Living Rough (3 page)

We played three games of cribbage. Dad won every game by a mile. I pegged lots, but that was it. When we tallied our hands at the end of each round, I mostly had nothing that counted for points. My dad had the knack for getting jacks and fives…together. He may not have been lucky in life, but he sure had good luck with cards.

As he put away the game, Dad said, “This reminds me of the old days when we lived in Merritt. Remember how we used to play crib by candlelight whenever the power went out?”

My throat tightened and I bit my cheeks. It hurt, but it helped keep my emotions in check. “That's in the past, Dad.”

“I know I promised we'd go back,” he said. “This was meant to be a temporary solution.” He put his hand over mine.

I pulled my hand away and immediately felt guilty. Looking at the ground, I mumbled, “It's okay, Dad.”

But I didn't believe that. I'd been dealing with our
temporary
situation for six months. With the city clearing the forest beside us for a development, there was a new threat.

What would happen next?

My insides felt tight. I didn't feel like talking anymore. I told my dad I had homework to read for English class and slumped to bed. I pulled the covers around my shoulders, but I couldn't get warm. After reading thirteen pages, I realized none of it was sinking in. My mind was on Inna, the social studies project and the cleared land by our home.

When I finally drifted off to sleep, my dreams were strange. First Inna and I were watching a movie and eating licorice. Then I was at a picnic with my mom and dad in a forest where fiddleheads and cedar trees reached for the sun. Mounds of food covered the picnic blanket. As she offered me a piece of blackberry pie, my mom smiled. Her hair fell over her shoulders like a waterfall.

She leaned in to hug me. But instead of feeling her soft arms, I felt metal clasps, like an oversized Transformer. A machine grabbed me. It whipped me into the air then pulled me out of the forest and left me dangling over a gaping hole in the earth.

Just as the machine released me, I heard a scream and woke up.

Chapter Six

Bulldozers rumbled nearby. Trees crashed to the ground. I pulled myself out of bed and checked on my dad. Amazingly, he was still asleep. Sleeping was something he was good at.

When my mom was alive, we used to get up early. Fridays were the best. Mom didn't work Fridays, so she would make us a big breakfast. Banana pancakes with real maple syrup. Before Dad left for work, he'd give my mom a wet, slurpy kiss.

Now my dad slept most of the day. He had gone from trying to find a job to trying to find money for food. I guess it's hard to get out of bed when you don't have much to look forward to.

Another tree came crashing down. It sounded like it was only a few feet away. I panicked and rushed to my dad's side.

“Dad! Dad…Get up!” I rolled his shoulder back and forth in an attempt to wake him.

He slowly opened his eyes. “What's the trouble, son?”

“I think they're clearing too close. What are we going to do?”

My dad rolled out of his bed and stood on shaky legs. Yawning, he tousled my hair. “It'll be okay, Edgar. They're a good hundred feet away.”

I knew my numbers. “A hundred feet is not enough! We need to do something.”

“
You
need to go to school. Leave this with me. I'll take care of it,” Dad said as he pulled on his pants. He had already made two extra holes in his belt, and it looked like he was going to have to make another one. He used to be strong, but now he was a rack of bones. He looked like an old man.

“Go on. Get to school. Everything will be fine.”

I wasn't so sure.

I trudged off to school. Once I was out of the range of workmen and noise, I remembered I'd be seeing Inna. Her smile motivated me up the hill. I ate my muffin but felt a little off-balance after eating.

Once I arrived at school, I headed straight for the office to wait.

Sixteen phone calls and three visitors later, Inna walked through the door. My heart beating a hundred miles an hour, I rushed out to greet her.

We had a different set of blocks today, so I had to read Inna's schedule again so I'd know where to take her. Outside her room, I pointed to a spot for her to wait so I could guide her to her next class. After each bell, she'd be scrunched up against a locker, biting her nails, her eyes wide, scanning the halls. She smiled with relief when she spotted me. We repeated this routine all morning.

