Theories of Relativity Read online

  I fiddle with the straw in my drink, thinking about Jordan. He’s ten and showing every sign of becoming a major pain in the ass. Like his father. Mouthy at home, mouthy at school. Mom does nothing to stop it. So far, I’ve kept him out of trouble, but I’m not there now.

  Jenna must be bored out of her mind. I tell myself to shut up, but my mouth motors on.

  “I packed a bag one day. Thought I’d go live with Granddad. I took one step out the door and it was so black . . .” I catch myself. I almost told her how I was scared of night. Darkness. Still am. “I was just little. I didn’t go.”

  Jenna nods and picks up her drink. As she does, her sleeve slides up to show a purple bruise on her inner arm, about the size of a man’s thumb. She sees me looking and pulls down her sleeve. Her eyes slide over to the door. “Here’s Brendan.”

  Vulture doesn’t look happy as he comes up to us. His employee is eating his profits. I smirk into my drink.

  He pushes in beside Jenna. She scuttles across the seat into the corner of the booth. She watches him with a wary, yet adoring, gaze. I want to kick her under the table and bring her back to reality. The guy is scum.

  I’ve spoken to Vulture before, at Amber’s apartment. He didn’t like me being with her, and I can tell by his face he doesn’t like me being with Jenna, either.

  He takes off his coat to reveal camouflage fatigues and a black T-shirt. Tattoos cover his arms so completely, little skin shows through. Greasy brown hair is pulled into a ponytail and a moustache droops from his lip. But it’s his eyes I find most disturbing. Dark brown predator eyes. Calculating. Watching. He’s not a street person. He just preys on them.

  “Who bought all this?” Vulture waves a hand at the fries and drinks.

  Jenna’s eyes widen in alarm as she realizes her mistake.

  “I did,” I lie. I stare straight in his predator eyes. I read somewhere that if you look a person directly in the eyes and don’t shift your own, it appears you’re telling the truth. I’m good at lying. I’ve had a lot of practice with teachers and principals and other kids. Lying helps you survive in a new school every year.

  “You had a good day?” Vulture asks me. I shrug.

  “I could help you make better money,” he says. He wants me to join his little army of street kids and do his bidding. It pisses him off no end that I won’t. I’ve had invitations from him before, though most people would call them threats.

  “Time to go.” I pull on my coat and tug on the sleeping bag to make sure it’s securely attached to my backpack.

  “There’s a party tonight . . .” Jenna begins. She glances at Vulture.

  He doesn’t encourage her, but doesn’t discourage her either, so she goes on. “Would you like to come?”

  “No, thanks,” I say. A party, a beer, a snort of coke, a joint, a night of warmth off the street and suddenly you’re in Vulture’s grip.

  “No, thanks,” I repeat.

  Chapter 3

  A blast of warm air strikes me as I stride purposefully into the library. I need to look like I belong here. I stand in front of the New Books section, my brain working out how to get to the washroom unnoticed. The entrance is on the right side of the Checkout desk, directly in view of the librarians. The woman at Returns catches my eye, then exchanges a glance with the security guard at his desk. He gives me a hard look from beneath bushy eyebrows. Really bushy eyebrows, like grey furry caterpillars. I grab the nearest book and head to the lounge area. Libraries are forgiving places. As long as nothing drastic happens, they’ll let me stay.

  I shrug off my backpack and settle into a chair. The usual collection of weirdos is here. Some mumble, some tremble, some sit passively for hours, but all possess the same bewildered air, like they were teleported from another planet and don’t quite know where they’ve landed. It hits me that I am one of them now.

  I wind the strap of my pack around my ankle. I’ve never expended so much energy protecting a single article as I do for this backpack, but everything I own is inside: my clothes, my music, a sliver of soap, a razor, a ratty toothbrush, photographs. I live in constant fear of losing me.

  The security guard walks through the lounge. I flip the book over and read the title: Albert Einstein: Father of the Theory of Relativity. As the guard nears, I raise the book so he can see the title and know that only someone seriously serious about reading would choose a book this boring. My eyes pick out a line to read: Einstein’s theory deals with the concepts of space and time. The guard passes. I peer from behind the book at the old man seated across from me. He stares intently at nothing. He could tell Einstein a thing or two about space.

