I step through rubble, my boots sticking in shards of concrete and mangled metal. I climb as old bricks spill downwards like apples from a pyramid grocery display. Lyle is already on the stairwell. I look up and see his body framed in the silhouette of debris, backlit by dim demolition site lights. Exposed in an open shaft missing three walls. The stairs ascend three flights and then stop, midair. I want to climb to the top.

The old building hums and groans as pieces of it clink under my feet then fall away. I scramble toward the level part of the concrete pile, then stare down a wide gap. I stick one leg out, toeing toward the stairs, but my black velvet skirt gets in the way. I hike it up above my knees. Lyle whistles. I nearly lose my balance. I grab at a metal pipe and lean my body forward until my boot hits the first step. I hoist myself across.

I climb the stairs two at a time in the dark as wind blows dust in my eyes and whips my hair back. Lyle sits on the top step with his legs dangling over the edge. I sit down beside him and swing my legs back and forth. We’re facing the back of the heap, staring at the surrounding office buildings and their nighttime fluorescence. There’s an old ghost sign painted on the brick of the adjacent building. Lyle reads it out loud.

“Dack’s shoe politics.”

“Yeah, this is Ottawa, but that says shoe polish,” I say.

Lyle punches me in the arm and I punch him back.

“So that building has been here, like, longer than this one.” He looks away and takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Yeah, but they’re tearing this one down first. Must be from the seventies or something.” I watch as Lyle rips the plastic off the pack and throws the shiny inner wrapper over the edge.

“It was ugly and not built to last.” Lyle grins and puts two cigarettes in his mouth. He cups his hand against the wind, flicks his lighter, and then both cigarettes flare red. He hands one to me. “For you, Lhia.”

He remembers my name. I take the cigarette. Act casual.

“Still, it’s a piece of history,” I say. I’ve never held a cigarette before. I push it between the fingers of my gloved hand. Then cross my legs and lean my elbow on my knee, my cigarette in the air, like in a 1940s movie. “It’s older than we are.”

Lyle leans back and looks at me. He holds his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, taps ash over the edge, then takes a drag.

I’m still waving the cigarette in my hand. “I don’t really smoke,” I say. I lift the cigarette toward my shoulder, starlet-style, with no intention of aiming it toward my mouth. “I’m just trying to look like Mildred Pierce.”

Lyle takes another drag. “Who?”

“Lady from a really old black-and-white movie.”

We hear the crunch of shifting concrete and turn to look, but there’s no one there. The building’s remnants are settling. Lyle leans into me. I feel his breath on the back of my neck. I look at him and he blows smoke into my face. It makes me cough.

“Gross!”

“What?” Lyle leans in closer. “Blowing smoke in someone’s face means you want them.”

Lyle’s leather jacket presses into my shoulder. His jeans rub against my knee. I stop breathing. I think I’m going to need my mom’s defibrillator.

“I want to taste cigarettes on your tongue,” Lyle whispers into my ear. The stubble of his chin tickles and scratches.

My mind races. No. Yes. No. Mom’sgoingto­killmeI’m ­definitelygoingtohell.

Out loud I say, “Okay,” and tap the ash end of the cigarette over the edge, like Lyle did. I hold the cigarette up to my mouth and taste paper. I suck in toxins, let the smoke release again through my mouth. I try not to huff it down into my lungs. I think of surgeon general’s warnings about cigarette-smoking, mom’s threats, cancer, tuburculosis, tumours, heart disease, stroke, death. I feel Lyle’s hands on my back and then his lips push against mine, softer than I imagined, and then his tongue. My mouth must taste like warm, musty, slippery, greasy, tobacco dirt. Lyle stops to breathe, his face an inch away from mine, and I want to kiss him again. I feel all quivery, funny, shaky, and I giggle and Lyle laughs a little and neither of us are sure what to do next so we do kiss again and it’s as good as the first time if not better and then he takes a drag and I make the mistake of looking at my watch. All I want to do is remember the time, record it in my own personal history forever and ever. Amen. This moment, 2:00 a.m., 2:00 a.m., 2:00 a.m. Lyle gives me a look and leans back.

“Do you have to go?”

I’m a ruiner.

Lyle flicks his cigarette butt into the rubble. I stare at it, waiting for the debris below to flare into movie flames or TV explosions. Nothing happens. I flick my cigarette in the same direction. It doesn’t make it nearly as far. No more fire, no more sparks. Lyle considers the empty street below.

“Ottawa is soooo boring,” he says, which I take to mean I’m boring. I am a concrete slab. I shiver.

“You’re cold.” Lyle rubs my arm. “We should go.”

