Cover

Dedication

For Barbara and MoJo,who hold so many of my stories

1.1 [close to the bone]

LIGHTS FLASH, my score pops up—best ever—and the game’s over. I played Rescue 911 first, then Buck Hunter, got right into it, hands and brain working together. A real buzz.

I shrug into my hoodie and saunter out of the arcade like I own the place. At Subway, I check out the menu. After I’ve returned my library books, the plan is to come back here and eat in one of the booths, a Footlong Cold Cut Combo, extra mustard and onion, skip the tomato.

I wander around The Source, looking at all the electronic stuff I don’t have, then head for the mall exit. Lorne Meisner is standing outside the beauty parlor, his back to me, waiting for his mom. Any other eleven-year-old would be in the arcade or the sports store. Not Lorne. He’s such a jerk, just about begs you to pick on him.

Can’t give him a wedgie at the mall.

My sneakers quiet on the tile floor, I amble up behind him, dig my fingers deep into his shoulder, and squeeze. The kid’s nothing but bone and gristle.

I say, innocent as can be, “Hey, Lorne. How’s it going?”

“Good.” He’s trembling.

“Only good?” I squeeze a little harder.

“Real good.” He starts whimpering, so I let go.

He scuttles into the beauty parlor.

When I turn around, a jolt goes right through me. Pete MacLellan, Floyd’s boss, five-feet-seven in his built-up heels, is stationed near the pet store, staring at me. He was brought in from Truro a year ago, after the previous manager retired. Ever since, it’s been no fun living with Floyd, who’d obviously assumed he’d be the next boss.

Floyd is my father.

As I pass Pete, I nod politely. Then I aim for the exit, trying to walk the way Floyd walks, like you’ve got the world by the tail and you’re whipping it around your head.

I cross the parking lot to Main Street. The GM dealership, where Floyd works, is on my left; I walk faster. The RCMP detachment is next, and the bakery. You can smell their chocolate chip cookies a block away. Why all the cops aren’t overweight, I don’t know.

The library is a red brick building with a few scrubby bushes on either side of the door. There’s a rack just inside where they display the theme of the week. Perennial Gardening. No use to me.

Billy Gottrich is thumbing through the DVDs, the cuffs of his jeans bunched around his ankles, crotch mid-thigh. Pathetic. While it’s tempting to hassle him, I decided long ago to keep my nose clean at the library.