P.M. each Wednesday.
^ 52 Though such advice seems obvious, thousands of children are stuck to cold metal pipes by their tongues each year. Please give generously to “Don’t Lick It, Kids!,” a non-profit organization that I have founded.
^ 53 I have to say, I sympathize with Brendan on this point. The washroom is not a place for chatting. One should be allowed to evacuate one’s bladder in peace without any casual conversation or distractions.
NEMESIS
Harold and Dmitri had decided to take the day off. They were both exhausted by their vigil over the past few nights. In the end, Harold had just crashed on a futon in Dmitri’s room. He’d already called his parents and told them that he’d be spending the night. Delia had gone home but made them promise they would meet at noon to confront the person Harold believed was the nemesis.
Dmitri had managed to calm his babka after she burst in on them in the shed. She kept babbling about Princes and Enemies and Little People until Dmitri finally convinced her to lie down on her daybed in the living room. He made her some tea and toast, but by the time he carried them into the living room, she was asleep as if nothing had happened. Dmitri left the tray on the coffee table and went up to bed himself.
Noon found the three conspirators in the BQM Eatery on Ossington Street. Harold had suggested it because he knew that the nemesis lived nearby. They could stake out the streetcar stop. Also, he was quite fond of their burgers. They sat on stools, faces to the window with an eye on the transit shelter across the road.
“How do we know this guy’s going to come?” Delia said. She picked at a salad with a plastic fork. “How do we even know he is the nemesis or whatever? How do we know that the old lady isn’t completely nuts?”
“That isn’t very nice,” Dmitri said sulkily.
“She has a point, though,” Harold admitted. “I just think this is the guy. I can’t think of anybody else who fits the bill.”
“So when will we see him?” Delia asked. “Are you sure he’ll come here?”
“I take my piano lessons nearby,” Harold said through a mouthful of low-fat turkey burger. “I ride the same streetcar as he does lots of times. He always got out here. His mum works in the Pizzeria Libretto across the road.”
“Why do you know all that?” Delia wondered.
Harold shrugged. “I dunno. I’m an artist. Or at least I want to be an artist and one of the things artists are supposed to do is observe people. You know.”
“So he comes here to meet his mum,” Delia said. “What if she isn’t working today?”
“She is,” Dmitri interjected. “I called and asked for her an hour ago. I hung up when they went to call her to the phone.”
“Wow.” Delia nodded, impressed. “You guys are good. And a little bit creepy.”
Before Harold could respond, Dmitri sat up higher on his stool and exclaimed, “There he is!”
Their eyes swung to the other side of the street, where a streetcar had just stopped. The door opened and passengers stepped down onto the road. An old woman was struggling with a shopping cart in the narrow folding doorway when a large, broad-shouldered boy lifted the cart and carried it to the curb for her. The old lady smiled and said something to the boy, who merely nodded and turned toward the BQM window.
Chester Dallaire had changed a great deal since the bizarre episode that had made news headlines. He was leaner and his skin was clearer. His hair was neatly trimmed. The cruel smirk he’d habitually worn when he picked on Harold and Dmitri during their first weeks at RDA was gone. His expression was guarded and his eyes wary.
“That’s the nemesis?” Delia asked. “I was expecting someone… I don’t know, scarier?”
“He was indeed more frightening before the incident,” Dmitri explained.
“Incident?” Delia asked.
“He had some kinda breakdown and ran away. Wouldn’t stop running,” Harold told her. “They say it was like he was possessed or something. It was on the news.”
“That’s the guy?” Delia cried in disbelief. “I remember that story. He doesn’t look crazy.”
“He had therapy and he’s only just come back to school,” Harold said.
“He used to pick at Brendan and us,” Dmitri continued. “But now he’s a different person.”
“Pick on us,” Delia mumbled. “Okay, let’s go.”
“What?” Harold cried. “Go where? What are you gonna do? Just walk right up to him and ask him if he’s the nemesis of Brendan? You’ll sound totally crazy.”
Delia shrugged on her coat. “You guys stay here and try not to wet your pants, okay? Just leave it to me.”
While they were talking, Chester had entered the pizzeria. Delia took her time, crossing at the light and entering the restaurant through the steam-glazed glass door.
Inside, a few customers were enjoying their pizza and pasta at a long bar. Long tables full of lunchtime diners stretched toward the back of the narrow restaurant. The room buzzed with conversation and the clatter of plates as people met for lunch before the holidays. Delia scanned the room for Chester but couldn’t find him. Moving deeper into the restaurant, she passed beneath an arch that was covered in a chalkboard. Customers had scrawled messages praising the food in multicoloured chalk. She paused to read a couple of comments, and when she dropped her eyes again, she almost ran into Chester.
He was carrying a plate full of pasta in one hand and a pizza in the other. For an awkward second Delia was nose to chest with him. She looked up into his face.
Everything about him was big. He was easily a head taller than Delia. He looked down at her warily.
“Hi,” Delia said at last.
“Hi,” Chester answered. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, sorry.” Delia stepped out of his way. He passed her and went to an empty stool at the end of the bar nearest the window. He sat down and unrolled a knife and fork from a napkin. For a big person, his movements were careful and precise. He cut his pizza into wedges and then into smaller pieces. Lifting a piece to his mouth, he stopped, his brown eyes aimed at Delia.
Delia realized she’d been staring at him and tried to cover her gaffe with a winning smile. She walked over and stood beside him.
“Hi, again. Sorry I was staring at you. I think I might know you from somewhere.”
He put the pizza into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “No, I don’t know you.”
“I think you know my brother, though. Brendan Clair.”
Chester paused with another morsel of food halfway to his mouth. What passed over his face? Fear? Worry? Delia pushed on.
“I’m Delia.” She held out her hand.
He ignored it. “Brendan Clair, huh? I know him but we aren’t friends.” He stared straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar.
“Why not?” Delia asked.
Chester turned his head and glared at her. “What do you want?”
“Me? Nothing. I don’t… ” Delia stammered. She decided on the direct approach. “Fine. Just tell me, has anything weird happened to you lately? Anything connected to Brendan?”
Chester laughed bitterly. “Don’t you follow the news? I had a breakdown! I lost my crap for a whole day. Ended up in the psych ward. Are you just trying to make fun of me or something?”
“Can you remember if Brendan had something to do with it? It’s important.” Delia put on her best pleading look, her big blue eyes wide.
Chester just stared. At last, he said, “How could you know that?”
Delia leaned in closer and gripped his arm. It was hard and muscular. “Because I had the same thing happen to me,” she whispered. “I lost a few hours of my life. A couple of my friends lost a whole day.”
Chester licked his lips. Nervous sweat beaded his brow. “It happened to you, too?”
“I’d like you to meet my friends and talk to them. Something weird has been going on with my brother, and I
