Sketches (4 page)

Brent started for the door.

“Brent . . .?” Ashley called, and he stopped and turned around.

“Don't worry,” he said. He opened the door and left.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Ashley said. “Well, nothing much.”

I gave her a questioning look.

“A couple of times Brent took our money and went to get food, but he didn't get food.”

“What did he get?”

“He got stoned,” she explained.

“Brent did that? That doesn't sound like him.”

“It was a long time ago,” she said. “Like, over a month. Besides, he doesn't even do drugs now.”

“What do you mean? I've seen him smoke dope before.”

“Oh, that was just marijuana. He doesn't do any real drugs.” She paused. “I also told him if he ever did that to me again I'd make him pay . . . I told him his life was worth more than twenty bucks.”

Ashley had such a hard look on her face, I knew she wasn't just joking around. Ashley was pretty tough, and I knew I never wanted to get on her bad side. A few weeks ago I would have crossed the street to walk on the other side if I'd seen her coming.

“Can I ask you something?” I began.

“Sure.”

“That cop . . . he said . . . he said that he might do something worse than just arrest me if he saw me again. What did he mean?”

“He meant that he might smack you around.”

“He'd do that?”

She laughed. “You sound surprised.”

“But police can't just hit people.”

“They're cops. They can do anything they want.”

“But it's illegal to just hit somebody. It's against the law!” I protested.

She laughed louder. “You really are from the suburbs.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that the only contact you've probably had with cops is when they gave your parents a speeding ticket. It's different down here. Cops do some things that aren't exactly by the book.”

“You're telling me that all the cops downtown smack people around?” I asked.

“Not all cops,” she said. “Most of them are okay, but not all of them.”

“And you've seen this?”

“I've seen lots of things. Some guy doesn't do what the cops say, or maybe resists them, and then one thing leads to another.”

“Have you ever been hit?”

“I've been pushed around before, but never hit. Like I said, just don't resist. If they say to move along, just move along. Don't argue, don't give them any lip or attitude, and you'll be okay.”

I decided right then that no one was going to have to tell me twice. I wasn't going to give anybody any attitude. If a cop ever told me to leave, I'd just leave.

There was still one thing that nagged at me.

“The cop said that every kid on the street hooks . . .
everyone
.”

“Not everyone,” Ashley said.

“That's what I thought. I'd never do that!” I protested.

Ashley didn't answer right away. “You should never say never.”

“I
know
I'll never hook.”

Ashley gave me a look—a look of despair and anger and upset and disbelief and so many other things that I couldn't understand. “There was a time when I thought the same thing.”

“Have . . . have you?” I asked, the words jumping out before I realized what I was saying.

She didn't answer.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I shouldn't have asked . . . it's none of my business.”

“That's okay,” she said. She sat there in silence, staring at the wall. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “you do what you have to do . . .”

THE HOT WATER
streamed down my face and body. I'd almost used up the little bar of soap scrubbing my body, trying to remove the dirt and sweat and smells that had accumulated since I'd last showered—hard to believe that was over three weeks ago. I would have felt bad about using up so much soap, but there was a second bar, sitting on the sink, that Ashley and Brent could use.

I unscrewed the top on the little container of shampoo and conditioner and smelled it; it was some sort of peachy fragrance. Not my favourite, but beggars
can't be choosers, and I guess I was a real beggar now, after all. It wasn't like at home where there were a dozen different types of shampoo for different types of hair, as well as conditioners and special shower gels. Sometimes I thought my friends and I spent more time worrying about what was
on
our heads than what was
in
our heads. I wondered what Sarah and Samantha were doing right now. Probably watching TV or talking on the phone to each other or on MSN or . . . what was the point in thinking about any of that? I wondered if they thought about me the way I still thought about them. Would they have any idea at all about what was happening to me now?

I tipped the shampoo into my hand, careful to use only one-third of the bottle. I put it down and then, with both hands, worked up a lather of suds in my hair. The smell got stronger as the suds built up. I ducked my head under the stream of water and started to rinse out the soapy lather. I worked it around and around; the water pulsated through my hair against my scalp. It felt so good: the hot water massaging my head, the feel of my hair—squeaky and clean—the steam rising up, the sweet, peachy smell. I could have stayed in the shower for hours . . . that's what my mother used to say I did. She'd yell up the stairs for me to hurry or I'd be late for school. She'd even send my little sister up to pound on the door. Boy, it used to irritate me when she did that. All I wanted was to be left alone in the shower,
behind the locked door, the noise of the shower blocking out all the other sounds, blocking out everything.

That was all I wanted to do now, but I couldn't. Ashley needed to take her shower, and Brent might already be back with the food. I wondered how long it would be before I got a chance to have another shower. Just then, I wouldn't even have minded my sister pounding on the door. I missed her a lot. I knew she would be confused by what I'd done—worried, upset. I wished I could have explained things to her, about why I had to leave, but I didn't, and I couldn't. I couldn't tell her. I couldn't tell anybody.

The suds cascaded down my neck and back and front and along my arms. I watched as the water and suds formed ripples as they passed over the little scars that covered my arms. I touched them with my fingers, tracing the lines. They were fading but they were still visible. Some of the marks, the deeper ones, would never fade away.

Tears came. The warm tears flowed down my cheeks and got lost in the water flowing out of the showerhead. I started to sob. My whole body got shaky and my legs felt all rubbery and weak. I slumped down to the tiled floor of the shower. I thought about my sister, and my mother, and my friends, and my school, and my room, and about how I missed every one of them—how I missed them all so much.

