Sketches (12 page)

I stood up and brushed off my pants. My knees and back felt sore. Being sore was nothing new. Sore and hungry. Cold and wet. Being on the run meant always feeling at least a couple of those all the time. Add in afraid and uncertain and that pretty well covered the whole experience.

“It smells really good.” I reached out to take a piece.

“Not so fast,” Nicki said. “Look at your hands.”

I held them up. They were a filthy combination of dirt and chalk.

“Take one of these,” Robert said as he offered me a box of Wet Wipes. “It's the best we can do.”

I took two. The white fabric quickly became black. I tossed them in the trash can and grabbed another one as all nine of us tried to get clean. Finally satisfied, I took a piece of pizza.

“Take another one,” Nicki said.

I grabbed a second piece and then took a can of Coke. I retreated over to the little postage-stamp-sized
piece of grass that the city called a park and sat down. I took a big bite of pizza and washed it down with a slug from the can of Coke. It all tasted very good.

“Mind if I join you?” Nicki asked.

“No, not at all.” I shifted slightly to the side to share the spot of grass with her. She settled in beside me.

“No breakfast this morning?” Nicki asked.

“I had a doughnut and a coffee, but I did work up an appetite.”

“And my guess is that it wasn't a very good night's sleep, either.”

“Not great,” I admitted. “How did you know that?”

“Easy. You look like crap!”

“Thanks a lot,” I said defensively.

“I'm not trying to insult you, just telling it like it is. How do you
feel
?”

I didn't answer right away. “Like crap.”

Nicki laughed. “Well, after a couple of good meals you'll feel better.”

“A couple of meals?” I asked.

“Lunch and then dinner,” Nicki said.

“Are you buying us supper as well?”

“Nope. We'll be finished long before then. Hopefully you'll be buying
yourself
a good meal.”

“If I had any money for supper, don't you think I would have bought myself something more for breakfast?” I asked.

“Breakfast I can't comment on, but I know you'll have money for supper. After paying for the pizza and drinks I still have over ninety dollars left from what we've collected today. So even if nobody's dropped in another dime—and I can tell by looking at the hat that that isn't true—you'll still get around ten bucks.”

“I get some of the money?”

“One-ninth of the money. What did you think we were going to do with it?”

“I hadn't really thought about it. I guess I figured it would just go to Sketches, to pay for chalk or your salary.”

“Two-ninths of it will go to Sketches because Robert and I are two of the people who helped to create the art.”

“But what about Becca?” I asked, pointing at the other counsellor. “Doesn't she work for Sketches too?”

Nicki shook her head. “She's a professional artist who lives in the community.”

“But I always see her there, and she's always helping people. She
acts
like she works there.”

“And how exactly do people who work at Sketches act?” Nicki questioned.

“I don't know . . . like they know their way around . . . helpful.”

“Helpful is good, and she certainly does know her way around Sketches. She's been there longer than I have,” Nicki explained. “She's one of our alumni.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that she started in the program the same way you did. She was a street kid who just dropped in occasionally. But she kept coming, and took some courses from us, and one thing led to another.” Nicki shrugged. “Now she has a place to live and makes money from her art.”

“She does?”

“Her paintings are quite good. Her work has been exhibited in galleries around the city. I think one of the art critics in the paper described her work as ‘fresh, raw, and real.'”

“That sounds pretty good.”

“And pretty expensive. Becca told me one of her latest works went for over a thousand dollars.”

“But if she's making all that money, why does she come down here to earn a few bucks with chalk?” I asked.

“It has nothing to do with the money. She always gives it to Sketches to buy new supplies. Who do you think bought all this chalk?”

“She did?”

“That and paint and some clay. She's always free to do what she wants with the money she earns today, just as everybody else is. She can afford to give back and she wants to, so she can repay what was given to her. Someday, that might be what you'll do when you make it.”

“You think I could be an artist?”

“Could be,” she said. “You have a lot of talent. But it could be that you make it in another way.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Not everybody is going to be a professional artist. The graduates of Sketches go on to do lots of other things—people have become construction workers, youth workers, bakers. Where do you think we get our endless supply of bagels and buns and muffins? Billy works over at Buns Master, apprenticing to become a baker. He makes sure the owner lets us have all the dayold stuff. And the construction at the centre is being done by another one of our former kids, Brian. People just feel good about paying back the help we've given them, like I know you will someday.”

I didn't answer. I didn't know if I'd ever be in a position to help anybody with anything.

“Of course with you, we're still missing the important first step,” Nicki said.

“What step is that?”

“We still have to help you.”

“You have helped me! You are helping me! You bought me lunch today, and I'm getting money from this, and you let me do some paintings, and I had some bagels and muffins before.”

“There's a whole lot more than that we can offer,” Nicki said.

I wasn't sure I was ready for anything more.

“We're an art drop-in centre, and that's our primary goal, our mission. But we're also connected to all the other services in the city. I
know
all the services in the city, and more important, the people who run them. If you have a problem, I just might have an answer to where you could go and who you could talk to.”

“What sort of problem?” I asked hesitantly.

“Like if you need a place to live, or food, or clothing, or medical treatment, or—”

“Medical treatment?” I asked, cutting her off.

She nodded. “We have connections with doctors and health centres that can offer advice or treatment for sexually transmitted diseases, birth control, drug and alcohol counselling—”

“What about if somebody was hurt?” I paused. “Beaten up.”

“You were beaten up?”

“Not me. I'm fine. It's my friends.”

“Is that what happened last night that caused you to lose sleep?”

