Eleven

I got out of the cab. It was not a want or even a need. It was a compulsion.

A compulsion is defined as an irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially against one’s conscious wishes.

Without thoughts or words, I reached forward, grabbed the door handle and pulled.

The door opened, wrenching the handle out of my hand. A blast of cold air struck me, pushing me back against the seat.

The driver swore. He swerved toward the curb, jerking to a stop. I tumbled out, falling onto the concrete and scraping my hands. From behind me, I heard the driver’s angry yell. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

I stood. Traffic roared beside me. The wind tugged at my clothes, stealing my breath.

The taxi roared away.

I stood on the sidewalk.

No Megan.

With wobbling knees, I went toward a gray stone building and sat down on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall’s firm, cold concrete.

I closed my eyes.

I counted the bead necklace three times. And then another three times. At last I opened my eyes. I was sitting quite close to the crosswalk. To my left, someone else sat against the wall with a cap in front of him. I wondered if he also had Asperger’s and liked walls.

In Kitimat, there are only two traffic lights, but I had lived in Vancouver for thirteen years and twenty-six days, so I knew about traffic and intersections.

I do not mind traffic lights and intersections because there are rules. I like to know that when the small illuminated white man is visible I can walk, and if the red hand appears, I cannot walk.

As I looked around, I saw that there was a Starbucks on the other side of the street. I stood up. I remembered that Megan was meeting her friend there. I went to the intersection. I waited for the illuminated man. Then I stepped from the curb, counting my steps. One…two…three… When I reached the other side, I stood still, staring down at my own white-gray runners.

The door to Starbucks swung open. I smelled coffee. I like the smell of coffee. It is one of the few strong smells I like.

I inhaled.

I stepped inside, into the warmth. A girl and a woman stood behind the counter. The girl wore braces on her teeth. This reminded me of Mary-Ella at my old school. She’d worn purple elastics on her braces. This girl had plain white elastics, a yellowed, off-white color, and she had two zits on her forehead.

The woman had dark hair, glasses and a nose ring. Behind her I saw a blackboard with prices written in pink chalk. In front was a display case with baked goods: molasses cookies (two), cranberry scones (seven), low-fat crumble (six), brownies (seven).

The girl with the braces and the two zits spoke to me. “Can I help you?”

She had blond hair. An earring set with three turquoise beads dangled from her left ear.

I wanted to ask if Megan had come in, but both women were strangers. I turned away, meaning to walk out, but stopped when I saw the back of Megan’s head.

Actually, this is an assumption. (An assumption is a supposition or hypothesis.) I assumed it was Megan because 1) the individual appeared female with long dark hair, 2) Megan had said she was coming to Starbucks and 3) a black leather jacket decorated with a rhinestone skull was slung over the chair.

The girl I thought was Megan leaned toward a man. He was facing me, so I could see him quite clearly. He wore a black T-shirt, a black leather vest and two gold chains around his neck. Sprouts of gray chest hair peeked from the neckline of the black T-shirt, and a tattoo of an anchor twisted around his left forearm.

He smiled. His teeth looked crooked and yellow.

“Megan?” I said.

The person I’d assumed was Megan looked around.

It was Megan.

“Alice? You’re supposed to be in a taxi.”

“I—”

I tried to find the words. I knew what I wanted to say. I could have written it. I could see the words, slippery as minnows, dancing in front of me. My heart hammered. I heard its boom-boom-boom.

“Count,” Megan said.

I put my hand in my pocket and felt for the rocks and the smooth roundness of the bead necklace. I looked down. I tried to count the red-orange floor tiles.

“What’s wrong with her?” the man asked.

“She’ll be okay,” Megan said.

He swore. The balloon in my lungs got bigger, pushing against my ribs like I was going to explode.

“Don’t swear,” Megan said. “It upsets her.”

He swore again.

“I—you—” I pushed the words out.

“What a freak!” He spoke loudly. “C’mon, babe, let’s get outta here.”

He stood. His hand touched Megan’s. He wore a gold bracelet and had a snake tattoo on his right forearm as well as the anchor on his left. Clusters of fine dark hair grew on his knuckles.

“I—don’t know.” Megan stood also, her face flushed.

“The city’s great. You’ll love it. Don’t let that wack-job slow you down.”

“You really think I could get a job here?” Megan asked.