And then I thought about my stepfather, and the sobbing subsided and the sadness was replaced. Replaced by anger. And the searing heat of that anger dried up the tears.

CHAPTER THREE

“
NICE WORK
.”

I spun around, surprised by the voice that had called out unexpectedly from behind me. He was old—maybe in his thirties—dressed casually, not big or small, and he had a goofy-looking smile on his face. Maybe it was more of a smirk than a smile. He was by himself, which meant there were only the two of us standing underneath the bridge.

“I really like the way you've used colour,” he said.

I put my hand behind my back to try to hide the can of orange spray paint I was holding. That made no sense. He'd obviously seen me working, and even if he hadn't I didn't think he could miss the twenty-five-footlong piece of graffiti that lined the concrete wall beneath the bridge.

“You don't very often see orange and purple in the same image, but I think you've made it work.” He took
a couple of steps forward and I jumped back, scanning the area to the right-hand side—I could run along the concrete embankment and then get over the fence and—

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said. “Sorry if I frightened you. I'll give you some more space.” He backed away a few steps and I felt an instant sense of relief—although I wasn't letting my guard down for a second. Who was this guy and why was he here and what did he want?

“I saw the start of this piece of work yesterday when I was taking the train home,” he said.

“Train?” I asked.

He smiled. “Oh, good, you can talk.”

I didn't answer.

“The train,” he said, pointing to the tracks across the street and behind a chain-link fence and in front of some derelict buildings. “I caught sight of your image last night, and then this morning on the way in I saw you working.”

I didn't like the thought of him or anybody else being able to see me.

“And I just wanted to come over to have a closer look.”

“Are you a cop?” I asked.

He laughed. “Do I look like a cop?”

I didn't like it when people asked a question instead of answering the one I'd asked.

“If I were a cop, you'd be under arrest already,” he said. I guess he sensed that I wanted an answer.

“If you're not a cop then what are you?”

“Maybe I'm just an art-lover on his lunch hour.”

“Yeah, right, and this is an art gallery.”

“It could be an art gallery, if you consider all the interesting and varied pieces of work that line the walls and buildings around here,” he said.

The bridge abutments, the concrete walls of the flood-control creek, and the abandoned buildings all around here were covered in paint and chalk—words or images or markings—people trying to show their skill or maybe just to let the world know that they did really exist.

“I think if he were a young man today, Picasso would probably be exploring street images.”

“Picasso?”

“A very famous artist. Have you heard of him?”

I snorted. “Pablo Picasso, born on October 25, 1881, in Spain.”

I'd done a project on Picasso for art class last term. He was one of my favourite painters. I loved his abstract vision and the way he used colours. Anybody could paint something the way it actually looked, but he could create a whole new way of seeing things.

“I'm impressed,” he said.

“Everybody's heard of Picasso.”

“Strange as it sounds, some people haven't. And most of those who do certainly don't know his birthday. Did you know that initially his work was dismissed by the art establishment of the day?”

I knew that. I knew lots. But as far as I could tell this conversation was going nowhere fast. Time to get to the point.

“So what's Picasso got to do with
this
?” I asked, pointing at my work on the concrete wall.

“I don't believe he ever did any of his work using a spray can on concrete, but there is an abstract quality to your work. I particularly like that figure on the far left . . . excellent.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. That was actually
my
favourite part of the whole thing . . . no . . . my favourite part was just doing the whole thing. There was something about drawing or painting that just freed my mind up, helped me to escape from the world. Right now it was the only escape I had. It made me feel peaceful. Even though the images I was painting weren't of hearts and flowers and little birdies in trees—more like jagged lines and clashing colours and weird faces—it made me feel good to lay them down. I think Brent and Ashley would have come with me if I'd asked, but I felt pretty safe here on my own. Come to think of it now, though, maybe ditching my friends wasn't such a great idea.

“Do you know the major difference between your work and that of Picasso?” he asked.

I didn't answer. What sort of a question was that?

“Picasso never got arrested for expressing his artistic vision,” he said.

I felt a rush of fear—he was a cop and he was going to arrest me and—

“Don't worry,” he said, reading my expression.

“I'm not a cop. Do I really look like one?” he asked again.

“Cops can look like anything,” I said. I thought about what Ashley had said about some cops roughing people up.

“I guess they could. I just know that if I saw you working down here, somebody else might have seen your work . . . somebody who doesn't have the same appreciation I do for art. What some people see as art, other people see as vandalism. You might want to think about that. How much longer is it going to take you to finish?” he asked.

“I don't know . . . not long.”

“Then don't let me disturb you. I'll stop bothering you and you can get back to work. I'll just go and sit right over there.” He walked over to a cement pillar, wiped it off with his hand, and took a seat.

He was staring intently at the painting, like he was studying it. I watched him closely while he looked at the painting. Who was this guy and why was he here and—?

“Could I ask you one more question?” he said.

I didn't answer, which he took to mean yes.

“Why, specifically, did you choose to use those two colours together?”

“I thought you liked orange and purple.”

“Oh, I do, I was just wondering what led you to make that bold artistic statement.”

I shrugged. “Those were the colours I found in the dumpster behind the hardware store.”

He laughed. “Would you mind if I came back this evening and took some pictures of your work?”

“You want to take pictures of this?” I was having real trouble taking this guy seriously.

“Definitely. If I don't, it will be lost forever. How long do you think it will be before they cover it over with grey paint? I guess that's the other major difference between a street artist and Picasso. City workers never went around and painted over his masterpieces. So, would you mind?”