Sketches (7 page)

We moved through another door. I was both impressed and amazed to discover how much of the music was blocked out when she closed the door behind us. We were now standing in a room that held desks and computers. There was nobody else there.

“Although you can't tell right now, this is one of our most popular studios. In here people are being instructed in how to design and create websites. We have people doing some amazing stuff. There's a chance, and it's still
in the initial stages, that a few of our participants are going to create their own online zine. Isn't that exciting?”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“By the way, are you hungry?” Nicki asked.

“I'm okay,” I said.

“You are?” She made it sound as though she didn't believe me. “What have you had to eat today?”

“Well . . . I had a coffee . . . and a doughnut,” I said.

“Then you must be hungry. And even if you're not, I am. Come and join me for a bite to eat.”

We went through another door and were in a room with tables and chairs and a fridge and stove and a toaster on the counter. The counter and sink were piled high with dirty dishes.

Nicki picked up a knife off the counter and wiped the blade on a cloth. She took a bagel from a basket and carefully sliced it in two.

“Do you want one too?” she asked.

They did look good. “That would be okay . . . sure . . . thanks.”

“Do you want it toasted?”

“Yes, please.”

She took a second bagel, cut it in two, and then popped all four halves into the toaster.

“We have juice, too. Apple and orange.”

“Could I have an orange juice?” I'd been craving fresh juice or some fruit or something that didn't come from a fast-food place.

“Help yourself.” She pointed to the fridge in the corner of the room.

When I opened it up, it was almost empty, but the bottom shelf was filled with little plastic juice containers. I grabbed an orange juice.

“It really isn't our mandate to feed people, but we have some contacts—nice people in the community— who donate food.”

I sat down on one of the chairs around the table, and she took the seat right across from me.

“So, tell me what you know about Sketches,” she said.

“I don't really know much,” I said, shaking my head. “Just what you showed me today.”

“In some ways, what you see is what you get around here. We've been operating an art drop-in centre for the past four years. Our goal is to allow street-involved and homeless youth a place to go to express themselves through art.”

“You mean people just drop in and do art?” I asked.

“Five days a week our doors are open to allow people to do just that,” Nicki said.

“And I can do that if I want?”

“If that's what you want to do. As well as the daily drop-ins, though, we also have special programs, classes, where peers and community artists come in and give instruction on specific techniques to help you become a better artist.”

“It sounds sort of like school,” I said.

“Not like any school I ever went to, but we will help you to learn new things. Anyway, you're free to just come and use our studios and materials to create and explore your artistic vision, if that's what you want,” she said.

“And what do you want from me?” I asked.

“Nothing. Although we do have expectations of our participants.”

“What sort of expectations?” I asked suspiciously.

“Nothing too unusual. We ask that people who attend our program respect the place and the people who use it. We all know that lots of bad things happen on the street,” she continued. “We just want them to stay out there and not be brought in through our front door. While you're in here, we insist that people treat
you
with respect and caring, and we expect
you
to act the same way. The street may be just outside our door, but it stays out there. There are absolutely no weapons or violence or drugs bought or sold or used while you're here. Can you live up to that?”

“Sure.” That wouldn't be hard.

“Good. We like to think of this as a sanctuary. People can't be safe to pursue their art if they're not feeling safe to begin with.”

That did sound good . . . maybe too good to be true.

“Would you like to start today?” Nicki asked.

I shook my head. “I'd like to . . . but . . . but I have to get going. I'm meeting some people, some friends.
Maybe I'll come back tomorrow or the next day.” That morning I hadn't even been sure I was going to walk in the door. I figured I'd had enough for one day. Besides, I really was supposed to meet up with Brent and Ashley at another subway station to hustle more change.

“Any day is fine, but if you can't come for a while we understand. Sometimes it takes a lot of time and effort to get the things you need to survive on the street. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“I have a place,” I said. I knew Ashley and Brent would take care of that.

“Because if you do need a place I can arrange something.”

“I've got a place,” I repeated.

“A shelter or a squat?” she asked.

I didn't answer. I didn't know where we were staying, but even if I had known I didn't think I'd tell her. It wasn't any of her business, really.

“That's okay,” Nicki said. “You don't have to answer any questions if you don't want to. We're not cops or caseworkers. We're just here to help you explore your art and help you—if you want our help. Does that sound fair?”

I nodded.

“Good.”

Nicki got up and walked over to the counter. The bagels had popped up. She took them from the toaster,
put the four halves on a paper plate, and began buttering them.

“I'm actually not that hungry,” she said. “It's a shame to let good food go to waste. How about if you eat them both?”

She offered me the plate. I hesitated.

“Come on, don't be stubborn. If you're not that hungry yourself you can take them with you—and a few more juices—for you or your friends. And there are some muffins. They're a day old, but they're still good . . . take some of those, as well.”

My instant reaction was to say no, to not take them, but I was hungry. And even if I wasn't, maybe Ashley or Brent would want them.

“Thanks,” I said. I took the plate.

“I've got to get back out to the studio,” Nicki said. “I'll see you tomorrow . . . or whenever you want to come back. Take care, and it was nice to meet you.”

Part of me wanted to follow her out to the studio. Instead I took a big bite of the bagel. It tasted good. Maybe the bagel wouldn't be the only thing that was good here. Maybe. Maybe not.

CHAPTER SIX

“
WE
'
LL JUST MAKE THIS A LITTLE BIT WIDER
,” Brent said. He gave it a sharp kick and the board splintered into three pieces. “Did they really think that was going to keep anybody out?”

