it,” he snapped.
Whenever his mother compared him to his father — the father who had abandoned them when Drew was a baby and Jake was only four — Jake went ballistic. He barely had any memory of the guy, yet he hated him. He didn’t refer to him as Dad or even by his first name. He called him “The Pigeon” because, as his mom always said, “He flew the coop.”
“Listen to me, Jake,” she said. “You can be anything you want to be. You just gotta make the right choices.”
Jake hated it even more when she got all philosophical on him. She sounded exactly like Mr. Dean. And what did either of them know, anyway? Truth was, he couldn’t be anything. Not like Drew. Not like the smart one, the good one. If Jake wanted respect, he’d have to take it. Steal it. Like Damon and Vlad. Like the 5 Kings …
“Do I look like him?” he blurted out “Is that it? Is that why you hate me so much?”
He stared at her, waiting for something, anything, to tell him he was wrong. Seconds felt like hours. He gritted his teeth and flung himself back onto his bed, turning to face the wall.
“I love you, Jake …” Her voice trailed off. He could feel her stare pulling at him, trying to turn him around. He imagined the sticky-sweet smile masking her real feelings.
“Please, Jake,” she tried again. “I’m just tired. I can’t hold your hand anymore. You’re not a little kid. You’re going to do what you want to do. But it’s killing me. I feel like I’m just standing there watching you throw it all away.”
Her words hung in the air like a rotten odour. She was giving up on him. He could feel it. Maybe she already had. Maybe she drove his father away by nagging him all the time, too. Maybe it was all her fault.
Just then Drew bounced into the room. “You’re not going to believe who they eliminated!”
His mother sighed and left the room. Tears burned at the back of Jake’s eyes, but he held them prisoner. Drew went on and on about the show until he finally wore himself out.
For the longest time Jake lay awake thinking about his father. Why did he leave? Where did he go? His mother never talked about him. She’d thrown away all his pictures. Jake couldn’t even remember what he looked like. He was a phantom haunting the hollow rooms of Jake’s mind.
The only clear memory Jake had was of the time his father bought him a shiny red toboggan. It was mid-October and wouldn’t snow for quite a while, but his dad had promised that the very first snowfall they would go tobogganing together. By the time the snow arrived, his father was long gone. Jake kept that toboggan for years. Then one day he walked to the curb, tossed it onto the trash, and stood watching as the garbage truck crushed it.
Jake took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He was four years old, riding down the perfect hill covered in December snow. Strong arms cradled him from behind, helping him steer. He could feel icy wind on his cheeks, hot breath on his neck. Deep laughter filled the air. He was happy.
Then the landscape began to change. The white snow turned city-slush grey. The arms steadying him disappeared, and the laughter faded. Jake was alone, and the toboggan was out of control, flying faster and faster, heading straight into darkness. Something was in that darkness, and he was headed straight for it. He was going to crash. Jake lifted his hands to shield his eyes. He opened his mouth to scream. He sat bolt upright in his bed.
His cellphone was buzzing.
CHAPTER FOUR
St. George Station. Southbound train. Midnight.
Jake stared at the text and yawned. He rubbed his eyes. A party on a subway. At midnight. He had to admit he was curious.
He glanced at his alarm clock. It was 11:07. Jake did some quick calculations. If he even wanted to make it to St. George Station by midnight, he’d have to hurry. It was a twenty-minute bus ride from his building to the subway. From there he’d have to catch a westbound train, ride thirteen stops, and then switch to the north-south route. It would be tight.
Jake could hear his brother’s heavy breathing. Drew wouldn’t be a problem. Jake could set off a bomb and his brother wouldn’t so much as stir.
His mother was another story. She slept on the pullout sofa in the living room and was known to wake up if a cockroach scuttled across the floor. The last thing Jake wanted was to be caught. He reconsidered, almost climbing back into bed, but then his mother’s face flashed before him and he remembered that awful look in her eyes — the look that said she’d given up on him — and it was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.
A party is exactly what I need, he thought. She already thinks I’m like The Pigeon — so why disappoint her?
Jake groped around the floor for his jeans. He pulled them on and shoved his cellphone and iPod into his pocket. Next he grabbed his black hoodie — it was clean and lay folded on top of his dresser. Just in case Shelly did turn up, at least he’d smell good.
Slipping out of the bedroom, Jake crept toward the front door. For a second he thought he’d heard the sofa groan. He held his breath, but the apartment was still. Jake moved swiftly, stepping into his running shoes and clicking the deadbolt. If he swung the door open quickly, it wouldn’t creak.
The hall lights were dim. They masked the cracks in the walls, making the building seem almost livable. The stench of other people’s cooking saturated the air — cabbage, fish, and a clash of spices that made Jake’s stomach turn. He raced along the worn carpet toward the elevator, but when he reached it he did an about-face. Jake told himself the stairs would be quicker, though deep down he knew he was still spooked by the freaky incident.
Stale smoke and urine battled for control of the stairwell. Jake hurried down flight after flight until he reached the main floor. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool of the night.
It must have rained. The air was heavy and the sidewalk was slick. Jake turned on his iPod as he flew down the empty side street toward the bus shelter. More than once he got the feeling he was being followed, but quick glances over his shoulder confirmed he was alone.
Even this late, buses ran frequently along the main routes. Jake stood in the shelter and watched cars zip past, bass pulsing through his body. He checked his phone for the time. It was already 11:15. If the bus didn’t come soon, he might as well turn around and go home.
As he waited, his thoughts drifted back to his father. Had the guy snuck out in the middle of the night? Had he jumped on a bus and never looked back? What could possibly make someone abandon his family?
A blast of toxic air scattered Jake’s thoughts as the bus shrieked to a halt in front of him. He hadn’t even seen it coming.
Jake climbed aboard, paid his fare, and grabbed a transfer slip. As the vehicle lurched forward, he swaggered to the back where he plunked himself into the last row. There were several other passengers on the bus, none of whom paid Jake any attention. He leaned his head against the window, took a deep breath, and shut his eyes.
Last stop.
Jake’s eyes snapped open. His pulse thrummed. Who had said that? Jake searched his surroundings. There was no one even close to him. He must have dozed off, because the bus was already pulling into the subway station. Was he imagining things again? Last
