Sketches (9 page)

“We're sixteen,” Ashley told her.

“No look sixteen. 'Specially her,” she said, pointing at me.

“We are, though,” Ashley replied.

“You like to do squeegee on cars?” she asked.

“Not really, but we have to earn a living,” Ashley said.

“Get job to earn living.”

“It's not that easy to get a job,” I said.

“You can have job here. Clean up back, wash cups, help make doughnuts.”

“But what about your husband?” Ashley asked. “He doesn't even want us in the store.”

“Half store
my
store. You work in my half!”

“You'd give us a job?” I asked, amazed.

She shrugged. “Why not? Get clean clothes you could work. Pay not great—minimum—and place gets hot, but we treat people good.”

“Your husband would treat us good?” Ashley asked.

“He has big mouth, but bigger heart.”

The water was overflowing the bucket and she reached over and turned off the tap. She picked up the bucket and pulled it out of the sink, water sloshing over the sides, and handed it to Ashley. She strained under the weight.

“Thanks for the water,” I said.

“You girls maybe want job?” she asked.

“Let us think about it,” Ashley replied.

“Good. Think. Better to have job inside than on streets,” she said.

“We'd better get going.” Ashley started to walk away, but I hesitated.

“Thanks for the water . . . and for the job offer . . . I really appreciate it,” I said, and then I hurried to catch up with Ashley.

“Come back if want more water . . . any time . . . come back!” she called out.

I ran, caught up to Ashley, and held the door open for her.

“That was a good offer,” I said.

“What, to work at the doughnut place?”

“Yeah, we could earn money and—”

“You can't earn anything. You're underage and on the run, and I bet you don't even have a social insurance number, do you?”

I shook my head. “But you could work there.”

She laughed. “If I wanted a crappy job earning minimum wage there's a hundred places I'd rather work than some stinking doughnut shop with Stavros hanging around. Let's just stick with this.”

EVERY TIME THE LIGHT
changed to red we walked between the rows of cars, waving our squeegees and asking if anyone wanted their windshield washed. Some people rolled down their windows and offered us money. Others waved their arms in the air and yelled and told us not to touch their cars, or they called us names. Most people didn't react at all. Or I guess they reacted by trying not to react. They pretended we weren't even there. They stared straight ahead at some picture in the distance—some picture that didn't include us.

It was strange. Them on the inside of their cars. Us on the outside. We were separated by only a thin piece of glass but it was like we were in different worlds: inside and outside. I'd never felt so much
outside
in my life. I couldn't help thinking about the time long ago when I'd been inside the car—me, my sister, and my mom. It was strange. It was less like a memory and more like some movie I'd once watched and half forgotten. I couldn't help wondering what would happen if my mother drove up right now and stopped here at the lights. Would she recognize me? Or would she even notice me as she stared straight ahead?

When I'd first left home I thought about my mother coming and looking for me. She had to know I was in the city . . . where else would I go? Besides, there was the withdrawal from my bank account. They could have traced that, and she would have known for sure where I'd started, even if I wasn't there any more. If she'd really been looking she would have found me. The city was big, but not that big.

In the beginning I felt startled every time I saw a car that looked like ours. It was amazing how many SUVs were the same make and colour as my mother's. But with each passing day and each mistaken vehicle I reacted less, until now I hardly noticed.

Part of me also wondered if she even wanted to look for me. It was probably easier without me around. No
calls from the school, no fighting about things, no more arguments with my stepfather about me or with me.

Did she ever wonder why things had turned around and why I started getting into so much trouble? I'd heard her talking to my teacher on the phone. She blamed it all on my father . . . him getting involved with “that woman”—that's what my mother called her, that woman—and then my father being transferred out to the West Coast. It was easy to blame it all on him. And he did deserve some blame, but not for this—

A car horn blared and I jumped back to reality.

Brent was screaming at me, “Get off the road, Dana!”

The light had changed and the traffic was starting up again. I stood between the two rows of traffic and waited until the last car moved off before I ran over to the safety of the sidewalk.

“Be more careful,” Ashley warned me. “You don't want to get hit.”

“Don't worry about that,” Brent said. “Nobody wants to mess up their shiny car by hitting you.”

“That's reassuring.”

“At least we're making some good cash,” Ashley said.

“Yeah,” Brent agreed. “So far we've made almost forty bucks.”

“That's great,” I said. “Do you want me to go and get some clean water?”

“Don't bother,” he said.

“But this water is getting pretty dirty.”

“Who cares?” he asked.

“The people in the cars?”

“They don't even expect the water to be clean.”

“Then what do they expect?” I asked.

“They expect us not to damage their precious cars, and they're grateful when we don't,” he said. “That's the real reason they give us money.”

“That, and because they feel sorry for us,” Ashley added.

“Enough talk. The lights are getting ready to change again so let's get ready to—”

“Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?” screamed out an angry voice.

I spun around. There were five kids, three boys and two girls, dressed all punky, marching toward us. Two of them had buckets and all of them were holding squeegees.

“This is our corner!” screamed one of the boys as they advanced on us.

I took a step backwards, retreating slightly behind Brent. They outnumbered us, but Brent was bigger then any of them.

“You better move on!” one of the boys screamed. “Or else!”

“Or else what?” Brent demanded.

“Or else this.” The boy—he seemed like their leader—lifted up his shirt to expose a knife sticking out of the top of his pants! A second kid did the same thing.

I took another step back, still clutching the squeegee but holding it farther in front of me for protection—a squeegee against a knife . . . not a great choice.

