Theories of Relativity Read online

  Dedication

  For my niece, Melissa Haworth,

  who first said, “I have a theory . . .”

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  I have a theory that every fourth person will give me money. Like any good theory, mine is based on experimentation and observation. It’s time-consuming, but it’s not like I have anything better to do.

  I’m sitting on a low cement wall set close to a glass-sided office tower. My backpack, with a sleeping bag tied to the bottom, is wedged behind me. Safe. A small concrete pool is in front of me. In summer, high arcs of water shoot white foam against a blue sky and people sit here to eat their lunch. But now it’s November and the fountain is turned off. Yellow leaves fill the pool, and cold winds keep people away. Except me. I sit here and ask for money. Every day. Soon the tower doors will open and the first of the lunch crowd will trickle out. In the meantime, a woman pushing a baby stroller comes toward me.

  “Spare change?” I ask. More from habit than expectation. She’s person number one. The woman avoids my eyes and steers the stroller wide of me. I feel she’s alert, scared I might jump up and grab her baby. Maternal instinct in high gear. My mother would have given me away for pocket change—or less.

  A weak shaft of sun pierces the lowering grey sky and slides down the side of the tall brick building opposite, then wavers and disappears. I grimace and push my hands deep into my pockets. I need a heavier coat.

  Person number two is a balding man in a grey suit, overcoat unbuttoned, tails flapping importantly behind. A cyclone of gold and red leaves swirls about him, stirred up by his hurrying feet. His body is tilted slightly to one side by the weight of his briefcase. Lawyer. “Anysparechange?” It’s only a token question. He is, after all, a lawyer. He passes without a glance.

  Person number three barrels from the tower at a trot. She left early to hit the pizza shop, I’m guessing. The line for that place can stretch two blocks. Worth the wait, though. Best pizza in the world: herb tomato sauce, spicy pepperoni, long strings of melting cheese. My stomach growls. It doesn’t help that the sausage vendor is firing up his grill next to the dead fountain. The woman draws level with me.

  “Do you have any spare change?” I feel a slight hope. There are dark half-circles under my eyes and women are sympathetic.

  “Sorry,” she throws over her shoulder as high heels click her away.

  It was only a slight hope. Number four is coming from the tower. A man in his early thirties, slight build, khakis, beige shirt, no tie, bomber jacket, glasses. I like to think I can label anyone these days, and this guy is definitely a technical support geek.

  These tech guys are nerdy but flush with cash. I hear women really go for them. I’d like to be flush with cash and have women plaster themselves all over me. I hold out my hand and debate smiling, then go for the cold, pleading look instead. “Any spare change for a hot drink?” I ask.

  He stops. “I work for my money, you know.”

  That takes me aback. It’s usually the middle-aged guys, bellies straining shirt buttons, foreheads creased with the realization that half their lives are gone and the next half won’t be any better, who say that to me. They jab a finger at me as they talk. “I work for my money.” Jab. “I don’t sit around expecting a free ride.” Jab, jab.

  “You should be in school getting an education, so you can get a job,” he says. “You can’t live all your life on hand-outs.”

  Thank you, number four, for blowing my theory all to hell. I don’t answer. Silence usually makes the finger-jabbers go away. They want confrontation.

  This one doesn’t leave, and that pisses me off. The church tower will soon chime twelve times, and for ten minutes I’ll have a steady stream of people to part from their money as they rush past on their way to lunch. This do-gooder preacher in front of me will keep them away. I sink back onto the wall and lower my head. A grey pigeon pecks at a crust of bread on the ground. If I had seen it first, I would have fought that bird for it. I stare at the tips of the guy’s shoes, black sneakers. Eventually, they turn and leave.

  I look up to see that Jenna has arrived across the street at the Holy Rosary Cathedral. She’s late this morning.

  “Hi, Dylan,” she calls to me.

  She places a basket on the sidewalk outside the black iron gate, then sits beside it. Jenna’s half-starved frame—waiflike, fashion people would call it—is a big hit with the lunch crowd. Add her white-blond hair, mournful blue eyes, and tremulous lips, and people fall over themselves to give her money. She’s new to the street. Been here—I wrinkle my forehead and search my brain. It’s hard to keep track of time, but I think she’s been here for six days.

  The office tower is my turf. The church is her turf, or rather Vulture’s turf. He’s striding up the street right now, anger in every line of his body. His real name is Brendan, but that’s too wimpy for a ruthless bird of prey. He’s a scavenger, picking away at people’s bones for every bit he can get. A vulture. Dollar signs replace his eyeballs, just like in cartoons, when he sees Jenna. She’s a money-maker.

  He shouts at her, mad she wasn’t there earlier. He yanks off her hat, takes her gloves and coat. She tries to grab the jacket back, then quickly subsides. No one gives money to a warmly dressed street kid. He tugs her long hair out of its elastic band and she grabs her head. That must have hurt. Jerk. Arranging the blond hair to frame her face, Vulture places a small blue blanket around her shoulders and tilts her head slightly downward. I suddenly realize what he’s done. He’s recreated every picture I’ve ever seen of the Virgin Mary. All he needs is a baby to place in her lap to complete the look. If she stays on the street long enough, she’ll provide him with that, too.