  I return to the book and study the picture of Einstein, the father of theories. I know who he is—a genius. You can get away with a lot if you’re labelled a genius. You can be rude and people will say, “Don’t mind him, he’s a genius.”

  Clown hair sticks out from Einstein’s head. If that’s what a life of thinking and theories does to you, maybe I should give up my theories, or keep my hair short. He has a slightly befuddled expression on his face. The father of relativity would be right at home with the people in this lounge. Maybe they’re all geniuses.

  Drowsy from lack of sleep, I let my eyes close. A commotion opens them, and I grab my backpack. With an inward groan, I see something drastic about to happen. Twitch.

  “Hiya, Dylan,” Twitch calls loudly. He falls over the feet of the Space Man and into a portable bookstand that skitters across the floor. He scrambles after it, shoving spilled books into the shelves any which way. A man behind the Information desk cranes his neck to see what is going on.

  “Twitch,” I whisper harshly. “Get over here and sit down.” I don’t want to be thrown out of this oasis of warmth.

  His feet fly everywhere as Twitch crosses the room. He plops into the chair next to me, slumps, bounces into a sitting position, then flops back again. One leg jiggles a quick rhythm. Hands twist and turn, then reach to scratch the top of his head, his nose, his chin. There is something seriously wrong with Twitch. Medically wrong. He is never still.

  I am tall and thin, but Twitch towers over me by yet another head. He’s skeletal, skin stretched so tight over his skull, it’s pale blue and transparent. It’s as if his body is living off itself, consuming him from the inside out. This translucence and his clumsiness lend him a desperate air of vulnerability.

  I note the bead of snot on the end of his nose, his more than usual frantic restlessness, and the darting eyes. He’s high. We won’t last five minutes here.

  “What’s happening?” he asks loudly.

  “Quiet,” I tell him. Then, “Not much.”

  “What’s that?” Twitch grabs the book from my lap. He rifles through the pages and stops at the photo of Einstein. “Strange-looking dude,” he comments.

  That’s rich coming from Twitch with his green tufts of hair, multiple rings through his ears, and a painful-looking bolt through an eyebrow. I’d never have all that hardware on my face. One look at a needle and my head turns all woozy.

  “Why do you always come here, man?” Twitch asks. He tosses the book up in the air and catches it. Sets up to do it again.

  “Stop that!” I whisper.

  The book twirls in his fingers. “These people give me the creeps,” Twitch says, pointing at the Space Man. “You should come to the youth centre.”

  “They don’t bother me,” I say. The youth centre is for street kids under twenty-five. I’ve never been and I don’t want to go. I’m not like them. I’m fine here with books and ideas and theories.

  Out the library window, it’s already dark, though it’s only five o’clock. I hate the way night comes early in the fall.

  Twitch tosses the book to me but throws it wide, and it slams on the floor. The Information man is standing now. I had hoped to sit here until the library closed at nine—it makes the time out on the street a little shorter—but Twitch won’t last that long. I’ve been too kind to him. Well, not really kind, jus
t not unkind. Most people are unkind to Twitch, so if you ignore him, he thinks you’re being kind.

  I pull on my coat and shift the pack onto my back. It’s better if I leave. I don’t want to get banned from the library. It’s my only haven. As I pass through the gate, a siren wails. The guard bustles up, caterpillars lowered in disapproval. I realize I’m holding the Einstein book.

  “Sorry. Forgot I had it.” I shove the book in his hands and bolt out of the library, Twitch on my heels. I never did get my wash.

  “Do you have any money?” Twitch asks.

  “No,” I tell him. Tonight it’s the truth, but I’d tell him that anyway. Twitch doesn’t want to feed his stomach, just his veins. I’ve seen his arms. Scars from cigarette burns run up one, and needle punctures down the other. The first put there by his stepfather, the other by Twitch himself—probably to forget the first.

  “Where did you sleep last night?”

  “I didn’t,” I say shortly.

