Neighbourhood Watch

sky to the water like vines she could grab on to, to rise so high, all the way up, the snowflakes fall in vines from the ground to the sky, Shostakovich’s violin flows over her, then flows in her. Roxane is a string, shrill under the bow, Roxane vibrates, Roxane explodes, flies over the street, over the dead bodies, over the shit, to the boats, to the river, to Russia. Roxane is a symphony.

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3
Morning breaks. The cathode-ray window of the pawnshop is still dormant, screens sleeping on a hypnotic storm. Sailing through winter on their square of cardboard, the hump of Kathy’s and Kelly’s bodies contorts in the morning. A soft voice glides over them.
‘You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?’
Meg’s long legs with runs split the morning horizon.
Sleepy, Kelly jams her hand into the maze of fabric that makes up her shell. At the innermost layer, next to the heat of her body and safe from thieves, Kelly finds a cigarette, which she offers with her broken fingers to the tired prostitute.
‘Thanks.’
* * *
They are laughing at nothing, all together, as if someone had said, ‘When I say go, everyone laugh.’ They are all laughing, even though you don’t get the joke, as if they are laughing at you behind your back. Stupid morning radio. Mélissa swats the radio. It doesn’t turn off.
Mélissa gets up. It’s dark in the kitchen. The stepdad hasn’t come back. There’s no sign of him, no beer, no cigarette butts, no nothing. He won’t be back. This time, it’s for real.
Mélissa opens the fridge. She grabs the orange juice container and takes a swig: she spits. It tastes like vomit. She surveys what’s left. Salad dressing, tomato sauce, mayo, relish, ketchup, chocolate sauce. Mélissa squirts a shot in her mouth. She opens the freezer and empties the contents onto the table.
‘What are you doing, Mélissa?’
The boys in pyjamas, still sleepy.
‘I’m getting organized.’
* * *
There’s frost on the windows, lines criss-crossing to create a curtain inside and out. As if winter had fingers that could draw.
Roxane is tired.
Louise is sleeping on the sofa. Roxane approaches, bends over her face. An inch from her skin. She runs her eyes over her. Lingers at the pits, marks, lines. A trail of drool along her cheek. Beer drool. Runs a long finger over it – her mother’s drool – and traces the line up to her mouth. Open. Dry. Dead.
If only she would die.
Roxane picks up seven empty beer bottles from the floor and takes off.
Outside, Roxane walks, her head held high. She didn’t take the yellow school bus. They can eat shit. She will find her own way, she will go to school like a normal girl. Totally normal.
I think I have to turn here. I think this is where I have to turn. The yellow school bus turns here. I think …
The street name is there, but it takes a long time to read. Reading takes a long time. She reads slowly, and anyway, she doesn’t know what street she should take, so even if she knew the name …
Never been this way. I think. Don’t recognize it, don’t recognize anything. Go back.
Roxane retraces her steps. Running. Turns the corner, goes back to the start, goes back to the front of her apartment block. One, two, three. Goes up on the stoop. Roxane is out of breath. They were right.
The yellow school bus is coming down the street. One, two, three. Roxane gets in without even pretending it’s not coming for her.
They were right. Roxane is mental.
* * *
At the depanneur across from the school, Mélissa haggles with the owner for a package of salty noodles, the boys hanging from her sleeves.
‘I’ll pay you next time, c’mon. I’m here every morning!’
Roxane goes in, takes the empty beer bottles from her bag, puts them on the counter.
A look from Mélissa, a quick count.
‘Can you give me two?’
‘Huh?’
‘Bottles, can you give me two? I don’t have enough cash.’
Roxane looks at Mélissa and the two snot-nosed kids hanging from her. Looks at the dep owner, who is waiting, a pack of salty noodles in hand.
‘Yeah. I’ll give you two.’
Mélissa pushes two empty bottles in the dep owner’s face, grabs the pack of noodles from his hands –‘Let’s go, guys!’ – and tears out of the store.
Roxane knows it takes seven empty bottles for a May West. She has five left. She leaves.
Mélissa is already way ahead, almost at school. She walks, head down so the cold doesn’t hit her face. The boys get behind her to shield themselves from the wind. Mélissa slices through the air for them. She creates a slipstream for them like geese. Mélissa is a warrior.
Roxane thinks she’s beautiful.
* * *
Steve is lying on his back, legs apart, under a rusted Peugeot. His blackened hands roam its metallic guts as his expert eye spots the crack, which he seals mechanically. Last Christmas, he gave Kevin a model of this car. A small silver Peugeot, nice and clean. In a nice box. They assembled it together, spent all night on it. It made the kid happy.
Steve sings ‘Blue Moon’ under the rusted Peugeot. The day is ending, and he has done a good job. Even though he doesn’t have a car himself, there are a few of them still roaming the city because of his skill.
A deep voice resonates above the car.
‘Steve! Boss wants to see you!’
Bad feeling. Steve doesn’t move, holed up in his rusted metal burrow.
‘Hey, Wrestlemania. Let’s go.’
Steve emerges from the shadows. Wipes his hands.
* * *
At the back of Garage Lacombe, a few employees, faces blackened by sludge, watch the scene, immobile. Steve grips a rag in his hands, the black oil dribbles onto the floor.
‘Jesus, why? What is this shit?’
‘The garage isn’t making enough money. We have to let people go. That’s how it is, Steve, I – ’
BANG!
The boss’s face smashed into the dash. Steve mashes the rag into his