2 It’s Tricky

It was bad enough having a mall worker watching me like I was a criminal. But worse was her gum chewing. It was so loud I wanted to scream. Finally she stopped smacking her lips. The relative silence made the buzzing of the overhead lights sound like music. But she was still chewing. I wanted to say, “Don’t you know how awful that sounds? You look like a cow when you do that.” But I just stared at her, hoping she could read my mind and stop.

She didn’t stop. All I could do was wait for the police to come back — with my mom. The cop had hauled me back to the mall’s security office. They sat me down and asked me all kinds of questions. I had to tell them my mom’s phone number at work. It was that or be taken to the police station.

I had to think about the better choice. Mall security or the police station? Mom was going to lose her mind either way. She had told me a thousand times why she moved us from Red Rock. It was so she could get a better job and I could have more opportunities.

Now, here I was. Just a few days at a new school in a new city and I’m caught shoplifting. Mom had to leave work early. She had to drive downtown. I know she hates driving downtown. After spending all her life in small-town Ontario, Ottawa might as well have been Los Angeles or New York City.

I knew it was going to be bad. So I couldn’t figure out why Mom was laughing when the door opened.

“Just because I’m laughing, Patrick, doesn’t mean I’m happy,” she said.

I had always guessed she could read my mind. Now I knew it. I also knew she was serious. She only called me Patrick when she was serious.

The cop was laughing too. Only five minutes together and they’ve teamed up against me, I thought. I had no chance.

The cop sat down in one chair. Mom sat beside me.

“You can leave now,” the cop said to the mall worker.

I studied the cop’s vest. His name tag said, “Jack.” He was huge. I thought he was going to break the chair just by sitting in it. How could a guy that big move fast enough to catch me?

He stuck out a meaty hand. “My name is Constable Ishman Jack. It’s nice to meet you, Patrick.”

We shook hands. Well, his hand swallowed mine. His grip was like iron.

Ishman, that’s a weird name, I thought.

I didn’t say that. “It’s Tricky,” I said.

“What is?”

“My name. Everybody calls me Tricky.”

“He was always running away from me,” Mom added. “Or slipping out of his crib.”

It seemed more than a little strange to be talking like this. Why are we all trying to make friends? I didn’t understand.

“Your mom says that breaking the law is not like you, Tricky. So I’ve got a deal to offer,” the officer said. “The store won’t press charges — and they really want to — if you do something for me. I’ve checked it out with your mom. She loves the idea.”

Oh, no, I thought. I’m going to be sweeping the streets for years.

Both of them could tell I was getting nervous. It made my mom smile and laugh. She enjoyed watching me squirm.

“Have you ever heard of parkour?” the cop asked.

It didn’t sound like an ancient torture device. I was somewhat relieved.

“Park? What?”

“Parkour. It comes from a French word that means ‘journey.’ But it’s a sport too. What you did today outside the mall, that’s kind of it. You see something in front of you — like fences or walls. And you get past them the fastest, best way you can.”

I was still confused.

“It’s like sport meets art,” he continued. “It’s the art of getting from one place to another in the most efficient way.”

I still didn’t understand. “So . . .”

The cop shifted his chair a little closer to mine. He actually cast a shadow over me. The world was closing in.

He pulled out his phone. “You like James Bond?”

My growing confusion must have shown on my face.

“The movies. You like his movies?” he prompted.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He pulled up a video, a movie clip. Two guys were chasing each other through a construction site. People were running all over the place as stuff blew up around them. It was totally cool. But what did it have to do with me?

“That’s parkour,” he said.

“So you want me to be a stuntman?”

The cop laughed. My mom laughed. Of course they laughed. They were best friends.

“Sorry,” he said, “not a stuntman. Parkour is like gymnastics and martial arts and obstacle course racing. I volunteer at a gym called Ground Zero. We teach parkour. If you promise to spend twelve weeks with me learning parkour, the store won’t press charges.”

The room went quiet again. The buzzing lights got louder. At least nobody was chewing gum.

“Say ‘yes,’” Mom said. “It will make the car ride home a little happier.”

It didn’t sound right. That’s all I had to do? Take some silly classes?

“So I just have to go to the gym?”

“Well, you have to try,” said the cop. “I think you’re going to like it. And I think you will be good at it. The gym is full of good people. Your mom agrees that it will be nice for you to make friends. You’ve just started grade nine, right? That’s not easy in a new city.”

I looked at Mom and frowned a little. She was still smiling at me. She had always been a happy person. But now she was freaking me out.

“I’m smiling like this because you got lucky, Tricky,” Mom said. “Constable Jack wants to help you. Outside this office I was crying. In the car, driving over here, I was crying. Don’t make me cry more, Patrick.”

“It’s one class per week for about an hour,” the cop said. “If you want to come more often, or stay later, that’s fine. After twelve weeks, you’re a free man. Well, you’re a free man everywhere but here. Mall security has your picture. They don’t want you back here.”

Of course I was going to say yes. What were my options? But I hated when people told me where to be, and at what time. Really, I wanted to move back home. I could live with my grandma in Thunder Bay or something.

I didn’t say that. All I could manage was: “Okay.”