Page 18 of Hooked on Trouble

“Did he do it?” I wince, unsure he wants me butting in, but he doesn’t shut me down.

He seems to contemplate the question, then he shakes his head. “No. No way. He made a lot of bad choices, but he’s not a dealer.”

“So you spend your free time looking for leads?”

He nods. “That, and I volunteer at a rec center in my old neighborhood twice a week. It was a haven for me growing up, and I like to give back. Try to keep the kids there involved and off the streets. One of them did something stupid recently, and we’re about to teach him a lesson.”

At those ominous words, I glance in the backseat but don’t see any ropes or duct tape or weapons. That rules out kidnapping. “Am I about to participate in an illegal activity?”

He keeps his focus on the windshield. “I’m a cop, Raven.”

“Are you implying cops never break the law?”

“You watch too many movies.”

“You don’t watch enough.”

Smirking, he keeps driving. We pull up to an apartment building, the porches crammed with plants and tiny barbecues. I wait as Nico disappears inside and reappears with a boy. The kid’s skinny as a sapling, probably thirteen or fourteen, a dark mop of hair covering his eyes as he drags his sneakers in an attempt to delay whatever torture the big guy has planned. The boy slides into the backseat and crosses his arms.

Nico shuts his door. “Tim, this is Raven. She’ll be coming along with us.”

Smiling, I offer a small wave.

A mumbled “Whatever” drifts forward.

Instead of starting the car, Nico pauses. “Pretty sure that’s not how you greet a lady. Mind trying again?”

Tim’s eyes are hidden under his hood of hair, but I bet he’s rolling them. “Nice to meet you.”

At that display of teenage sincerity, Nico grunts and reverses onto the street. A silent ten-minute car ride later we pull up to a white building. Several cars are parked outside. The lawn is tended, small flower beds lining the entryway. A large Canadian flag hangs over a sign that reads, Royal Canadian Legion. Nico nods for me to get out, and we wait for Tim to join us. If molasses were thickened and forced through a pinhole, it would move faster than this kid.

Nico places a hand on his shoulder. “When we go inside, you straighten up and give these folks your attention.” His voice is stern, his wide stance intimidating, even for me. “You show respect. You return what you stole, then you apologize and listen. Got it?”

Tim’s Adam’s apple bobs down his neck. “Got it.”

I follow the boys into the open space. Round tables, plastic chairs, and what looks like a small kitchen fill the room. The average age of the twenty-odd people seated, mostly men, hovers around a hundred and five. If I hadn’t seen the sign outside, I’d guess these seniors were here for a game of bingo. But this is a gathering of war veterans.

A man stands when he sees us and motions Tim forward. When the kid doesn’t budge, Nico nudges him. Tim’s sneakers squeak on the floor as he trudges toward his punishment.

Nico comes to my side and lowers his voice. “Tim stole from their collection cup last week. I heard talk of it at the rec center and told Mr. Miller about it.” He gestures to the old man lecturing Tim. The veteran’s white eyebrows are as thick as a forest. “We decided making him return it in person would be punishment enough. Have him apologize and learn what the money’s used for. If there’s a next time, it’ll be a different story.”

Tim shoves a hand in the front pocket of his baggy jeans, pulls it out, and passes over a wad of bills to Mr. Miller. More words are shared and Tim stands taller, nodding and shifting his feet. Even from this distance, I sense a change in the boy, who then proceeds to meet with every person in the room, shaking hands and speaking softly.

A glance at Nico tells me how important this moment is for him. “Do all the volunteers at the center do this sort of thing?”

He shrugs. “Doubt it. Most of them do it as résumé work, not to make a difference.”

“But you think you can? Make a difference, I mean. You think delinquents like Tim can really change?”

“If my brother and sister can turn things around, anyone can.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I take the cue, touched how much he cares for not just his family, but for punks from his neighborhood. Only a good man would go the extra mile, give up his free time and devote his energy to others.

If someone had taken a second to talk to my grandmother when she lived on the streets, to connect with her, maybe she’d still be alive. If someone had spent time with me, maybe I wouldn’t have nearly burned Gord Dwyer’s barn to the ground, on a dare. That was the last night I hung with Mitch Harris and his band of losers, smoking pot and vandalizing the town. The possibility of hurting Gord’s horses had me sick to my stomach, but it was my grandmother’s brief appearance in my life that night that woke me up.

Rose had taken off years prior. My parents alternated between ignoring me and yelling obscenities. I was angry. All the time. Didn’t know how to channel the guilt and loneliness broiling inside me. Then my grandmother turned up. She shared her stories until the sun rose and told me I was a good girl, as though I were still a child. Like I hadn’t done despicable things. Overwhelmed, I broke down. Confessed to the hell I’d caused that night.

She didn’t shout at me or write me off. She touched my face and said, “There is darkness in all of us, but there is light, too. Yours still shines, Raven. How brightly is up to you. Find a way to make amends and always remember the sickness you feel now.”