avoid each other.
The third night, you steal forty dollars from Mom’s wallet and twenty from Beth’s babysitting stash in her underwear drawer. She doesn’t babysit a whole lot, but she’s not good about getting her money into the bank, so she usually has some tucked away. You may have done some shoplifting last year, but you’ve never stolen from your family before. You’ve only ever taken a bit of change from Mom’s purse for the bus. And you have permission to do that.
After supper, you slip out the front door and run all the way to Tenth. This time, the bus cooperates. It ought to: you have the schedule all figured out. You’ll be at Sarah’s door at about seven. Who, you wonder, will be on its other side?
It turns out that you don’t have to go to her door at all. She’s getting out of a big white car as you get off the bus.It turns the corner and drives right past you, so you see the man behind the wheel. You see his tidy hair, his suit jacket. You see the child seat in the back. You feel sick.
You stand back and wait until after she turns down Princess Avenue. You don’t want her to know that you saw her get out of that car. You want to un-know it yourself.
“Sarah!” you say, jogging to catch up to her, hoping your voice sounds confident and grown-up.
She turns and looks at you. Her eyes seem a bit vacant somehow. It takes her a moment to focus. “You look familiar,” she says, “but I don’t …”
“I’m Kaya,” you say. “Remember?”
“Oh, yes. You’re that kid,” she says. She has come to a halt on the sidewalk. “I told you to go home and stay there.” She looks you over, pushes a hand back through her hair. “Come on. We’re going for a walk.”
She walks strong and tall, even though she’s actually pretty short. She seems oblivious to the fact that she’s wearing thigh-high boots with spike heels and a short skirt that shows some skin way up at the top of those boots. Everyone looks as you pass; even people slumped in doorways look. Often they call out hello. Sometimes the hello isn’t nice, but mostly it is. You wrestle with a mix of embarrassment and pride as you follow her. She takes you over a viaduct, eventually, a bridge over a railway that circles around and leads right into a great big park on the water. Street lights brighten the path ahead. Huge cranes tower in the harbour. Even in the dark, the slight drizzle, the water sparkles on your right. Downtown, all lit up, straight ahead.
Sarah leads you to the swings in the playground. Nostreet lights here, so the playground equipment, dimly lit, feels lonely, abandoned.
You hesitate. How old does she think you are? But she plunks herself down on the middle swing. “Here,” she says, kicking a leg up toward you. “Pull. These things are killing me.”
You stare and then obey, pulling one long shiny boot from a leg, then the other, and dropping them on the grass beside her purse. She pumps back and forth, her legs strong, her body reaching for the sky.
“Come on,” she shouts. “It’s amazing!”
And you do, shaking the small puddle off the strip of rubber. You push off, lean back, straighten your legs, and forget the left-behind damp seeping through your jeans as you aim your face at the dark wet above. The two of you look at each other when you are both as high as you can go, flying. And you laugh, loud, together. Your chest expands with joy. Then she starts to slow herself down. Soon the two of you are weaving your swings back and forth, scuffing your feet in the damp sand.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her gaze intent on the ground.
“I can’t be at home,” you say, not pausing, just saying.
“Why not?”
“It’s horrible there,” you say, and your mind flashes to Mom’s loving hand in your hair, to Sybilla’s big furry body. Horrible?
She looks at you then, and you feel her see right inside you; you shrink under her gaze.
“I don’t belong there,” you say, too fast. “I belong
The third night, you steal forty dollars from Mom’s wallet and twenty from Beth’s babysitting stash in her underwear drawer. She doesn’t babysit a whole lot, but she’s not good about getting her money into the bank, so she usually has some tucked away. You may have done some shoplifting last year, but you’ve never stolen from your family before. You’ve only ever taken a bit of change from Mom’s purse for the bus. And you have permission to do that.
After supper, you slip out the front door and run all the way to Tenth. This time, the bus cooperates. It ought to: you have the schedule all figured out. You’ll be at Sarah’s door at about seven. Who, you wonder, will be on its other side?
It turns out that you don’t have to go to her door at all. She’s getting out of a big white car as you get off the bus.It turns the corner and drives right past you, so you see the man behind the wheel. You see his tidy hair, his suit jacket. You see the child seat in the back. You feel sick.
You stand back and wait until after she turns down Princess Avenue. You don’t want her to know that you saw her get out of that car. You want to un-know it yourself.
“Sarah!” you say, jogging to catch up to her, hoping your voice sounds confident and grown-up.
She turns and looks at you. Her eyes seem a bit vacant somehow. It takes her a moment to focus. “You look familiar,” she says, “but I don’t …”
“I’m Kaya,” you say. “Remember?”
“Oh, yes. You’re that kid,” she says. She has come to a halt on the sidewalk. “I told you to go home and stay there.” She looks you over, pushes a hand back through her hair. “Come on. We’re going for a walk.”
She walks strong and tall, even though she’s actually pretty short. She seems oblivious to the fact that she’s wearing thigh-high boots with spike heels and a short skirt that shows some skin way up at the top of those boots. Everyone looks as you pass; even people slumped in doorways look. Often they call out hello. Sometimes the hello isn’t nice, but mostly it is. You wrestle with a mix of embarrassment and pride as you follow her. She takes you over a viaduct, eventually, a bridge over a railway that circles around and leads right into a great big park on the water. Street lights brighten the path ahead. Huge cranes tower in the harbour. Even in the dark, the slight drizzle, the water sparkles on your right. Downtown, all lit up, straight ahead.
Sarah leads you to the swings in the playground. Nostreet lights here, so the playground equipment, dimly lit, feels lonely, abandoned.
You hesitate. How old does she think you are? But she plunks herself down on the middle swing. “Here,” she says, kicking a leg up toward you. “Pull. These things are killing me.”
You stare and then obey, pulling one long shiny boot from a leg, then the other, and dropping them on the grass beside her purse. She pumps back and forth, her legs strong, her body reaching for the sky.
“Come on,” she shouts. “It’s amazing!”
And you do, shaking the small puddle off the strip of rubber. You push off, lean back, straighten your legs, and forget the left-behind damp seeping through your jeans as you aim your face at the dark wet above. The two of you look at each other when you are both as high as you can go, flying. And you laugh, loud, together. Your chest expands with joy. Then she starts to slow herself down. Soon the two of you are weaving your swings back and forth, scuffing your feet in the damp sand.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her gaze intent on the ground.
“I can’t be at home,” you say, not pausing, just saying.
“Why not?”
“It’s horrible there,” you say, and your mind flashes to Mom’s loving hand in your hair, to Sybilla’s big furry body. Horrible?
She looks at you then, and you feel her see right inside you; you shrink under her gaze.
“I don’t belong there,” you say, too fast. “I belong
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