Breaking Faith Read online

  I see Trevor standing with Taylor, but Taylor is more interested in Kyle, who has an obvious good look about him—of course, she falls for the obvious. Trevor sees me looking at him.

  As he walks over amidst the flurry of bodies drinking, smoking, and dancing to a stranger’s dying iPod playlist, he drinks and takes a drag from his joint. Trevor puts his hand on my cheek and pulls me close, wrapping his mouth around mine, and blows the musky, hot smoke into my mouth. I inhale it, like I’m inhaling his very essence. As the smoke leaves my mouth, I look at him for what feels like forever—I feel his face with the palm of my hand, until he takes it and puts it on his crotch.

  Then I hear a scuffle and look beyond him. It’s Shaylee. She is falling down all over the place, and some of the guys are pushing her onto an old drafting table covered in rat shit and dust. She’s too drunk to say no—or yes. Her eyes are closed but she has her hands up, flailing around. I look at her with a detached apathy and calmness, thinking that maybe my gut feelings were right.

  I open my mouth wider, putting my tongue into Trevor’s mouth, but he recoils and falls back, off-balance. It looks like Trevor is dizzier and more drunk than I am, but he’s stronger, and he sways back to me, grabbing both my hands, holding them over my head. Another boy comes over to us, a blond boy with transparent skin, and opens my shirt, while Trevor watches.

  I feel hands on me. Everything around me slows to a crawl—I wonder where Taylor is and why I can’t see her. Then my gaze meanders to an office on the far side with frosted glass partitions, pieces cracked and broken. There’s a figure on a table or a desk, not sure which, with shadowy figures around it, like wolves feeding on a fresh kill.

  As slow as my mind was working moments before, it accelerates in a flash and brings me into the reality of what all this is leading to.

  Get out—get out—get out!

  Just like that, everything speeds up. My reflexes, my thinking, my body flip into survival mode. My head hits Trevor hard on the mouth, and while he’s trying to regain his balance, his crotch gets far enough from me that I have a clear shot, a real hard, deep one. The other boy is in such shock from what I did to Trevor, or maybe he’s only too drunk or too stoned, that he stands there, his mouth gaping, for a split second—and that’s all I need. Spotting my backpack, I sprint to grab it. The blond boy takes hold of my jacket, and my head jerks, but there’s nothing holding me back—’cause I slip my arms out, turn around, grab my backpack, and swing it squarely into his face. He grunts and falls with a thud to the wooden plank floor.

  I think seriously about helping Taylor and Shaylee for about a tenth of a second, but I’m too scared. Trevor’s holding on to his precious crotch, a cold sneer on his face and with eyes searing into me. Rising with zombie-like elegance, he gets to his feet. I gather by the curses he’s mumbling under his breath that if he gets hold of me, I won’t make it out of there alive. So I run—run, stagger, and half-fall all the way down the stairs and past the meth heads sleeping on the cement floor. I run, crying into the crystal-clear night, gasping breaths of cold air all the way to the overpass next to the busy highway on-ramp adjacent to the factory.

  Guilt and fear swallow me. Vulnerable, gullible, and stupid. That’s you, you stupid twat—old Reggie was right and so were your instincts. Oh my God, Ultimate Being, I have to get to a phone—if I just leave them there, they’ll be killed for sure.

  I run up the incline into the city to look for a pay phone, hoping that they still have those dinosaurs around for losers and homeless people, like me. My breath is fire in my throat by the time I spot one outside a take-out donair place. Coughing like an old smoker, I pick up the receiver and punch in 911. There’s a short ring and a click.

  “This is 911. What is your emergency?” a clear voice asks on the other end of the line.

  I shout into the receiver. “My friends are in a factory with a bunch of stoned, drunk guys, and they’re gonna get killed—they’re being raped right now! Help them!”

  “Okay, miss, stay calm—are you at the location now?”

  “No, I got away—please send help—”

  “Can you tell me where it is so I can dispatch help?” interrupts the calm operator.

