Theories of Relativity Read online

  “Fourteen?” I blurt out in my surprise.

  “Yeah. They get younger all the time.”

  Jenna said she was nearly sixteen. Well, it’s up to her if she wants to go home or not. If she doesn’t want to, then I’ll take care of her, me, the white knight with the feminine products.

  “You better move along,” the second officer says. “I don’t think this guy wants you propping up his wall.” He points to a grim-faced man standing in the window of the store behind me.

  They step back and I walk away. They know I’m living on the streets, but they’re not concerned. They don’t have a picture of me to flash around.

  With a couple blocks behind me, I start to relax. I think about Jenna being grateful when I show her what I’ve got. But I’m not the white knight, I decide. I’m more like Robin Hood, taking from the rich and giving to the poor. And the stores are rich. Packed to the ceiling with Christmas merchandise. When you see that much stuff out there, you’ve got to think some of it’s for you. But Robin Hood only takes what is needed. Jenna can be my Maid Marian.

  I walk into the warmth of Mandy’s and stop short. Jenna is there, but she is sitting with Vulture and a girl whose back is to me. Slowly, I make my way to the table.

  “Oh, Dylan,” Jenna says happily. “We were just talking about you. Brendan says it’s nice the way you’ve been keeping an eye on me.”

  Yeah, right. Vulture’s eyes lock with mine, and they’re not nice.

  “Anyway, it was just a misunderstanding between us, and everything’s better now. We’re all friends again.” She beams her one-hundred-watt smile around the table.

  “Oh, this is Amber.” Jenna waves a hand at the girl.

  “We know each other.” Amber grins hugely. She waves a hand with a cigarette in it toward me.

  If I’d known Amber was sitting there, I would have left immediately. When I first saw her, it was my second night on the streets, a rain-soaked, miserable night. She was leaning into a car window, negotiating with a trick, though I didn’t know that at the time. Suddenly, she leapt back and the car sped away into the night, tires spinning on a wet street. She saw me watching and laughed. “You win some, you lose some,” she said.

  Well, what she really said was, “You fucking win some, you fucking lose some.” Amber is tall, nearly as tall as me, with golden skin and black hair bound into countless tiny braids. From a distance, she looks amazing. Up close, you see the acne scars, the nicotine-stained teeth and drug-hollow eyes. Every sentence out of her mouth is effing this or effing that. Sometimes out here, people swear to prove they’re not scared. You can’t ever show you’re scared, even if you are. It makes you vulnerable. But Amber curses like it’s a natural part of the English language.

  “Yep, we fucking know each other,” Amber repeats.

  My cheeks turn hot. We do it one time and she thinks she knows me. She had a rented room, filthy, but it was somewhere to sleep in relative safety. I stayed with her for a week. It was Amber who showed me how to beg for money, how to avoid cops, punks, told me the rules of the street, and one night we slept together. “You know, most people pay fucking good money for what you’re getting for free,” she said to me. That totally grossed me out. Next morning, I left while she slept. I’m not sure if I’m ashamed of her, or me, so it’s just easier to avoid her.

  “Oh, that’s great,” Jenna says. “You’re friends.”

  She’s bouncing on the seat, totally oblivious to the undercurrents all around her. Naive or—I look at her more closely—stoned. Definitely, stoned.

  “Seems Dylan has a lot of friends,” Vulture puts in. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and lets loose a long stream of smoke. “A man can’t have too many friends.”

  “And,” Jenna breaks in, “Brendan’s given me a nickname. Jewel. We should give Dylan a nickname.” She’s talking so fast, the words tumble over each other. Must be some kind of pick-me-up Vulture gave her.

  “Sure,” Vulture says. “What do you think? Stringbean?”

  Amber shoots a troubled glance from Vulture to me. She stubs her cigarette out in an ashtray.

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “But everyone has a nickname,” Jenna says.

  “Come on. Don’t be such an asshole. Make the girl happy. Let her pick a name for you,” Vulture says.

  “I don’t want a name.” You get a street name and it means you belong here. They’re your family and you’re one of them. I’m not one of them and I do not want a nickname that says I am.

