Sketches (18 page)

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

“If that's the way you want it, then that's the way it's gonna have to be.” The Mayor reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He hit a little button to reveal the glare of a shiny blade! I stepped back, almost stumbling in shock. Suddenly all three of the other men had knives in their hands too! What were they going to do?

The Mayor walked around one side of the tent and one of the men followed him. The other two went around to the other side.

“Brent?” I hissed.

“I don't know,” he said, his voice cracking over the last word. “I just don't know.”

The Mayor lunged forward and cut one of the tent's guy ropes. At the same instant the other men did the same. The Mayor kicked the side of the tent, causing
the whole thing to collapse to the ground and settle around the form of the man lying inside. Before Harrison could even think to react, the Mayor and his men heaved the tent over, ripped the pegs out of the ground, and rolled it onto its side. He began yelling but the men ignored his cries as all eight hands grabbed the tent and wrapped it tightly around the man, who was now hopelessly trapped and struggling inside the nylon. Then they picked up the tent and started to carry it away—started to carry
him
away!

The three of us followed after them as they carried the swearing, screaming, struggling, nylon mummy of a man. Others came out of their tents, or stopped talking and joined in until there was a parade following behind. The Mayor and his men carried their load over to the chain-link fence, which we could now see was topped by a few strands of barbed wire. Two of them grabbed the tent by the front and two from the back. They began swinging it back and forth, higher and higher. What were they going to do now? Then, as the tent reached the height of its swing, they let go and it flew up, up, and
over
the fence! It landed with a loud thud on the ground on the other side, then rolled and banged and finally came to rest against some bushes.

The entire crowd started to scream and yell and laugh and applaud. I was stunned, unable to believe any of the things I'd just witnessed. Then, before my eyes, the man started to emerge from his nylon cocoon. First
his head appeared, and then he peeled the tent away, crawled out, kicked at it, and struggled to his feet. He was alive, he was okay!

“You stinking idiots!” he screamed. “You could have killed me!”

“You're lucky we didn't!” screamed back one of the men.

“You think you can get rid of me that easy?” he yelled.

“Seems pretty easy to me,” the Mayor answered, to a roar of approval from the crowd.

“You haven't seen the last of me!” he yelled.

“We have—unless you're looking for something worse. You come back and it won't just be the ropes of your tent we'll cut!”

“Brave talk when you got all those other guys with you!” the man screamed, adding a few more choice swear words to make his point.

“You think I'm being brave because of these guys?” the Mayor asked. “Tell you what, you stay right there and I'll come on over—by myself—and we'll settle this for good!”

The Mayor ran forward and there was a tremendous crash of metal as he leaped onto the fence. He started scaling it—he was seriously going to climb over and get the guy!

The man bent down, grabbed the remains of his tent, and started to sprint off, running away as fast as
his drunken legs would carry him. He tripped and got up, tripped again and jumped to his feet again, running away until he disappeared into some sparse brush.

The Mayor let himself slide back down the fence. He turned and walked over toward us. “You can have the spot we just cleared. And remember, follow the rules, show some respect, and you're welcome to stay. Break the rules and you'll find yourself on the outside. You'd better set up your tent now, while there's still some light.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I LOOKED OUT
the front window of Sketches. The rain had slowed down but hadn't stopped. The rain was the only reason I wasn't out with Brent and Ashley creating another sidewalk chalk masterpiece. A day of rain meant we weren't raising money toward the apartment, but I was happy just the same. There was something about being at Sketches. I felt almost like I was me, the old me, when I was painting. Most of the time, my old life seemed more like a dream than anything real.

I stepped back to look at my painting—to
admire
my painting. I didn't think I'd ever done anything this good in my entire life. It looked like my sister and me— especially my sister. Those were her eyes, and that was how her lips curved into a smile. She was always smiling. At least, that's the way I remembered her. It was amazing how after just a few weeks my memories had started to fade.

I decided I'd better clean my brushes and go to find Brent and Ashley. We couldn't chalk today but we still had to earn money, and it wasn't fair that I wasn't doing my part.

On my way to the sink I walked past Becca, who was working on a painting of her own. We'd talked earlier, but not about what I wanted to talk about—I wanted to know what she thought of my painting. Then again, I wondered if I could handle it if she didn't like it . . .

I cleaned the brushes and went back to my easel. Carefully, I picked up my canvas and made my way over to where she was working. I stood behind her, silently, looking at her work. Her painting was a street scene— an alley, actually—I thought I even recognized the place. The painting was filled with angry streaks of red and black, and there were two small figures huddled by a wall in the corner. It was disturbing to look at. I knew people paid a lot of money for some of her paintings but I wouldn't have put this in my home if she'd paid me. It would have bothered me every time I passed by.

“What do you think?” she asked as she turned around.

I was taken aback for a split second—I hadn't even been sure she'd realized I was there, and I was even more surprised that she wanted my opinion.

“It's nice.”

“Nice?” She groaned. “That isn't exactly what I was aiming for.”

“Well, not
nice
. It's . . . it's . . .”

“It's what?” she asked.

I took a big breath. “It's disturbing,” I said. “I don't even like to look at it,” I blurted out. “Not that it isn't good, but—”

“Hey, you don't have to apologize,” she said. “That's the reaction I was looking for. Do you recognize the scene?”

“It looks familiar, really familiar, but I don't know exactly where it is.”

“That's good too. It's an alley, any alley anywhere in the downtown of any big city. I want it to look familiar but not to be any particular place. What about it do you find disturbing?”