I hadn’t known she wanted to work at Starbucks. I couldn’t work at Starbucks because then I would have to talk to strangers. Plus, even though I like the smell of coffee, I don’t think I would want to smell it all the time.

“Of course,” he said.

“I’d like to live in the city,” Megan said.

“You’re young. Ready to live life. The city’s the place for you. You’ll be independent. You know, live life on your own terms.”

“I’d like that.”

“C’mon.” He stepped toward the door, reaching forward as though to take Megan’s hand. “You won’t regret it.”

He spoke slowly, drawing out each syllable.

“No!” I said. The word came out loud.

“Look, you’ll be fine. I’ll get you another cab,” Megan said.

“No! You—come—with,” I managed.

“Not gonna happen,” the man said.

I looked away and didn’t say anything because he was a stranger, and I am not supposed to talk to strangers.

“Look,” Megan said. “The cab’ll take you to your grandparents’ house. You can see your mom. Go home. I’m good. I’m going to stay here.”

“At Starbucks?”

The man laughed.

“No, I mean with Rob. I’m going to live in Vancouver.”

“Why?”

“He’ll let me stay with him and, you know, help me get a job.”

I didn’t know what to say. There are some things that just are, like kids live in families, with a mom or a dad or a grandparent or a foster mom—even an uncle, aunt or older brother. It was like a rule, although I’d never seen it written down.

“But—he’s not family.”

She laughed as if I had made a joke. “I’m not that big on family.”

“But—” The words had gone.

And then, even though Starbucks wasn’t any noisier or smellier than before, I felt a cacophony in my head and vomit in my mouth. My hands balled into fists. My breath came in pants. Thoughts whirled. Blood thumped.

“What the—” The man moved toward me. His breath smelled of cigarettes. And coffee.

“Don’t crowd her,” Megan said.

“I’ll do what I want.” His hand was on my shoulder. I felt the hard outline of each finger. He pushed his face into mine, so close I could see red veins in his nose, so close I could see the individual hairs of his rough gray stubble, so close I could see a polka-dot pattern of pores.

Then nothing.

***

“Should I call an ambulance?”

“Maybe water?”

“What’s wrong with her?”

The words came as if from a distance.

Then Megan spoke, her tone strong and clear. “Shut up and give her space.”

“You’re sure I shouldn’t phone an ambulance?” someone asked.

“Yeah, you do that,” a man’s voice said. “We’re outta here. Come on.”

“I shouldn’t leave—”

“Forget her.”

My eyelids opened. From my position, curled on the cool red tile, I could see the man’s cowboy boots. They were a scuffed brown, with heavy heels and pointed, turned-up toes.

“’Cause I ain’t waiting,” he said.

I watched the scuffed brown boots with their turned-up toes step toward the door. I watched as Megan’s familiar black high-heeled boots followed. Click-clack-click—I counted the footsteps, pressing my body more tightly into the cold, firm wall.

“I—” Megan said.

“Your future’s out there, babe.” He pulled the door open, and the traffic noise suddenly became loud. “Coming?”

I heard the movement of Megan’s hand as she pushed it through her hair. “I want out. I really want out. I’m sorry,” Megan said.

The door closed.

***

“I’ll call the ambulance,” the girl with the two zits said.

“No!” I shouted. I pushed my body harder into the corner, because I do not like ambulances. I do not like sirens.

The girl stepped away. “Maybe I shouldn’t? Maybe she’ll get, like, violent.”

The older woman came closer. I could hear the squeak of her shoes, and when I squinted I could see their white outline against the floor.

“Now, dearie,” she said in a kind voice. “How about you tell us who we can call?”

“Megan,” I said.

“Is that your friend, dearie? Well, I think she’s made her choice. But don’t you be worrying. She looks like the type that can look after herself.”

I wondered what this meant. I wondered if I were the type who could look after myself. I can brush my hair. I can do laundry. I can even cook—unless I burn something. Then the smell makes me want to bang my head.

The girl with the two pimples came back with water. The older woman took it from her and put it close to me.

“Now have a drink and tell us who to call. I don’t want to have to phone the police, you know.”

The police?

The police wear uniforms and make people obey rules. Except I remembered that when I got lost seven years ago, the police car smelled of vomit.

Plus the police officer made me go to the police station even though I wanted to go home.

The police station had also smelled—a stuffy mix of sweat, coffee and the dusty smell of an old building.

I stood, stepping toward the exit.

“No, no. Sit down,” the woman said.

