Everyday Hero (8 page)

“Friends help friends,” I said.

“What?”

“You don’t do things for gold stars.”

Megan pushed her hand through her hair. The silver skull ring glittered. “Gold stars?”

“You don’t do things for gold stars,” I repeated.

“You mean it’s not about your mom. That's not why you came? You came to help me?"

I rocked. “ Dad — says — you — have — a — problem.”

“He would.”

“Friends help friends.”

“Look, I don’t need—I mean, I know I asked you for a favor. I shouldn’t have. But
now it’s fine. I’m on the bus. I’m okay. I mean, I’m well. I don’t need help. Honestly,
it would be better if you go back.”

“Friends keep friends safe,” I said.

“What?”

I pulled out the pamphlet Dad gave me. She glanced at it. Her lips twisted upward
like the happy face on my feelings chart.

“You really are,” she said. “Trying to look after me.”

I pointed to the paper. “See? It is not safe to give out your identity on the Internet.”

“Look, it’s nice that you want to help. But you don’t need to. I’ve, like, talked
to Rob hundreds
of times. He listens. He cares. He doesn’t beat the crap out of me.”

She said the last three sentences so quickly it was hard to understand. She crossed
her arms. This is called body language. Or it could mean that she was mad or afraid.

Or cold.

Most likely cold, I thought.

“Final boarding announcement for all passengers bound for Vancouver,” the disembodied
voice announced.

Megan turned. “Stay here. There’s a bus back to Kitimat later. Your dad would meet
you.”

I shook my head.

Megan opened her mouth like she wanted to say something and then shut it, shaking
her head.

“This is a first,” she finally said.

“Huh?”

Megan laughed. “No one’s ever wanted to keep me safe before. And it’s someone—”

Her voice trailed into silence. For a brief moment we were both quiet. Then an engine
started.

“Come on,” Megan said, “or we’ll both miss the bus.”

***

The Vancouver bus’s number was 363. It was like the one from Kitimat except more
crowded. I sat beside Megan, which was better than sitting beside a stranger who
might smell. Plus, I am not supposed to talk to strangers.

I did not mind sitting beside Megan because she did not smell. And I could talk to
her if I wanted because she was not a stranger. But usually she does not want to
talk, which is also good because I do not like chitchat.

Outside, cows, horses and fields dotted the landscape. I don’t mind seeing cows and
horses from a car or bus window because I can’t smell them. I don’t like them up
close because they smell.

Once, Mom and Dad took me to the petting zoo in Stanley Park in Vancouver. I screamed.

When the bus came to the Fraser River Canyon, I couldn’t see cows or horses anymore.
Instead, the road twisted so close to the canyon’s edge that I looked straight down
into the foaming, frothing white rapids. Across the canyon, a railway line threaded
its way in a twisting line of silver. The road seemed carved from the mountains.
In some
places, wire netting hung over bare rock to protect the road from falling
debris. In others, tunnels had been drilled into the mountain, gaping holes piercing
the solid rock.

I counted seven.

After the canyon, we stopped at a place called Hope. This is a small community where
hopeful miners stocked up before going through the Fraser Canyon to the goldfields
during British Columbia’s gold rush. I guess they hoped to find gold, although statistically
they were more likely to die.

After Hope the highway got busier, and I closed my eyes. Everything was too much—too
many lanes of traffic, too many cars, too many buildings, too many stoplights, too
many people and too many buses. I counted my nine rocks and wished I was back in
my room with my music box and my twirling ballerinas.

***

The Vancouver bus station was nicer than the one in Prince George. For one thing,
it didn’t smell. It had a high ceiling, a tile floor and a spacious, airy emptiness.

“I like this place,” I said.

Megan looked at me. “It’s a bus station.”

We walked across the floor. It was smooth and shiny like marble.

“Do you know your mom’s address?” Megan asked.

“I know my grandparents’ address.”

“If I get you a taxi, can you get there? Do you have enough money?”

“How much money will I need?”

Megan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I have $111.00,” I said.

“That’s enough.”