I think it’s going to be like in the movies now. The scene where Lyle gives me his coat, takes my hand, and guides me steadily with his other hand on my back. I want to be guided. But Lyle gets up, dusts off his pants, and starts walking down the steps without looking back. I try to keep up. I see him sink-sliding down the rubble ahead of me. My skirt catches on metal, rips. My nose runs from the dust and I catch it with the dirty fingertip of my glove, which still smells like Value Village. And now smoke. I’m not glamorous or adventurous. Lyle doesn’t want to kiss me again. I slip and there’s nothing solid to grab on to. I regain my balance by sheer will. A few more steps and I’m finally at the bottom. Lyle waits for me to hop over the inadequate orange plastic fencing. He doesn’t even look as I hike up my skirt. I’m over the top and on the sidewalk. I stand thisclose to him. He’s already lit another cigarette for himself. He smiles, his eyes crinkling as shadows dance on his face in the yellow streetlight.

“Where do you live?”

“This way. A few blocks.” I gesture, take a step, and Lyle starts walking with me. We are halfway down the block when an orange municipal truck packed with pylons slows past us. Two huge workers in coveralls and ball caps stare at us as if they know where we were and what we were doing. I’m afraid we’re about to get busted for climbing around the demolition site, but then Lyle takes my hand. He leans down and kisses me lightly on the mouth until the workers drive away.

Lyle stuffs his hands in his pockets and we start walking again. I can’t think of anything to say. Silence for a whole block, and then another.

“It’s this one.” I point at the condo building where my mom and I live. “Ground floor. I’m going to go through the window because —”

“Do you have roommates?” Lyle looks around, hands still in his pockets. I’m not sure if he wants to come in. If he’s supposed to come in. If he should come in.

“Yeah, sort of.” I stand in the row of plants under the window and gaze at Lyle. I wait to see if he’s going to kiss me again or ask for my last name or phone number. He hesitates then takes a step back. The streetlight shines down on the top of his head. I try to memorize his dark brown messy hair, brown eyes, crooked nose, leather jacket, skinny black jeans.

“Good night.” He sort of shrugs and I think I see him raise his eyebrows and half smile, but I’m not sure. “See you next week, I guess.”

“Yeah.” I watch him start walking away, but stop myself in case he looks back. I slide the window open, hop up on the ledge, and dive through, back into my normal, everyday life, back into my room. I close the window behind me, straighten the curtains, and then tear off my black corduroy jacket, vintage corset, velvet skirt, black leather boots, gloves. I put on my flannel pajamas and smear gooey cold makeup remover across my eyes. I throw all evidence of my underage drinking, nightclubbing, and curfew-breaking into a heap in the closet. I open my door and tiptoe into the hall. Silence. Mom’s still at work. Night shift. Relief. Every once in awhile she comes home early, which is why I snuck in. But maybe I should have taken Lyle through the front door. Maybe the window thing was weird.

I wish I could have given Lyle my cellphone number. I am the only high school student on the planet with such a useless hunk of plastic for a phone. I think it’s designed for senior citizens or something. People who need to make an emergency call because they dropped the remote control and can’t find it. I can’t even text with it. I’ve seen documentaries where people in shantytowns are talking on ultra-sweet, brand-new cells. Mom says we can’t afford extras. But everything is an extra, and the condo we’re renting from some civil servant is a shitbox. Awful carpets that probably once looked beige, but are now stained grey. Small rooms like cells. Cracks in the walls my mom tried to cover over with pictures. Ugly kitchen cupboards from the nineties. It’s all so very “homey” as in homely, as in ghetto, as in embarrassing. So when mom asks me why I don’t bring my friends over I give her a look and ask for a new cellphone. Again.

Seriously. Nobody does anything at school other than text each other, so if you don’t have a real phone you don’t exist. When I’m in class I sit at the back and hold books up in front of me as though they’re camouflage. But I wear black thrift-shop clothes and unravelling sweaters, so I stick out and get picked on in the halls.

I get:

“Hey, Morticia, where’s the funeral?”

“Orphan Annie called and she wants her sweater back.”

“Ewwwww. Something smells. Like dead people.”

I wouldn’t want to wear their stupid sweatshop clothes and look exactly like everyone else, even if I could afford them. There’s nothing elegant about jeans and T-shirts. “Ten-year-old kids probably made your shirt, you know,” is my usual (totally inadequate) comeback. I want to grow up to be glamorous. Like in old movies — the ones I watch with my mom, because we both love the clothes. And the drama. And the starlet attitude. I don’t care that nobody else at school has ever seen these movies. It’s my thing. Goth is kinda close if you think about it. Velvet and lace and ruffles and dresses and black and burgundy and dramatic makeup and elaborate hair. I can dress up in black and feel like I’m Dietrich or Hepburn. Ish.