  “Uh. I think it was near the highway on-ramp off of—” I glance at the street sign on the corner. My vision is still swimming in front of me from the booze and pot, but I can make it out. “—Eastern Avenue! Please, hurry,” I sob into the phone.

  “The police and EMS are on the way to the factory location. What is your name, miss?”

  “I’m—” I halt in mid-sentence and remember hearing somewhere that they trace 911 calls. They were probably tracing this one. I sure as hell don’t want to be found, not drunk and stoned, with my shirt half-torn off. I’ll end up in custody for sure, and eventually they’ll send me home. I stare into the phone, then I hang up and run onto a side street, duck into an alley by a dumpster, and wait. I beg the Ultimate Being to help Taylor and Shaylee hang on until the police arrive.

  Before long I hear the sound of sirens cut through the night air, one, two, three, one after the other, as they race down the busy street to the old factory district.

  As I sit against the dumpster, I look down and wonder what to do about my torn-open shirt. I’m cold and my teeth are chattering and my face is streaked with tears, so I reach into my backpack side pocket to find a hoodie and something to wipe my face with. I dig around, and amongst a toothbrush, brush, and some change, I find a folded piece of paper. I open it up and it’s the address Emma gave me so long ago in the Triple-S House. It’s all in caps.

  BRIAN—2145 QUEEN ST. E. 289 555 7722

  Chapter 20

  I woke up the next morning in an alcove next to a bank machine, lying prone, with my head on my backpack. My thoughts rushed back to Taylor and Shaylee. Shit, I hope the cops got to them before those animals could hurt them too badly. Did I make it to the phone in time?

  My stomach growled its hunger and I had to pee. I pulled my hood over my head for more warmth, and as I stumbled to my feet, a piece of paper fell out of my hand—the paper with Brian’s address.

  I bent over to pick it up, and the tears came again. I wondered if Emma was right about Brian. I turned the wrinkled slip of paper over in my hand. Hunger relentlessly bit my insides, but I was so tired—my legs hurt too much from running last night, so I let myself slide down to the floor again—at least it was warmer in the alcove.

  I sat there, my arms wrapped around my knees, looking out onto the street. The hard shell I had worked so hard to build up over these months had shattered and fallen down around me. People filtered onto the street, the workers, the runners, the cyclists, and the dog walkers, all out for another day in the city, scurrying to work or to get their kids to school. I felt their eyes on me, judging me, their stares weighing me down until I couldn’t breathe. I brushed the tears away and studied the paper again. My next thought, Do I have anything to lose?

  “I need to have something to do today.” The words were plain and simple but true. If I didn’t focus on a task, I would lose it completely and go crazy right there on one of the busiest streets in Toronto.

  So I stood up and strode out, feeling more fragile than I had ever felt, to panhandle for streetcar fare. I knew where that portion of Queen Street was—close to the Beaches. I found an empty paper cup in a garbage can, and began to beg.

  Before long, I had enough to eat and take a streetcar. I went to a nearby coffee shop and ordered a hot chocolate and a doughnut. Nothing ever tasted so good. I peed, brushed my teeth, and washed in the bathroom. After that I walked to the streetcar stop and waited.

  Queen Street is a damn long street. I watched the numbers on the buildings and houses flicker by as I rode the streetcar—1977, 1995, 2013. There were nice homes mixed with shops mixed with restaurants—not the place I would have expected the friend of a kid in a shelter to live.

/>   There’s 2087, 2117; it was close now, 2123. I pushed the buzzer and got off. There weren’t houses around, only stores. I walked to 2145, Mimi’s Natural Grocer. Maybe Emma got the address wrong.

  ...

  When I walk in, the clerk allows me a brief glance, then turns her attention back to cleaning the countertop. I probably look like a lost dog.

  “Excuse me,” I say softly. “I’m looking for this address.” I show her the wrinkled and worn piece of paper.

  She twists her head to look at it and smiles. “Yeah, Brian—he lives upstairs.” She looks squarely at me now. “Go out and turn to your left—the white door right next to the display window. Let yourself in and go upstairs. It’s Saturday, so he should be home.”