“
Meeting an Internet acquaintance can be unsafe. It is best to avoid it entirely,
but if you must meet with an Internet acquaintance, always choose a public place,
and take a friend
,” I recited.

“What? You’ve got that memorized?”

I pulled out the pamphlet. Megan took it, scanned the page, then thrust it back at
me. “You can’t believe everything you read. This is so dumb. It’s meant for little
kids. I’m tough. I can look after myself.”

Dad
had
said she was tough.

I said nothing. Megan was silent. She picked at a piece of skin on her thumb with
a chipped, black nail.

“Look,” she said at last. “We
are
meeting in a public space—Starbucks. There’ll be,
like, lots of people. Now will you go to your mom’s,
please
?”

“The house belongs to my grandparents, not my mother. Or it did,” I said, remembering
that it had been sold.

That is what my dad said.

Unless he lied.

“Well, go there. I’ll phone later. Happy?”

I was not happy, because a) I have a hard time identifying feelings, so it’s hard
for me to know when I’m happy or when I am unhappy, and b) because I felt confused,
which makes me want to bang my head. This is the opposite of happy.

“No,” I said.

“Just go. I don’t want to take you to meet my friend. It would look lame.”

Lame
means
unable to walk properly
, but it also means
poor, weak and unsatisfactory
.
This is called slang. I believe Megan meant the latter definition.

“Friends need to give each other space,” Megan added.

I stepped back.

“I didn’t mean—” Megan began, then shrugged. “C’mon, let’s go outside and get you
a cab.” She swung her backpack onto her back. Her heels made a clip-clopping sound
as we crossed the floor.

Outside, there were colors, noises and smells. So many. Buildings, cars, streetlights,
the SkyTrain, people, the McDonald’s yellow arches, the Science World dome, a horn,
a motorcycle’s revving engine, exhaust fumes…

Too much.

I heard the pant of my breath.

It’s not that I see more but that I notice more. I noticed not only the street but
also the signs, the cars, the buses, the trees, the streetlights, the traffic lights,
the telephone poles, the overhead wires, the three crows perched on the telephone
pole. I noticed not only the bus shelter but also the toothpaste ad on its wall and
the graffiti scrawled across the seven white teeth in the toothpaste ad.

And the graffiti was rude—which is against the rules and made me want to rock and
bang my head.

“Look down. Count the beads,” Megan said.

I rubbed my fingers along their smooth polished surfaces until we stopped at a curb.

“What’s your grandparents’ address?” Megan asked.

“5900 Angus Drive.”

A cab was waiting, and its driver got out. He was a stranger. He wore white sneakers.
I said nothing.

“Take her to 5900 Angus Drive,” Megan said to him.

I rubbed the warm beads.

“Well, get in,” the man said.

My heart beat really fast, and my throat felt tight. Sweat dampened my palms. I felt
Megan’s hand on my back.

I do not like to be touched. I moved away, sliding into the backseat. The door slammed.
The car started. Something went
tick…tick…tick…

The turn signal.

The vinyl felt sticky and sweaty under my bum. I don’t like sweat.

And the air smelled musty.

The taxi swung out onto the road, and I looked down at my hands. I spread them against
my thighs, pressing my fingers into the denim, watching how the cloth dimpled.

“Just down for a visit, eh?” the man asked.

I wanted to bang my head but knew I mustn’t, because that freaks people out and then
they look at me and touch me and hold me.

I tried to count.

I couldn’t. Everything moved too fast…much too fast…buildings, balconies, windows,
street signs,
yield
signs,
no parking
signs,
stop
signs, cars, buses, taxies, motorcycles,
bicycles, delivery vans, trees, power poles, parking meters, streetlights, traffic
lights, telephone poles, pedestrians…

Megan.

Megan stood at the crosswalk, her backpack slung over her shoulders.

That’s when I broke the rules.

Eleven

I got out of the cab. It was not a want or even a need. It was a compulsion.

A compulsion is defined as
an irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially
against one’s conscious wishes.

Without thoughts or words, I reached forward, grabbed the door handle and pulled.

The door opened, wrenching the handle out of my hand. A blast of cold air struck
me, pushing me back against the seat.