  I’d moved around all night, one step ahead of punks and police and social workers desperate to offer a bed at the men’s shelter. I hear they make you say a prayer there. I don’t know if that’s true, but I don’t think I could stand sixty men’s voices intoning, Now I lay me down to sleep . . . When the first grey light of dawn hit the downtown buildings, I’d breathed a sigh of relief, wrapped myself in my sleeping bag, and slept in a store doorway until I was kicked out by the owner. It’s always a scramble to find a place to spend the night. Sometimes I stay in the donut shop, nursing a coffee for hours. Once in a while, I’ll crash on someone’s couch. Twice I dozed in the park on a bench. But the worst nights are the ones where I wander downtown, freezing, wet, freezing, scared, freezing, exhausted.

  “I know a guy who’ll let us crash at his place,” Twitch says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “He’s nice. He’s got a great apartment.”

  I snort my disbelief. But a warm place, maybe a shower. I want so badly to believe this guy is just nice.

  “We could go see him,” Twitch suggests.

  I can’t face another night like the last one. Tears gather behind my eyes at the thought.

  “Sure, we’ll go see him,” I tell Twitch. If it doesn’t feel right, I can always leave.

  Twitch walks a couple paces in front, turns to face me, then he’s beside me, bouncing, always moving. He wears me out.

  The nice guy lives in an old church converted into apartments, complete with wood trim, arched windows, and high ceilings. Whoever designed these places worked hard to keep the atmosphere. “Great place,” I tell the nice guy, Brad.

  Brad looked decidedly uneasy when he answered the door and saw me standing there. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t have let me in, either. I’d worry that I’d steal myself blind. After a long hesitation, he let us in. “Well, if you’re a friend of Aaron’s.”

  Aaron? That was Twitch’s real name?

  I run my hand over some wood panelling. “Is this from the original church?” I ask.

  “Yes. Quite a bit of the woodwork is restored,” Brad says, thawing visibly. “It dates from 1873.” Brad is in his mid-forties, double-chin, slight paunch, hair slicked over a bald patch he’s trying to outwit.

  “Dylan likes buildings and stuff,” Twitch chimes in. “He says the library is a classic. Especially the gargoyles over the doors.”

  Brad makes three cups of coffee and puts them and a plate of biscotti on a table between two small sofas. “Help yourself,” he says.

  And I do. Three cookies are rapidly washed down by hot, strong coffee. I’ve had no supper. I try to imagine myself with a job, coming home to a place like this, to coffee and biscotti.

  “Want one?” Brad holds out a small box of pills, some blue, some yellow.

  “No, thanks,” I tell him. My muscles tense.

  Brad nods and offers the box to Twitch, who eagerly takes two pills. Brad pops one himself, then closes the box.

  I relax, surprised that he didn’t push them on me.

  He puts on music and we sit. My eyes begin to close, but I force them open.

  “Do you mind . . .” I begin. I hate asking people for favours. It leaves me obligated. “Do you mind if I have a shower? I have my own soap, and I won’t use your towels or anything.” I also hate that I’m pleading, but I’m desperate to be clean.

  “No problem,” Brad says. He points to a door. “Bathroom’s through there.”

  I pick up my pack and go into a bedroom. Decorated in soft browns and creams, it’s so tidy that I just want to sit there and let it bring order to my mind. My grandparents’ place was like this.

  Soon I’m in a glass-walled stall with hot water pouring over me. It feels so good, tears again gather behind my eyes. I shake my head, disgusted with myself. Wimp!

  After a long while, I turn the water off and use a T-shirt to dry myself. I pull out my dirty clothes and sigh. It’s gross putting them on my clean body, but I don’t have anything else. I rinse out the stall to show Brad I’m not a pig and pass through the bedroom and into the living room.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  Brads smiles but doesn’t say anything, he’s so mellow. Twitch sits on the floor, back against the sofa, and something is different about him. I mull it over and then it dawns on me. He’s not moving. I’ve never seen Twitch not move.

  I stretch out on the floor inside my sleeping bag. As I drift off to sleep, I tell myself that I must find Jenna tomorrow, to show her what I look like clean.