  I feel a little uplifted. “Thanks.” I leave the store and do as I’m told. Left, then to the white door. It’s open, just like she knew it would be. A narrow set of stairs rises in front of me, dark and smelling of mold. The carpet covering the worn, creaky steps hasn’t seen a vacuum in years. I walk up gingerly and see two doors for, I’m guessing, two apartments. One door has “E. Lieberman” on it, the other “B. Elias”—I knock on B.’s door. Nothing. Knock again, harder.

  “What!” A muffled shout, half-drowned out by the TV, comes from the other side. My heart jumps. What the hell am I going to say to this guy? Is Emma home?

  “Are you Brian?” I wince.

  “Who wants to know?” The voice is closer, but the TV still blares in the background.

  “I’m Faith…I’m a friend of Emma’s. We met at a shelter and she—” The door wrenches open wide. A slim man probably in his late twenties locks on to my eyes.

  “How do you know Emma?”

  Startled, I take a step back and stutter my response. “I—we met at a shelter.”

  “When!” He takes a step toward me. “When did you meet her! When’s the last time you saw her?”

  I back up to the wall.

  “Have you seen her since—in the last couple months?”

  “No, I haven’t.” My voice is small. He steps back into the apartment as he runs his hands through his hair, circles around a beat-up coffee table a few times, and flops down on a couch. Unsure of what to do, I return to the doorway and watch him warily as he hunches over and stares at the floor.

  The man has a thin, pointed face, with buzz-cut hair, a scruffy beard, and a dagger tattoo on his forearm. I gather up the courage to ask again, only because I have nowhere else to go.

  “Are you Brian?”

  He nods slowly. “Yeah, I’m Brian.”

  “Um. Emma gave me this.” I hold out the paper and cross the room to show him.

  “She gave you that?” He lifts his eyes from the floor and grasps the paper.

  I nod. “She said you guys were good friends, and she said that if I needed to, that I could stay with you and her.”

  “Well, Emma’s been gone since July, so I guess you won’t be seeing her.” His voice is low and sad.

  “Did you fight or something?” I ask cautiously.

  “No, that’s the thing—I don’t know what happened. She just didn’t come back.”

  “Where did she go?”

  He looks at me pointedly. “Who are you anyway? And get back outside.”

  I turn and do as I’m told. “My name is Faith,” I say from beyond the threshold.

  “I know but…” He runs his fingers through his hair again. “What do you want? I told you, she’s not here.”

  “Please…I just need someplace to sleep.”

  “Look,” Brian says, getting up off the couch. “I can’t just let you in here. You’re obviously a kid. Don’t you have a home? Parents?”

  “I’m not from Toronto—and no, I don’t,” I lie. Just then, I hear a soft click as the other door opens. I turn my head slightly to see curious eyes looking at me from a crack in the door.

  “What about a shelter?” he asks.

  “I don’t need a shelter, I need a job. I need to get a job so I can get my own place and start my life. If I go back to a shelter, I won’t get a job—No one will hire me.” My hands are palms up, in a desperate appeal. “I just need a chance, one chance. Please.”

  “So, like, you show up here…” His voice has a sarcastic drawl that angers me. I can feel my chest begin to heave. “And you expect me to let you sleep here and find you a job? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  The door next to Brian’s opens up a bit more, revealing a little old woman no taller than the chain lock securing her door. She looks ancient.

  “I can’t help you, so you need to leave.” With this, he closes the door just as abruptly as he opened it; the breeze from the impact makes my hair fly back.

  “Emma said you were a nice guy,” I shout back to him. “She said you had a heart, but you’re just a shit just like the rest of them.” I swipe a tear from my cheek. “Sorry to bother you.” I turn on my heel and begin to descend the stairs. I am nearly halfway down when I hear a woman’s voice shout down to me.

