Rabbit Ears Read online

  “My family’s shit,” you say.

  The wrinkles smooth. Almost. And she hands you a cigarette, lights it for you.

  You pull the smoke into your body, fill yourself up with it, hack, cough, blow out, and marvel at the smooth cloud of smoke that flows from your lungs. Wow!

  Michelle smiles a small smile.

  “Let’s take off for the day,” you say, hoping your voice sounds eager instead of desperate. “Right now. Let’s go downtown!”

  That first afternoon, you take the bus to Granville, which is hopping. Half a dozen kids are strung out along the wall of a movie theatre, cap set out on top of a cardboard sign, collecting coins while they talk among themselves, pretty much ignoring the passersby. One has a collared cat on her shoulder, a bit of string standing in for a leash, but it’s the dog that draws you in.

  He’s a mutt, scruffy, with a long nose and ears that neither stand up nor flop over. His tail is skinny and wags like anything when you hunker down beside him. With your fingers buried in his fur, it’s easy to let Michelle introduce you, to smile, and slowly, slowly, to enter into the chatter.

  You are home in time for supper (such as it is).

  Another time, you say you are staying over at Michelle’s and the two of you go downtown together at night. You sneak into her basement room late, late, still fizzing with excitement, giggling when you trip over something in the dark.

  Then Michelle goes off on her own one day and doesn’t come back for a week. Her parents call, but you don’t tell them anything. You have nothing to tell. You look for her yourself along Granville, but no one’s seen her in days.

  At last she shows up at school one afternoon, but she’s gone kind of glassy and weird.

  “Where were you?” you say. “I went looking.”

  Her eyes skim past yours. “Nowhere,” she says. And the next day she’s gone again. This time you don’t go looking. You have no idea where to look.

  Eventually you go downtown on your own, just to be there, not to look for Michelle.

  You can’t find the kids. It’s probably too early. So you wander along Granville, feeling your “real” life on the other side of town loosen its grip bit by bit, finger by finger, till it can be whisked away by the breeze, burnt off by the sunshine, cancelled out by all the strangers’ lives, each dark untold story.

  Farther down the street, people are setting up their stalls, jewellery mostly, and along the walls of the big white department store, Eaton’s, the ones who don’t have stalls are laying out their stuff on blankets on the ground. Only one is all set up already, and there you stop. You stand and watch for a bit without drawing attention to yourself. The woman is thin, hair braided back and wound round with stones. Her jeans are worn, her sandals ancient, her collarbone jagged. She’s wearing one three-stoned pendant and several chunky rings.

  You turn your attention from her to her work. She uses a sheet of burlap wrapped around a board and laid on the ground as backing. Pinned to it are dozens of earrings, bracelets and necklaces, all made with heavy string and semi-precious stones.

  Beth would love this, you think, but the truth is, you love it yourself.

  A year ago, you would have been planning how to get a pair of earrings into your pocket without her noticing, but the jeans incident seems to have cured you of shoplifting. Besides, you have a philosophy: stealing from corporations is one thing; stealing from battered-up people on the street is another.

  You wander back down Granville, hoping that the kid with the scruffy mutt will be there. Or maybe Michelle. You’ve been trying not to think about her, but it’s hard. You don’t find the kid, or the mutt, or Michelle, but you end up toking up in a back alley with the girl with the cat. After that, you head home.

  On the bus, you pull a crumpled wad of paper and a stubby pencil from your purse, sketch the girl with the cat on her shoulder and put down a few words about what that cat might see from up there. You look around at one point and see a man smiling at you from across the way. Whatever expression you had on your face while you were writing drops away. You toss the man your best scowl and shove paper and pencil out of sight.

  It’s November, wet and cold, and dark by five o’clock. And the “buy, buy, buy” of Christmas is taking over the city streets with its bundled-up throngs and a lot of damp sparkle.