At lunch she agreed to sit with me. Being a tour guide had its perks. We found a spot outside, away from the crowds. I laid my coat on the ground for a blanket.

Inna smiled. “Tsank you.” She opened her lunch bag and pulled out a plastic container with cabbage rolls in it. I realized I should have grabbed something from the breakfast program. I sifted through my backpack and found a mangled-looking granola bar. It would have to do.

“You like?” Inna held out the lid of a plastic container with a cabbage roll on it.

“Cool. Yeah, I like cabbage rolls. How do you say this in your language?”

She wrinkled her nose at me. I tried asking the question again, with my index finger pointing first at the food, then at her. “How would you say this in the Ukraine?”

“Ah.
Holubtsi
. Ho…lub…si.”

“Hol…
butt
…si,” I tried.

She laughed. “Holubsti. Ya. Is good. Holubtsi. You like?”

I took a bite. I remembered having warm cabbage rolls, but never cold. They tasted great anyway.

Inna smiled as I downed the food way too quickly. She took small bites of her cabbage roll, then placed another one on the lid I was using as a plate.

“Why did you have to go home yesterday?” I said each word slowly, to give her time to absorb the meaning.

“Home.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper. She passed it to me, while rummaging in her pack again.

I read the paper she offered me. It had her street address and phone number scrawled in tiny letters with purple ink. As I stared at the note, she handed me a blank piece of paper and the purple pen.

“You give me…home?” She nodded.

“I…I…” I couldn't think of a response and felt my pulse quicken. My eyes searched the ground for something to focus on.

She took my hand and opened my tight grasp. I had crumpled the sheet in my fist. Inna took the blank paper and replaced it in her bag. Then she put her fingers through mine and leaned her head on my shoulder.

She smelled like a summer picnic, like flowers and watermelon.

I loved that she didn't ask me more questions and pretended nothing happened. I loved that her quiet breathing was so hypnotic.

Twenty-four breaths—in and out. Then the bell rang.

Chapter Seven

In social studies, Mr. Brock began the class by telling us we were going to preview the social justice course. At our school, social justice classes were only for grade eleven and twelve students. As Mr. Brock circulated around the room, he handed various newspaper stories out to each table of students. My table got the story that he'd projected onto the screen yesterday.

I felt my knees wobble.

“I want one member of each group to read the article aloud to your table. Then I want you to talk about what you've read and what it means to you. I hope you understand the importance of what we're discussing today.”

Mr. Brock was a blur, and his words just as fuzzy. I kept trying to count the number of branches on the fir outside the window, but I couldn't keep track. “Sean, your table will look at the statistical information, and Kelsey, your group will look at the global picture.”

Mr. Brock stopped pacing as he reached our table. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Edgar, your group will look at our local scene.”

I felt like I might black out. I needed to chill.

“Any questions?” Hearing none, Mr. Brock urged us to begin.

My group looked at me.
What? Did Mr. Brock make me the leader when he said my name?
I wasn't about to read the story.

I had managed to keep my secret since the beginning of the school year. I wasn't going to blow it now.

“Well? Aren't you going to read the article?” Janie was eyeing me. Shane looked bored, and Paul was snickering.

“Hey, if one of you wants to read it, I don't care.” I hoped someone would bite. It would be easier to get through the next forty minutes if I wasn't the focus of attention. But no one offered to take my place. The knot in my stomach seemed to be reaching up to my throat. I had to swallow several times before I could find my voice.

“
Jack, as he likes to be called
,” I began, the paper rattling in my hands, “
once held a prominent position in a bank, but now likes to keep his numbers simple.
”

I looked at the group. No one was really paying attention. Other groups were only half listening to the person reading their article too.

Why couldn't I have been at the table with the stats?

I continued, “
One blanket, one pair of shoes, one picture
.”

“What's the picture of?” asked Janie.

“Dunno,” I replied. I scanned the column for an answer, glad for a distraction. “Oh, here it is. It says the picture is of his daughter. According to this article, he hasn't been in contact with her for several years.”

