bugging me today.” The scar was red and inflamed. Brendan raked his fingernails across it.
Dmitri pulled Brendan’s hand away. “You’ll only make it worse. ‘Scratch today and cry tomorrow,’ as my babka would say.” The smaller boy was always quoting his ancient Polish grandmother. “That’s worrying. You should get it looked at. It could be skin cancer. Moles can turn into—”
Brendan pulled his shirt back over the mark. “Never mind. Let’s just forget it. See you tomorrow.”
“Later on,” called Dmitri, jogging to catch up with Harold.
“Just ‘later,’ Dmitri!” Brendan called at his friend’s back. “Later!”
He watched them go, then turned to look at the ad again. Those eyes. He scanned the poster and saw that the concert was tomorrow night. He studied Deirdre D’Anaan’s face. Like his weird feeling about Greenleaf, he felt he recognized this woman from somewhere. Maybe he’d seen her on TV or something. The memory was just on the tip of his brain. Annoying, he thought. Maybe my dad has one of her albums or something.
He decided to let it go for now. He popped the last piece of crust into his mouth and tossed his napkin in the litter bin. He started walking home.
31 The Michael Lee-Chin Crystal was opened to the public on June 3, 2007. The abstract crystal structure perches on the front of the original stone building and was met with mixed reactions by the public. There were many other suggestions for a structure to embellish the front of the museum: a giant pyramid, an enormous leather hat, and a massive blob of real mashed potatoes. Fortunately, the crystal was chosen over the mashed potatoes because of the ongoing cost of adding fresh butter to the structure every morning.
HOME
He walked along the sweeping turn that was Spadina Circle, where Spadina Avenue split in two to accommodate an old brick building and joined up again for the plunge into Chinatown. He was trying to enjoy the last semi-warm day of autumn. On his right was Lord Lansdowne Public School, an unlovely box with a concrete playground.
Why do they pave playgrounds? he wondered for the thousandth time. What’s fun about falling and scraping the skin off your palms? Brendan had done that too many times to count.
The one thing that redeemed the building was the huge black stone that sat in front of the school by the sidewalk. He always reached out over the fence and brushed his hand across its rough surface for luck.
He picked up his pace and turned the corner as a streetcar rattled and shrieked along the track heading south. He found himself in front of the Scott Mission. This close to dinnertime there was a lineup of people who lived hard on the street. They were all waiting for the hot meal the mission offered every day. He always felt bad for these people. His father always gave them money if they asked for it, which annoyed his mother.
“You shouldn’t give them money,” she would say. “They’ll just spend it on drink.”
“Or food,” his father would answer.
“I’m not just trying to be mean,” she would counter. “I think you should give to a charity that can help them get off the street.”
They would argue back and forth. Brendan couldn’t tell which was the right way to be. Walking down the line of dirty, haggard faces, he always felt slightly guilty that he had a nice home and could buy some pizza while these people had nowhere and nothing to look forward to.
He passed the mission and found himself in front of the Silver Dollar, a seedy little bar that often pumped out loud music.
Brendan smiled and waved when he saw the old guy sitting on an overturned milk carton.
“Hey there, Finbar,” Brendan said with a wave. “Didn’t see you for a couple of days. I was worried.”
“Hallo, Prince Breandan,” said the man, who was wearing a heavy woollen overcoat in spite of the mild weather. He waved back with one large, gnarled hand. He was usually here near the Silver Dollar
Dmitri pulled Brendan’s hand away. “You’ll only make it worse. ‘Scratch today and cry tomorrow,’ as my babka would say.” The smaller boy was always quoting his ancient Polish grandmother. “That’s worrying. You should get it looked at. It could be skin cancer. Moles can turn into—”
Brendan pulled his shirt back over the mark. “Never mind. Let’s just forget it. See you tomorrow.”
“Later on,” called Dmitri, jogging to catch up with Harold.
“Just ‘later,’ Dmitri!” Brendan called at his friend’s back. “Later!”
He watched them go, then turned to look at the ad again. Those eyes. He scanned the poster and saw that the concert was tomorrow night. He studied Deirdre D’Anaan’s face. Like his weird feeling about Greenleaf, he felt he recognized this woman from somewhere. Maybe he’d seen her on TV or something. The memory was just on the tip of his brain. Annoying, he thought. Maybe my dad has one of her albums or something.
He decided to let it go for now. He popped the last piece of crust into his mouth and tossed his napkin in the litter bin. He started walking home.
31 The Michael Lee-Chin Crystal was opened to the public on June 3, 2007. The abstract crystal structure perches on the front of the original stone building and was met with mixed reactions by the public. There were many other suggestions for a structure to embellish the front of the museum: a giant pyramid, an enormous leather hat, and a massive blob of real mashed potatoes. Fortunately, the crystal was chosen over the mashed potatoes because of the ongoing cost of adding fresh butter to the structure every morning.
HOME
He walked along the sweeping turn that was Spadina Circle, where Spadina Avenue split in two to accommodate an old brick building and joined up again for the plunge into Chinatown. He was trying to enjoy the last semi-warm day of autumn. On his right was Lord Lansdowne Public School, an unlovely box with a concrete playground.
Why do they pave playgrounds? he wondered for the thousandth time. What’s fun about falling and scraping the skin off your palms? Brendan had done that too many times to count.
The one thing that redeemed the building was the huge black stone that sat in front of the school by the sidewalk. He always reached out over the fence and brushed his hand across its rough surface for luck.
He picked up his pace and turned the corner as a streetcar rattled and shrieked along the track heading south. He found himself in front of the Scott Mission. This close to dinnertime there was a lineup of people who lived hard on the street. They were all waiting for the hot meal the mission offered every day. He always felt bad for these people. His father always gave them money if they asked for it, which annoyed his mother.
“You shouldn’t give them money,” she would say. “They’ll just spend it on drink.”
“Or food,” his father would answer.
“I’m not just trying to be mean,” she would counter. “I think you should give to a charity that can help them get off the street.”
They would argue back and forth. Brendan couldn’t tell which was the right way to be. Walking down the line of dirty, haggard faces, he always felt slightly guilty that he had a nice home and could buy some pizza while these people had nowhere and nothing to look forward to.
He passed the mission and found himself in front of the Silver Dollar, a seedy little bar that often pumped out loud music.
Brendan smiled and waved when he saw the old guy sitting on an overturned milk carton.
“Hey there, Finbar,” Brendan said with a wave. “Didn’t see you for a couple of days. I was worried.”
“Hallo, Prince Breandan,” said the man, who was wearing a heavy woollen overcoat in spite of the mild weather. He waved back with one large, gnarled hand. He was usually here near the Silver Dollar
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