So I don’t really have any friends at school except for Skye, and I don’t even like her very much. She doesn’t like me, either, but she also dresses in black and dyes crazy stripes in her hair. We started sitting together in the non-participating section of gym class, and in the absolutely no-cheering area of every school assembly. The more people assumed we were friends, the more we began to act that way. Now, instead of sitting and staring at the high school circus in silence, we say things like:

“Hey, Skye.”

“Hey, Lhia.”

“This sucks.”

“Yup.”

I’ve been making real friends at a nightclub in the market called Zaphod Beeblebrox. It has a goth-industrial night once a week. If you show up often enough, people stop glaring at you and start talking. You have to prove you’re not an imposter dressed up for a lark. I’m still learning about the music. I like it, though. It’s heavy and angry and dramatic. Like movies. And Zaphod’s is where I met Lyle. I think he’s in his twenties. He hasn’t asked how old I am so I haven’t told him I’m underage. I can pass for about nineteen and a half when I wear a ton of black eye-makeup and opera gloves, which is why the bouncer keeps letting me in, even though my I.D. is so obviously fake. Other than the black hair, I don’t resemble Mandy Chan, age nineteen, at all.

I like to sketch from photographs sometimes and the fake I.D. is what I drew in this journal-type sketchbook I sketch and write in, which my mom read, which is what got me into so much trouble last week. I tried to tell her everything in there is total fiction. I said my life is so boring I have to make stuff up. I don’t know if she believed me or not. The whole thing was so stupid. I wish I fit in with the art and manga nerds at school, because they’re the only other people I know who walk around with notebooks and write on actual paper, with a pen.

Mom’s sleeping on and off all day. Shift work makes her cranky, so I can’t stay at home. But I don’t want to go to school. If I skip the morning I’m only missing French, gym, and a spare. I grab my black canvas bag and stuff it with my notebook and a couple of old Sandman graphic novels I found at the public library. I take a juice box from the fridge for lunch, lace up my tall, black second-hand boots, and head out. I like to walk around my neighbourhood and look around. It’s a bizarre mash-up of big, beautiful old homes, formerly big, beautiful old homes converted into dingy student apartments, condo towers, office buildings, and hotels. I usually find a lot of things to sketch.

There’s a field by the old Ottawa Tech high school on Slater Street. In the summer it’s an endless pickup soccer game, but today it’s empty. I walk past the creepy lot where there’s a crumbling foundation for one of those big beautiful old homes, but no house. No development, either. I always wonder what the story is — what happened to the house and why there’s no condo built there by now. I continue past dirty, tired trees and bushes and a sad, disorganized attempt at a community garden to get to what looks like an ancient stone retaining wall. The wall rises as the street and the sidewalk dip, growing taller and more menacing as you sink lower. Sometimes there are little cards with the Virgin Mary or Catholic saints on them stuck into the crevasses between the stones. Something happened in that knocked-down old house. I can feel it.

I’m looking for a saint card or candle when I see a tiny picture stuck in the wall. It’s a painting of someone’s hand reaching into deep indigo. I guess that’s supposed to be night. I pull it out. It’s about the size of a Post-it note — a small piece of canvas stretched over popsicle sticks. I turn it over in my hand and there’s a small N on the back in pencil. Or maybe it’s a squiggle. Or a Z. I don’t notice that the paint is still partially wet until I get it all over my fingers. As I rub it off onto my long black skirt I get this feeling I’m being watched. I was planning to slip the painting in my bag and keep it, but now I’m not sure. I turn all the way around, but no one’s there. I hear a twig snap and look up. The bushes are moving, but that might be the wind. I shiver, put the painting back where I found it, and walk away quickly, heading back into Centretown where the modern bricks and mortar are too new to contain any ghost stories.

I’m almost at Bank Street when someone calls my name.

“Uh-oh, someone’s not at school today,” I hear, and when I turn around Uncle George is standing there.

“Hey, Uncle George,” I say, reaching up to give him a quick hug. “What’s with the pants?”

He’s wearing a plaid button-up shirt, these weird beige slacks, and shiny shoes. I usually see him in expensive jeans that make him look way cooler, but I guess that’s his after-work look.

“I know.” Uncle George rolls his eyes. “Casual office wear is an awful thing.”

Uncle George smiles a big old dopey smile at me. He looks at my hair, like he’s going to reach out and goof with it, but I make a face and he sticks his hands in his pockets instead.

“I’ve been in meetings all morning and I’m desperate for a coffee. Want one, honey?”

