thinking that maybe I'd never go back there either, never spend another night sleeping on that hard living room floor.

Ozzie and I trekked all over the city. I knew it was hopeless. By late afternoon, I even thought about going to the police. I was worried something had happened to her. But I didn't trust the cops. Maybe they'd see that Ozzie had no license and try to take him away. And I wasn't sure there was much they could do. Or would do. I was on my own again.

By evening I had made a wide circuit around much of the downtown, and I was back on Spring Street. I didn't have a cent and was prepping myself for a night at Hell's Bakery. I was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop when a car skidded to a stop. The door opened, and the driver shoved a girl out onto the street. It was Mac.

Ozzie sprang away from me, and I lost my grip on his leash. I was getting to my feet as Oz leaped through the open door of the car. He lunged at the man's arm and bit hard into the guy's hand. I'd never seen Ozzie bite anyone before. As Mac lay crumpled at the curb, the driver struggled to get free of Ozzie. He finally managed to push him back, and the car began to move forward. The door started to swing shut. Ozzie hung on at first, but then the door hit him. He yelped and fell back. The driver sat up straight, and the car sped away.

I knelt down beside Mackenzie as she tried to sit up. She was crying, and her face was bruised and bleeding. It wasn't just from being pushed out of the car. Pedestrians were stopping, and a woman stooped down to ask if we needed help. I hugged Mac to me, and Ozzie began to lick her face. “I gotta get you to the hospital,” I said to her.

“No,” she said.

“She needs to get to emergency,” I heard the woman say. “I've got a car close by.” As she leaned closer to Mackenzie, I recognized her as Ruth Goldbloom, the woman who had sometimes given me money and stopped to talk. “Can you walk?” she asked.

Mackenzie nodded. Mrs. Goldbloom and I helped her to the car as people on the street looked on.

“This is Mackenzie,” I said. “Thanks for helping.”

Mrs. Goldbloom gave me a soft but worried smile. At the hospital, she said she'd watch Ozzie for us. I guess there were a few Good Samaritans left after all.

In the emergency department, Mac was checked over and cleaned up. The doctor asked me to go, but I said I wouldn't leave her side and so was allowed to stay. The doctor didn't like it, but he didn't push it. Mackenzie was complaining of a pain in her chest, and an X-ray was taken. It showed she had a cracked rib, but there was nothing they could do except give her pain medication. The doctor said, “You should spend the night in the hospital.”

“No,” Mackenzie insisted. “I want to go home.” It seemed odd that she had used that word again.

“First you'll have to meet with a social worker. Maybe you'll need to file a police report too. Stay here.”

When he walked away, Mac looked at the door. “We gotta leave. Now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I held her hand, and we got up and walked out of the examining room. The waiting room was filled with hurt and sick people, so no one seemed to notice us as we walked down the hall and out the door.

“What happened today?” I asked. “Who was that guy?”

“I can't talk about it,” she said. “I just can't.” And now it began to sink in. I knew what Mackenzie had been doing these last few weeks. I knew what she'd done to bail out Ozzie and to get enough money for us to stay at Eddy's. I shuddered. I squeezed her hand tightly.

Outside, Mrs. Goldbloom was walking Ozzie on the grass. She saw us and came over, deep concern on her face.

“Are you all right?” she asked Mac.

“Yes,” Mac said. “Can you give us a ride?”

“Of course,” she answered. “Where to?”

Neither of us had an answer.

Chapter Seventeen

As Mrs. Goldbloom drove on, an awkward silence came over Mackenzie and me. She looked frightened, and when I touched her, she pulled away. “I'm sorry I got you into this,” she said.

“You didn't get me into anything. You helped me out when I was kicked out of my house.”

“I think I just want to go somewhere. Somewhere far, far away.” She was looking out the window, and I could feel that I was losing her.

She tapped Mrs. Goldbloom on the shoulder. “Can you pull over? I think I just want to get out here.”

Mrs. Goldbloom slowed the car.

“No,” I said. “Don't stop.”

