a bus all over hell’s half acre. I don’t think that’s it, though. I’m a creep, that’s what it is. I’m a creep and it’s making me sick.
I’m the one who deserves a punch. I didn’t tell Drew about my drugstore returns, did I. I didn’t tell him about how screaming-good it can be, how when a hustle’s going right it makes your blood sing through your wrists—the way it feels as if your hair is standing straight on end when you walk away scot-free with a pocket full of cash.
And here’s another thing I left out: I want Sam to come and get me. I want Sam to drive up in front of Jill’s place and say, “Forget your bags, we’ll buy you clothes along the way. Just get in, sweetheart!”
The best September I can think of would be sitting in the passenger seat next to my dad, driving south, working every angle we can, taking every sucker, from here straight on down the west coast—Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego—milking them dry before they know what hit ’em. Then we’d head east, right across to Florida and all the way up to New York City! I’d be there by his side, proving that I really am Sam’s girl.
I am not the loser in the drugstore, the girl who freaks out when some two-bit rent-a-cop says boo.
I am not the sucker in the nurse’s uniform and catering apron, covered in other people’s slop.
Drew’s mother had my number from the second she laid eyes on me. If Drew could read my mind like she can, see my two faces, my itch to be with Sam, he’d know she was right.
Why can’t Sam just call me and tell me the score? Tell me what the hell’s going on?
The bus reaches the top of Willingdon Avenue and the driver is about to head east on Kingsway. But I’m not ready to go back to Jill’s yet. I can’t stand it. All of a sudden, I can’t stand the thought of anybody who isn’t us. I’m not Jill and I’m not Ruby and I’m not Drew either. I am Sam’s girl. I am Marlene’s.
I need air.
I reach and ring the bell.
On the sidewalk, I gulp the warmed-over traffic breeze, catch a green light and race across the street. I start heading the wrong way down Kingsway, west, past Old Orchard Mall, jogging. I’m not sure if I’m running from something or running to it.
When I’m out of breath I turn to walk down Sardis, our little side street. It’s not such a bad street. The breeze is picking up, fluttering the leaves overhead, ruffling my hair as it goes, whispering against my ears. I listen to the rustle in the trees and think about the way it sounds serene and restless all at once.
The geraniums in front of the apartment building are fire bright against the dark earth. Why can’t I just appreciate the things that are good? Fine, it’s not fancy around here, it’s not downtown, but it’s not horrible.
I step off the sidewalk onto the dirt and wood-chips of the building’s back garden and try to see into our apartment in the corner. It’s hard to make out the ordinary dim of the indoors when the hard gold of the setting sun is blasting the window, obliterating everything.
I keep behind the pine trees at the rear of our building. I just want to see if she’s in there. If she came home.
A hand reaches out through the curtain and I tense as it pushes the window farther open. Then the sliding door to the balcony grumbles sideways on its runners. And suddenly there’s Marlene.
Stepping outside, she looks unsteady, as if she’s not used to the outdoors, the bright light. As if she’s on fawn legs.
She cups her hand over her eyes. She’s looking up. I stare up too, at the sky, and see that it’s the crows she’s watching. The sky is teeming with black birds heading east for the night.
Every night around sunset the crows leave Vancouver and head out here to Burnaby. They’ve always done it, ever since I can remember. It gave me the willies when I was little, like something from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. But now I like it. I like the idea of all those birds moving together when it’s time for bed, flying east, away from the setting sun, as if they’ve got to get tucked in before the lights go out.
Looking down