Drive by Diana Wieler Read Free Book Online Page A

him. I could build this thing by myself if Dad just told me what to do. He’d been talking about that garage for years and I wanted to finally make it happen.
    Something occurred to me.
    â€œHow much is it going to cost?”
    â€œBetween four and five thousand,” Dad said through a mouthful.
    â€œDo you have it?” I said without thinking.
    He smiled and kept chewing. In the Friesen household, kids didn’t ask adults what they could afford. He surprised me when he spoke again.
    â€œI will soon. That seniors’ complex that’s going up in St. Andrew’s? I got the contract. It’s a big bejesus job but I think I can swing it.”
    â€œYou should hire someone to help you,” my mother said. ”Get Don Shibote.”
    Dad didn’t seem to hear. He was talking to me, his eyes lit up. ”If all I have to pay for is materials, and we do the work on weekends, we could get the walls and roof up before I get busy in the summer. Hell, we might even get it insulated.”
    â€œDad, that’s great!” I said, and I meant it. After what we’d gone through in the last year, this moment seemed like a miracle.
    Except he’d have to give the money to Mogen Kruse.
    I looked at Daniel. His eyes were fixed on his plate, avoiding me. He’d known about this. He’d known it when he’d thumbed into the city to aggravate the hell out of Kruse.
    In that instant I almost hated him, the self-centered little prick. He pushed and pushed for what he wanted, and he didn’t care who had to pay for it.
    â€œHow’s school, Daniel?” I said evenly.
    He looked up. ”It’s…okay.”
    My father pushed his plate away. ”That’s right. Report cards.” He held his hand out, all business. ”Where is it?”
    My mother leapt to her feet. ”Oh, you can see it after, Karl. Let’s have dessert.”
    She set out another one of my favorites, a coffee slice with caramel icing. My father bit into his low-fat cookie, resigned.
    Daniel was glaring at me.
    â€œYou know, they’re already selling tickets to your grad, to the ceremony,” my brother said. ”I heard Chris Butler had to buy six because his whole family is going. His grandma is going to fly in from Vancouver, it’s such a big deal.”
    Beside me, my father’s breath ran out in a sigh, as if someone had thrust a knife into a tire.
    I went to my room after dinner. My old room. I remembered how it had been when Daniel and I both slept there, the beds against connecting walls, ends almost touching. I remembered us sitting up on our elbows, whispering in the dark, in the days when I was the only one he would talk to. Even after he couldtalk, he didn’t much, except at night. Then his whole day seemed to pour out of him, like he was a full glass that finally overflowed.
    My brother had never done really well in school. He was smart but he just wasn’t interested; he daydreamed a lot. Because he was so quiet, the rumor persisted that he was at least partially deaf, and maybe half retarded. Sometimes kids called him things just to see if he’d react. But if I was there, they kept their mouths shut. I tried to be there.
    Then, at the end of my grade nine year, I got into the second fight of my life, with Chris Butler. It wasn’t about Daniel, but it changed everything. My brother moved into the basement with his guitars. Late at night he’d still be playing, his noise vibrating the floor under my feet. I’d yell down the heating vent at him, tell him to shut the hell up.
    Now my room was exactly as I’d left it — school binders dumped on the desk, sports bag open against the wall, lacrosse stick leaning against the dresser that was piled with books. I pawed through the clutter as if I could find the money hidden somewhere.
    If only we could sell the tapes. But how? Who would buy them? Busking didn’t work. Fifteen tapes in three