  The cold can’t stop you. You go back twice more, skipping school, looking for Michelle. When you do go to school, you can hardly stand it for a minute. At home, you bite Mom’s and Beth’s heads off, crunch their bones between your teeth.

  Michelle stays away.

  Then, one day in early December, you are standing at your locker after lunch gearing up for math, when someone taps you on the shoulder. You jump, turn and freeze.

  It’s Diana.

  Diana at school.

  You’re not sure what you do on the outside, but inside everything contracts. To give Diana credit, she looks scared. Petrified. Like a rabbit confronted with a weasel. But she is here. At your school. Looking you in the eye. And she has touched you.

  “I just switched schools,” she says, as if she thinks you might want to exchange words, you might want an explanation.

  And how could she do that? How could she walk right into your school and make herself at home here? You stand, almost teetering. She is the weasel, not you. She is the weasel.

  Except instead of sinking her teeth into your throat, she sucks memories up out of the mire.

  You want to slap her or vomit. You feel your face contort and watch her recoil. How can she possibly expect anything else? What does she want? The questions tumble about in your head, but the answers don’t matter. Escape does.

  You click your locker shut, grit your teeth and push past her. “I’ve got class,” you say. As you walk away, you shove the memories back down until the sludge slops over them, and they’re gone. For now.

  As you pass, you hear her draw breath to reply, but you get straight onto the next bus downtown. In your mind, that’s the first time that counts as running away.

  You’re furious when they find you. Track you down like a common criminal.

  You’re just hanging out on the street with the cat girl and a bunch of other kids.

  And sure, you might be passing around a bit of pot. But nothing else. Nothing else at all.

  Then, right in front of you, there’s Mom. “Kaya?” she says, as if you can’t possibly be her precious daughter.

  You look up, your lips come together on the M in “Mom,” but you stop yourself. You get up and walk away from her. She’s on your heels, so you break into a run. Five minutes later, a police officer’s got you by the arm. An hour later, you’re home.

  Beth

  I’m glad to see her. Of course I am. But I’m mad too. Furious, to be honest.

  When the front door opens at midnight, I’m asleep on the couch. Mom’s a nurse and supposed to be working night shift this week, but she called in sick when Kaya wasn’t home by ten. By now, we’re used to waiting for Kaya to come home. We know she’s skipping school a fair bit. But she usually calls and tells us some story or other. Mom gobbles those lies up like bonbons. The difference today was no phone call. No nice little story.

  So, like I said, Mom called in sick and set off in search. I was supposed to call her if Kaya called or turned up. Mom was supposed to call me if she found her. Well, I went to sleep and Mom didn’t bother to call, so neither of us honoured our agreement exactly.

  Before I fell asleep, I thought about calling Samantha, just to talk, imagined her kind voice on the phone, but she’s not a secret-keeper, and I couldn’t face talking about all this with Jane at school tomorrow, so I didn’t.

  Kaya comes in first, her face chalky with makeup, mascara smeared everywhere, tear tracks from eyes to chin. Mom’s right behind her. Kaya doesn’t even look in my direction. She yanks open the door to the stairs, lets Sybilla barrel past her, and turns on Mom.

  “I was just minding my own business, and you set
the police on me. The police! Do you know how humiliating that is? It wasn’t even midnight yet. Why can’t you just leave me alone?” she screeches, already halfway up the stairs.

  “You’re just a kid,” Mom says after her. “You’re my daughter.” She’s crying too, but at least she has no makeup to smudge. “And I love you.”

  But Kaya’s bedroom door has already slammed, shaking the whole house, and she doesn’t hear those last words.

  Kaya

  After the police turn you over to Mom, it gets still harder to stick around. And with Diana there, school feels impossible. You do try, though, even if Mom and Beth can’t see it. You do. After the holidays, Michelle starts showing up sometimes, but she’s cagey about where she’s been. It’s infuriating after the time you spent together downtown. Anyway, she doesn’t look good. You stay away from her too.

