CHAPTER THREE

“Do you have enough bus fare for me too?” she asks.

You nod. And she walks away from the school, obviously expecting you to follow. You do.

As the bus starts up the ramp onto the Granville Bridge, your heart picks up its pace, excitement zips through your jaw, your scalp, your gut.

On the other side, you press your face to the window and gaze at the kids leaning against the theatre wall, the dogs, the vendors’ set-ups. You watch for the girl with the cat. If you see her, maybe you’ll get off the bus right here. But you don’t see her and the bus passes on. When it turns onto Hastings, your excitement is heightened by dread. You feel slightly sick. Are you really truly doing this?

Michelle chatters nervously, surprising you, but she doesn’t say a word about where you are headed, and you don’t ask. That might stop what you are doing somehow, and it seems like the only option, the only thing that will clear your head.

Even at ten thirty in the morning, Main and Hastings is a busy place. Busy on the sidewalk, that is. You try to look casual as you step off the bus, to swagger into the small crowd—mostly men—not cower close to the curb, but it’s different here. Not like Granville at all. The people are older, mostly. They seem rougher, tougher. And there are more of them. Way more. And not mixed with the shoppers and the business people and the movie-goers. Despite your best efforts to appear calm, you feel yourself veer away from the bodies, arms close to your sides, purse clutched tight.

“Michelle,” you call out, but you don’t want to draw attention to yourself and your voice does not reach her ears.

You walk faster, eyes on the ground, only to stumble into her where she waits outside a door between two buildings. On one side is a store, barred windows stacked with packages, on the other a hotel with grubby windows in which several faded plastic plants gather dust.

Michelle presses a buzzer, waits for an answering buzz and gives the door a good shove. It swings open onto a flight of stairs leading straight up. You look to the top and see a man peering down at you.

“Who’s there?” he shouts.

“It’s me,” Michelle shouts back, her foot on the first step. “Michelle.”

It takes him a moment to answer, and you wonder how she ever ended up here. Did someone bring her here just like she’s bringing you, or did she find it all by herself?

At last he calls, “Come on up. Bring your friend.”

He watches as you trudge your way up and looks you over as you get closer. He’s a big guy—not old, you think—with scruffy black hair and a smile that eases your nerves, just a little. He holds out a hand and you take it; his grasp is warm and strong, and lingers just a bit longer than you like.

Michelle pushes past you and stops. “Is Marcos here?” she asks.

Michelle clatters off down the long hallway and through a door. The man turns back to you.

“I’m Jim, by the way. We’ll just hang out here and give them a minute.”

After a moment you say, “Kaya.”

You hate standing on that scrappy carpet under a bald light bulb, while Michelle is in an unknown room with an unknown man. Jim rolls a cigarette on the spot and takes a few drags, his hacking, wet cough surrounding you with smoke. He doesn’t question you, but he does look you over once or twice, his face blank.

Eventually he grunts and sets off and you follow him down the hall and through the door. The place is awful: not an apartment like you were expecting, but only a room with a sink in the corner. The stained mattress has no sheets on it, just a tangle of dirty quilts. The one small table is adrift in empty bottles and other garbage. The grubby window is open, but the air in the room stinks of cigarette smoke and dirty clothes and bodies and stale beer. It takes a few moments to take in all of this, however, because there is your friend, hunched on the bed, a boy at her side, and he’s right in the middle of sticking a needle in her arm.

“Michelle, what are you …?” You stop as you feel Jim behind you, hands on your shoulders. Michelle looks up, the spark in her eyes all gone.

You hear Jim take a breath to speak, but Michelle speaks first. “Hey, I got you here, didn’t I? This is what you wanted, right?”

Michelle lowers herself back onto the bed, and Marcos turns his attention to his own arm, showing no interest in you. Jim grasps your elbow. Hard.

“Let’s grab a coffee,” he says. “We’ll talk.”