Janie shook her head. “Why would anyone do that? Why would they leave their family behind?”

Shane still looked bored. Paul was doodling on his notebook.

“I like the tone of the conversation here,” said Mr. Brock as he approached our table. “Are you wondering what causes people to live on the street?”

“Yeah. Laziness. That's all. People like them don't like to work.” Paul flipped his book over so Mr. Brock couldn't see the picture.

“Do you all agree with Paul?” Mr. Brock was eyeing me as he waited for someone to answer.

No one was biting.

When would the bell go? Why couldn't he have stuck to the regular curriculum?

“Edgar. Any ideas?”

My days of low profile were over. I couldn't blend into the woodwork anymore. “Well,” I started tentatively, “I guess lots of things cause a person to become homeless.”

There. I said it.

Homeless
.

At least the article wasn't about my dad and me.

Chapter Eight

I could hear Casey saying something about how over 200,000 people could be homeless in Canada on any given night. Mr. Brock and the rest of my group were still looking at me, waiting for me to continue. But I didn't know the answer. I didn't know why other people lived on the streets. I only knew what happened to my dad and me.

“Maybe something bad happens in their life?” I looked at Mr. Brock. He nodded, encouraging me to go on. “Maybe people can't keep a job because they lose someone special to them.”

“Then they should see a shrink. They're supposed to help you deal with that crap,” snickered Paul.

“
Language
,” cautioned Mr. Brock, as he moved toward Kelsey's table.

“What could happen that would be so bad you'd rather live in a dirty alley than sleep in a real bed?” asked Janie.

“I think it's 'cause they're
lazy
,” said Shane. “They like living off the government. Then when the government gets wise to their tricks and cuts them off, they become even bigger bums. That's what my dad says.”

I pulled at my shirt collar. I tried to count the number of nouns in the article.

“Yeah, but there are
kids
who are homeless,” added Janie. “Who would do that? Why wouldn't the parents get a job at McDonald's or something? Then at least they could bring food home.”

“You all make it sound so easy. You don't know anything!” My voice was tight and louder than I expected.

“Well, you don't have to go all psycho on us.” Paul looked at me like I was an alien.

I closed my eyes, hoping to block them out, but someone laughed. Hot blood raced through my veins. My breath was at the back of my throat, not coming from my chest. A burning energy pulsed into my hands.

“Bottom line is, those kind of people don't count,” said Paul. “Besides, half of them are crackheads anyway.”

Before I knew what I was doing, I shoved my textbook across the desk into Paul's chest. “Shut up!” I yelled. My hand squeezed into a fist. All I could see was my dad's face as he sent out résumé after résumé. But instead of plowing Paul, I slammed my chair into the floor. “My dad lost his job because he spent every day at the hospital caring for my mom. Do you know what it's like praying someone will offer your fifty-four-year-old dad a job?”

“We didn't know,” said Janie. “We didn't mean…”

Janie and Shane exchanged glances. I could feel my cheeks burning with shame. I wondered what they were thinking. Then Mr. Brock returned to our table. If they suspected I was homeless, I hoped they wouldn't say anything to our teacher. All I'd need is for him to call social services. They'd want to see where I live—how could I explain I live in a tent? I'd be put into foster care and never see my dad again.

How would he manage by himself?

“Everything all right here?” asked Mr. Brock.

“Edgar was telling us—,” Janie started.

I jumped in. “I was explaining how the man in this article might have ended up on the street. I got angry with Paul for saying that every homeless person is a drug addict. That's just NOT TRUE.” Paul glared at me.

“Edgar's right,” said Mr. Brock. “People make assumptions about the homeless without knowing the whole story.”

Paul shook his head, his mouth curved into a smirk.

I couldn't regulate my breathing. If I stayed another minute, I'd lose it. I wanted to hit Paul. I wanted to make him look the way I felt inside—bruised. “Mr. Brock, can I be excused to go to the washroom?” I asked. Then, without waiting for his answer, I stormed out of the class.