Sketches (19 page)

“That's not it either. Maybe I didn't really promise to come,” he suggested.

“Yes you did!” Ashley exclaimed. “And don't you even try to weasel your way out of it!”

“I'm not weaseling my way out of anything.”

“Quit complaining or we'll miss breakfast,” I said.

“Breakfast! That's it! I'm coming because they're serving pancakes this morning! You two promised me a good breakfast and—” He stopped walking. “So why are they serving pancakes today?” Brent asked.

“It's part of their outreach program,” I said.

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“It means that by serving pancakes they can get people involved who wouldn't normally come to the centre.”

“That sounds sort of like a bribe.”

“Don't think of it as a bribe,” I said. “Think of it as an incentive.”

“Well, I'm willing to eat some of those incentives and then leave.”

“But what about my painting? Aren't you going to see it?”

“And my work too?” Ashley said. “My pots?”

“Did you say pot?” Brent asked.

“Oh,
har har
,” Ashley answered.

“No, seriously,” he said, “you actually had me genuinely interested there for a few seconds.”

Ever since we'd started saving for the apartment we hadn't spent any money on anything except food and cigarettes. Brent had kept his word about that.

“Okay. I'll eat, see your painting, her pots, and then I'll leave. Do you think we can do some chalking today?”

“If it doesn't start raining again it should be dry enough by noon. It sounds like you're starting to like it,” I said.

“I like earning money,” he explained.

“Why don't you stick around with us at the centre until we go out?” I suggested.

He shook his head. “I have to go back and put our blankets back inside the tent in case it does rain.”

It had rained hard the night before and our bedding had got wet. This morning we'd hung the blankets on the fence to dry out.

“I guess that would be smart,” Ashley said. “That was really some storm last night.”

“Worst I ever saw,” I agreed. “Although it might have just seemed that way because we were in a tent and not a house.” The wind had been so strong that I'd thought we were going to be picked up and tossed through the air.

“It was incredible,” Ashley said. “Thunder and lightning and buckets and buckets of water.”

The rain had come down so hard that it had formed into little streams, and one of those streams had detoured into our tent.

“This morning the guy two doors down explained to me what we have to do to stop that from happening again,” Brent said. “He told me we have to dig a little trench around the tent. He said he'd even lend us a shovel.”

“I like him. He's a pretty good guy,” Ashley said.

“Most of the people around us are okay,” Brent agreed.

We'd been living in Tent Town for ten days now. We were the only kids in the whole town. At first it seemed pretty strange—and more than a little bit scary. A lot of the people there had what Brent called “issues.” But what else would you expect? People who lived in tents and shacks weren't exactly guaranteed to be problem-free.

There was the usual stuff I'd seen from older people on the streets: drugs, alcohol, and inner demons that I couldn't see or hear. Lots of people held conversations with themselves, and we'd figured out pretty quickly who we should avoid. Crazy people could get real crazy, real fast, when they thought you'd done something wrong.

Most of the people in Tent Town seemed okay, friendly, talkative. Some of them even went out of their way to be nice to us. We came home one day and the woman at the end of the row had been cooking a stew and she insisted that we join her. She said I reminded her of her daughter. And that was one of the things that I really hadn't even thought about until then. Those people hadn't always lived there. Some had families that they'd left behind . . . homes . . . jobs . . . hopes and dreams. Nobody ever grew up thinking or hoping or dreaming that Tent Town was where their life was going to lead. They were homeless people, but they were still
people
. Maybe that made it seem even sadder.

I really wanted us to get an apartment, but in the meantime I felt pretty safe in Tent Town. Once we went to sleep I knew that nobody could get in. That locked gate was as good as the locked door of any house I'd ever lived in. Maybe better. I also knew our tent would be there when we got home and our stuff would be left undisturbed. Just about the only thing we didn't leave in the tent was our money.

We now had close to eight hundred dollars. The more money we had, the happier I should have been. Instead, I just got more anxious about somebody trying to take it away from us. There was no telling when those jerks from the alley—or other jerks who were different, but just the same—might show up on the streets. We were safe at night, but during the day, out on the streets, it was different.

Brent had seven one-hundred-dollar bills taped to the bottom of his feet—three on the bottom of one foot and four on the other. The rest of the money, in fives, tens, and loose change, was all crammed into his pockets. He said our best defence was that nobody would expect him to be carrying more than a hundred dollars. Even if they roughed him up they'd quit looking after finding the money in his pockets, figuring they'd found all they were going to find.

Brent stopped walking. “Do you smell it?”

“Smell what?” I asked, before my nose gave me the answer. I could smell the pancakes too.

Right in front of Sketches there were two long tables set up on the sidewalk, with platters of pancakes and jugs of syrup. All the seats at both tables were taken, and people were shovelling down their breakfasts as fast as they could.

“There, somebody's leaving!” Brent called out as two people got up. He plopped down on one of the chairs.

“You take the second seat,” I said to Ashley. “I'm gonna go inside and say hello.”

I started away, stopped, and then turned around. Brent had already grabbed a plate and was piling pancakes on top.

“Brent!” I called out, and he looked up. “You have to promise to come in after you've finished eating.”

He smiled. “I'll come in, but I might not be finished for a long, long time.” He reached over and grabbed one of the jugs of syrup and started to pour it on his pancakes.

I pulled the front door open just as Robert was coming out, carrying a platter piled high with more pancakes.

“Perfect timing!” he said as he walked through. “So where are your friends? Did they both come with you?”

“They did. That's Brent out there at the table sitting beside Ashley.” He knew Ashley from her visits to the centre.

“I'll make sure to go over and say hello.”

“Could you make sure he doesn't run away before he comes in to see my painting?”