  I leave, preferring the cold and snow to Vulture’s company. I stop at the first trash bin I find and dump the feminine products.

  Chapter 8

  “In summer, it’s a big street party every Friday and Saturday night down here,” Twitch says. “The burbie kids come slumming. It’s great. Too bad you weren’t around then.”

  Twitch was around then. He is eighteen and he’s been on the street for four years.

  There’s not much partying going on in early December. We’re too busy trying to stay warm and worrying about the really cold months ahead.

  We’re at the youth centre. The first time I’ve been. It was Twitch who wanted to come today. Nagged me about it so much I finally agreed just to shut him up.

  A checkerboard, red and black squares and pieces, is set up between us, though the play is slow. Twitch can’t grasp the concept of the game. He coughs, catches his breath, then bends in a second spasm of coughing. His hacking is echoed throughout the centre. There’s a lot of flu around.

  He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a cigarette package and lighter. I want to tell him those won’t help his health, but say instead, “Your move. Red’s mine,” I add, as his hand hovers over my player.

  Feet beating a non-stop dance beneath the table, he leans forward and examines the board, then pulls back, only to repeat the movement again. It wears me out to watch him, so I look around the room.

  It used to be an old store, with puke-green walls and a worn linoleum floor. The landlord can’t rent it in this condition, so he generously lets it be used as a youth centre—for a tax break. I tip my chair back to see the ceiling, but it is obscured by a thin layer of blue smoke. Everybody smokes here but me.

  Half a dozen tables are scattered about the room, surrounded by a motley collection of chairs in various states of repair. Only a few are occupied, but, to my annoyance, Amber is seated in one of them, mouth motoring, laugh scraping on my nerves. She’s dressed in a skimpy skirt, high heels with no stockings, and a tight sweater—her working clothes. A sudden image of Jenna in the same outfit leaves me feeling ill.

  An extra loud burst of laughter from her makes me wince. Twitch looks up, catches my eye, and grimaces. He’s not all that bad, Twitch.

  A man and two women staff the centre. Originally, I thought they’d be preaching to us, but to my surprise they leave us alone. There’s a pot of soup on a small table against one wall, bowls, and a basket of sandwiches beside it that you can help yourself to. I did. A can sits beside the food in case you have money to make a donation toward the centre. It’s empty.

  A bulletin board by the soup has flyers pinned on it about the dangers of AIDS, drugs, and alcohol, also counselling services and dates and times a street nurse is available.

  Twitch finally moves his black piece, smiles broadly, and sits back. I immediately jump his man and add it to the growing pile of his players I’ve collected.

  “Shit.” He blows a stream of smoke away to the side, leans forward, and studies the board, fingers reaching, drawing back, writhing together. I wonder if he was always this way or if it’s the drugs killing his brain cells. I settle in for a long game.

  One of the staff, a gaunt woman with a cap of black, curly hair and dark eyes, goes around the room handing out a flyer. She slaps one on our table. Close up, I see that she is younger than I first thought. Mid-twenties, I guess. I also see the old tracks from needles that run up her arm into the sleeve of her T-shirt. “You boys might be inte
rested in this,” she says. “If you have any questions, just ask.”

  I pick up the flyer. It’s about an alternative school for street kids. The word computers catches my interest momentarily, but I let it go. I push the flyer in front of Twitch.

  “So who has time for that?” I say.

  He glances briefly at the flyer, then back to the checkerboard. “Yeah, who?”

  I start to wad it into a ball, then quickly fold it and push it into my pack. You never know when a piece of paper might come in handy.

  A hand falls on my shoulder. Startled, I swing around to see Amber.

  “Whoa.” She takes a step back and holds up her hands in front of herself. “It’s just me. Remember?”

  “I know who you are,” I say testily.

  She falls into a chair, legs askew. Not a pretty sight with that short skirt. I think how much more gracefully Jenna would have sat.

  “I thought perhaps you’d fucking forgotten. I don’t see you around any more,” she says.

