Seated on a parking barrier at the edge of the student parking lot, Shir was eating a tuna sandwich and watching Eunie Jahenny. It was Monday lunch hour and another warm day, which meant the school grounds were swarming with students. Here in the parking lot, there were at least fifty, divided into the usual cliques—the jocks congregated at the center of the lot, tossing a football back and forth, the preps in a boisterous huddle closest to the school, and at the lot’s opposite end, next to an overgrown hedge that skirted a low-rent apartment building, Eunie and her friends. Ensconced in the back of an old Chevy pickup, they were swigging a one-liter bottle of Coke and passing a cigarette.
Well, maybe a cigarette, thought Shir, running her gaze over them again. And make that maybe on the pop, too. Fifteen minutes ago, she had been walking past the parking lot, intending to spend the lunch hour at a nearby park, when she had spotted Eunie, and, curious, taken up her observation post. Since then, the group’s initially rowdy conversation had grown decidedly languid. So had their body posture. And Eunie was just as languid as the rest. Slouched against the back of the cab, she was nuzzled in against a tattoo-obsessed guy, exchanging sweet nothings while the pickup’s radio blasted Lady Gaga.
Whatever it was that Mr. Tattoo was whispering into her ear, however, it hadn’t changed Eunie’s perennially bored expression—she looked, mused Shir, about as excited as she had while talking to Mr. Anderson in the store. But that was probably due to the contents of the cigarette she was smoking. In contrast to the group in the pickup, every other student in sight was chattering, giggling, and roughhousing as if they hadn’t yet seen the end of junior high. To Shir’s right, someone let loose with a Pepsi-filled plastic bag, and the weapon sailed harmlessly past its intended target before erupting against the Chevy’s rear fender. Glancing down at his Pepsi-spattered jeans, the guy sprawled closest to the pickup’s open end shook out his pant legs in disgust. Other than that, no one in the Chevy even blinked.
Class, thought Shir, as she scanned the pickup’s slouched inhabitants. These guys have class. Maybe they weren’t Collier High’s top students; maybe they couldn’t be bothered with hauling themselves out of bed to run 6 AM laps around a school gym; but they knew when to take something on and when to ditch it. Yeah, thought Shir, running her gaze over the tranquil group again. It’s important to know when to ditch something, when to let things just be.
Thoughtfully, she raised her sandwich and took another bite. Seated five meters over from the pickup, she was hidden from view by an ancient Volvo; as a result, she hadn’t been noticed by Eunie, or, for that matter, anyone else. Realistically speaking, as far as every other student in the parking lot was concerned, she could have been nothing more than an odd bump growing out of the Volvo’s front end. But that, thought Shir, snorting quietly to herself, was better than getting stuck in dialogue with any of the jerks currently bouncing around the vicinity. The future leaders of society, she thought, snorting again. Civilization.
A nearby voice brought her abruptly out of her ruminations. “Hey, Sullivan!” it called. “Look over there, behind the Volvo. Isn’t that your toonie babe?”
Instantly, Shir was on red alert and turning toward the voice. The first guy her eyes landed on was no big deal—a grade-twelve nondescript getting into a Toyota directly across from the Volvo, who went by the nickname “Tombstone.” But next to him stood Ben, the maraschino cherries expert, and next to him, Wade Sullivan. The second Shir’s eyes focused on that familiar face, she was on her feet, nostrils flaring wildly as she assessed possible escape routes. Backing up was pointless—the hedge might still be in the budding stage, but its branches were too dense to break through—and any forward momentum would take her directly toward Wade. Cautiously, she began to edge around the Volvo’s front fender, intending to force her way between the hedge and the row of parked cars until she reached the street, but the next vehicle—a minivan—was parked too close to the hedge to permit passage.
“Oh yeah, blind love!” moaned Wade as she turned desperately to face him. “Hey, Tombstone, move over.” Leaning past the Toyota’s apparent owner, he pressed the car horn and the sound blared across the parking lot, cutting off conversation and drawing the carousing students’ collective attention. Quickly, Wade sent out a few more toots. Then, straightening, he faced the expectant crowd, a broad grin on his face.