You pull away from him and take two steps toward the bed. “No. I can’t leave her. It’s my fault she’s …”

“She doesn’t need you right now, honey. Can’t you see how happy she is?”

You look down at her, lying across the bed now, head rolled to one side. Happy doesn’t seem like the right word, but clearly she has done this before. And she was eager to bring you downtown because she wanted this. She wants to get high. She wants to escape her life. Well, you understand that. Though you’ll never do what she’s doing, no matter how much you want to forget.

You turn and look at Jim now and the word pimp leaps into your mind. Pimps and drugs go together, right? If you leave Michelle alone now, will men rape her? Is Jim going to take you somewhere all on your own where men can give him money for you? You feel frightened but also curiously detached at the thought. Kind of floaty. The instinct to protect Michelle is strong. The horror at what Michelle is doing is real. But the nervousness that clung to you all the way downtown on the bus is gone.

You smile. “Let’s go!” you say to Jim.

Once you are seated, Jim leans back in his rickety plastic chair and signals to the waitress.

You squirm in your seat, breathing the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer, staring at the stained table. When you glance up, Jim’s eyes are on you, and you look back down. He is nothing like any man you have ever met before. Not even … but you nix that thought quick.

The waitress runs a dirty cloth over the table and plunks down a jug and two big hard-plastic cups. Jim pours and drinks.

At last he speaks, slow, with a drawl. “So, did the girl bring you or did you bring her?”

You open your mouth. “I …”

He waits a moment, then says, “Not much of a talker, are you.”

Your mouth snaps shut. You look at him, proving him right.

The answer to his question sits in your mind, heavy and sticky. You brought her and the reason for that is … The reason for that is …

Without planning it, you say, “My dad died.”

He looks at you, brows raised. “Your dad died.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me that because …?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just really messed up.”

Jim smiles briefly.

Your eyes stay on his face, trying to read it, to figure out what kind of help he is offering you. The same kind of help he gives Michelle, most likely. That isn’t what you came here for. Is it?

The door to the bar opens and bodies and voices swirl in together. “Hey, Jim.”

“Hey, kiddo.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that. Who’s this you’ve got here?”

The woman speaking is young and pretty. That’s what you see first. Her hair is curly black and she has lots of it—it’s kind of like yours. Her skin isn’t far off your colour either, but everything else about her is different: her dress, skin-tight; her makeup and nails, perfect. She has broken away from her group to speak to Jim, and now she turns her attention on you.

“I’m, uh, I’m Kaya,” you say, hating the catch in your voice. Here is somebody female who knows how to live in this world. You can’t imagine this woman living in a nasty hotel room like Jim’s, or knuckling under to a guy like him either.

“I’m Sarah,” she says, pulling out a chair.

“Hey!” one of the women in the group calls out. She’s tall, skinny, teetering on heels, gesturing broadly with long arms. “You’re with us, Blackie.”

You tense, but Sarah seems relaxed.

“Hang on to yourself,” she calls back, grinning at her friend before she turns again to you.

Jim puts his hand on your back, and Sarah looks down her nose at him.

“How long have you known Jim here?” she asks you.

You look at your watch, and she laughs. “Hands off, Jim,” she says, her voice light, playful. “She’s just a kid.”

You straighten. “I am not. I’m … I’m …” But you can’t bring yourself to lie to her. You are just a kid.

“See ya, Jim,” Sarah says, and to you, “Come on, uh … what did you say your name was?”

“Kaya.”

“Come on, Kaya.”

You’re happy to blow off Jim, but you balk at joining the others at their table.

“It’s all right,” Sarah says. “They won’t bite.” She laughs. “Right, guys? At least, they won’t draw blood.”

The scowler lets her eyes pass over you—scratchy, her gaze feels, while it lasts, which is only for a moment. Neither of the others looks up. You have to force yourself to sit.

Are they high? You have no clue. You don’t think so. Are they prostitutes? You don’t know that either, but you guess that the stilettos mean they are. Well, maybe not the one in the sweats.