“I'll talk to him. And that reminds me, Becca wants to talk to you.”

“She does?”

“Yeah. She's inside making pancakes.”

I stood there, wondering what she wanted to talk to me about. I'd finally finished the painting, and I knew
she must have seen it. Did she like what I'd done, or did she think I'd ruined it? And really, what did it matter? What was painted couldn't be
unpainted
, and even if
she
didn't like it, who was she to tell
me
it wasn't good?

I sighed. Who was she? She was a talented artist whose work I admired and respected.

I walked through the studio. Partially finished paintings filled the easels. Some were good. Some were okay. Some were bad, really bad. No matter what they looked like, I knew that Nicki would have given her usual encouragement to the painter. Becca wasn't like that. If she didn't like it, she didn't lie. I'd always thought that was good. Now I wasn't so sure.

The finished works were hanging on the walls. Mine was hanging right by the . . . Why wasn't it there? Where was it? I hurried into the kitchen. Maybe Becca knew.

She and Nicki were standing over a long, flat griddle, like the one we had at home only a lot bigger. When I was small my father and I would get up early and make pancakes together. He'd heat up the griddle and we'd stir up the batter together. Then we'd search the fridge and cupboards for the strangest things we could find. Forget blueberries or chocolate chips, we'd made pancakes with peanuts, pineapple, pepperoni, and pistachios—the perfect “p” foods—or bacon, bananas, and broccoli—the “b” list—and dozens of other combinations. Some were good, some were great, others were
just plain awful! I wondered, would he make pancakes with his new daughter when she got older? I hoped he would. None of what happened was her fault.

Becca looked up from the griddle. “Dana, good to see you! Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Me neither. Tell you what, let me finish off this batch and I'll get somebody else to take over for a while.”

“I think I can hold down the fort by myself,” Nicki said.

“Thank you. Dana, let's go and talk about your painting before we eat.”

“Yeah, about my painting—where is it?” I asked.

“It's in a closet in Nicki's office,” she said. “Come on.”

A closet? Why was it in a closet? Was it so bad that it needed to be hidden away? That made no sense. Even if I had ruined it, the painting would still be on display somewhere. Nicki liked everything.

“I've got to tell you,” Becca said, “I was a little worried when I asked you to put
more
into your painting. You looked so confused, like you didn't have a clue what I meant.”

“I didn't,” I admitted.

Becca opened up the closet and took out my painting, propping it up on the desk. “But what you did
to it,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “It . . . it is just . . . just amazing.”

“You mean you like it?” I asked. I'd been expecting the worst, not this.

“Like it? I love it! It is an incredible piece of art. Moving, well executed, vibrant, and troubling.”

“What do you mean, ‘troubling'?”

“You know how you felt you had to look away from that painting I was working on, the picture of the alley, because it was disturbing?”

“Of course.” I closed my eyes. I could still see it so clearly.

“This is the same. And that's why I put it away in the closet.”

“Because you didn't want to disturb anybody?” I asked.

She laughed. “The artist's job is to disturb people. No, I put it away because I think it's valuable. If you'll allow it, I'd like it to be displayed in my next show.”

“You want one of my paintings in your show?” I gasped.

“I do. I sold five paintings by other new artists at my last show. I think your painting could be sold. No guarantees, and I certainly can't tell you what price it will get, but it could be sold, I'm sure. If you'll allow it . . . Will you?”

“Of course I will, no question!”

“Great. The show is scheduled for September.”

“September . . . that's so far away.”

“It is, but who knows, by then you might have another painting or two ready to go with this one.”

“Maybe.”

“It's an amazing painting,” Becca said. I looked at it.

“The foreground, the two sisters, is wonderfully executed, but it's the background . . . that dark, emotional undercurrent, these strong, dark strokes reaching around the edges.”

“I'm glad you like it,” I said. I was so happy—this was like a dream come true!

“It's just that it's so ominous, so dangerous. It's like there is something evil, and that evil is threatening to—”

“I'm really hungry!” I blurted out. “Do you think we could eat and talk about it later?”

“Sure,” Becca said, agreeing with me, but looking confused. “Why don't you put it back in the closet for safekeeping and I'll go out and get us a couple of seats and some pancakes.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll be there in a minute.”

Becca left the room, leaving me alone with the painting. I took a deep breath and took another look at it. It was painted with my guts and my emotions. It was disturbing . . . even to me . . . maybe especially to me. I didn't want to look at it . . . but I could sell it. Let it disturb somebody else.

“
HAVE YOU SEEN BRENT
?” I asked Ashley.

“Not for a while. He went inside to have a look at your picture.”

“Well he's not going to be able to see it without me. It's hidden.”

“You hid it?”

“It wasn't my idea. Becca said I needed to put it away . . . because it's valuable.” I paused. “I was going to tell you and Brent together, but I can't wait. Besides, if he's taken off he doesn't even deserve to hear.”

“Hear what?” Ashley pleaded.

“Becca wants to put my painting in one of her shows. She thinks that somebody will buy it!”

“That's fantastic!” Ashley said. She gave me a big hug. “Did she say how much money she thinks it's worth?”

“She didn't say,” I admitted. “But a lot, I think.”

“Maybe the rest of what we need to get into an apartment?”

“I don't know about that,” I said. “And the show won't be until September. We'd better not count on it.”

“So, back to the sidewalk chalk,” she said. “Either way, it's your art that's getting us where we want to go.”

Wow, that felt really good. And I was glad she was so confident—more confident than I was, really.

WE FINALLY FOUND BRENT
in the design and technology studio. He was standing with another guy—
the funny little guy who was always in there working. They were standing overtop of a motorized scooter. Brent looked up, smiled, and waved.