“What d’you say, kids?” he called out carelessly. “Our Ugly Contest winner is right over here. C’mon, everyone who voted for her, and we’ll show her what it means to win.”
Trapped behind the Volvo, Shir watched riveted as myriad eyes zeroed in on her—speculative eyes, calculating eyes, the eyes of a pack. In the ensuing pause, a breeze gusted across the parking lot, rustling shirt sleeves and lifting locks of hair; still the eyes observed, dispassionate … considering what to do, what not to do.
“What does it mean when Dog Face wins?” called a guy somewhere to Shir’s left.
“What does it mean when any dog wins?” someone else replied.
A snicker ran across the parking lot; a third voice hollered, “Who’s got a leash?”and they started to close in. Panic-stricken, Shir pressed against the hedge. Not everyone, she thought, counting the leering faces headed toward her. Yet. From what she could see, the girls seemed to be staying put, leaning against various cars as they watched, and most of the guys were also hanging back, several uneasily shaking their heads. This seemed, however, to be as much disapproval as anyone was prepared to offer, and it hadn’t been enough to stop the seven or eight guys headed her way—guys she would never have put together at a party or even in a school-hall conversation, but suddenly, here they were, united by common interest.
“What d’you say, guys?” asked Wade, walking up to the Volvo’s back end and eyeing Shir coolly. “Anyone got a toonie? A quarter?”
In the short distance that now separated them, Shir could see how his eyes had narrowed and his lips pressed in on themselves. Wade was so intent, so focused, so rigid, she could practically see the blood pumping through his veins. What is it with this guy? she thought frantically. Why does he keep coming after me?
Without warning, an ear-splitting rev erupted nearby. Startled, Shir glanced left to see the Chevy pickup, horn blaring as it backed out of its parking spot. Gears crunched, the engine gave another raucous roar, and abruptly, the pickup was turning and lurching toward Shir, forcing the guys closing in on her to scatter. With a blur of red paint, it barreled past, allowing a brief glimpse of several smirking metalheads in the back. Then the pickup was gone, but not before Shir had seen who was at the wheel—Eunie, with the third finger of her right hand raised and pointing emphatically at the street.
Get the fuck out of here! Shir didn’t need to be told twice. As her would-be harassers stared in stunned astonishment after the gunning pickup, she darted out from the Volvo and took off, heart thundering, arms pumping, mouth gasping for air, sweet air, freedom. Behind her, no one made a move to follow. Prey that was trapped, terrified, at the back end of the student parking lot wasn’t the same thing as prey with obvious predators in pursuit, tearing along the front of Collier High and the row of staff-room windows that traveled the building’s south wall. Which meant that for the remaining fifteen minutes of the lunch break, she was safe. As long as she didn’t go near the parking lot, Shir thought wearily. Or the practice field. Or the front lawn, the school halls, the …
Slowing her pace, she crossed the street, walked a block east, and settled down with her back to a fire hydrant to finish the rest of her lunch.
As soon as afternoon classes let out, Shir headed for the bike rack, unlocked the Black, and took off. Jeers and taunts followed her down the street, but she ignored them, pedaling in a manic blur past chattering students, women with baby strollers, and parked cars. Jacket unzipped and gym bag hanging precariously from one shoulder, she flew, halfway between earth and sky, the contempt she had endured all day and the bliss that awaited her at the end of it. Yeah, bliss, she thought, pedaling furiously onward. A bit of the magic fluid pouring down her throat—that was what she needed. It had been three days since her last beer, three long, miserable days, and her body was crying out for a Molsons, a Labatts, even a goddam Moosehead … from wherever the hell they made it.