  “Stop, girlie.” I halt in mid step. The old woman is at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. She’s holding on to one of those rolling walkers, her forehead in a furrowed bunch and her eyes squinting at me, looking as though she was trying to make up her mind about me, weighing me. “How old are you?”

  “I’m sixteen, Miss.” There is something about her that commands respect.

  “Sixteen.” She shakes her head and breathes in deeply. “Where is Mama?” Her question pierces my heart.

  “My momma is dead,” I answer. The air hangs heavily between us.

  After a long moment, she tells me, “You come up.” Her accent is thick. “One night, one shower—then you go.” I bob my head up and down, swallow hard, and feel immense pressure lifting from my chest. It’s all I can do to not throw my arms around her and smother her with thank-yous. “Come, girlie.” She motions for me to follow. “And if you steal anything, I call police.”

  I nod yes, staying a respectable distance behind her. “I promise I won’t. I know how that feels and I would never do it to anyone else.” I follow her to her apartment and take my shoes off outside, shortly after which I notice that my socks aren’t much cleaner than my shoes. She halts in the middle of her living room, which looks like it was trapped in the 1970s, and starts to say something, but the TV is blaring out a special report on the local news and both our eyes are drawn to the screen.

  “Police were called to an abandoned factory early this morning by an anonymous caller,” says the female news anchor, “where they discovered two female youths sexually assaulted and beaten unconscious. The females are now in hospital, where police say they are recovering from their injuries. In the meantime, six male youths ranging from fifteen to seventeen years of age and one man nineteen years of age are in custody. More to follow on this story as details become available.”

  Taylor and Shaylee are alive. I bury my face in my hands and sob. I saved them. I saved them from those animals, who value the life and sexuality of a girl less than they do a piece of meat.

  “What’s wrong?” asks the old woman. It takes me a moment to catch my breath.

  I shake my head, and my eyes are downcast. “Nothing,” I say, though I want to cry out, I know those girls and I called the police!

  As I try to steady my voice and choke down the next sob, I figure I had better introduce myself and thank her for letting me in. I’m not sure I would have done the same if I were in her shoes. “I’m sorry—I’ve had a rough couple of days. My name is Faith.” I hold out my hand to shake. She looks at it—it’s filthy. I retract it to save her the embarrassment of not taking it.

  “My name is Edith Lieberman.” She leans on her walker and continues to survey me up and down with wary eyes. “You call me Mrs. Lieberman.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lieberman.” I sniff and look
around the apartment. It doesn’t even look like it belongs in the same building as Brian’s. It’s warm and cozy, with embroidered doilies over all the upholstery armrests. The furniture is from another era, but it’s clean and neat.

  “You too,” says Mrs. Lieberman. “You hungry?” Now that she mentions it, now that I know Taylor and Shaylee survived last night, I’m famished and I smell something cooking.

  “Yes, I am. Very.”

  She shuffles to the rear of the apartment to a tiny galley kitchen. “I know it—you’re too skinny. You like chicken?” she asks, serious and unsmiling.

  I could eat a shoe. “I love chicken,” I answer, my mouth watering. I follow her to the kitchen, where she picks up a wooden spoon and stirs a steaming pot. The aroma is mesmerizing.

  “Good. Chicken with matzo balls—you like?” She turns and looks at me again, then shakes her head, which, in turn, makes me look down at myself.

  “You go wash—go.” She motions to a door opposite the kitchen. “You need clothes?”

  “No, I have extra clothes in my bag.”

  She raises her brows. “They clean?” Her lips press together. “They not clean, you don’t stay here.”

  “Well, not really all that clean.” The ones I am wearing are my last clean change.

  She looks under the kitchen sink and finds a bag. “Put clothes in there. Tomorrow, you bring to laundry.” She’s small in stature but definitely has a mind of her own.

  “What do I wear instead?”

  “My granddaughter’s clothes—I get for you.” Mrs. Lieberman shuffles into her bedroom and comes back with a handful of clothes on her walker seat: comfy-looking pyjamas, tidy whities, and socks. “My granddaughter was maybe your size—tall, like her father. My son.”