  In January, you start a metalwork class. It’s actually kind of fun for a day or two. You make something that almost looks like a goose, even if it is an odd shape. You like the feel of the metal in your hands, softening it, bending it and soldering the pieces together. And it keeps your mind off things.

  Then you come to class in the second week to find a familiar figure at the front talking to the teacher. Diana. At the sight of her, your innards turn liquid. You have glimpsed her most days in the halls, but you haven’t spoken to her since that day at your locker. She’s a year older than you, in Grade Nine, so you shouldn’t be in any of the same classes. Here she is, though, joining Metalwork 101 a week into the winter term.

  In the halls, your eyes can flick away without acknowledgement. Here, you don’t stand a chance. Mr. Holbrook gestures across the room, and Diana turns to see where he’s pointing, which happens to be at your station. Not surprising. You’re the only student with a station all to herself. Or you were. Diana’s eyes and yours connect, flick away, and connect again.

  Mr. Holbrook follows her across the room. “Kaya,” he says, “Diana is joining the class today. Could you show her how to get started on her project, where to find the materials, et cetera?”

  Diana ducks her head, breaking the tortured eye contact between the two of you. And you marshal yourself. You go through the motions that afternoon, but even as you instruct her on the proper safety procedures, you know that this is your last metalwork class. The whole experience is tainted now. It has become something other, something dark and dreadful. Diana has made it so. You have probably had the same effect on her, you think when it’s over, as you watch her scurry from the classroom ahead of you.

  That night, you climb out your bedroom window onto the roof of the foyer, wriggle down the fig tree right outside Mom’s window, which is not easy in tight jeans and high heels, and you are away. It’s later than usual, but surely they’ll still be there, or one of them will. You jump off the bus across from the movie theatre on Granville, your bag slung casually over one shoulder, your jacket collar turned up against the drizzle, but you can see right away that there’s no one there. You should have brought an umbrella. And a warmer coat.

  It feels weird being outside in the city so late all by yourself. You can feel the eyes on you. And the danger. You think briefly about your own bed. Warm. Dry. Safe. Then you shake that off and march down the sidewalk. Most nights, they all sleep outside somewhere. You know that. It’s just a matter of finding them.

  The street grows darker, scarier. As you wait for the light at the first corner, cars seem to slow as they pass, faces leer.

  A man approaches from one side, his gait slightly unsteady. “You all right, sweetheart?” he says, coming to a halt just as the light changes and you can cross.

  “Yes,” you say, stepping off the curb. “I’m fine.” You look at your watch. It’s past one. And you have no idea where to go. They could be anywhere. And the thought of these streets in the middle of the night, almost empty with who-knows-who watching out windows, out of alleys, frightens you.

  “You don’t look fine,” a voice says, and you jump. The man is still there, right on your heels. All concern for your welfare, apparently.

  A bus appears in the distance and you seize the chance, taking off at a high-heeled, tight-jeaned trot.

  Climbing up fig trees is not as easy as slithering down. And Beth’s window is too out of reach. The sliding door into the dining room opens easily enough, though. Sybilla swarms your legs, but her whines are quiet and Mom does not wake up.

  Your own bed brings with it your own world. And that’s the last place you want to be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kaya

  In the morning, you wait for Michelle on the front steps of the school. Come to school, you beam out to her. Come to school. And she does.

  As she approaches, you tell her, right off, “I need to get out of here.”

  Michelle draws close, her eyes round, hands running through her unwashed hair. Her eyes spark slightly. You aren’t sure if that is fear or anger or what. And you don’t care.

  You repeat yourself. “I need to get out of here.” You know that Michelle will want to help you; you also know that she’ll know how.

  If she is surprised, she does not show it. She glances from your small backpack to your even smaller purse to your eyes. “Now?” she says.

  She doesn’t ask why you don’t go on your own. She seems to know that you want more this time, not just a bunch of lost kids hanging out on the street.

  “This minute,” you say. “I’m not walking into that school one more time.”

  “Do you have enough bus fare for me too?” she asks.

