Sketches by Eric Walters

police, and it’s best that we stay away from them as well.”
    After my encounter with that cop I wasn’t going to argue with him. “So where will we sleep?”
    â€œDon’t worry. I know hundreds of places.”
    I believed that, but I was still going to worry.

CHAPTER FIVE
    I STOPPED on the opposite side of the street, directly across from the drop-in centre. In big, bright, colourful letters it said “SKETCHES.” There were some kids standing out front, leaning against the glass, talking, and some were having a smoke. They were the sort of people who I would have crossed the street to avoid if I’d seen them coming toward me a month ago. Now I was still cautious, but I’d learned not to be afraid. Or at least not to look like I was afraid. Showing fear was the worst thing you could do. You had to look cool, in control, like you belonged there. Brent and Ashley knew how to do it. They had the look, and the walk— the saunter.
    I tried to look around the passing cars and trucks and buses to see through the window of the storefront. The sun glaring off the glass made that impossible. All I saw was a reflection of the activity on the street. Either Ihad to get closer or just stop wasting my time and leave—but leave for where? To join Ash and Brent killing time on Yonge Street?
    I waited for a break in the traffic and then crossed, dodging the cars. I skipped up onto the sidewalk and stopped. I didn’t know if I should go in. I didn’t know who was there or what they’d say. I felt my gut get all tight. Part of me wanted to just take off, leave, go, but a bigger part wanted to go through the door and find out what was inside. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled card. I unfolded it and tried to smooth it out. I guess it was sort of like my invitation to go in. And I realized that that was what I really wanted to do. Most of what we did every day we did to survive, to get enough money to eat and a place out of the wet or wind or cold nights. There was hardly anything I did that made a difference or made me feel like I was somebody. Painting that concrete wall with those spray cans was the closest I’d felt to that. Maybe here I could do more.
    The kids standing in front of the place ignored me as I walked by. I stopped at the front door. There was a sign: “Sketches is a working studio for street-involved, homeless, at-risk youth. This is a drug-free, violence-free, feel free to play space.” That sounded good to me. I opened the door and was startled by the loud ping of a bell. The music I could hear from the outside was a lot louder inside. It was a band I knew but didn’t really like.
    Carefully I looked around. There were maybe ten or twelve people. Everybody looked older than me, but nobody much older. It was also pretty obvious that everybody looked street . . . piercings, tattoos, clothes. I suddenly felt like a kid from the suburbs again, not sure of myself, not sure that I should be there. I wished I looked tougher, but who was I kidding? I didn’t look or feel tough at all.
    Four kids were sitting on some broken-down old couches. They were munching on some apples and talking and laughing. Three others were standing in front of canvases, painting.
    â€œHello! How are you?”
    I spun around. It was a woman. She had a big smile on her face and her hair was all spiked and shooting up into the air in a dozen directions. She was wearing a large white T-shirt that was covered in splotches of a dozen different colours of paint.
    â€œI’m fine, I guess,” I answered.
    â€œWelcome to Sketches.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œMy name is Nicki. I’m the director of this program.” She reached out her hand and I awkwardly shook it. “And you are . . . ?” she asked.
    â€œI’m Carolyn,” I lied. Carolyn was my mother’s name, and it was the first one that popped into my head.
    â€œIs