  “I’ve been busy,” I tell her. “You know.”

  The braids are gone today, and her hair hangs in strings in her eyes. It needs a good wash. In fact, she needs a good wash. But then, who am I to talk?

  “How you doing, Twitch?” she asks.

  “Good,” he says.

  “Can I bum a cigarette?”

  Twitch reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a package of cigarettes and hands it to her. “One,” he cautions, “and I’m watching you, so don’t try to take any more.”

  “So how’s Jenna these days?” I ask. I reach into my bag and pull out the Einstein book to show it’s just a casual question.

  “Not much changed from last week,” Amber says shortly. “You got the fucking hots for her or something?”

  I don’t bother to answer.

  She flicks ash in the general direction of a cup. “I wouldn’t go around broadcasting that. Good way to get your fucking head bashed in,” Amber says. “She’s Brendan’s property.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’re Brendan’s property, too,” I say nastily.

  She glares at me. “So? At least I have money. My own place.”

  “That dump?”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining when you needed a place to stay,” she says.

  I’m tired of the conversation, so I flip open the book and pretend to read. Amber leans forward and spreads her fingers over the page in front of me, covering the words. “You just fucking leave? You don’t say goodbye? You get up in the morning and fucking leave? That’s no way to treat a friend.” She gets to her feet. “See you around, Twitch.” She wanders across the room.

  “She’s pissed at you,” Twitch says.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I protest. “I stayed with her a few days when I first got here, then I left. Big deal. She’s putting on weight,” I add.

  “She’s pregnant.” Twitch moves a checker piece and sits back, smiling smugly.

  “Pregnant?” My heart skips a beat. “How pregnant?”

  “I dunno,” Twitch says. “About five months, I guess.”

  Well, that lets me off the hook. But a baby. Out here? It’s none of my business. Every man—and woman—for themselves. I jump Twitch’s piece.

  “Hey, you know who the two smartest guys in the world were?” I ask Twitch.

  He’s studying the board, so I go on.

  “Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein. Einstein taught himself physics.” Who needs school? “Read this.” I push the book over to Twitch.

  He waves it away. “I’m concentrating, man. You read it.”

  I pull the book back in front of me. “We live in a quantum universe, one built out of tiny, discrete chunks of energy and matter,” I read. “Hey, we’re just little bits of energy and matter, Twitch.”

  A cloud of acrid smoke is blown in my face. But it’s not from Twitch. A chair is pulled out from our table and a body plops into it. Uninvited.

  “What’s happening?” A smoky inquiry.

  I look the newcomer over before answering. Early twenties, big guy, as tall as me, but bulky to go with it. The chair creaks beneath his weight. He pulls his coat off and sets it over the back of the chair, and I see biceps strain against black T-shirt sleeves. The shirt looks a size too small, worn purposely that way to set his muscles off. Light bounces off a freshly shaven pink scalp.

  “Not much,” I say shortly. I don’t want to be friendly, and yet—I take in the skull-and-crossbones tattoo stretching up his neck—I don’t want to be unfriendly, either.

  “He’s beating you bad, Twitch.” The cigarette gestures toward my pile of captured pieces, scattering ash over the board.

  I glance at Twitch, surprised that he knows the man, but he’s avoiding my eyes. His leg is beating a fast staccato beneath the table. Real nervous, even for Twitch. I get a bad feeling.

  “Who’s your friend, Twitch?”

  “Dylan, Lurch. Lurch, Dylan.”

  Lurch? I swallow a snicker. What the hell kind of name is Lurch? I steal another look at him. I guess it’s the kind of name you can have if you’re that big and that menacing.

  “You ever been inside?” Lurch asks.

  “Inside where?” I ask.

  “Inside. Jail. Prison.”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ve been in and out of detention centres and jails all my life,” Lurch says. “Break and enter, assault, auto theft.”

  I don’t get why he’s telling me this.

  Lurch drops his cigarette butt on the floor and grinds it with the heel of a black army boot. He immediately lights another one. He stabs a finger at Twitch. “I bet you’ve been inside.”