  You nod. And she walks away from the school, obviously expecting you to follow. You do.

  As the bus starts up the ramp onto the Granville Bridge, your heart picks up its pace, excitement zips through your jaw, your scalp, your gut.

  On the other side, you press your face to the window and gaze at the kids leaning against the theatre wall, the dogs, the vendors’ set-ups. You watch for the girl with the cat. If you see her, maybe you’ll get off the bus right here. But you don’t see her and the bus passes on. When it turns onto Hastings, your excitement is heightened by dread. You feel slightly sick. Are you really truly doing this?

  Michelle chatters nervously, surprising you, but she doesn’t say a word about where you are headed, and you don’t ask. That might stop what you are doing somehow, and it seems like the only option, the only thing that will clear your head.

  Even at ten thirty in the morning, Main and Hastings is a busy place. Busy on the sidewalk, that is. You try to look casual as you step off the bus, to swagger into the small crowd—mostly men—not cower close to the curb, but it’s different here. Not like Granville at all. The people are older, mostly. They seem rougher, tougher. And there are more of them. Way more. And not mixed with the shoppers and the business people and the movie-goers. Despite your best efforts to appear calm, you feel yourself veer away from the bodies, arms close to your sides, purse clutched tight.

  Michelle does not swagger or cower or clutch. She walks with a purpose that feels separate from yours. You have to trot to keep up at times, and you wonder if she even remembers that you are here.

  “Michelle,” you call out, but you don’t want to draw attention to yourself and your voice does not reach her ears.

  You walk faster, eyes on the ground, only to stumble into her where she waits outside a door between two buildings. On one side is a store, barred windows stacked with packages, on the other a hotel with grubby windows in which several faded plastic plants gather dust.

  Michelle presses a buzzer, waits for an answering buzz and gives the door a good shove. It swings open onto a flight of stairs leading straight up. You look to the top and see a man peering down at you.

  “Who’s there?” he shouts.

  “It’s me,” Michelle shouts back, her foot on the first step. “Michelle.”

  It takes him a moment to answer, and you wonder how she ever ended up here. Did someone bring her here just like she’s bringing you
, or did she find it all by herself?

  At last he calls, “Come on up. Bring your friend.”

  He watches as you trudge your way up and looks you over as you get closer. He’s a big guy—not old, you think—with scruffy black hair and a smile that eases your nerves, just a little. He holds out a hand and you take it; his grasp is warm and strong, and lingers just a bit longer than you like.

  Michelle pushes past you and stops. “Is Marcos here?” she asks.

  He shrugs, letting go of your hand. “That’s all the hello I get,” he says. “Yes, he’s here. Not in a great mood, I’d say, but here.”

  Michelle clatters off down the long hallway and through a door. The man turns back to you.

  “I’m Jim, by the way. We’ll just hang out here and give them a minute.”

  After a moment you say, “Kaya.”

  You hate standing on that scrappy carpet under a bald light bulb, while Michelle is in an unknown room with an unknown man. Jim rolls a cigarette on the spot and takes a few drags, his hacking, wet cough surrounding you with smoke. He doesn’t question you, but he does look you over once or twice, his face blank.

  Eventually he grunts and sets off and you follow him down the hall and through the door. The place is awful: not an apartment like you were expecting, but only a room with a sink in the corner. The stained mattress has no sheets on it, just a tangle of dirty quilts. The one small table is adrift in empty bottles and other garbage. The grubby window is open, but the air in the room stinks of cigarette smoke and dirty clothes and bodies and stale beer. It takes a few moments to take in all of this, however, because there is your friend, hunched on the bed, a boy at her side, and he’s right in the middle of sticking a needle in her arm.

  “Michelle, what are you …?” You stop as you feel Jim behind you, hands on your shoulders. Michelle looks up, the spark in her eyes all gone.

  You hear Jim take a breath to speak, but Michelle speaks first. “Hey, I got you here, didn’t I? This is what you wanted, right?”