note.
Bella: Mr. Gerfinleo called from the emergency so I have to leave early. There was an accident with the forklift. Don’t worry, he's okay if you don't count the broken leg. Your supper is in the refrigerator in the stone casserole. Ninety minutes at 350 degrees then grate some of the Parmesan on top. Tell your father, I'll call him later when I know.
Well, that explained why the condo seemed so empty. It was.
About to peer into the casserole, Isabel paused. If Mrs. G. had left early, who'd picked up her clothes?
Clothing didn't pick itself up.
*
She saw him the second time on her way to Gregg's Ice Cream. Seven o'clock, her dad still wasn't home and half a dozen questions kept chasing themselves around in her head. If anything could take the place of answers, it was sweet cream on a sugar cone with sprinkles.
Her streeter was standing outside the Royal Ontario Museum, inside the security fence, inside the garden for that matter, both hands pressed flat against a floor to ceiling window, staring in at the Asian temple. His wardrobe had grown by the addition of a mostly shiny black jacket with the logo for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s CATS embroidered across the back. Nobody but her seemed to have noticed him, but then he did have the whole poor-and-homeless cloak of invisibility thing going.
About to cross to the southwest side of Queen's Park – the museum's corner – Isabel stepped back up onto the curb and crossed to the north side of Bloor instead. When she then crossed west, the four lanes of Bloor Street were between them.
It didn't matter.
As she drew level with him, her streeter turned and looked directly at her.
"Time is not an illusion, no matter what they say. Spare some change for a cup of coffee, miss. We need to start soon." He didn't shout, he didn't bellow, he just made his declaration in a quiet conversational voice.
She shouldn't have been able to hear him.
Then a transport drove between them. Caught and stopped by the red light, it completely blocked her view. All she could see was the side of the trailer and a couple of hundred pairs of closed eyes advertising – actually she had no idea what they were advertising. When Isabel crouched down, a pair of sedans the next lane over blocked that view too. When she straightened, the painted eyes were open, the irises a deep, blood red. As the transport pulled away, she thought she saw them blink.
The lawn at the ROM was empty except for half a dozen pigeons milling about like they'd lost something.
"Extra sprinkles," she decided, picking up her pace.
*
The best ice cream in the city was of less comfort than usual. She still needed answers. The light was on in her father's den when she got home.
"Hey, Dad?"
He pushed his laptop away and turned to face her, waiting expectantly.
"Have you..."
He was a good dad, the best dad – even if he did have a tendency to date men who weren't ready for commitment – but Isabel knew with a cold hard certainty, that he couldn't help her now.
"...heard from Mrs. G?"
If he realized that wasn't the question she'd begun, he didn't let on. "As a matter of fact, I have. She won't be in until Monday; Mr. Gerfinleo is going to need her at home. Will you be all right?"
"Me?" Did the weirdness show on her face? "Why?"
His brows dipped. "Because I've still got to leave for New York tomorrow morning and I'll be gone until Friday afternoon."
Oh yeah. New York. "Right. I forgot."
"You'll be on your own." He sounded less than convinced that it was a good idea.
"For less than three whole days." Isabel rolled her eyes. "I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't have a boyfriend to bring over, and I'm almost seventeen. Even if I eat nothing but crap – which I won't – I'll survive and, as long as I avoid Mrs. Harris, no one's going to call The Children's Aid Society on you."
"I don’t know. Perhaps you should go stay with your Uncle Joe."
"Uncle Joe thinks I should be allowed to get my belly
Bella: Mr. Gerfinleo called from the emergency so I have to leave early. There was an accident with the forklift. Don’t worry, he's okay if you don't count the broken leg. Your supper is in the refrigerator in the stone casserole. Ninety minutes at 350 degrees then grate some of the Parmesan on top. Tell your father, I'll call him later when I know.
Well, that explained why the condo seemed so empty. It was.
About to peer into the casserole, Isabel paused. If Mrs. G. had left early, who'd picked up her clothes?
Clothing didn't pick itself up.
*
She saw him the second time on her way to Gregg's Ice Cream. Seven o'clock, her dad still wasn't home and half a dozen questions kept chasing themselves around in her head. If anything could take the place of answers, it was sweet cream on a sugar cone with sprinkles.
Her streeter was standing outside the Royal Ontario Museum, inside the security fence, inside the garden for that matter, both hands pressed flat against a floor to ceiling window, staring in at the Asian temple. His wardrobe had grown by the addition of a mostly shiny black jacket with the logo for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s CATS embroidered across the back. Nobody but her seemed to have noticed him, but then he did have the whole poor-and-homeless cloak of invisibility thing going.
About to cross to the southwest side of Queen's Park – the museum's corner – Isabel stepped back up onto the curb and crossed to the north side of Bloor instead. When she then crossed west, the four lanes of Bloor Street were between them.
It didn't matter.
As she drew level with him, her streeter turned and looked directly at her.
"Time is not an illusion, no matter what they say. Spare some change for a cup of coffee, miss. We need to start soon." He didn't shout, he didn't bellow, he just made his declaration in a quiet conversational voice.
She shouldn't have been able to hear him.
Then a transport drove between them. Caught and stopped by the red light, it completely blocked her view. All she could see was the side of the trailer and a couple of hundred pairs of closed eyes advertising – actually she had no idea what they were advertising. When Isabel crouched down, a pair of sedans the next lane over blocked that view too. When she straightened, the painted eyes were open, the irises a deep, blood red. As the transport pulled away, she thought she saw them blink.
The lawn at the ROM was empty except for half a dozen pigeons milling about like they'd lost something.
"Extra sprinkles," she decided, picking up her pace.
*
The best ice cream in the city was of less comfort than usual. She still needed answers. The light was on in her father's den when she got home.
"Hey, Dad?"
He pushed his laptop away and turned to face her, waiting expectantly.
"Have you..."
He was a good dad, the best dad – even if he did have a tendency to date men who weren't ready for commitment – but Isabel knew with a cold hard certainty, that he couldn't help her now.
"...heard from Mrs. G?"
If he realized that wasn't the question she'd begun, he didn't let on. "As a matter of fact, I have. She won't be in until Monday; Mr. Gerfinleo is going to need her at home. Will you be all right?"
"Me?" Did the weirdness show on her face? "Why?"
His brows dipped. "Because I've still got to leave for New York tomorrow morning and I'll be gone until Friday afternoon."
Oh yeah. New York. "Right. I forgot."
"You'll be on your own." He sounded less than convinced that it was a good idea.
"For less than three whole days." Isabel rolled her eyes. "I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't have a boyfriend to bring over, and I'm almost seventeen. Even if I eat nothing but crap – which I won't – I'll survive and, as long as I avoid Mrs. Harris, no one's going to call The Children's Aid Society on you."
"I don’t know. Perhaps you should go stay with your Uncle Joe."
"Uncle Joe thinks I should be allowed to get my belly
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