He reached down and grabbed the pieces, twisting and yanking, the nails squealing as he worked to pull the boards free of the window frame. He took the pieces of wood and tossed them away, then bent down and crawled in through the window, disappearing into the darkness inside. Suddenly there was light, and Brent reappeared holding a flashlight.

“Where did you get that?” Ashley asked.

“I got it at that Wal-Mart store—special five-finger discount. Watch yourselves when you're crawling in. There's some broken glass.” He aimed the light at the
little shards of glass still clinging to the edges of the frame.

Ashley dropped to her knees and crawled in after him. I turned and looked around. I couldn't see anybody or anything except the dark outlines of the abandoned buildings that surrounded us, but I still imagined there were eyes on us.

I couldn't help but wonder what sort of place Nicki had had in mind when she'd offered to find me somewhere for the night. It couldn't have been any worse than crawling in through the broken window of an abandoned building.

“You waiting for a formal invitation?” Brent asked.

I got down on my knees and crawled in after them, careful to avoid the broken glass. Once inside I got back on my feet. Brent shone the light around the building. It was some sort of old factory or warehouse. It was empty, and the ceiling soared high over our heads.

“You ever been in this place before?” Ashley asked Brent.

“I've been in
every
place before.”

“So you know your way around in here?” I asked.

“I said I'd been here, not that I memorized the floor plan. Just follow me.”

I stayed close to Brent, just a few steps behind the beam of light he projected in front of himself. Aside from that little light, the building was pitch-black. The space was so big that I couldn't see the ceiling or the
walls, and there was no way of telling what else—or who else—was there. Under my feet, I could feel and hear pieces of glass on the crumbling, uneven concrete.

I hated being in a new squat, but there was no choice tonight. We'd shown up at the building we'd slept in for most of the past week to find the door boarded up and a guard in a security car sitting in the alley. If we had tried to break in we would have been arrested. The guard would probably be there for a few nights before they sent him off to watch something else. That was the way it worked. Whoever owned these abandoned buildings didn't really want us to trespass, but they didn't want to spend much money to make sure nobody ever did it, either. Instead it was like there was some sort of agreement between all the street kids and all the owners that we could sleep in one place for a few days before we were chased off and had to stay someplace else.

“This looks encouraging,” Brent said as he shone the light down a small hallway. We trailed behind him along the corridor. It led to a number of smaller rooms—offices.

“Wooden floors,” Brent said, shining his light downward. He pressed his foot against the floor and it creaked. “It's always better to sleep on wood than concrete. How about if we sleep here?”

“Looks like somebody
has
been sleeping here,” Ashley pointed out.

Brent shone the light around the room. There were newspapers and blankets and bits of clothing scattered around. He walked over and grabbed one of the papers and studied it under the light of his flashlight.

“It's old . . . months old . . . I can hardly read it, but the date on it is way back in April.”

“Just because that one's old doesn't mean that there aren't some newer ones. Maybe the person is even coming back tonight,” I said.

“Maybe, but if he does he's going to find he's short a couple of blankets.” Brent reached down and grabbed one of the blankets that littered the floor.

“Do you really want to do that?” I asked.

“I guess I do.”

He walked out of the room and we trailed behind him into a larger office. In the light I could see a couple of broken-down old desks that had been shoved up against the wall.

Brent went over and sat down on one of the desks. Ashley sat down beside him. “Not quite twin beds,” he said, “but I think we've found where we're crashing tonight,”

“Not quite,” I agreed. “But I do like being up off the floor.”

“Too bad somebody didn't throw forty bucks at you today,” Brent joked.

“Couldn't we just go and sleep outside tonight?” I suggested. Sometimes we slept in the park. It wasn't
bad to lie on the grass and look up at the stars. “It's almost like we're camping.”

“Sounds like she'd like Tent Town,” Ashley said.

“Tent Town?” I asked.

“It's a place where a whole bunch of homeless people have set up tents,” Brent explained. “Not the worst place . . . if you have one. Do you happen to have a tent on you?” he asked.

“We could still sleep outside,” I insisted.

“Not tonight. It looks like it's going to rain. Don't worry, we're safer in here than we would be out there,” Brent said.

“I guess you're right.”

Being outside meant that anybody—other kids, bums, even cops—could come by at any moment. It might mean getting moved along or arrested, or robbed and roughed up. I just didn't like being all closed in like this, inside of a big, old, creepy building. Outside I could run. Here I was trapped by the walls and ceiling and the memories of whatever this building used to be.

“How about if we eat?” Ashley asked.

“Suits me. I'm starving,” Brent said.

“Me too.”

“Didn't they feed you at that drop-in centre?” Ashley asked.

“I had some juice and a toasted bagel . . . two toasted bagels.” I didn't mention the muffins. I'd walked away with three but had eaten them before I met up with
Brent and Ashley. I felt bad, like I had sort of cheated them. No, it wasn't like I had
sort of
cheated them—I
had
cheated them. I wouldn't do that again, even if I was starving.

“I hope those bagels didn't spoil your appetite,” Ashley said.

“I'm really hungry. What do you have?”

Ashley took her pack off her back and undid the zipper. She pulled out a white bag.

“We can have four each,” she said.

“Four of what each?” I asked.

She pulled out a box of doughnuts. Ugh! I never would have believed I could get sick of doughnuts, but they were cheap—and even cheaper when you grabbed the day-olds from the dumpster—and some days it seemed like we were eating nothing else.

“That's all the money we had left after buying some more cigarettes,” Brent explained.

“It's hard when there's
three
of us eating and only two of us are hustling the spare change,” Ashley said, sounding annoyed.

“Sorry.”

“I thought you were just going to drop in to that place for a minute or two and leave,” Ashley said. “You were there for a couple of hours.”