way.
You close your eyes. And hold your breath.”
I shut my eyes tightly. I held my breath. I gripped the strap of the backpack. She
stepped forward, and I followed her into the frozen hush of the Prince George morning.
I inhaled. The air was so cold it stung my throat and lungs. When I opened my eyes,
I could see the fog of my own breath.
I don’t know how long we stood on the pavement. I don’t remember feeling cold, although
I felt Megan shivering beside me.
But after a while, I noticed my surroundings. I saw that we were standing beside
a side road patterned with frost and bordered by piles of dirty snow. A row of six
stores, not yet open, stood opposite. A man cleaned the windows at OK Tires. Wisps
of steam rose from his bucket. Seven tires were on display.
It didn’t smell.
“Why’d you come?” Megan asked.
I shrugged.
“Was it…because of what I said about your mom?” Her forehead wrinkled.
I don’t like questions, particularly if I don’t know the answer. Questions like Is
the earth round? are fine because I have seen pictures taken from space in which
the world looks like a green-and-blue Christmas ball.
Why did I come?
“Do your parents know anything?” Megan asked.
My parents know a lot of stuff. “My mother has a bachelor’s degree in social work.”
Megan breathed out. “About me…you know, being here?”
“No,” I said.
I had written in the note to my dad only that I was getting the bus to Prince George.
“What about you? Did you say you were leaving?”
“No,” I said.
Megan exhaled with a soft whoosh .
“I wrote,” I said.
Megan swore. “Why?”
“It is the rule.”
“The rule. Forget the rules. What did you write?”
“I wrote that I was catching the 8:00 AM bus to Prince George,” I said.
“But why?”
“I am supposed to say where I am going,” I said.
“No, I mean why did you follow me? If there hadn’t been mechanical problems, I’d
have left on an earlier bus for Vancouver. I wouldn’t even be here.”
My breathing got fast again because I don’t like questions. I started to rock.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Don’t answer.” Megan turned. She walked a few feet in one
direction and then circled back.
We were silent. I watched the man clean the window. He lifted the squeegee five times.
The intercom above us crackled. A voice piped out, loud in the still open air:
“All passengers bound for Vancouver, your bus is ready for loading.”
Ten
“You should go back,” Megan said.
“It is too smelly in the terminal,” I said.
“No, I mean back to Kitimat.”
I shook my head.
“But why?” Megan said. “Look, you can ask your mom stuff on the phone.”
“Or write,” I said, because I write better than I talk.
“Exactly,” she said. “And they must be worried.”
“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
You close your eyes. And hold your breath.”
I shut my eyes tightly. I held my breath. I gripped the strap of the backpack. She
stepped forward, and I followed her into the frozen hush of the Prince George morning.
I inhaled. The air was so cold it stung my throat and lungs. When I opened my eyes,
I could see the fog of my own breath.
I don’t know how long we stood on the pavement. I don’t remember feeling cold, although
I felt Megan shivering beside me.
But after a while, I noticed my surroundings. I saw that we were standing beside
a side road patterned with frost and bordered by piles of dirty snow. A row of six
stores, not yet open, stood opposite. A man cleaned the windows at OK Tires. Wisps
of steam rose from his bucket. Seven tires were on display.
It didn’t smell.
“Why’d you come?” Megan asked.
I shrugged.
“Was it…because of what I said about your mom?” Her forehead wrinkled.
I don’t like questions, particularly if I don’t know the answer. Questions like Is
the earth round? are fine because I have seen pictures taken from space in which
the world looks like a green-and-blue Christmas ball.
Why did I come?
“Do your parents know anything?” Megan asked.
My parents know a lot of stuff. “My mother has a bachelor’s degree in social work.”
Megan breathed out. “About me…you know, being here?”
“No,” I said.
I had written in the note to my dad only that I was getting the bus to Prince George.
“What about you? Did you say you were leaving?”
“No,” I said.
Megan exhaled with a soft whoosh .
“I wrote,” I said.
Megan swore. “Why?”
“It is the rule.”
“The rule. Forget the rules. What did you write?”
“I wrote that I was catching the 8:00 AM bus to Prince George,” I said.
“But why?”
“I am supposed to say where I am going,” I said.
“No, I mean why did you follow me? If there hadn’t been mechanical problems, I’d
have left on an earlier bus for Vancouver. I wouldn’t even be here.”
My breathing got fast again because I don’t like questions. I started to rock.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Don’t answer.” Megan turned. She walked a few feet in one
direction and then circled back.
We were silent. I watched the man clean the window. He lifted the squeegee five times.
The intercom above us crackled. A voice piped out, loud in the still open air:
“All passengers bound for Vancouver, your bus is ready for loading.”
Ten
“You should go back,” Megan said.
“It is too smelly in the terminal,” I said.
“No, I mean back to Kitimat.”
I shook my head.
“But why?” Megan said. “Look, you can ask your mom stuff on the phone.”
“Or write,” I said, because I write better than I talk.
“Exactly,” she said. “And they must be worried.”
“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
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