  He stands back, an artist critically examining his work, then leans forward and pushes her shoulders into a droop. I hate him, but I have to admire this bit of business. Fresh from noon Mass, people will leave the church, hearts overflowing with charity, to find the Madonna smack in front of them.

  “Here.”

  It’s the nerd with the black sneakers.

  “You look like you need this.” He thrusts a sausage on a bun at me.

  I don’t know what to do. The church bells have finished ringing the noon hour. In office cubicles throughout the tower, people will gather up purses and thrust arms into coats. They will push the button for the elevator and tell jokes as they count down the floors, then they will surge through the glass doors. To me. I can’t ask for money while stuffing my face. Yet my stomach insists I have that sausage.

  “Thanks,” I mutter as I take it. I wonder what he wants. That’s another of my theories. No one gives something for nothing.

  But he merely nods and leaves.

  The bun is warm and soft.
Fragrant. My mouth fills with saliva until I’m drooling like the Garbage Man, the psycho who wanders the streets wearing green garbage bags. There’s a ton of crazies living out here. I steer wide of them. Most are harmless, but occasionally you run up against one who’s not. Besides, I sort of worry their craziness might be catching, like the flu.

  I sink my teeth into the spicy sausage. There’s onions and sauerkraut on it. I can’t get it into me fast enough. People flow from the building and part around me. Mouth full, I can’t panhandle. My jaws work frantically, but not fast enough, and I’ve lost the lunch crowd. I’m so stupid.

  A woman shoots me a startled look. I must have spoken out loud. First drooling, now talking to myself. “Any spare change?” I ask her.

  She trips on a crack in the sidewalk in her haste to get away.

  I lick grease from my fingers and wish I could eat the sausage all over again.

  Vulture darts across the road to Jenna, scoops up some change from the basket, and leaves. It doesn’t do to have too much money. It’s a fine balance. Too many coins and people stop giving; no coins and they don’t give.

  Gloomily, I picture the stack of money Vulture has made from Jenna. But at least my theory still holds. Number four came through—even if it was just a sausage.

  Chapter 2

  Jenna dodges a cab and crosses the street to flop down beside me.

  “A good day,” she says. “Brendan had to come twice to get the money. How did you do?”

  I shrug. I have a theory that the best way to communicate is with a shrug. By raising and lowering your shoulders, you can speak volumes. But the real benefit is that every person interprets a shrug to his or her own satisfaction. I shrug and Jenna thinks I’ve done okay, because that is what she wants to believe.

  A gust of wind spins into a mini tornado of dirt and dead leaves that dances down the road and throws grit into our faces.

  “Shit.” Jenna shields her face.

  “You’d think when they put these office buildings on opposite sides of the street, they’d have known the wind would funnel between them,” I say.

  “Who?” Jenna asks, bewildered.

  “The architects, engineers. They have wind tunnels to test this kind of stuff.”

  She looks at me like I’m an alien. I feel my shoulders begin to rise, but I lower them. Why shrug? There’s only one interpretation she could put on me—lame.

  A second blast of wind whips Jenna’s hair about and, when it passes, leaves a silver tendril across the back of my hand. Feather-soft, it burns my skin. My thoughts fly back to when I was a kid, at my grandparents’ farm, a butterfly on the back of my hand, delicate pearl-white wings opening and shutting. I couldn’t believe that something so fragile trusted me.

  “It’s getting cold,” Jenna says. She pulls her coat taut across her breasts.

  “Frost on the pumpkin tonight,” I say absently. My mind is full of her hair on my hand and butterflies—and her breasts.

  “Huh?”

  Yup, I’m definitely lame. “Just something my grandfather used to say. It means it’s going to be really cold tonight. He had a farm. He was a farmer,” I finish weakly.

  Jenna turns her head to look down the street. “Trouble coming.”

  I follow her gaze to a police officer sauntering toward us.

  “Let’s go.” She jumps off the wall and walks rapidly in the opposite direction. I grab my backpack, check that my sleeping bag is securely tied to it, and jog after her.

  “What’s the rush?” I ask.

  “My parents have probably filed a missing person’s report.” Her voice is muffled by her coat collar. She turns a corner and grabs my arm. “In here.”

  She yanks me into the deep-fried warmth of Mandy’s Donuts. Everyone who lives on the street ends up here at some point. It’s the only place that will put up with us—as long as we don’t make trouble and occasionally buy something. I don’t know if there is a Mandy.

  We slide into the booth farthest from the street. Jenna unzips her coat and shakes her hair free. I can smell it, freshly washed. She stayed somewhere last night that had hot water. In the three weeks I’ve been out here, I’ve washed my hair only once. In horror, I shrink back in the booth. If I can smell her, she must be able to smell me. And I stink! I vow that today I will have a good wash at the library bathroom. It didn’t matter a whole lot until now.

  “Want anything?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m not hungry,” I lie.

  “My treat,” she says, and smiles. Her face lights up like there’s a hundred-watt bulb inside her.

