“Really?” His eyes flick over me in a way that makes me uneasy. “I thought you didn’t plan on staying on the island.”
“Diabetes.”
“Oh! Oh, shit. Right. It’s permanent.” He blinks. “Sorry. I should have realized.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not like the average person is an expert on health matters these days.
“And you aren’t citizens yet, so…damn.” He rubs his hand across his chin, which shows a faint prickle of beard growth against his pale skin. He must have missed shaving this morning. I quickly avert my eyes before he can notice me staring. It doesn’t take long for him to put the final pieces together. “I guess you need a paycheque soon.”
“Bingo.”
“Normally, I would tell someone who just arrived on the island to wait a few months before worrying about job hunting. You’ve got enough on your plate already,” he says, which is a very nice way of calling me a weakling. “But if you need something quick, there’s ads in the newspaper. Can you read?”
“Of course, I can read! Why does everyone keep assuming I’m some kind of wild animal?”
“Sorry!” He raises his hands defensively. “I only meant… sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. His opinion doesn’t matter. So why does it sting that he thinks just as little of me as Tom does? “I’m tired. I’m heading in.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
We walk up the slope toward the homestead side by side,not speaking. Sid doesn’t actually head for his apartment. Instead, he turns toward the firepit where the other guys are gathered.
“Ah, you’re back,” says James, sliding a large wooden object into his lap, left hand gripping the narrow neck. As Sid sits, James starts plucking at the strings and the same magical sound that filled the night yesterday takes up again.
Country Roads, he sings. I feel like a small child, sliding her finger over a page in a picture book until it lines up with the right image.
Guitar. The music is coming from a guitar.
For a second, I’m motionless, entranced by the warmth of the music and smouldering fire. But then Sid looks up and catches me staring. He gestures for me to join them.
I bolt.
These aren’t my people and he shouldn’t have to keep pretending to want me around.
Inside the apartment, I slide into the bed I share with April.
“I promise,” I whisper, careful not to wake her up. “I’m going to solve this. No one is taking you from me.”
***
THE GUITAR ISonly the first of many things I try to make sense of through books. Books are my only context for concepts like months, days of the week, and—by far the strangest thing to care about—hours of the day. But people heredocare. April’s school placement test can only happen during “regular working hours” or some shit. In fact, it also needs an officialappointmentlike we’re meeting with a barrister from a Charles Dickens novel or going to the dentist like the Berenstain Bears.
See? Books. Icanread, thank you very much, Sid Charles.
All this is to say that it’s over a week before we’re able to set up the appointment. April and I ride the bus into town and ask to be let off outside City Hall. Inside, the smell of so many people in close quarters is overwhelming. It’s a cramped, weaving warren of a building. The signage hangs from the ceiling, nailed over what used to be grocery store aisles. Sid says the old market was one of the few buildings in town large enough to accommodate a full-scale government. The regional offices that used to service the island weren’t enough once Salt Spring needed to operate as an independent entity, so now aisle four is where you meet the Minister of Economics instead of grabbing a can of soup.
We find the aisle labelled EDUCATION – SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT where a pleasant looking woman is seated at a desk. Behind her, the old store shelves are filled with boxes of files. She sets April up with a registration at the local high school—effective next week—and then pulls out the test.
“Since you’re coming to us as an older student, we’ll have to assess your literacy and mathematics skills, to see if they’re in-line with expectations for your grade,” she says.
“Totally on it.” April tosses her ponytail over her shoulder with a flourish. We spent the days leading up to her appointment drilling spelling and grammar, so she’s going in confident. Unfortunately, the last time I was in a school of any kind, I was a year younger than she is now. But she’s a better speller than I am. Hopefully, that will be enough.
“Wonderful.” The woman gestures for April to step past a curtain partition that’s been added to the aisle to give her some privacy. “You can pick her up in a couple of hours.”
“Great!” I say, as if I have any sense how long an hour is, let alone two of them.
But I do have my own errand to run, so I scan the aisles until I find number twelve is labelled: HOUSING – IMMIGRATION – PUBLIC SAFETY – HOMELAND SECURITY. I draw up short when I see those departments grouped together. Two desks are located in this aisle, candles burning on each one. And at the one closest to me is my nemesis—Tom Sullivan, hunched over a stack of papers. A small placard hangs from his desk that saysMinister of Immigration and Housing.A wave of relief hits me when I realize I won’t need to talk to him after all. I skirt around the entire complex, so that I can enter the aisle from the other side and approach the man seated at the far desk.
