Chapter 4
The Shed

I run hard to try to keep ahead of the anger. My left knee still hurts from when the guy attacked me under the bridge. But I can’t slow down.

When I left the house, I didn’t think about where I was running to. I feel the heat streaming past my temples and I can still hear Mom’s voice in my head. I can’t go back to Aunt Sarah’s yet.

Then an image pops into my mind. There’s a shed where I used to go after Rob and I had some of our major blowouts. It’s at the edge of the ravine, not far from here. I’m sure it’s someone’s art studio, and it’s always calm and quiet there. That’s where I’ll go until the rage passes.

Gravel crunches under my feet as I run down the laneway behind the school. A few turns later and I’m at a little shopping plaza. The hair salon, the laundromat, and the corner store look more run-down than ever. A broken store window is partly covered with a sheet of plywood. Dark-blue and orange tags are spray-painted across it.

I veer behind the shops down into the woods. Heavy layers of leaves and mud are soon caked into the treads of my running shoes. Tree branches swat at my face. In the semi-darkness, the winding path has me feeling dizzy and turned around.

Just as I’m ready to explode, the path starts to weave upward. A rail fence is suddenly in front of me. I partly climb, partly step over it. Then I run the last steps up out of the ravine. The garden shed appears up ahead.

As I jog toward it, I picture how orderly it is inside. The neat stacks of canvases, rows of paintbrushes in tin cans, and faded blue-jean colour of the walls have calmed me down every time. In some ways, I’d come to feel like this shed was partly mine. The rage inside me is already starting to fade.

I give the door a push. It usually swings open right away. But tonight, it’s not budging — not even on the second try. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. What’s the matter with this damn door?

I slam my whole body against it. The door gives way and bangs open with a loud screech. I flip on the light switch.

My breath catches in a dry, hoarse gasp as I take in the room before me. Heaps of garbage bags are shoved against the back wall. A pile of boxes leans toward the centre of the room. White, plastic garden chairs are stacked in the corner with an old bicycle propped against them. Flowerpots and gardening tools are sticking out of a plastic milk crate. A toolbox is partly open and a cracked, leather punching bag has slid into the middle of the floor.

What the hell?

Everything about this is wrong — just like my whole life. Why does nothing ever stay the same or work out like it’s supposed to? Not with my mom. Not at school. Not even here in this shed. Why does everything have to be so damn complicated?

That’s the last thing I remember before a heavy curtain of rage slips over my eyes. Pressure is building inside me, choking me until I can hardly breathe.

Suddenly, I’m kicking the punching bag. Once, twice, then again and again. I shove the boxes over and slam the bike against the wall. The front tire clatters to the floor. I upend the boxes and crates. Books and sports equipment and screwdrivers are all a jumble by my feet. I kick and stomp through masses of papers as though they’re dead leaves from the ravine.

When I finally stand still, my T-shirt is drenched in sweat. I pace around the room until my breath starts to slow down. That’s when I take in the complete mess around me. Shit. This is not what I came here to do tonight!

I push some boxes to the side of the room. I lean the bike back against the wall. I set the wheel beside it. Then I pick up a wrench. I’m looking for a place to set it down when I hear a branch snap outside.

Someone’s coming!

I reach up and switch off the light. Beyond the window, a flashlight beam is bouncing up and down. Whoever is holding that light is almost at the door. And that’s my only way out!

“Who’s in here?” The voice is gruff.

So this old guy owns my shed now? And this is what he’s done to it?

The flashlight beam lands squarely on my face as he bursts in the door — just as I’m twisting my body sideways to slide past him. He grabs onto me and the light veers crazily around the room. Parts of his face light up in the jagged beam. I see flashes of grey hair. A scar below his cheekbone. A tightly clenched jaw.

Shit, he’s built like a cement truck!

Any time he can catch a breath, he’s cursing me out. “You little shithead. Damn punk.”

I’m struggling to get away from him. But he’s shoving me backwards — slamming my body against the wall. I push back as hard as I can until we’re in the doorway again.

Both of us are panting hard. We’re nose-to-nose now and his breath hits me square in the face. Whatever he was just drinking takes me back to the night under the bridge. I can smell the street guy’s stink and sweat and his nasty, boozy breath hammering me in the face, just like he hammered me with kicks and punches. I start to gag as nausea washes over me.

Then I realize I’m still clutching the wrench. I jab it into the guy’s side. He grunts and releases his hold. This is my chance! I push past him and sprint toward the ravine. At least it shouldn’t be too hard to outrun this old guy.

“Why you little —”

His voice is right behind me! What’s with that?

As I weave through the pine trees, I can still hear his heavy breathing. It’s even darker down here now, so I barely see the rail fence. Just in time, I throw my front leg over, then I snap my other leg around. I realize I’m still holding the wrench. It’s slowing me down. I need to get rid of it. I turn my body and fling it Frisbee-style away from me.

A stream of swears and a heavy crash ring out from behind me. The wrench must have hit the old boozer. And unlike me, he didn’t clear the fence.

I keep running hard, my ankles catching in ruts and slipping on the heavy mud. When the plaza appears up ahead, I burst out of the ravine. I wait until I’m past the school before slowing to a walk.

I’m shivering in my sweaty T-shirt as I creep back into the house. Aunt Sarah is snoring softly on the couch. I peek into the twins’ room. Lawson and Carter are both asleep too.

As I tiptoe into my bedroom, Mom’s words start running through my head again. I’ve met this special guy. It’s just better if you stay with Aunt Sarah a bit longer.

I drop down onto my bed. My whole body feels heavy. As for that old guy, I wonder if he made it back to his house okay.

Then again, to hell with him. He’ll have to take care of himself, just like I’ve always had to.