“I'm
real
scared,” Brent snapped sarcastically. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he had a knife in
his
hand! I turned to Ashley . . .
she
was holding a knife too!

“You really want to do this?” Brent demanded loudly. “Right out here on the street?”

“You move or we're gonna dance, right here!” growled the leader of the group.

Brent stood there, silent, unmoving, glaring at them glaring at him. Nobody was moving. What was going to—?

“You want it, it's yours,” Brent said, and I felt a rush of relief. “We've already collected enough money for today.”

I backed away and Ashley followed. Brent stood his ground for a while longer and then began backing off too. He moved away slowly, still holding the knife in front of him, standing between them and us. Finally, feeling that he was at a safe distance, Brent spun around and came after us.

The gang yelled out insults. Brent turned back around and gave them the finger.

“Let them have the corner,” Brent said, “for all the good it's going to do them. Cops will be here soon.”

“They will?” I asked.

“Sure. We've been working the corner for almost two hours. Somebody's probably complained already.”

“I'm just glad we got away,” I said. “I didn't know you guys carried knives!”

“You have to protect yourself somehow,” Brent said. “I'll get you one.”

“I don't want a knife!” I protested.

“Doesn't matter if you want one or not,” Ashley said. “This isn't the suburbs any more, remember? Do you think I
like
carrying a knife around?”

Brent got a confused look on his face. “I thought you
did
like having a knife.”

“ ‘Like' isn't the right word. I just know I need one. And so do you,” Ashley said, tapping me on the shoulder.

“It just wouldn't feel right.”

“Would it feel better to have somebody attack you and have no way of defending yourself?” Ashley asked. “Of course not.”

“You know, I can't always be around to take care of you,” Brent said. “And besides, sometimes I might need you to back me up, the way Ashley just did.”

“Me, back
you
up?” I asked in astonishment. “Even if I had a knife I wouldn't know what to do with it.”

“It's not like I'm an expert,” Ashley said.

“I couldn't stab anybody.”

“Nobody's asking you to do that,” Brent said.

“Besides, you really don't know,” Ashley added.

“Know what?”

“Whether or not you could stab somebody.
You never
know
,” she said, her voice going all quiet.

My instant reaction was to tell her I could never do that . . . and then I thought about it, and realized that wasn't entirely true.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“
YOU
'
RE EVEN BETTER
with a brush than you are with a spray can.”

I didn't bother turning around. A bunch of strangers had been complimenting me on the painting I was working on, but this voice I knew. It was Robert, the guy who had given me the card that led me to Sketches.

“It's okay,” I mumbled.

“Nicki told me you'd dropped in a few days ago. I'm glad to see you've come back again. So, what do you call it?”

“The painting?”

He nodded.

“I haven't really thought about it,” I said.

“Every painting needs a name,” he said. “The bigger of the two girls is you, right?”

“Yes . . . it
is
me.” I was kind of amazed that he'd figured that out. I didn't think it even looked that much like me.

“The eyes. I could tell by the eyes,” he explained.

“But they're not even finished.”

“Still. I can see your eyes in those eyes,” he said. “And the second girl, the smaller one, is that your sister?”

My mouth dropped open in shock.

“Am I right?” he asked.

I nodded my head dumbly. “But . . . but how did you know?”

“Just a guess.”

“You should be working one of those psychic hotline phone things,” I said.

He laughed. “I had a few clues. The two figures have similarly shaped faces and the hair colour is almost identical, and they both have the same unfinished eyes. They look like sisters. You're very good.”

I smiled. I loved doing art. I also loved people complimenting me on my work. Getting compliments on anything hadn't happened much over the last couple of years.

“People usually paint the things or people that they miss the most,” he added.

I didn't know what to say. It bugged me that he was already that far into my head, but he was right . . . I did miss my sister tremendously. There were only three years between us, but I felt a lot older. Since Dad had left I'd felt more like I was the second adult, the second parent, to her. Candice. She was such a sweet kid. She
liked everybody and everybody liked her. That was the hardest part about leaving the way I did. I just hoped she didn't think it had anything to do with her. The last thing she needed was to feel like somebody else had abandoned her.

“And I bet she misses you a lot, too,” he said.

I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach, and tears began to well up in my eyes. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to try and keep them from coming out. Crying didn't solve anything.

“How long has it been since you last saw her?”

“Over a month,” I answered, my voice barely a whisper. I thought about my sister all the time . . . what she was doing, what she was thinking. It was like I hadn't even realized it till he said that. I wished I could have said goodbye to her, explained why I had to leave . . .

“Does she know you're okay? Have you called home?”

I shook my head.

“Do you think you can?” he said.

“Maybe you should mind your own business!” I snapped. I was surprised by my own anger. I could see he was surprised, too. The burst of anger dried up the tears in my eyes.

“I'm really sorry that I upset you. I didn't mean to do that,” he apologized.

“I guess I shouldn't have yelled,” I mumbled.

“That's okay too. Sometimes things hurt and it's only natural to react. I'll try not to poke you there again.” His expression looked sad and sorry, and I suddenly felt bad for yelling at him. He hadn't meant anything wrong.

“Tell you what,” he said, “how about if I go and get us a couple of coffees and then I'll go and find you another brush.”

“Why do I need another brush?” I asked.

“You need one with finer bristles to finish the eyes. You do want to finish the eyes, don't you?” he asked.

“I do,” I said. “But . . . I just don't quite know how to do it right.”

“I can show you,” he said. “If you want. Would you like that?”

I nodded.

“Good. Let me go and get us those coffees and then I'll give you a little art lesson.”