  Chapter 4

  I dream a hand is on my thigh. Struggling from a deep sleep, I open my eyes and in one split second register the hand, the arm, the face. Brad.

  “Get off,” I yell.

  I scramble to my feet, legs entangled in my sleeping bag. I kick it away, grab my pants, and pull them on.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Brad cowers. “Sorry, man. I thought . . . maybe . . . I mean, you’re with Aaron so I thought . . .”

  With Aaron. With Aaron. Twitch lies on the floor, so still I wonder if he’s okay, but his chest rises and falls regularly.

  “I would never force you, man,” Brad says. “I’m not into that.”

  I want to hit something so hard. I turn and kick Twitch. No response. I kick him again, and this time his eyelids flutter.

  “Asshole,” I shout.

  He blinks.

  “You set me up, you asshole.”

  Twitch groans and runs a hand through his green hair.

  “This guy had his fucking hand on my thigh.” I feel sick. “You set me up.”

  “Brad’s a nice guy.” Twitch seems totally bewildered. He really doesn’t know what I’m upset about.

  Brad hurriedly retreats into his orderly bedroom and shuts the door. I roll the sleeping bag and tie it to my pack.

  “Where are you going?” Twitch asks. “It’s still night.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not staying here.” I pull on my coat. “How can you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Do that. With him.” I jerk my head toward the bedroom.

  Understanding dawns on Twitch’s face. He shrugs. “Brad gives me money. Food.” His voice becomes flat. “You drink a bit, pop a pill, and it’s not so bad. He’s a good guy. And . . . you were warm here, right?”

  And that makes it okay? “Just stay away from me,” I tell Twitch.

  I let myself out of the apartment into the early dark hours of a cold November morning. I turn my feet toward the donut shop, the only place I know for sure is open. A warm night. Maybe it does make it okay. I don’t know any more.

  A yellow school bus packed with kids passes where I sit outside the office tower. Seeing it reminds me that I never cleaned out my locker at school. It’s been four weeks since I was there. Has anyone noticed my absence?

  Jenna materializes in front of me. Deep shadows hollow her eyes, and her skin is blotchy.

  “How was the party?” I ask.

  She yawns hug
ely and flops down beside me. “It was okay for a bit, but then it got boring. Brendan went off with this other chick, Amber, so I got drunk. Real drunk,” she adds.

  The sun crests the office building, and light bounces off the glass into our faces.

  “Oh, shit.” Jenna winces. “That’s bright.”

  Bright, but it is sunshine rather than rain! And Jenna is mad at Vulture. My spirits rise. “I’m going back to my old high school to clean out my locker. Do you want to come?”

  “Brendan will want me at the church at noon,” she says.

  Other chick! Other chick! I send thought waves to her. Dump him. And it works.

  “Yeah. Sure. Let’s go. Let that other girl make his money for him today.”

  So she knows Vulture is using her. Why would she stay with him?

  “We need bus fare,” I say. “It’s too far to walk.”

  “I’ll get us some.” Jenna tosses her hair, switches on her smile, and, like moths to a flame, people surround her. After a few minutes, she drops a handful of coins into my palm. “Bus fare and breakfast.”

  “It’s yours.” I hold the money out to her.

  “No. Ours.” She folds my fingers over the coins. “Let’s go.” She’s checking the street both ways, fast losing her moment of bravado. I grab her hand before she changes her mind.

  It’s like a field trip. We sit at the back of the bus. Jenna pokes me with her finger every time I make her laugh and I love it. The bus lurches and she falls against me, soft and warm. She squeals and clutches my arm close to her chest, and my brain reels. Silver hair drifts across my face, and I’m pretty sure that’s a breast beneath my elbow.

  I’m not used to people being that close to me. Mom wasn’t the touchy-feely type, like those television mothers. But then, I wasn’t a cute television kid. Micha, my six-year-old brother, is, but Mom doesn’t hug him, either. God, I miss him, his sticky fingers, his large brown eyes. And worry about him. He has nightmares, and I’m the one who holds him until he stops screaming. But I’m not there.