way early and she would rather read her book in the sun than in an air-conditioned waiting room. She would make a call.
As she was leaving she caught sight of the payphone in front of the store. She dialled her father’s number and was put through to his personal assistant.
‘Hi Dorothy, Sabina Redfort here. Look I’ve decided to drive Ruby to the hospital myself, you know how it is with kids, I just want to ensure she gets there on time and I know Bob’s a wonderful chauffeur and all but can he wrestle a teenager into a car on time? I doubt it. . .’ (Ruby laughed in exactly the way her mother would.) ‘Yes Dorothy, I hear you! So if you could cancel Bob, I would be very grateful, oh and don’t tell my husband he will think I’m being a worry worm. . . It’s wart? Really? Worry wart?’ (She laughed again.) ‘Bye, bye, bye.’
Ruby’s impersonation of her mother had got so good over the years that not even her mother could tell the difference.
Ruby sat down on the bench, leaned her back to the wall, and smiled to herself. She wasn’t sure how she was going to get to the hospital with no bike, but she’d solve that problem later. She opened the vintage-store book, No Time to Scream, leaned back against the wall and began to read.
Ruby quickly lost track of time; the book was a lot more engrossing than she had expected it to be. She had almost read the whole 275 pages while she sipped on her slushy when she sensed someone’s gaze and looked up. The kid from yesterday evening, the one standing outside the minimart with the styled-unstyled hair, was standing on top of the payphone, as if no one was going to mind, or perhaps he didn’t care either way.
Ruby thought about him on his skateboard, hitching a ride from that truck; she really should try that. He was one of those kids who knew he was good-looking – only today he looked awkward and was fiddling with his key-chain which he had looped to his pocket, a self-conscious tough-guy look which wasn’t really working for him. He seemed to be preparing to smile, to say something even.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey back,’ replied Ruby. She had put down her slushy and was busy trying to find her hat; it was somewhere in her satchel. ‘By the way, I think that lady wants to make a call.’ She indicated the elderly woman who was clearly working up the courage to ask the boy to step off the payphone. He shrugged and jumped down.
‘So what’s your name?’ asked the boy.
‘I believe it’s traditional to introduce yourself first before asking a personal question like, what’s your name.’
‘What’s your name is a personal question?’ said the boy.
‘It is to me, unless of course you are a law enforcement officer, or person in a position of ultimate authority, and if you are I guess what’s your name would be a demand.’ She paused without looking up. ‘Are you in the whole law enforcement business?’
The boy sounded flustered when he replied, ‘Am I what?’
‘In law enforcement?’ said Ruby.
‘Uh, no,’ said the boy uncertainly.
‘Didn’t think so,’ said Ruby. She resumed her satchel rifling. ‘So what is it?’
‘What’s what?’ said the boy.
‘Your name buster.’
‘My name?’
‘What? You got amnesia? Or you in the police protection programme?’
The boy actually smiled at this, surprised, like he had never met a girl before who wasn’t falling over herself to get his attention.
‘My name. . .’ announced the boy. He was about to disclose this piece of information when Ruby caught sight of something alarming – it was the clock above the pharmacy door.
Darn! The hospital; her appointment. She was late.
‘Look, I’m sure you got a really nice name buster, and I’m sure it suits you and all but tell me next time because I gotta scoot.’ She had jammed on her hat, finally retrieved from her bag, and was already hailing a cab, opening the door and climbing into it.
The kid with the hair watched as the taxi joined the other cars, all waiting for the lights to change from red to green. Glancing down he saw Ruby’s book on the bench.
‘Hey, your book!’ he yelled. He began to run, zig-zagging through the moving traffic, but the lights had changed and the cab was picking up speed.
‘Keep it for me,’ she shouted back. ‘I want to know how it ends.’
THE RADIO WAS TUNED TO TTR, Twinford Talk Radio, and the local news debate was blaring out. First a story about the mayor’s statue, newly commissioned by the mayor himself – it had upset a lot of Twinfordites.
‘IT’S JUST SO UNSPEAKABLY UGLY,’ said Roxy from North Twinford.
‘I HAVE TO SAY, MY TODDLER CRIES EVERY TIME WE PASS BY,’ agreed Judy from Midtown Avenue. ‘I FEEL LIKE THROWING A BLANKET OVER IT, YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING?’
‘I sure as heck do, Judy,’ said the cab driver, ‘it’s just about the ugliest thing I ever laid eyes on.’ The driver looked at Ruby in the rearview mirror. ‘You a fan?’
‘I’m into horror if that’s what you’re asking,’ said Ruby. The sculptor who had attempted to capture the mayor in stone had clearly been going for some kind of modernist vibe, but the result was pure nightmare.
‘I hear you kid!’ said the cab driver, punching the horn. He stuck his head out of the window. ‘Get outta my way lady!’
TTR had moved on to another story about the predicted storms, which despite regular weather updates had yet to ravage Twinford.
‘I MEAN THEY KEEP TELLING US THIS HURRICANE IS ON ITS WAY BUT THERE ISN’T ENOUGH WIND TO FLY A KITE, I PROMISE YOU, I’VE TRIED,’ said Steve from Ocean Bay Suburb.
The other big debate was about a presumed robbery that had taken place on the twenty-sixth floor of the Lakeridge Square apartments. Presumed, because nothing had actually been reported missing yet. ‘LAKERIDGE RESIDENTS TARGETED BY HIGHRISE THIEF,’ announced Ted, the show’s host.
‘I’ll bet it has something to do with that skywalker,’ said the cab driver.
‘What skywalker?’ said Ruby.
‘Some clown’s been spotted walking between those fancy apartments in the city downtown,’ said the cab driver. ‘Doesn’t worry me, I live on the ground floor of a lowrise out in East Twinford.’
‘What, you mean he’s been seen walking on roofs?’
‘No, walking on the air is what I heard,’ said the cab driver. ‘Just strolling