As the glasses empty, the scowler turns her attention back to you. “So what’s up with the kid?” she says to Sarah. “Is she your new little trainee? You going to raise her up? Be her grand protector?”

“Shut up, can’t you?” Sarah says, looking sideways across the room at Jim, who moved tables when you abandoned him, joining the pair of guys who looked up when you entered the bar. “I was just getting her away from him. You know he chews them up and spits them out.”

“He got me up and running,” the woman with the ruffled blouse says. “And look at me.”

You do, and you can’t tell if she is being sarcastic or dead serious. She doesn’t look great. She looks worn out. Worn through.

“He’s no worse than anyone else,” she adds.

The knotted T-shirt woman speaks then, but so quietly that all of you could have missed it if her words hadn’t fallen into a moment of quiet between songs. “What about your Charlie?” That’s what she says.

“I’m worried about my friend,” you say as you half jog along at her side down Hastings. “I left her in a hotel room with this young guy, Marcos. A friend of Jim’s. She was shooting up.”

Sarah stops. “Jesus,” she says. “Well, that’s what happens in Jim’s hotel room. That’s what happens in a lot of hotel rooms. That and other stuff.” She stands still then, sheltering herself from the rain under an overhang, and asks you a few questions. At last she starts walking again, and you go back to jogging along at her side.

“I’m not sure if you can help her right this minute, Kaya,” she says. “It sounds like she knows what she’s doing. She took you there, right?”

You nod, thinking about that, about people leading other people into danger. Today wasn’t the first time someone did that to you.

For a moment you are angry with Michelle, and it feels kind of good, this cloak of anger. But Michelle was perfectly safe at school just this morning, far from drugs and needles and all the other nameless dangers. You knew that she had been in trouble downtown. And you used that knowledge to get what you wanted. You might as well have walked right up to her at school and jabbed a needle into her yourself.

The anger slithers away, and your skin twitches at the shame that clings to you in its place.

People say hello back, but Sarah never stops and she never introduces you to anyone.

You look and you don’t look, not wanting to see the dirt, the misery, or, even worse, the fact that all that dirt and misery is attached to human beings. What are you doing here?

Then Sarah slows down. You are approaching a corner. PRINCESS AVENUE, the sign says. A corner store. And on the other side of Princess, the Union Gospel Mission down the block, and closer, two little grey houses, a matched set.

“This is where I get off,” she says, pointing at the closest of the houses. “And this is where you get on.”

You look at her, puzzled, and she grins. “On a bus, that is!” She seems awfully pleased at her own cleverness.

“But …” You aren’t sure what to say, how to argue. “I … I just got here.”

“That, Kaya, is the very best time to leave. Trust me,” she says. Then, “I’m kind of busy here, actually.”

She doesn’t invite you into her house. She doesn’t take you somewhere to talk. She doesn’t tell you to come back sometime. She just ushers you toward the bus stop. You swallow thick hurt and take a step away from her.

“All right,” you say, defeated. “I’ll catch a bus.”

“Do you have some money?”

You nod, even though all you have is a handful of coins in your pocket.

“Goodbye,” you say, hating how tiny your voice is.

She looks into your eyes, and, almost as an afterthought, points again at the little house, its front step overgrown, its front windows boarded up. “If you ever need me, knock at the back door. Ask for Blackie.” A pause, her eyes locked on yours. “Well, off you go, then.” And she turns away.

Obediently you start walking back the way you came. When you look back, a few doors down, Sarah is gone. If only she had invited you in.

A bus is coming, but you ignore it. You don’t have the right change anyway.

After an absence of an hour or so, Michelle is back in your head. She seemed to trust Marcos, but from what Sarah said, you know that she thought she was rescuing you from Jim. And what does that say about Jim’s young friend?