I look around at the civil servants swarming out of the offices around us. I see a tall figure in black turn to look at me, but whoever it is ducks and disappears behind two overweight middle-aged men in suits. It might be someone I know from Zaphod’s. It might be Lyle.

“Coffee would be cool, but I’m on my spare. I should get back to school.”

Uncle George looks disappointed, so I give him another hug before I dash away. I’m so busy fantasizing about maybe accidentally-on-purpose bumping into Lyle that I don’t think of the fact Uncle George is watching me go. I walk fast but I don’t find the person in black and I don’t find Lyle, so I keep walking.

It took me an hour and about one hundred bobby pins to get my hair to look the right amount of tangled. Now that I’m here at Zaphod’s for goth night I see another girl wearing her hair the same way, except that it looks better on her. I’m sitting on one of the plush-covered seats against the wall, but toward the back so I can see when (and if) Lyle arrives. It’s still early though for this crowd. Only half past midnight. I’ve got my one rye and ginger — all I can afford for the night unless someone decides to buy me a drink — and I’m analyzing what people are wearing. Girls walk past in tiny corsets and short shorts with fishnets, or elaborate medieval gowns they’ve made themselves. The guys are in long combat shorts and tall boots, long-sleeved black T-shirts with names of industrial bands on them, black leather jackets. Everyone’s got tattoos, extreme hairstyles, and attitude. Oh, and everyone’s wearing plenty of black eyeliner. And black nail polish. And weird jewellery — necklaces and bangles and rings. Girls with overlong eyelashes that flutter like spiders. I have to figure out how to put those on. A boy in a top hat. One with an elaborate cane. I like the fact the sight of anyone here would freak out the bland brand kids from school. I feel like this is some place where I could belong.

The DJ plays a particularly discordant industrial song and the dance floor clears, sending a flood of sweaty people to the bar. There’s an odd hush in the club and I turn to see a tiny girl in a tight black dress flanked by two thin men. She’s on crutches. One of her legs is wrapped from toe to knee in braces and bandages. But she’s beautiful, in that annoying ethereal way that seems impossible, unreal. The two creature-like men glide like eighteenth-century courtesans. The regulars eye the girl with a mixture of suspicion, curiosity, and envy, which means this bizarre trio has never been here before. As they make their way to the bar, I see two large eyes peering in through the glass by the door. Fuzzy hair. Someone tall and slim. I push through the crowd to see if it’s Lyle, but the lobby is empty except for the oversized bouncer, who’s sitting at his barstool post reading a paperback. I tap on his enormous shoulder.

“Hey, Shane. Did you see who just left?”

“I didn’t see nothin’.” Shane looks up at me with slow, old brown dog eyes.

“But the front door is still closing.” I point to the slowly shortening gap between outside and in. Shane looks at it, furrows his brow, and the door clicks shut.

“Oh. That’s weird.” Shane places his sci-fi novel down on the windowsill. He swings the door open for me with a quick push of his massive arm. For a guy with a neck the size of my waist, Shane’s really nice. We step out onto the sidewalk, but nobody’s there. The market is suspended in Hitchcockian silence. I hold my breath, spooked. Then a car door slams. A giggling middle-aged couple walks toward the strip club two doors down. A woman in yoga-wear and a gigantic helmet speeds past on a bike.

“Must have been the wind,” Shane says. He opens the door for me again to go back in.

“I swore I saw someone looking in through the glass,” I say. I lean against the cool black brick wall as Shane resumes his barstool post.

“Uh-huh.” He picks up his book and winks at me. “Watching too many horror movies lately, eh?”

The industrial noise pulsates in my ears as soon as I open the club door. I don’t recognize the song that’s playing, but the dance floor is full, so I walk over and join in. I’m getting into it and over my self-consciousness when I look up and see Lyle standing by the DJ booth. He runs his fingers through his hair. A skinny blonde girl stands closely at his side. She’s wearing his leather jacket over a tight PVC minidress.

I slip off the dance floor along the bar side so I don’t have to walk past them. That’s when I see the tiny girl and her two creature courtesans again. She’s perched on a tall barstool with her injured leg propped up on a chair. Even with her awkward leg, she sits perfectly straight, her neck impossibly long, thin arms elegantly posed. A slight shine on her face turns her skin plastic. She looks like a mannequin. Intrigued regulars lurk around her, but she gazes straight ahead at the dance floor. Not a mingler. The courtesans resemble ninjas the way they’re standing by with crossed arms. I wonder if she’s ever had any close friends who are girls, or only ever boys. And men. She seems too beautiful to ever want to be a best friend. Or to just want to chat or laugh about whatever. I feel big and shabby next to her. She’s probably used to being adored and has no idea what it’s like for a girl like me. I wish someone would look at me with adoration. Once or twice. Three times and I’d be charmed forever.