I didn't want to answer, but I nodded my head ever so slightly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Nicki asked.

“No,” I said. “Talking about it won't change anything. I just want to know if there's somebody who could look at them, to see if they're all right. Like a doctor or somebody like that.”

“I can arrange it,” Nicki said.

“And they won't have to pay, will they? Because we don't have any money.”

“No cost and no hassle. They won't even have to give their names if they don't want to. How badly are they hurt?”

“Bren—” I stopped myself. I didn't want to give out his name. It was something I'd learned. Never give out information you didn't need to give out. “My one friend was hit in the head and his face is all scraped up, and my other friend got kicked in the side and her ribs are sore, and she says it hurts to breathe deeply.”

“She might have broken or cracked ribs,” Nicki said. “It's important to have them looked at. If she doesn't get them properly treated she could get pneumonia. And the hit in the head could have caused a concussion. Did your friend pass out?”

“Not pass out, but he was dizzy and not very steady on his feet.”

“Sounds like a concussion. He needs to see somebody. They both need to see somebody. Tell you what, right after lunch I'll go and make a couple of phone calls. I'll find somebody for them to see.” She paused. “Who did this to them?”

“I don't know.”

“You weren't there, or they didn't tell you, or you don't know the people, or you don't want to tell me about it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She snorted. “Yes to which part?”

“Yes to most of it.”

“But you didn't get hurt, right?” Nicki asked. Again she sounded so concerned that I felt bad not telling her, not trusting her with more.

“They didn't hurt me.”

“But you were there?” Nicki asked.

“I was there,” I said softly.

“And they didn't touch you?”

“I didn't say that,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

Nicki reached over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you're okay?”

My whole body shuddered and I had to fight to hold back tears. “They didn't hurt me . . . I'm okay. It's my friends I'm worried about.”

“Me too,” Nicki said. “If I arrange for them to see somebody, will they go?”

“I'll
make
them go!”

“Sounds like you're a good friend and they're lucky to have you around.”

“I'm lucky to have
them
around,” I said. “And I'm worried about them.” When I left that morning Ashley was clutching her side, and Brent was complaining about how much his head still hurt.

“I'll arrange for the doctor and you arrange for them to go and see her. Okay?”

“Okay.”
Nicki smiled. “Now, that wasn't too hard, was it?”

“It wasn't hard at all.”

“Sometimes it's difficult to trust people. But we're here to help in any way we can. Now you finish up your lunch, get back to work, and I'll take care of business.”

CHAPTER TEN

“
IT
'
S NOT MUCH FARTHER
,” I said.

“Good, because I'm really not enjoying this little stroll, and you still haven't told us where we're going,” Brent muttered.

“It's a surprise.”

“I've had lots of surprises in my life and not many of them have been good ones,” Brent said.

“I hear that,” Ashley agreed in a soft voice. “Come on, Dana, where are we going?”

“We're going to see a doctor.”

Brent skidded to a stop. “I'm not going to any hospital!” he protested.

“Nobody said anything about a hospital. It's a clinic—a clinic where the doctors take care of people from the street. For free.”

“I've heard about places like that,” Ashley said.

“I'm not going,” Brent insisted.

“You have to go,” I pleaded. “You probably have a concussion, and Ashley may have cracked ribs.”

“Since when did you become a doctor?” Brent asked sarcastically.

“I'm not a doctor, but I did take a first aid course,” I said.

“Was that before or after your hip hop lessons?” Ashley asked sarcastically.

“Same time,” I said, answering the question but ignoring the shot. “Besides, that's what Nicki told me.”

“Nicki from the drop-in centre?” Ashley asked.

“Yeah.”

“Great, just what I need, to get my medical advice from somebody who works in an art drop-in centre!” Brent snapped. “Did she paint you a picture of a doctor?”

“How about you stop being such a jerk and listen to what I have to say!” I answered sharply. “She knows lots of things besides art, and she's smart enough to know that you two need to see a doctor.”

“I'm fine!” Brent said.

“Are you?” I asked. I turned to Ashley. “Are you?”

She didn't respond at first, and then she shook her head.

“I know it still must hurt, and you're having trouble breathing, right?”

“It hurts a lot,” she admitted. “When I take a deep breath it feels like somebody is sticking a knife into my lungs.”

I turned back to Brent. “And you're not going to tell me that your head isn't still hurting at least a little.”

“That's where you're wrong,” he said. “It isn't hurting a little . . . it feels like it's going to split in two.”

“You are such a jerk sometimes,” I said. “Quit giving me a hard time and let's have you both looked at. Nobody's going to give you a hassle. Nicki said you don't even have to give them your names if you don't want to.”

“And how does she know that?” Brent asked.

“She knows because she arranged it. So how about if you just shut up for a while and let's get the two of you checked out.”

“
WHICH ONE OF YOU IS DANA
?” the woman asked as she walked into the gloomy, dirty, waiting room. It looked more like the sort of place where you'd catch a disease than where you'd be cured of one.

“I am,” I said as I put down the newspaper.

“And you have two friends with you, right?”

“Yeah, these two,” I said, motioning first to Ashley and then to Brent.

The waiting room was crowded with kids, street kids, and older street people, the sort who slept on heating grates and pushed around shopping carts filled
with garbage. There was one woman sitting in the corner having a loud argument with herself—and she seemed to be losing.

“All three of you come this way,” the woman said.

The chair I was sitting on groaned as I got to my feet. I was happy to follow her, happy to leave the crowded, foul-smelling room. We entered a little examination room—there was another woman waiting there. She looked young.