  Twitch jerks, but presses his lips together and says nothing.

  “I bet they took you apart in there.” Lurch laughs.

  Twitch leaps to his feet, sending his chair flying over backward with a bang. The place jumps. Everyone is suddenly alert. The staff spread out across the room.

  “I’m going to the can,” Twitch mutters.

  Behind him, Amber sidles toward the door.

  “I see you, little girl,” Lurch calls. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” A sharp crack as he slaps his hand down on the table, and Amber bolts out the door. That’s when I realize who he is. Vulture’s henchman.

  “Just the two of us,” Lurch says. He grins widely and I see a gap in his bottom teeth where one is missing. He swings his chair around to face me and straddles it. Adrenaline races through my body—fight or flight. I strip the board of the playing pieces, willing my hands not to shake.

  “Want to take me on?”

  Fear stops my heart, but Lurch points at the board.

  “No,” I say.

  “Good decision. Last person who lost to me is still looking for his teeth.”

  What’s he trying to do? Prove he’s the baddest of the bad?

  “Don’t say much, do you?”

  I shrug, and let him interpret that any way he wants.

  “How long you been living on the street?” Lurch asks.

  I examine the question from all sides but see no reason not to answer. “About six weeks,” I say.

  “Mom and Dad throw you out?”

  I start, but it’s a stab in the dark. He couldn’t know. I lean down and stuff the Einstein book in my pack and fasten the straps.

  “Rough living on the street.” Lurch butts out the second cigarette, takes out a pack, and offers one to me. I shake my head.

  “Don’t smoke? Smart. You’ll live longer.” Somehow he makes it sound like a threat. “Listen, I can help you make some easy money.”

  “I’m not interested,” I say. It’ll be drugs or sex or stealing.

  “You haven’t even heard what I’ve to offer,” Lurch continues, with an injured air. “You could have a nice apartment of your own, good food. The streets are a dangerous place. A person could get hurt all on his own.”

  The black-haired woman comes up with a cloth and wipes the table beside us. Lurch sends her a d
irty look, but she just keeps giving the table the best clean it’s had in a long time.

  The door to the centre opens and the Garbage Man steps inside and stops. He’s too old for this place, so I’m surprised when the woman greets him warmly. He stands in the doorway, eyes darting everywhere, until they land on Lurch. He takes a step backward, but the woman beckons him into the room. After a moment, garbage-bagged feet swish past us. Arms poke through holes in a second bag, and a third is pulled over his head and ears and fastened with twine that disappears into a bushy beard. His attire is apt because the Garbage Man is a dumpster diver—a person who gets his meals out of the trash bins behind restaurants.

  He hugs the outside of the room as he makes his way to the soup pot. Lurch suddenly leaps up, and growls. Alarmed, the man scuttles backward, flips over a chair, and falls flat on his ass.

  “You can leave.” The woman locks eyes with Lurch.

  I have to admire the way she stands there, dwarfed by this guy and armed only with a dirty dishrag.

  Lurch laughs and pulls on his coat. “Think over what I said,” he tells me.

  “I’m not interested,” I say. “And you can tell Brendan that.”

  I don’t know why I added that last bit. I could have just nodded and tried to keep out of Lurch’s way for the rest of my life. Maybe it was the woman standing up to him that made me do it.

  His face clouds over. “You might become interested,” he says, voice hard. “Tell Twitch I got a gift for him. He knows where he can find me.”

  He pulls the door open, and the pamphlets on the bulletin board flutter in the draft as he leaves.

  “You’re in trouble. You’re going to have to watch yourself all the time.” Twitch has resurfaced from the bathroom.

  “I do that anyway,” I say, nonchalant, though my insides wobble alarmingly. “He says he has a gift for you.”

  Twitch’s eyes light up, and I know the gift is a hit. He rapidly pulls on his long black overcoat, and suddenly, the pieces all fall together. A gift. It was Twitch who insisted we to go the centre today. I’m so stupid. There are no real friends on the street. You’ve got to look out for yourself. That’s not a theory. It’s just the way it is.