Turning down the alley to Gareth’s place, Shir locked the Black to a hydro-pole support wire and pushed open the backyard gate. With her first visit, she had started a practice of leaving the gate open behind her—wide open—and today, like always, she pushed it as far back as it would go before entering the yard. Next, she walked slowly toward Gareth’s door, keeping her eyes peeled for anyone who might be lurking behind a tree or in the shadows at the side of the house. A few times she had seen other guys, losers like Gareth, sitting with him on the stoop, and then she hadn’t come into the yard, just closed the gate again, and kept going. Even with no one here but Gareth, the place gave her the creeps, weird little ghosties hovering in the air. Old houses, she thought, shivering, that were decrepit and ramshackle should be torn down—no exceptions. Pulling her jacket closer, she took one last look around and knocked on the door.
Gareth answered immediately, opening the door just as she was jumping off the stoop. Weird! thought Shir, her heart pounding as she backed up several steps. On each of her previous visits, Gareth had stopped to peer through the venetian blind before opening the door. The guy creeped her out big time.
“Thought you might come today,” he said, eyeing her blearily. As usual, he hadn’t shaved, and his sweatshirt looked as if he had been sleeping in it. “Haven’t seen you since Friday.”
“Been sick,” Shir lied automatically. “I need a couple of beers.”
“Sure, sure,” Gareth said easily. “I’ve got two here for you. Two Molsons. Right here on the kitchen table.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Shir, taking another step back. “And how much are you charging today?”
Before answering, Gareth slid his eyes slowly down to her chest. “Four dollars and fifty cents per can,” he said, clearing his throat. “Or maybe I could let you have them for two-fifty each, if you come inside to get them.”
Stunned, Shir gaped at him. Four-fifty a can! she thought wildly. It was crazy—highway robbery.
“Might even make it to two bucks even,” Gareth added carefully, his eyes sliding even lower, “if you sit down and chat for a bit.”
Shir’s throat tightened. That she needed a beer, there was no question; she was practically going into the shakes at the thought of her first slurp. And she had ten bucks on her, so she could afford two cans. But $4.50 each—the thought of it made her stomach clench.
“What do we have to talk about?” she asked warily.
“Oh, anything,” Gareth said casually. “You make it up, I’ll just listen.”
“Just listen?” asked Shir.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Gareth, stepping back. “Just listen. Promise.”
Shir hesitated. She didn’t like the thought of this—it gave her an ugly feeling, as if a dark, hairy monster was emerging from the back of her neck. On the other hand, it would save her five bucks … six, if she sat down at the table and talked. Cautiously she ran her gaze over Gareth. He looked wasted, worse than usual, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Which meant, she reasoned hastily, that he was probably not at his best, a bit slow on the uptake. Tired out like that, she should be able to beat him to the door if he tried anything. And anyway, what would five minutes’ conversation hurt her? They could talk about the weather—it didn’t have to get personal. Afterwards, she could put the six bucks she had saved toward replacing the runners she had lost at Dana Lowe’s party.
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “Just for a bit.”
“Just for a bit,” Gareth echoed blandly, holding the door open. “Come on in.”
Sinkhole widening in her throat, Shir stepped over the threshold. Immediately, she was hit with the dense odor of moldy bread, garbage that needed to be taken out, and obviously overdue laundry. But there, sitting on the table as if waiting for her, were two cans of beer—Molson Canadian, the magic fluid.
“Go on,” said Gareth to her right. “They’re yours, two-fifty each—if you want them.”
Shooting him a glance, she saw his hand resting on the doorknob. It looked casual enough, that hand, just sitting there gently, not as if it was about to pull the door shut or anything. Uneasily, Shir’s eyes flicked back to the beer on the table. Just a few more steps, she thought longingly, and it would be hers—two cans of the magic, magic fluid. Again, she glanced at Gareth’s hand on the doorknob, then back to the beer on the table. Choices, she thought bleakly. Life was made up of choices: magic fluid or no magic fluid. Swallowing hard, she started toward the table.