I make the mistake of looking straight at her on my way by. She fishhooks my eye and reels me in.

“Hi. I’m Jennifer.”

She touches my arm. It feels like static and makes my skin crawl.

“Hi.” I wipe my arm against my skirt to stop the tingles. “I’m Lhia.”

“Is this your scene, Lhia?” Jennifer is waiting for an answer, but I’m distracted by Lyle and his blonde sidekick heading to the bar. I’m trying to figure out how to avoid them. I take a step closer to Jennifer. She puts her tiny arm on my shoulder and my feet freeze in place. Like her delicate little hand is an enormous weight.

I study her face. She’d be interesting to sketch — up close I can tell she’s not one to just rely on her beauty — though I have no idea how you’d draw that. I wonder if other people can see this, and I don’t think so. Not unless they’ve watched a ton of old movies. I can see there’s something animated underneath her perfect skin. Some weird, intimidating strength I don’t have, and I can’t imagine I ever will.

“Ahhh, you’re a Capricorn.” She waggles her index finger at me. “Capricorns are always so smart.”

“How did you know?”

“I’d like to read your tarot cards, Lhia.” Jennifer pulls a smallish pouch from the black bag slung around her shoulder. “We can stay after hours. It’ll be easy to arrange with the bartender.”

“I’ve got to —”

“Honey, you need a drink.” Jennifer turns to one of her ninja courtesans. “Rory. Get lovely Lhia a —”

“A rye and ginger please,” I fill in.

“A rye and ginger,” Jennifer repeats.

Rory turns toward the bar and waves a twenty-dollar bill.

Now Jennifer’s holding on to my arm. It’s making me nervous. I’ve heard people in the scene talk about magic before. A few of them wear crystals and say they’re mystics or Wiccans. These same people also play role-playing games so it’s hard to know whether it’s real or make-believe. I grew up believing in science. Like my mom. But Jennifer has super-intensity. Maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s attitude. I like it in the movies, but in real life it’s scary. I feel like I’m part of some kind of performance. I stare at the dance floor until a drink is placed in my hands. I give it a vigorous stir and take a tentative sip from the straw.

“Thanks.” I try to say my line convincingly.

“Ta.” Jennifer finally lets go of me. Shifts her injured leg and grimaces. It looks painful. She nods at the dance floor. “You should go dance if you want to dance. But come back here at closing time so I can read your cards. It will be fascinating.”

Her face is illuminated with blue light. She says something else, but her words are lost to the noisy electro beat. Maybe she wants to give me advice, though I have no idea why. She’s not anyone you’d expect to be kind. She’s not the kind of girl who needs to be nice.

“Yeah sure.” I fake a smile. “Definitely.”

Lyle is still standing by the bar. Now he’s leaning down to hear something the blonde girl is saying. He’s nodding, smiling. She’s still wearing his jacket. She hands Lyle her drink and starts making a big show of taking the jacket off. I half expect her twirl it around her head and throw it on the floor, but she hands it to Lyle, pushing into his chest with it for an embrace. Gross. I take a couple of steps toward the dance floor, but hesitate. Jennifer will be watching. That’s too weird. I turn the corner, walk around the DJ booth, and slip toward the back of the club. I grab my corduroy coat from the booth where I stashed it. In the lobby I smile at Shane while hiding my drink under my coat, smuggling it downstairs to the bathroom. I want to sip my drink, fix my makeup, and figure out what to do. But there’s a cluster of girls in the bathroom sharing lipsticks. They stop talking when I walk in. A closed discussion. I take a couple of sips from my drink, set it on the counter by the sink, and leave. The hallway is dark and eerie. I throw on my coat and a button pops off. I’m not petite and pretty like Lyle’s blonde. And her dress isn’t from a thrift store. I want to go home. I take the stairs two at a time.

“Hey, it’s still early!” Shane looks up from his book as he sees me.

“Gotta go.” This time I push through the door before he can open it for me.

Outside, the air is still heavy with mist. I cut through parked cars and walk quickly until I’m around the corner. The old stone buildings on Sussex Drive weep with moisture as I stroll past, droplets beading on the surface and then soaking in to make strange dark patterns. I pass an arched wooden doorway and then another and I’m almost past the third when I realize something is crouching in it. Dressed entirely in black, the figure is nearly invisible until it lifts its face. Pale skin under ice-white streetlights. Black glassy eyes. A ghost. I start to run.