But she had already pulled over. Mac started to open the door, and I grabbed her. She winced from the pain. “Don't go,” I said. “I won't let you.” I could see she was determined to bolt. “Please,” I said. “Stay with me.”

Mrs. Goldbloom turned to her. “He's right. Don't go. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Mackenzie was in pain, and I wondered if we had made a mistake leaving the hospital. She slumped back in her seat. She still wouldn't let me hold her hand. Whatever was about to happen, I was sure I was losing her. And that scared the hell out of me. I didn't want to be alone.

Mrs. Goldbloom pulled back into the traffic. Soon we were at the north end of town. She stopped in front of a big old Victorian house with fading paint. “This is where my friend lives,” she said. “You'll like her.”

Inside the house, in a long cold hallway, Mrs. Goldbloom introduced us to a large stern woman. “This is Margaret Sampson,” she said.

Margaret didn't give a good first impression. She looked at Mackenzie, studied her. Then she scowled at me as if I was the one who had beat her up. She looked at Ozzie and shook her head.

“You two have names?”

“I'm Cam. This is Mac.”

“And the mutt?”

“Ozzie.”

Margaret looked at Mrs. Goldbloom. “We're full, Ruth. We can't take in anyone else. And we don't take dogs. You know that.” I didn't know what she was talking about.

Mrs. Goldbloom smiled at Margaret, and the two of them just looked at each other for an awkward and long few seconds. Then Margaret sighed. “Let's go inside, shall we?” she said.

In the living room, a bunch of kids were lounging around, some doing what looked like schoolwork, some just chatting. I thought I recognized a face or two from school. They watched as we walked past them and into the kitchen. A couple of girls petted Ozzie along the way.

It wasn't an ordinary kitchen. It was more like the cafeteria kitchen, only smaller. We sat down at a wooden table. “You can see we already have a crowd,” Margaret said.

Mackenzie looked really uncomfortable, and I could tell she didn't like this Margaret Sampson at all. “I'm not sure what's going on here,” I said. “We didn't ask to come here.”

Margaret made a face and looked at Mrs. Goldbloom, who turned to Mac and me and began to explain. “Margaret is a retired social worker. She quit her job because she saw the system was failing so many kids. She opened her home to some of them. She doesn't get any government funding, so she has to fundraise. I help her with that sometimes.”

“It's been a bit rough this year,” Margaret now added. She'd lost a bit of the edge in her voice. “What with the economy and all.” She was looking at Mac, but Mac had moved off into her own world. Margaret looked back at me. I held her gaze. I could see there was more to this woman than I'd first thought. It was like she could read my mind, conjure our story. She knew we had no place else to go.

“We have rules here,” she said suddenly. “Lots of rules.” She handed me a sheet of paper. She was right. There were a lot of rules. Strict ones. Old-fashioned rules. “Not everyone can live by them.”

As I studied them, I began to see some hope.

“You two in school?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good.” She studied Mackenzie some more. “She been to a doctor?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“If you want to keep the dog, you'll have to sleep in the basement. It's not pretty, but it's warm and dry. You'll have to fix it up yourself. But there are no guarantees. We might lose this place tomorrow. Anything can happen.”

“I understand,” I said.

“And the rules?”

“We're good with the rules,” I said.

“You two talk it over, make sure it's what you both want to do,” Margaret said, and then she and Mrs. Goldbloom left the kitchen.

Mac was crying now and leaning into me. “I don't know if I can do this,” she said.

“
We
can do this,” I said. “Together.”

“I'm not sure I even understand what kind of place this is. Where are we?”

“We're home,” I said. “We're finally home.”

Lesley Choyce is the author of eighty-four books for adults, teens and kids. He runs Pottersfield Press, teaches at Dalhousie University and lives at Lawrencetown Beach, Nova Scotia, where he surfs year-round. A recent book,
I'm Alive, I Believe in
Everything
, is a collection of his poems written over forty years and was short-listed for the Atlantic Poetry Prize. His website is
www.lesleychoyce.com.