It takes forever to find the building again. Your stomach grows demanding at a certain point and you pick up a couple of Chinese pork buns. You walk extra fast as you pass the hotel where Sarah found you with Jim. You don’t want to run into him, or any of those women. Your stomach churns at the thought of facing the scowler all on your own.

You stand and gaze at the buzzers. Five of them, grimy; the spots for names, empty. What should you do? Press them all? Your finger hovers, but before you commit, feet clatter down the stairs and Marcos himself barrels out the door almost right into your arms.

You move around him and stick your foot in the door before it swings shut. “Marcos,” you say.

He looks at you, and you find yourself staring at his eyes; his pupils have disappeared. You resist the temptation to say Anybody home? and after a moment you see a glimmer of recognition.

“You’re her friend,” he says slowly.

“Yes,” you say. “I need to get her now. We need to go.”

“I don’t think …” he begins, glancing back up the stairs, his eyes flicking nervously.

Marcos rattles up the stairs after you, but you get to the room before he does and the handle turns when you try it. You push it open and stand in the doorway, adjusting to the dim light. The room looks much as it did earlier, except that a second figure is in the bed, making a hump in the quilts. You don’t have to look to be pretty sure it’s Jim, snoring away. Michelle, on the other side of the bed, is kind of propped up against the wall. Marcos stops behind you.

“You can’t be here,” he says slowly, quietly so as not to disturb the hump.

You ignore him and step forward. Michelle is awake, you realize, as you see her head shift, her gaze lift, peer out. “I’m here,” you whisper, hoping she will hear, hoping Jim will not.

At the bottom of the bed, you stop, lean forward, grab a foot. “Let’s go, Michelle,” you say. “Let’s get out of here.”

Slowly, slowly, she loosens herself from a quilt and wriggles your way. You turn your eyes away when you realize she has no clothes on her bottom half, and scrabble around on the floor for her pants. You get her onto her feet and into her pants and turn toward the door. Marcos is long gone. The heap on the bed shifts once and you both freeze, but all that emerges is a snorty snore.

Nobody stops you on the stairs, on the street, at the bus stop. Your left arm tight around Michelle’s waist, you jam coins into the slot on the bus until one then two transfers pop out at you.

Your head rears up and you sneer, but Michelle tugs at you. “Just get the tickets,” she says.

So you do, relief at the sound of her voice washing away your anger. The two of you teeter to the back, giggling as you bump into people, grabbing at each other and the backs of seats for balance. You swing into the best seat, the one at the rear, nothing but bus behind you. Michelle has the window, and you sit back a bit and look at her. Is she all right?

She smiles kind of shyly. Her eyes look funny, like Marcos’s but more so. She seems swirly, mushy, somehow. But she leans into your shoulder and you feel the contact all the way through you. It’s real, meant. You manage a bit of a lean back.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” she says.

“I couldn’t just leave you there,” you say, remembering that you did exactly that and that you even considered going home without her. You look her over again. “Are you all right?” you ask. “That man, Jim, was there.” You pause. “In the bed.” You want to add, and you were naked. But you can’t say those words. “Do you … do you need to go to the hospital?”

She leans back as you speak, her eyes sliding shut, her head lolling.

She sleeps the rest of the way, while your thoughts grind your brain down to a pulp. The light is fading by the time you steer her off the bus. You see her to her door, even wait while she walks through it. After that, you are all alone with yourself.

Your own house is only three blocks away. You wander down Eleventh and turn at the corner, one foot in front of the other. It would be nice to get home where it’s warm. Your bed is there, unmade perhaps, but clean and sheeted. The fridge is there. The TV is there.

And Mom and Beth. Looking at you, thinking about you, worrying about you. You stop and look back the way you came, toward that bus stop. You think of Sarah. Her straight back. Her strong shoulders. Yes, she told you to go home, but if home is supposed to be so great, why doesn’t she go to hers? She’s obviously sorted out a way to live downtown and keep a spring in her step. If you told her … If you explained …

Your transfer is still good.