“Wait!” I hear behind me, accompanied by the slightest of footsteps. “Wait! I want to talk to you!” But I don’t stop. I sprint to Wellington and into a bright shock of light from the Château Laurier. I’m winded. I lean back on a marble column in full view of the parking valets, doormen, and whatever security cameras are rigged up to protect the wealthy people who stay there. I look back, but no one’s there. I stand in the pool of light and watch for movement in the shadows.

Then someone turns the corner by Sussex. A man. I watch him walk slowly toward me. This is not the ghost. I see the silhouette of a hand wave. It’s Lyle.

I hear him say “hey,” but I stay exactly where I am, not answering. When he gets thisclose to me he reaches up and lightly touches a fat lock of hair that’s fallen out of my tangled up-do. “Your hair looks nice,” he says.

“Thanks.” I’m still breathless from running. And scared.

“You walking this way?” Lyle says it without taking his eyes off me.

“Yes.” I agree without knowing what direction he’s talking about.

Lyle starts walking up Wellington, toward Parliament Hill. I match his steps, only looking behind me once to see if the spooky figure is following. I’m hoping Lyle’s spiky hair and leather jacket make him a visual deterrent. Lyle didn’t leave the bar with me this week, but he’s walking with me now. I’m hoping that means the blonde I saw him with is just a friend. I clear my throat. I need to know.

“Was that your girlfriend you came in with at Zaphod’s?”

There’s a long pause. I concentrate on matching Lyle’s leggy steps. Each one stretches the limits of my narrow skirt.

“Well, kinda.” Lyle lights a cigarette. One cigarette. “She thinks she is.”

“What do you think?” I only half expect an answer. In the pause I notice the Hill’s eternal flame is out. Again.

“C’mon,” Lyle says. He takes my hand and leads me through the tall metal gate, past the eternal flame, onto the grass, and up the slope to the left of the main Parliament Buildings. We’re walking uphill. I start breathing hard again, take a few gulping breaths, try to disguise how out of shape I am. Lyle charges ahead and suddenly we’re in a large, angular Sound of Music-style gazebo, toward the back of the gothic buildings. I think we’re doomed, like Liesl and Rolf, until Lyle sits down on a hard marble bench, pulls me down with him, and starts kissing me.

This did not happen in the movie. Now I really can’t breathe.

I hear a muffled bark and Lyle pulls his face away from mine. He shushes me as though I’ll bark back and we see a flashlight coming our way, followed by the silhouette of a short, squat man. A security guard.

Of course every square inch of the Hill is on security cam.

Lyle grabs my hand and we run through the gazebo and down a steep, dark staircase toward the river. There are no lights, so we take turns tripping and stumbling. Security gives up the chase, but we run until my lungs are bursting and the cold night air makes my nose hurt and there’s ringing in my ears from all the motion and a momentary lack of noise. Behind Parliament Hill, in between trees, earth, and river, all I can hear is the sound of a steady rush of water, the rain-like riffling of wind through dry leaves. We emerge at the shore, stare across the river at the orange glow of Hull. An ugly paper factory emitting frothy fumes into the air from twin smokestacks. Lyle squeezes my hand then lets go. His face shines in the muted light. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out his pack of smokes. He takes out two, lights both, and hands me one without asking.

I hold it between my two fingers, bring it to my mouth without inhaling, watch my steam-smoke exhalation evaporate in the chilly air. We stare out at the moving water, shoulder to shoulder as Lyle smokes and I pretend, neither of us saying anything. Lyle finally flicks his cigarette into the water and I do the same and I think we’re going to kiss again. I swallow dry-mouthed and hear a faint crack of a branch. I turn around, see a tall figure in black, with pale skin, black glassy eyes. Not the security guard. Heading toward us. The ghost.

“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” Lyle is brusque, gauging the situation.

The ghost stops. Stares at us. I feel something happen to Lyle’s body beside me. Like it’s puffing up, growing taller. Lyle shifts his weight so one foot is in front of the other. So he’s ready to fight.

The ghost takes a step back so he’s hidden in the shadows. When he speaks his voice scratches and crackles in his throat.

“I just want to know what she said. Jennifer. At the bar.”

“What are you talking about?” Lyle steps forward then back again, confused.

“She wanted to read my tarot cards.” I put my hand on Lyle’s arm. He turns to me.

“Do you know this guy?”

“No.” I clutch his arm tighter. “No, I don’t.”

“Don’t let her read your cards.” The ghost’s voice shifts. He’s moving around in the darkness. “That’s how she casts her spell.”

This time Lyle clutches at me. And then the ghost walks right past us, like a cool blast of wind. I hold my breath.

I hear a sputtering sound. And then a cough so hollow I think I hear lungs rattle against ribs. It sounds painful. My mom would be diagnosing him right now. I don’t know what to think of this strange person. Branches crackle. I can’t see where he is.