“The way you used the colours, mainly. It looks so . . . so . . .”

“So what?”

“I was going to say angry, but that's wrong. It's not angry, it's sad. There's a sadness, and that's why I want to look away.”

Becca smiled. “That's how most people feel—you know, people who have jobs and houses and cars and wear nice clothes. They all just want to look away. Ignore us. You ever feel like you're almost invisible out there?” she asked.

I nodded. “All the time.”

“I guess that doesn't apply to me the same way any more,” Becca said. “I live in an apartment and I get to
eat.” She paused. “Sometimes I even feel a little guilty for not being on the streets.”

“You shouldn't feel guilty, you should be grateful!” I exclaimed.

“Don't get me wrong, I
am
grateful. It's just hard to go home to my nice little warm apartment knowing that a whole lot of other kids are out on the streets.”

“But you're trying to help,” I said. “You're here.”

“I'm here, but I'm not sure how much good that does anybody.”

“It does help,” I argued. “It gives us hope—'cause if you can get off the street, then maybe we can, too,” I said. “In fact, we're working on a plan. Maybe by the time the weather changes we can get a place. I mean, my friends Brent and Ashley and me. We're working together.”

“That's great, because you want to get off the streets as soon as you can. You know, that's one of the things that bothers me the most. People think that kids live on the streets because they want to be on the streets, that they're out there because it's just so much fun.”

I snorted. “Yeah, or because we think our parents are too strict, or we don't want to be nagged about doing our homework.”

“You and I know better, though, right? Kids only go out on the streets because of all of those terrible things they'd face if they
didn't
run away,” she said.

I suddenly felt a catch in my breath. My heart was pounding so hard that I imagined if I looked down I could see it throbbing in my chest. I had an awful fear that she was going to ask me what I was running away from, why
I'd
left home. But she seemed to be done with that subject.

“Let me see your painting,” she said.

Nervously, I turned my canvas around and held it up so she could see it. She looked intently at it, like she was studying it, memorizing it.

“Nicki is right,” she said at last.

“Right about what?”

“You really are very talented.”

I felt a rush of relief.

“The detail on these faces is exquisite! Most people avoid portraits, especially self-portraits. This really does look like you.” She looked at the painting again. “And who is this?”

“My sister. My little sister, Candice.”

“Does she still live at home?”

I nodded. “With my mother.”

“How old is she?”

“Ten . . . almost eleven. She turns eleven in two weeks.”

“Do you think you'll go and see her?” Becca asked. “I can't go home.”

“Sometimes you can't. But do you know what would be the perfect birthday present for her?” Becca asked.

“For me to see her?” I asked.

She laughed. “You're right, that probably would be the perfect thing. Second best would be if you sent her a present.”

I thought about that—but what could I send her, and how? I decided second best wasn't good enough for my sister. I just had to hope I would see her again, and soon.

“So when do you think you're going to finish your painting?”

“You don't think it's finished?” I asked.

“I'm sorry,” Becca said. “Do you think it is finished?”

“Well, I don't know what more I could add.”

“I don't think there's anything more you should add to the foreground, but what about the background?” “What about the background?”

“For starters, it needs one.”

“There's a background,” I argued. It was really just a background colour, a mood, but I thought it was right for the painting.

“You're right, there is a background, sort of, but—” Becca stopped herself mid-sentence. “You ever hear the saying that a picture is worth a thousand words?”

“Of course.”

“That's a lie. A picture can be worth ten thousand words, a hundred thousand words. It can tell a whole story. And your painting just tells part of the story.”

“It does?”

“I can see part of the story on the faces of the two sisters.”

I knew without looking what she meant.

“I need to know more about what's happening to the girls, the story behind them, the background of the painting. That's what will make this more than good. It'll make it great. I think you're capable of making this great.”

“Now you sound like Nicki. She thinks
everything
is wonderful.”

“You're right, she does,” Becca agreed. “Me? I try never to hurt anybody's feelings, but I also never lie. If I think something's good I say so. If I think it's crap I just try not to say anything.”

“So,” I asked, nervously, “you really think this is a great painting?”

“No. I said it
could
be a great painting. You need to add something to make this painting more than just good. Do you think you can do that?”

“I need to think about it some more.” I also needed to meet Brent and Ashley. “I'll show it to you later . . . after it's finished.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” she said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“
THIS IS A LONG WALK
,” Brent said.

“It's not that long,” I argued.

“Yeah, but I should still be asleep,” he said.

Since we'd moved into Tent Town, Brent had been sleeping in every morning. Ashley and I would get up quietly and let him rest. The first morning I left Ashley sitting beside the tent and went to Sketches, with plans to meet them at noon. But the next three mornings she came with me. The first time it was more that she had nothing else to do. But that morning she wandered into the pottery studio. She made a vase that first day and proudly showed it to me. It was uneven at the top and tilted ever so slightly to one side, but she thought it was beautiful. She was right. She was also hooked. And I really liked having her come along.

“So can somebody remind me why I'm
not
sleeping in this morning?” Brent asked.

“You're coming with us so you can see Dana's painting,” Ashley explained.

“No, that's not it,” he said, shaking his head.

“You don't want to see my painting?” I asked, feeling hurt.

“It's not that I don't want to see it, it's just that that isn't the reason I'm coming with you. I wouldn't walk halfway across town to see the
Mona Lisa
. There has to be another reason I promised I'd go.”

“Is it because I told you how interesting it is at the centre?” I asked.

“It
is
interesting,” Ashley agreed.