of him. He’s kind of… spooky. Do you know him from somewhere, Kim?”
Kim stopped in the act of putting on her silver helmet. “What do ya mean?”
“It just looked like you knew him in class,” Brendan said.
“Huh,” she jammed the helmet onto her head and did up the strap. “At my old school. He subbed there once. That’s all.” She fell silent, making it obvious she wasn’t going to elaborate.
“I don’t know,” Harold said, gathering up his drawing materials and stuffing them into his knapsack. “Anything’s better than old Bowel-ly.”
“Millionaire Bowel-ly,” Dmitri corrected. “He’s won the lottery now.”
“That’s so amazing,” Brendan said. “Do you think it’s true?”
Kim straddled her scooter. “I wouldn’t trust anything that guy said. You shouldn’t either.” She kicked the pedal and the engine roared to life. Without another word she sped off west along Harbord.
They watched her go.
“What’s up her butt?” Harold asked.
“No idea,” Brendan said. “I think it’s something to do with the new substitute teacher.”
“Greenleaf?” Dmitri said. “You think so?”
“Yeah. I think he’s kind of odd, too. Don’t you?”
“No weirder than any other teacher.” Harold shrugged. “Let’s go, D. See ya, Brendan.” He headed off north toward the subway station, pulling his sketchbook out as he went.
Brendan frowned. “There’s something about him that’s… I don’t know. Familiar.”
“You’ve met him before?” Dmitri asked.
“That’s just the thing. I’m sure I haven’t but as soon as I saw him, I felt something. It’s like some part of me should know him or recognize who he is. Does that make any sense to you?”
Dmitri looked at Brendan and said finally, “Uh-uh.”
Brendan’s shoulders sagged. “Me neither. Ow.” His hand gripped his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Dmitri asked.
“Nothing,” Brendan tugged the collar of his T-shirt down to expose the left side of his chest. “I’ve had this scar since I was a baby and it’s been bugging me today.” The scar was red and inflamed. Brendan raked his fingernails across it.
Dmitri pulled Brendan’s hand away. “You’ll only make it worse. ‘Scratch today and cry tomorrow,’ as my babka would say.” The smaller boy was always quoting his ancient Polish grandmother. “That’s worrying. You should get it looked at. It could be skin cancer. Moles can turn into-”
Brendan pulled his shirt back over the mark. “Never mind. Let’s just forget it. See you tomorrow.”
“Later on,” called Dmitri, jogging to catch up with Harold.
“Just ‘later,’ Dmitri!” Brendan called at his friend’s back. “Later!”
He watched them go, then turned to look at the ad again. Those eyes. He scanned the poster and saw that the concert was tomorrow night. He studied Deirdre D’Anaan’s face. Like his weird feeling about Greenleaf, he felt he recognized this woman from somewhere. Maybe he’d seen her on TV or something. The memory was just on the tip of his brain. Annoying, he thought. Maybe my dad has one of her albums or something.
He decided to let it go for now. He popped the last piece of crust into his mouth and tossed his napkin in the litter bin. He started walking home.
^31 The Michael Lee-Chin Crystal was opened to the public on June 3, 2007. The abstract crystal structure perches on the front of the original stone building and was met with mixed reactions by the public. There were many other suggestions for a structure to embellish the front of the museum: a giant pyramid, an enormous leather hat, and a massive blob of real mashed potatoes. Fortunately, the crystal was chosen over the mashed potatoes because of the ongoing cost of adding fresh butter to the structure every morning.
HOME
He walked along the sweeping turn that was Spadina Circle, where Spadina Avenue split in two to accommodate an old brick building and joined up again for the plunge into Chinatown. He was trying to enjoy the last semi-warm day of autumn. On his right was Lord Lansdowne Public School, an unlovely box with a concrete playground.
Why do they pave playgrounds? he wondered for the thousandth time. What’s fun about falling and scraping the skin off your palms? Brendan had done that too many times to count.
The one thing that redeemed the building was the huge black stone that sat in front of the school by the sidewalk. He always reached out over the fence and brushed his hand across its rough surface for luck.
He picked up his pace and turned the corner as a streetcar rattled and shrieked along the track heading south. He found himself in front of the Scott Mission. This close to dinnertime there was a lineup of people who lived hard on the street. They were all waiting for the hot meal the mission offered every day. He always felt bad for these people. His father always gave them money if they asked for it, which annoyed his mother.
“You shouldn’t give them money,” she would say. “They’ll just spend it on drink.”
“Or food,” his father would answer.
“I’m not just trying to be mean,” she would counter. “I think you should give to a charity that can help them get off the street.”
They would argue back and forth. Brendan couldn’t tell which was the right way to be. Walking down the line of dirty, haggard faces, he always felt slightly guilty that he had a nice home and could buy some pizza while these people had nowhere and nothing to look forward to.
He passed the mission and found himself in front of the Silver Dollar, a seedy little bar that often pumped out loud music.
Brendan smiled and waved when he saw the old guy sitting on an overturned milk carton.
“Hey there, Finbar,” Brendan said with a wave. “Didn’t see you for a couple of days. I was worried.”
“Hallo, Prince Breandan,” said the man, who was wearing a heavy woollen overcoat in spite of the mild weather. He waved back with one large, gnarled hand. He was usually here near the Silver Dollar drinking a cup of tea from a thermos. “I was a little under the weather. Right as rain today, though! Lovely day, in’t it?”
“Yeah!” Brendan waved back.
Brendan stopped and reached into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a packet of shortbread cookies he’d stuck there that morning when leaving the house. “Biscuits?”
The old man grinned, showing a surprising set of even white teeth. “Sure and you’re a little star.”
Brendan watched as Finbar tore the cellophane packet open and took out a cookie, pinched daintily between rough, calloused fingers. He dunked the cookie in the tea and raised it to his mouth. “Glorious.”
Brendan smiled. He didn’t know where Finbar slept or why the old man hung around on this street corner, but he had struck up a sort of friendship with him, sharing pleasantries and biscuits on his way to and from school these last two months. Finbar didn’t ever go into the mission. He didn’t talk to any of the street people. He seemed to have a home but Brendan didn’t know where it was.
“Off home, lad?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I stroll along with ye a ways?”
“No problem.” Brendan waited for the old man to gather up his thermos and tuck it into his shopping bag.
He’d met Finbar on his way home from RDA the first day. The old man had been sitting on a milk crate at the mission and Brendan had felt compelled to say hello. They’d struck up a conversation. As the weeks went by, he’d learned the man’s name but little else about him.
“Let’s be off then,” Finbar said, hefting his canvas shopping bag. They set off into Kensington Market.
As they walked through the narrow, busy streets, Finbar rattled on about whatever caught his eye. He was very entertaining. Brendan’s mother would have probably had a fit if she knew that her son was hanging around with a strange old man. Brendan didn’t mention Finbar to his parents. He liked the old guy.
“Good day at school then, My Prince?”