“Let’s go.” I tug hard on Lyle’s arm. We start back up the hill. I’m too tired to run. It’s like a creepy slow-motion chase scene, with the tall guy in pallid pursuit. Maybe. I don’t hear him coughing again. The stairs seem steeper and higher than they did when we were running down, and ascending them is taking forever. Lyle gets two steps ahead of me, and then four, and I do my best to keep pace, looking forward, moving upward, until we emerge, finally, on the lawn of Parliament Hill. I gulp air, trying to catch my breath. We walk through the gates and cut across Wellington onto Bank Street. I shiver, but Lyle doesn’t offer me his jacket. The blonde got to wear his jacket. At least she gave it back. Now I’m walking with him, side by side in silence. I glance over my shoulder to see if the tall guy is following us, but the downtown streets are deserted. Ottawa is asleep and we’re walking through some bizarre nighttime dream. At the corner by my place Lyle grabs me and pulls me close to him.

“That was weird,” he says it in a half-whisper, as though the night is our private, spooky secret. “It’s always different with you. You’re not like other girls.”

This time I take that as a compliment. Lyle kisses me. I taste his cigarette tongue, feel his hands slip under my coat, under my shirt. My skin tingles. This time I want to ask him in. I’m about to say it, but then Lyle stops. He takes a step back from me, pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and studies the small screen. Text message.

“Oh, shit. I’ve gotta go.” Lyle jams the phone back in his pocket, leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Sorry.”

I watch him stroll away. His hands are in his pockets. There’s a whooshing feeling in my chest. I’m still giddy from Lyle’s kisses. I climb through my window into a darkened room. I’m about to tear off my damp and muddy club clothes when I hear a sigh coming from my bed. I step back, startled, and trip over a pile of books. My lamp turns on. My mother is sitting on my bed with my stuffed monkey in her arms.

“Where were you?” Mom shifts in the bed to sit up straighter. She’s wearing her fuzzy blue housecoat. I’m busted. She looks worried and disappointed, and I’m embarrassed — it’s the absolute worst.

I fall asleep thinking about Lyle, but I dream about Jennifer. And the weird tall guy. By the time I get up, Mom’s already left for work. I thought she’d be way angrier about me coming home late. I thought I’d be grounded for sure. I think something bad is happening at her work, though. I’m kinda worried about her. She seems stressed, but I don’t really know what’s happening. Maybe we should watch a movie together. One of our old favourites. The Philadelphia Story or Roman Holiday. We haven’t done that in a long time. I sigh and feel sorry for my mom. Nothing interesting or good ever happens to her. And the last person she kissed was probably my father, whoever he was.

I have half a bagel for breakfast, and when I wander back into my bedroom I see something white stuck between the drapes and the wall. It’s a piece of paper. I left my window open a sliver. I feel a twinge of excitement: Lyle’s left me a note! It’s only one line, though. I read it over and over to interpret what he means. It says:

meet me. stairs by canel. NAC. 11:30 a.m. i have something for u.

Somehow I expected Lyle to be a better speller. But it doesn’t really matter. He wants to meet me! On the stairs by the canal near the National Arts Centre. Guess I won’t be going to school. I spend forty-five minutes with my hair straightener. When I get to the meeting spot I look around for Lyle, but no one’s there, so I walk down the stairs and sit down on the bottom step. I feel the cold concrete through my tights and black jean skirt and stare at the murky water. A strand of hair sticks to my lip gloss. When I flick it back I see the tall guy emerging from the direction of the Wellington Street bridge and walking toward me. He’s wearing the same black clothes as the other night. In the daylight he looks more scruffy than menacing. I’m wary, but not scared.

“Oh, it’s you.” I stand up and step off the stairs.

Tall guy fidgets with a large hole in the cuff of his black hoodie. He smells like he needs to do laundry.

“I thought the note was from my friend Lyle.” I stick my hands in the pocket of my skirt and take a step back. “How did you know where I live?”

“Lyle. He’s the guy who lives with his blonde girlfriend on Cooper Street. Two-fifty Cooper Street.” Tall guy looks right at me in a way that makes what he’s saying seem true. He’s like a scruffy, gutter punk version of one of Mom’s TV reporters. She’s always watching the news and getting depressed.

“I don’t have much to do,” he says. “So I watch people. I followed him one day. Pretty boring. He wears black pants and a white dress shirt and works at a fancy restaurant on Somerset. Probably he’s about twenty-five. His girlfriend works at the grocery store and gets her nails done. Probably she’s twenty-five, too.” Tall guy looks at me intently. “Older than you.”