Instantly, Gareth slammed the door. Then he was on her, jumping her from behind and shoving her to the floor. But Shir was ready for him, half-turning even as he tackled her, and the first thing she went for was his eyes, digging a finger deep into a tear duct and raking it across his cheek. Letting out a howl, Gareth clutched his face, and she stumbled backward, out of the stench of rancid sweat that surrounded him and up against the sink. Behind her something clattered loudly, and she whirled to see a large pot wobbling on the edge of the counter. Without stopping to think, she picked it up and thunked it hard against Gareth’s head. Silently, his eyes rolling upward, he sank to the floor.
Blood thundering through her body, Shir stared down at him. Is he dead? she wondered faintly. Did I kill him? No, she realized, almost swooning with relief—tiny sounds were coming out of his mouth so he couldn’t be quite dead, at least, not yet.
Which meant she had to get out of there, and fast. Darting to the table, Shir scooped up the beer and took off for the door. But when she turned the doorknob, the door jerked open a few centimeters, then caught on the chain-lock Gareth had slid into place. Swearing loudly, Shir slammed the door, undid the lock, and yanked desperately at the knob. This time the door opened easily, and there beyond it lay the outside world with its vast sweet air, sunshine, and beckoning gate.
Legs suddenly weak, Shir stumbled over the threshold and was halfway across the yard before she remembered: $2.50. Gareth had said $2.50 per can if she came inside, and $2 if she sat and chatted.
Well, she thought, continuing on grimly, he doesn’t deserve it. Not after what he did.
But, the thought came back at her remorselessly, he’s your main supplier. You’re going to need beer again, and soon. And you’re going to have to buy it from him.
Just inside the open gate, Shir came to a halt. Slowly she unzipped her gym bag, set the two cans of beer inside it, and placed the bag next to the fence. Then, heart in mouth, she tiptoed back across the yard and peeked through the open door. Relief flooded her as she saw, not a corpse, but a moaning Gareth, now seated slumped against the wall and clutching his head. A thick welt was rising on one cheek and his left eye swelling badly, but both were open.
Sensing her presence in the doorway, he turned his bleary gaze toward her. For three short breaths they remained like that, silent and staring at each other.
“Five bucks,” Shir said finally, digging into her pocket for a five dollar bill. “You said $2.50 a can if I came inside, and I want them both.”
Laying the money carefully on the stoop, she backed up, turned, and ran for her gym bag and the open gate.
Above the sink, the clock ticked. Across the table, Mom and Stella talked. Head down, Shir sat listlessly pushing a spoonful of macaroni around her plate as her sister regaled their mother with tales about her afternoon gym class. An affectionate smile on her lips, Janice Rutz nodded as Stella animatedly recounted her scintillating conquest of the box horse and parallel bars. From the way she was describing things, Shir thought resentfully, Stella could have been first in line for the next Olympic gymnastics team.
Shir, on the other hand, had dropped Phys Ed as soon as it was no longer a requirement. Even though the classes were segregated, she had discovered way back in junior high that girls were as skilled as guys at getting in their digs. Without warning, locker rooms could morph into an obstacle course of elbows and stuck-out ankles, taunts and jeers that were all the worse when you were dressed only in a bra and panties … and sometimes not even that. Shir hadn’t taken a shower after gym since the time in grade nine when she had turned off the tap to discover her jeans and t-shirt stuffed down a nearby toilet. The toilet had been flushed so the water was clean, but the comments she had gotten as she had pulled on her sopping clothes had contained their own kind of filth.
Today, after escaping Gareth’s kitchen, she had unlocked the Black and taken off at top speed in the direction of the river. But within ten meters, she had skidded to a halt, pulled one of the beers out of her gym bag, and popped the tab. A touch of the magic fluid, that was what she had needed—so badly, her hand had been shaking as she had lifted the can to her lips. But the moment the magic fluid had first touched her tongue had been heaven. There was no other word for it—that honey-golden glory had poured down her throat like absolute nirvana. As she had glugged the can nonstop, the memory of Gareth’s vice-like grip on her arms had faded, and after sucking in the dregs, she’d had to stop herself from reaching for the second can.