The driver swore. He swerved toward the curb, jerking to a stop. I tumbled out, falling
onto the
concrete and scraping my hands. From behind me, I heard the driver’s angry
yell. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

I stood. Traffic roared beside me. The wind tugged at my clothes, stealing my breath.

The taxi roared away.

I stood on the sidewalk.

No Megan.

With wobbling knees, I went toward a gray stone building and sat down on the sidewalk,
leaning against the wall’s firm, cold concrete.

I closed my eyes.

I counted the bead necklace three times. And then another three times. At last I
opened my eyes. I was sitting quite close to the crosswalk. To my left, someone else
sat against the wall with a cap in front of him. I wondered if he also had Asperger’s
and liked walls.

In Kitimat, there are only two traffic lights, but I had lived in Vancouver for thirteen
years and twenty-six days, so I knew about traffic and intersections.

I do not mind traffic lights and intersections because there are rules. I like to
know that when the small illuminated white man is visible I can walk, and if the
red hand appears, I cannot walk.

As I looked around, I saw that there was a Starbucks on the other side of the street.
I stood up. I remembered that Megan was meeting her friend there. I went to the intersection.
I waited for the illuminated man. Then I stepped from the curb, counting my steps.
One…two…three… When I reached the other side, I stood still, staring down at my own
white-gray runners.

The door to Starbucks swung open. I smelled coffee. I like the smell of coffee. It
is one of the few strong smells I like.

I inhaled.

I stepped inside, into the warmth. A girl and a woman stood behind the counter. The
girl wore braces on her teeth. This reminded me of Mary-Ella at my old school. She’d
worn purple elastics on her braces. This girl had plain white elastics, a yellowed,
off-white color, and she had two zits on her forehead.

The woman had dark hair, glasses and a nose ring. Behind her I saw a blackboard with
prices written in pink chalk. In front was a display case with baked goods: molasses
cookies (two), cranberry scones (seven), low-fat crumble (six), brownies (seven).

The girl with the braces and the two zits spoke to me. “Can I help you?”

She had blond hair. An earring set with three turquoise beads dangled from her left
ear.

I wanted to ask if Megan had come in, but both women were strangers. I turned away,
meaning to walk out, but stopped when I saw the back of Megan’s head.

Actually, this is an assumption. (An assumption is a supposition or hypothesis.)
I
assumed
it was Megan because 1) the individual appeared female with long dark hair,
2) Megan had said she was coming to Starbucks and 3) a black leather jacket decorated
with a rhinestone skull was slung over the chair.

The girl I thought was Megan leaned toward a man. He was facing me, so I could see
him quite clearly. He wore a black T-shirt, a black leather vest and two gold chains
around his neck. Sprouts of gray chest hair peeked from the neckline of the black
T-shirt, and a tattoo of an anchor twisted around his left forearm.

He smiled. His teeth looked crooked and yellow.

“Megan?” I said.

The person I’d assumed was Megan looked around.

It was Megan.

“Alice? You’re supposed to be in a taxi.”

“I—”

I tried to find the words. I knew what I wanted to say. I could have written it.
I could see the words, slippery as minnows, dancing in front of me. My heart hammered.
I heard its
boom-boom-boom
.

“Count,” Megan said.

I put my hand in my pocket and felt for the rocks and the smooth roundness of the
bead necklace. I looked down. I tried to count the red-orange floor tiles.

“What’s wrong with her?” the man asked.

“She’ll be okay,” Megan said.

He swore. The balloon in my lungs got bigger, pushing against my ribs like I was
going to explode.

“Don’t swear,” Megan said. “It upsets her.”

He swore again.

“I—you—” I pushed the words out.

“What a freak!” He spoke loudly. “C’mon, babe, let’s get outta here.”

He stood. His hand touched Megan’s. He wore a gold bracelet and had a snake tattoo
on his right
forearm as well as the anchor on his left. Clusters of fine dark hair
grew on his knuckles.

“I—don’t know.” Megan stood also, her face flushed.

“The city’s great. You’ll love it. Don’t let that wack-job slow you down.”