which was just too weird. Having lived her entire life – almost seventeen years – in downtown Toronto, she'd seen street people before. Seen them, avoided them, given them her loose change if she was feeling flush and they weren't too smelly or too old. This guy was nothing special.
Thumbs hooked under her backpack straps, she took a step closer. Considering the heavy, after-school foot traffic, he had rather a large open area around him. Which turned out to be not at all surprising when the breeze shifted.
Did she know him? Was he like some old friend of her dad's who'd fallen on hard times? Breathing shallowly through her mouth, Isabel tried to recognize a familiar feature under all the dirt.
As if drawn by her regard, he rose up out of the garbage and turned. The small part of his face she could see wore an expression of extreme puzzlement.
"Half a Starbucks apricot square will last forty-six hours and seven minutes without going mouldy," he said. "A muffin..." Glancing into the garbage, he shook his head. Then he looked up again, locking blood-shot grey eyes on hers. "There isn't much time."
Isabel could actually feel the hair rise on the back of her neck. It was a totally gross feeling. Pulling a handful of change out of her pocket, she thrust it toward him. "Here, buy a fresh muffin."
The two dollar coin caught his attention. He plucked it off her palm, closed his right eye, and held it up to his left. "Twonie or not twonie. That is the question."
The coin disappeared.
She'd been watching the coin. Had almost seen it slide sideways into nothing. Had almost recognized the movement. She thought she heard something growl. A quick look around – no dogs. When she turned back to her streeter, he was in exactly the same position he'd been in when she'd turned away. "So, do you want the rest of this money or not?"
He shrugged and held out his hand.
Isabel dropped the change in his palm, careful not to touch anything, and hurried away. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I should start taking taxis home from school.
*
"Dad? You home?" She didn’t expect him to be home, not at four thirty on a Tuesday, not on a day that Mrs. Gerfinleo was in, but it never hurt to ask.
Shrugging out of backpack and blazer, she dropped them on the floor, kicked off her sensible black school shoes, picked up her backpack, and headed for her bedroom. By the time she got out of the shower, her blazer hung brushed and pressed on the door to the walk-in closet and her newly shined shoes were aligned neatly in their cubby.
Grinning, she threw on jeans and a T-shirt and made her way to the kitchen for her bi-weekly lecture on how clothing didn't pick itself up.
The kitchen was as empty as the rest of the condo.
"Mrs. G.?"
A noise on the terrace, the sound of furniture being moved, caught her attention.
Well, duh. Mrs. G. was out watering the plants.
"Mrs..." Her greeting trailed off, leaving her standing silently in the open doorway staring at the biggest crow she'd ever seen. Perched on the back of a rattan chair, head cocked, it stared intently at her out of a brilliant yellow eye. And it was staring at her not just in her general direction the way most birds did.
"What do you want, bird?"
In reply, it dropped the biggest streak of bird shit she'd ever seen down the back of the chair.
"Too gross! Go on, get out of here!" Flapping a hand at it, she added an emphatic, "Scram!"
Instead of flying away, it dropped down onto the terrace and hopped toward her.
"I don't think so, bird." Stepping back, she slammed the door in its face.
It stopped, glared up at her, ruffled its feathers into place, and said... well, it didn't say anything exactly, it cawed like crows did, but, for a moment, Isabel was certain – almost certain – it had called her a stuck-up bitch.
"Okay. Low blood sugar. Definitely time for a snack."
Wherever she'd been, Mrs. G. had to be back in the kitchen by now.
She wasn't. But this time, Isabel saw the
Thumbs hooked under her backpack straps, she took a step closer. Considering the heavy, after-school foot traffic, he had rather a large open area around him. Which turned out to be not at all surprising when the breeze shifted.
Did she know him? Was he like some old friend of her dad's who'd fallen on hard times? Breathing shallowly through her mouth, Isabel tried to recognize a familiar feature under all the dirt.
As if drawn by her regard, he rose up out of the garbage and turned. The small part of his face she could see wore an expression of extreme puzzlement.
"Half a Starbucks apricot square will last forty-six hours and seven minutes without going mouldy," he said. "A muffin..." Glancing into the garbage, he shook his head. Then he looked up again, locking blood-shot grey eyes on hers. "There isn't much time."
Isabel could actually feel the hair rise on the back of her neck. It was a totally gross feeling. Pulling a handful of change out of her pocket, she thrust it toward him. "Here, buy a fresh muffin."
The two dollar coin caught his attention. He plucked it off her palm, closed his right eye, and held it up to his left. "Twonie or not twonie. That is the question."
The coin disappeared.
She'd been watching the coin. Had almost seen it slide sideways into nothing. Had almost recognized the movement. She thought she heard something growl. A quick look around – no dogs. When she turned back to her streeter, he was in exactly the same position he'd been in when she'd turned away. "So, do you want the rest of this money or not?"
He shrugged and held out his hand.
Isabel dropped the change in his palm, careful not to touch anything, and hurried away. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I should start taking taxis home from school.
*
"Dad? You home?" She didn’t expect him to be home, not at four thirty on a Tuesday, not on a day that Mrs. Gerfinleo was in, but it never hurt to ask.
Shrugging out of backpack and blazer, she dropped them on the floor, kicked off her sensible black school shoes, picked up her backpack, and headed for her bedroom. By the time she got out of the shower, her blazer hung brushed and pressed on the door to the walk-in closet and her newly shined shoes were aligned neatly in their cubby.
Grinning, she threw on jeans and a T-shirt and made her way to the kitchen for her bi-weekly lecture on how clothing didn't pick itself up.
The kitchen was as empty as the rest of the condo.
"Mrs. G.?"
A noise on the terrace, the sound of furniture being moved, caught her attention.
Well, duh. Mrs. G. was out watering the plants.
"Mrs..." Her greeting trailed off, leaving her standing silently in the open doorway staring at the biggest crow she'd ever seen. Perched on the back of a rattan chair, head cocked, it stared intently at her out of a brilliant yellow eye. And it was staring at her not just in her general direction the way most birds did.
"What do you want, bird?"
In reply, it dropped the biggest streak of bird shit she'd ever seen down the back of the chair.
"Too gross! Go on, get out of here!" Flapping a hand at it, she added an emphatic, "Scram!"
Instead of flying away, it dropped down onto the terrace and hopped toward her.
"I don't think so, bird." Stepping back, she slammed the door in its face.
It stopped, glared up at her, ruffled its feathers into place, and said... well, it didn't say anything exactly, it cawed like crows did, but, for a moment, Isabel was certain – almost certain – it had called her a stuck-up bitch.
"Okay. Low blood sugar. Definitely time for a snack."
Wherever she'd been, Mrs. G. had to be back in the kitchen by now.
She wasn't. But this time, Isabel saw the
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