The bus passes you just as you reach Tenth Avenue, sending a wall of water over the curb. Three people at the stop down the street start putting down their umbrellas and shuffling forward. You pick up your pace. Perfect timing! Then, it seems as if the bus and the people speed up and you slow down. If you shout, you think, it will come out all stretchy and weird. In an instant, the bus has swallowed the people and their umbrellas. It pulls away. You wave and shout, your voice sharp and ordinary—not stretchy at all—to no effect.

By the time the next bus comes, your transfer will be worthless. You upend your purse onto the sidewalk and examine the coins you have left: three dollars and forty-seven cents. That will get you on the bus and leave you with less than a dollar once you get down there.

Even with that knowledge, even with the rain dribbling down your neck, even with your body’s shakes and shivers, you stand there. A man strides past, his muttered “Excuse me” code for What are you doing standing in the middle of the sidewalk in the rain?

“Fuck you,” you mutter at his back, not loud enough for him to hear. Your teeth crash together, chattering, on the you. You almost stomp your foot as you turn and head for home.

Beth is on her way down the stairs when you open the door, and she stops on the third step from the bottom, eyes widening in relief. “She’s here!” she calls, and Mom comes charging out of the kitchen.

You close the door behind you and shrink against it for a moment. Then, “Yeah, I’m here,” you say sharply to your mother as you shove your way past Beth and head up the stairs. “I’m here, and I need some dry clothes.”

“When Beth came home alone, I called the school,” Mom is saying as you close your bedroom door. “They said you—”

A small knock interrupts you minutes later as you strip off your wet clothes. The door inches open. It’s Beth.

“Are you all right?” she says as you bound across the room and slam the door on her.

“I’m fine, Beth. Fine,” you say through the closed door. “Just leave me alone. Please!”

There. That should do it. You even said please. Why are they freaking out so much anyway? It’s not even suppertime. You’ve been away way longer than this.

You pull on a flannel nightshirt and huddle on your bed, drawing the quilt around yourself, letting the warmth seep in. As your body stops shaking, hunger asserts itself. Why, oh why, didn’t you stash some food in your room? And where’s Sybilla?

When you look at your clock, you’re shocked that it says four thirty. It seems impossibly early and impossibly late, both at the same time. You doze a bit. Wake again. Six o’clock. After that, you lie awake, watching that clock and waiting. For what, precisely, you can’t say.

Over and over, your mind takes you back to the sight of Michelle, scrambling, bottomless and barely conscious, out of that bed. Diana wanders into your mind. It takes all your concentration to get her out again.

Not long after that, your hunger turns ravenous. Pork buns long gone. At six thirty, Mom taps on your door.

“Supper’s ready, honey.” Long pause. “Would you like me to bring you up a plate?”

You slide onto the floor and dig into an ancient toy chest full of old dolls and dress-up clothes, reaching underneath everything and feeling around until you come up with a little girl’s diary complete with lock. Scissors. Scissors. It takes you a minute, but you find those too, and snip, the piece that holds the book closed is no more.

You flip through quickly, looking for the blank part, not interested in reading your nine-year-old drivel. Not interested at all. Blank page found, you forget your grumbling gut for a while, you forget that strange and terrible trip downtown, as you create a list, a catalogue, of your sister’s various stupidities.

At last, at eight o’clock, the house settles, grows quiet, and you shove the diary right back where you found it and head downstairs. Sybilla rises from the carpet. You sink to your knees, wrap your arms around her and bury your face in her fur, and remember. One sob, big and deep. She wriggles against you. She has love to spare and she knows nothing of the deep dark dirty places inside of you. Another sob, this one even deeper.

“Kaya?”

Beth has followed you down the stairs. She is standing behind you, her path to the kitchen blocked by the pair of you: happy dog, sad girl. She looks desperate. Terrified.

You feel the skin pull back from your teeth; your eye sockets clench.

Beth stands for a long moment looking at you. Then she turns and runs back upstairs.

Sleep comes then, easy.