  My heart melts. “Fries and a Coke, then,” I croak.

  The sign says Mandy’s Donuts, but they serve everything: bacon, eggs, hamburgers, fries, and, yeah, donuts.

  I watch Jenna walk up the aisle, lean over the counter, and charm the clerk. Acne-faced jerk. All he does is dip frozen fries into hot fat, take money, and say Have a good day, but I can’t even get that job. I know because I tried.

  “You don’t look clean enough,” the owner said. “This is food you’re working around.”

  A few minutes later, Jenna walks back, balancing two drinks and fries piled high in cardboard containers. Charm obviously works.

  I grab ketchup and vinegar and, for good measure, squirt mustard and relish over the fries. It’s all food.

  “So, you think your parents have reported you missing?” I ask. The fries are hot and fresh.

  “Well, Brendan says they probably did. He says I should watch out for police and social services. I’m sixteen in a couple months, so then it won’t matter. He says they can’t touch me once I’m sixteen. He watches out for me.”

  Vulture watches out for his investment. But I know what she means. When you first land on the street, you’re so shit-scared you latch onto whatever security you can find. For me, it was a girl, Amber, who took me under her wing. Also Vulture’s property, I soon found out. People like Vulture know a new street kid is vulnerable and they take advantage of it. I’ve always had to look out for myself, so I saw right through him and kept out of his clutches. But I’m not stupid. I stay out of his way.

  Jenna sticks a straw through the plastic top of her drink. “What about you? Are your parents looking for you?”

  “I doubt it,” I tell her.

  “Why not? Won’t they be worried about you? Do your mother and father live together?”

  That last question surprises me. Out here, we don’t press each other for our stories, our background. Amber told me that. “We might be curious,” she said, “but we give each other our privacy.” It’s a sort of rule. Jenna hasn’t been on the street long enough to know that.

  My fingers search the cardboard container, but I’ve finished the fries. I squirt ketchup over my fingers and lick it off. I’m never full. I think it was one of the reasons I had to leave—or, rather, why my mother kicked me out. Jenna’s a runaway, but I’m a throwaway. Tossed out. Like garbage.

  “Well, I’m sort of between fathers right now,” I say. “There’s been three of them. All losers. Especially my biological father. His name’s Phil, but I’ve never met him.”

  “You’ve never met your father?” She looks incredulous. “And there’s two others?”

  What would she say if I told her about the uncles sandwiched in between? I study her again: the coat, the designer jeans, the sweater. Real money. I’m envious and scornful, but at the same time, I feel a pang of fear for her. No wonder she fell into Vulture’s arms. Her comfortable world was light-years from mine, yet she ran away from it. I was forced from my world. She can always go back. I can’t. I tried. Two weeks ago I pleaded with Mom to let me back into the house. She said no.

  I open my mouth to say my mother’s a whore, but what comes out is, “My mother has trouble making the right choices.” Shit, I sound like an afternoon talk show. Heat rises in my face.

  “What about your grandfather? The ‘pumpkin’ man. Or do you have three of them, too?” She grins, a
nd that beaming face makes me forgive her for her easy life.

  “Just the one,” I tell her. Though there might be another. Mom never talked about her parents. They could be dead for all I know.

  “My mother and father were teenagers,” I tell Jenna. “She was in school until she got pregnant. Just turned sixteen. My father was a year older. When he found out Mom was pregnant, he told the principal to put his head where the sun don’t shine and went off and got drunk for a week. He never showed up for my birth and he left town soon after. End of story.” Shredded cardboard, all that’s left of the container, sits in a small pile on the table in front of me.

  Jenna nods, but her eyes rove around the shop, and I sense she’s anxious to leave. I want her to stay, so I keep talking. “My granddad was my real father’s dad,” I say. “He and my grandmother took care of me a lot.” When Mom wouldn’t or couldn’t, or when the uncles came to stay. “They lived on a farm. Everything was huge there—the barn, the cows, the tractors, the field corn, and my granddad. He was huge, too.” And suddenly I can see him clearly: tall, barrel chest under a flannel shirt, monster hands pushed into worn work gloves. “I followed him everywhere. All over the farm.” And I felt safe.

  “When Pete came, Mom wouldn’t let me go to the farm any more.” I’m babbling. “Pete is my brother Jordan’s father. Granddad came to the house to pick me up and Mom told him I wasn’t there, but I was. Pete had his hand over my mouth. Granddad and Mom argued. She said since my father wasn’t paying support, my grandparents should pay if they wanted to see me. Granddad said he’d take her to court. That’s the last time I saw him. I bit Pete’s hand.”

  I smile at the memory of him jumping around, shaking his hand, screaming and swearing. Not so funny is the memory of the bruises I carried around on my back for three weeks after.

  I hated Pete. He and Mom would get drinking and then they’d fight. It always ended the same way—his fist laying her out on the floor. Then one day he hit Jordan, baby Jordan. She went all crazy and threw his stuff out the front door. That would have had curtains twitching in some neighbourhoods, but fights were so common where we lived, people didn’t blink an eye.