Hold off, she had coached herself silently. If you sit down to supper looking like Gareth, Mom’ll be right onto you. Save it for later—bedtime, dream time, magic hour.
Resolutely, she had dropped the empty can into a nearby garbage bin, then headed to Myplace for twenty minutes of solitary peace, which she had spent massaging the sore spots on her arms and watching the swallows fly low over the water. Dumb, she had thought to herself as she’d stared out over the quietly rippling water. Going in there had been dumb—even though the day had been ugly, even though she had needed the beer. Never again would she walk through Gareth’s door, no matter how bad things got. Never.
“One girl,” announced Stella, pulling Shir’s thoughts back to the present tense. “Well, her name is Annie Cooper and she’s a bit of a dweeb … Anyway, she was jumping over the box horse and her foot caught. She went flying off to the side and landed smack on her head. Lucky the mats were down. You should’ve seen the teacher take off toward her.”
“Was she hurt?” asked Mom, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth.
“Nah,” Stella shrugged carelessly. “She got up and walked away. Sat on a bench by the wall for a bit. I think she takes drugs—she’s always half gone.”
Irritation buzzed through Shir like a slow fly. Anyone, she thought sourly, who listened to Celine Dion had nothing to say about anyone else being half gone. “Maybe she was tired,” she muttered as Stella paused to swallow, then froze, realizing her mistake. Drunk or sober, it was never wise to interject a comment into a conversation between her sister and mother. Instantly the mood at the table shifted; forks were laid onto plates, glasses of milk set down, and two pairs of matching narrowed brown eyes focused directly on her.
“Do you know Annie Cooper?” Stella asked slowly.
“Nope,” said Shir, slouching down protectively in her chair.
“Well, I do,” Stella said emphatically. “And I think you should keep your opinion to yourself, especially about things you don’t know anything about.”
In the ensuing silence, Shir could hear the whir of the kitchen clock, keeping pace with the buzz in her mother’s brain as she honed in on her elder daughter, assessing, calculating. One beer, Shir reminded herself. One beer doesn’t cause side effects. Still, something had to happen here, and fast—a distraction, a decoy, a temporary peace offering.
“Maybe,” she said reluctantly, aiming for the kiss-ass tone Stella particularly liked. If Stella was happy, their mother was happy. “I just thought Annie might be having a bad day. You never know.”
Keeping her gaze lowered, Shir held herself tensely and waited out the silence that had descended onto the room. To her right, Stella forked a spoonful of salad and began to chew, bits of celery crunching between her teeth. Abruptly she set down her fork with a clatter. “Is that blood under your fingernails?” she exclaimed.
Shir didn’t need to be told which hand, her eyes zeroing in on her right to see dried blood caked under the second, third, and fourth fingernails. When she had gotten home, she’d brushed her teeth to get rid of the smell of beer, but she hadn’t thought to check her hands for blood … Gareth’s blood.
“I fell,” she mumbled, shoving her right hand into her lap. A wave of nausea washed over her—thick, deep, and ugly. “It happened when I was on my bike, coming down 25th Avenue. My front wheel caught in the train track.”
Warily, Shir darted a glance at Stella, then her mother, to find them both still narrow-eyed and watching her. It was something they did every now and then, the two of them together—just stared … as if Shir was a talking lump, or a weird disease one of the kitchen chairs had suddenly developed. Finally, wearily, Janice Rutz let out a burdened sigh.
“So, Stella,” she said, breaking the invisible log jam of silence. “What happened after your gym teacher helped Annie?”
Stella perked up visibly. “Well,” she said, reaching for the bowl of carrot sticks. “I decided to work on some cartwheels …”
Shir’s shoulders slumped in soundless relief. She had been dismissed, which meant the moment of danger had passed, leaving her once again in the twilight zone, fingerprints of pain throbbing softly up and down her arms as she listened to conversation carried on by the rest of the human race.