She reached forward. Her hand touched my arm.

“No!”

I do not like being touched.

My heart started to thump-thump-thump again. Sweat prickled on my forehead.

The woman touched me again. Her hand was on my back. She smelled of perfume. I hate perfume. I hated her touch. I hated that she was going to phone the police. I hated that they might come and make me drive in a car that smelled of vomit.

“Alice.”

Megan stood behind me, a few steps from the rear door. I hadn’t known there was a rear door.

“You came back,” I said.

“Yeah.” Her lips were turning down, and her mascara had run.

“I’m—I’m glad,” I said.

I sat, a hard, sudden movement as my knees buckled beneath me.

“The girl’s crazy,” the woman who had touched me said. “You get her under control or I’m calling the police.”

“She’s fine. Leave her be,” Megan said. “Just stop going on about the cops.”

The woman must have listened because her squeaky white shoes disappeared from my view, and Megan slid down the wall so that we were both sitting on the tile floor.

“Police?” I asked.

“No police,” she said.

We sat quietly. (I do not know exactly how long because I couldn’t see a clock. I like clocks.)

Also I couldn’t see her friend.

“Where is he? Your friend?” I asked.

“Gone.”

“Are you sad?” I asked.

Her turned-down mouth looked like the sad picture in the feelings chart the teacher in my old school gave me.

“Duh,” she said. “Though he’s a total loser.”

This is slang. “Failure, dud, has-been,” I said, remembering the definition in the Webster’s New World Dictionary.

“Enough already. At least he got me outta Kitimat. Escape.”

Escape means get away, break out, get loose. Convicts escape. Prisoners of war escape. My hamster escaped. Megan was not a hamster or a soldier or a criminal.

“Are you arrested?” I asked.

“What?”

“Is that why you need to escape? They’re going to send you to jail?”

Megan’s lips twisted. “I am in jail.”

“You’re in Starbucks.”

“I’ve always been in jail.” Megan leaned against the wall.

“They let you go to school from jail?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “They let me go to school.”

We were silent until Megan spoke. “Anyhow, um, thanks.”

“What for?”

“Being a friend. I’ve never had any.”

This surprised me because Megan does not have Asperger’s and should have typical social skills. Besides, she has 201 friends on Facebook.

We became silent again. Customers came in and out. The doorbell dinged. Both the girl with the two zits and the woman with the squeaky shoes stood behind the counter. The espresso machines fizzed and hissed. Sometimes the older woman looked at us.

“C’mon,” Megan said, standing. “We’d better get you to your grandparents’ before the old cow freaks again.”

I got up. (Cow was slang for the older lady with the white, squeaky shoes.)

She leaned over the counter now and spoke to Megan. “You sure you’re okay with her?”

“Yeah,” Megan said.

The woman shrugged. “You know best.”

Outside, traffic passed. The noise of engines was constant, like giant cats purring or hundreds of fans. I counted the floors in the building opposite.

Thirty-two—or at least thirty-two rows of windows.

Not a good number.

A cab pulled up in front of us. Its name was painted on the side: Bluebird Taxi. We got in. The vinyl seat creaked. Stale cigarette smoke hit me like a wall. I groaned.

“Mask,” Megan said.

I pulled it out, pressing it to my face.

“To 5900 Angus,” Megan said.

The mask smelled of paper. I was sweating. I could feel the stickiness in my hair and the clinging dampness of the cotton shirt against my back. The cab lurched forward. I put my free hand into my pocket and felt for the beads.

Through the window, the city flickered past—neon signs, headlights, shop windows, pedestrians huddled under umbrellas, buses, motorbikes, bicycles.

“Shut your eyes,” Megan said. “Count.”

I counted to 119.

“Better?” Megan asked.

I nodded. “How do you know?”

“What?”

“How—to—help?”

“My mom.”

“She has Asperger’s?”

“No.” Megan paused, her fingers rubbing against the cloth of her jacket with a scritch-scratch sound. “She hallucinates.”

“Schizophrenic?” I asked. Like I said, I know this language like other kids know colors and shapes.

“Addicted to meth.”

“What’s meth?” I asked.

“A drug.”

“Does meth make her schizophrenic?”

“It makes her see spiders,” Megan said.

“I don’t mind bugs. They do not smell.”

“She hates them.”

After that we didn’t speak. The taxi meter ran, the numbers clicking into place with a rhythmic, comforting tick-tick-tick.