I take another step back. More ugly facts. I don’t like news stories. And if this guy knows that much about Lyle, then how much does he know about me? How long has he been following me?

“But you’re smarter.”

I want to punch him hard in the gut. I imagined a Lyle that doesn’t exist. I liked his kisses. That was real. That happened. Maybe tall guy is exaggerating. Lyle can’t be this boring. I don’t want the blonde I saw him with at the bar to be the woman he lives with. She was wearing his jacket. Then he left without her. We kissed in the gazebo! But now I think it wasn’t serious — for him. It couldn’t have been. I feel stupid. I want to cry. I sit back down on the step. Tall guy is still watching me. I need him to leave so I can let all my silly romantic fantasies dissolve into tears.

“Did you have something to ask me? Why am I here?”

“Oh yeah, one sec.” Tall guy slings a dirty duffel bag off his back and onto the ground. There’s a rolled-up blanket and a pair of rotted black running shoes tied to the bag. I look at the ghost’s feet. He’s wearing two pairs of grey wool socks, both full of holes. He rummages around in his bag. I think about running back up the stairs, but where am I going to go — school? I’m too disappointed to move.

“This is for you.” He hands me something flat and oblong. I put my arm out and take it, still eyeing him to see what he’ll do.

“I found this old picture on the street,” he says. He crosses his arms and inclines his head like I’ve seen my art teacher do when talking about a painting. “I etched an image of the Parliament Buildings in it. Then I put a bit more paint on it and drew the eye.” When he points at the painting I see old crusty paint blobs on his hands. I look at the picture. Detailed gothic spires are inscribed onto a seventies-style landscape, and everything is partially obscured by swirls of grey, white, and black. A large red eye sparkles in the corner, staring like a surveillance camera.

“Wow.” The picture is like a study in technique. It’s everything my art teacher is always going on about. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I figured I should do something to apologize for maybe scaring you the other night.” He grins. His teeth are straight and clean. Street people usually have horrible teeth.

“Who are you?” I try to look into his eyes, but he looks away.

“No one,” he says. “A ghost.”

I reach out and touch his arm lightly. “No you’re not. You’re real. Besides, ghosts haunt houses, not an entire city.”

“But I am invisible.” He jerks his arm back. “Only a few people can see me. You’re one of them.” He sighs and plunks down to sit cross-legged on the concrete promenade. “I’ve come all this way and it’s the same thing everywhere I go.”

“How did you get here?” I fight the urge to pat him on the head. I’m not sure how to make him feel better.

“On the bus,” he says, giving me a strange look. “I had money. I had a special fund, but it’s all gone now. I was looking for someone.”

“Did you find your person?”

He lies down flat on the concrete with his hands on his chest like a corpse. I peer down at his prone body. His eyes are closed. His is a much more complicated story than my crush being practically married. And I want to know what it feels like to lie on concrete. I lean back and feel my shoulders touch the ground. Then my head. I’m lying on concrete in the middle of the day beside a haunted man. But I’m not afraid.

“I did find her,” he says, finally. His eyes are still closed. “I promised my grandmother I’d look after her. I thought she was in danger. I gave up everything. I did everything.”

“So what happened to her?” I ask, looking up at the cloud-filled sky.

“She didn’t need me. Or want me. Not even when she fell and broke.”

I think of the girl from the club the other night. The creepy one with the injured leg. Jennifer. Is that her?

Tall guy is immobile. I close my eyes, too. Then I feel a hand on my arm, clutching it.

“She had someone else,” he says. “Like your Lyle.”

I put my hand on top of his. We’re the same, then. He’s warning me.

“He was a big man. Ugly. With lots of money.” He releases my arm and looks away. “A dangerous man. He brought flowers for her.”

He stands up and walks over to the metal railing overlooking the canal. “She fell …” He looks out at the water. “He fell,” he mutters. He clutches at his heart and drapes himself over the railing, playacting. He goes limp on the railing, hanging his head. He looks like a thin, grubby rag doll.

A tear escapes from my eye and I rub it away. I thought Lyle was going to be my boyfriend. A gentleman. Instead I’m skipping school with a crazy, talented homeless kid who doesn’t have anything other than passion. And now we both know that love doesn’t conquer all.

We’re both unloved ones. Back-up plans. Invisibles. I can’t stop it anymore. I sit up, rest my head on my knees, and cry. After a few minutes I hear him rustling beside me. But he waits. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t try to fix me, pour on sympathy, joke about it, or make me feel worse. When I finally look up he’s standing, with his running shoes on and his duffel bag strung over his shoulder, like he’s ready to go somewhere.

“My name is Nik.” He smiles and extends his grubby, paint-streaked hand to help me up. I wipe my eyes and take it.