The boy rides his bike onto the street without looking both ways. This is in front of my house, not thirty feet from where I sit on the porch reading a book. People still sit on front porches on my street. I do it too, but only because from my perch on the weathered loveseat beside the door, a fat spirea bush, spilling off-white blossoms this time of year, shields me from the eyes of passersby. I don\u2019t like to be seen by neighbours because they\u2019re apt to stop to chat. I know I\u2019m supposed to like this, but mostly I don\u2019t. I want to read my book or drink my wine in peace. But today, I don\u2019t know why, I sit on the steps. It\u2019s late afternoon and I should be working, but I\u2019m not, and my tea has gone cold beside me. So I see the boy ride out onto the street from between parked cars and min-vans. I know the boy; he lives a few houses down, on the other side of the street. I recognize the red bike whose training wheels have recently been removed.<\/p>\n
The driver of the silver SUV doesn\u2019t see the boy, and the boy doesn\u2019t see the car until he does, and instead of speeding up to get to the other side of the street, he stops halfway across, frozen in place like the baby raccoons whose eyes catch the headlights of cars at night. The driver of the SUV brakes hard when she sees the boy, and the car skids and screeches. I feel my own body stiffen and brace itself, as if it is the body about to be crushed by two tons of metal. I run down the steps, as the car comes to a halt six inches from the boy. The woman is getting out of the car, gesticulating.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could\u2019ve been killed, she yells. ARE YOU STUPID? You don\u2019t cross the street without looking! Do you know how close you came to being dead? If I didn\u2019t have good brakes, you\u2019d be DEAD.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman\u2019s face is pink and sweaty and familiar to me, though I\u2019m sure I don\u2019t know her. She runs one hand through her hair whose roots are the colour of the SUV. She turns to me. \u201cAre you his mother?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201c No,\u201d I say. \u201cPlease stop yelling.\u201d My voice is low and gravelly. I put my hand on the boy\u2019s shoulder and feel a slight movement beneath his skin. He still sits astride his bike; mousey wisps of hair escape from his helmet; his face is a tight pale mask.<\/p>\n
I see my neighbour from the house directly across from mine emerge from her front door and run down her porch steps, black ponytail flapping behind her. Her name is Samara and our daughters are in the same class at school.<\/p>\n
The driver of the SUV swings around to greet her. \u201cAre you his nanny?\u201d she shouts.<\/p>\n
Samara shakes her head. She shoots me a look\u2014a barely perceptible eye roll that I meet with one of my own. I wait for her to answer the woman but she doesn\u2019t, so I say, \u201cWe\u2019re his neighbours.\u201d<\/p>\n
The driver turns back to the boy. She bellows, \u201cWhere\u2019s your nanny? You\u2019re lucky you\u2019re not dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStop yelling,\u201d I say again, more loudly this time. \u201cHe\u2019s a kid. He knows what he did. He\u2019s just a kid.\u201d<\/p>\n
The kid stares straight ahead, looking at no one, mute against the force of this woman, this adult\u2019s booming anger. From down the sidewalk I see his nanny running towards us. She\u2019s the one the neighbours call the \u201cmanny\u201d because she keeps her hair short and wears unfeminine clothes. Her name is Josie. When she reaches us she give the boy a little hug. It\u2019s only then that his tears come.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d Josie says, looking from me to Samara to the driver. But she knows what has happened. I see fear and relief and guilt in her eyes. She wasn\u2019t there to see it happen, to stop the boy from crossing the street on his bike. But the boy\u2019s sister is a toddler. Even nannies can\u2019t be everywhere.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo one\u2019s hurt,\u201d Samara says. \u201cLet\u2019s just be thankful for that.\u201d<\/p>\n
The driver\u2019s expression softens slightly. \u201cYes,\u201d she says, addressing the boy. \u201cLet\u2019s hope you learned your lesson. Drivers can\u2019t see you when there are cars parked on the street, you know. But I\u2019m sure you\u2019ve learned your lesson. Have you learned your lesson?\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy says nothing and doesn\u2019t meet her gaze. He wipes at his eyes with a dirty fist.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sure he\u2019s learned a lesson,\u201d Josie says. She puts a hand on his back and leads him, still on his bike, to the sidewalk and towards his house. The driver watches them leave, shaking her head. Then, with a brief, sheepish look at Samara and me, she gets back into her SUV and drives off.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. My. God,\u201d Samara says.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
As I walk back to my porch, Samara calls after me, \u201cDid you get the street party flyer I dropped in your mailbox?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYup.\u201d I look over my shoulder. \u201cAnd burnt it.\u201d I see Samara pluck a weed from her interlocking brick. I\u2019m too far away to tell whether she\u2019s smiling or frowning.<\/p>\n
At school pick up, as I wait for my daughter, I stand with the nannies. I like listening to their crisp Tagalog or their lilting West Indies English. Mostly, I like that they don\u2019t speak to me much. I wait in silence, one hand shading my eyes against the North Toronto sun, while a few feet away the moms pace and check their phones and chatter amongst themselves. I catch snatches of the moms\u2019 conversations\u2014bad teachers, good teachers, gifted programs, soccer practice.<\/p>\n
The heavy school doors make a scraping sound as they open, releasing a stream of kids of all ages. I look for my daughter but don\u2019t see her. Glancing at the group of moms, I notice that Samara has joined them. She catches my eye and waves and I wave back; she is already making her way to me before I notice that she is not alone. I\u2019m annoyed. Samara knows I don\u2019t like to socialize during pickup, and she knows I have no interest in meeting new people.<\/p>\n
The new woman, laughing loudly at Samara\u2019s side, has mousy-brown hair and I don\u2019t recognize her at first; and then, with a slight jolt, I do. Her roots have been touched up and she is wearing shiny black yoga pants with a pink logo in the shape of a U. She looks shorter, slighter and younger than I remember her. I\u2019m irritated to see that she carries a leather purse identical to one that I own.<\/p>\n
I start to move toward the school doors\u2014still no sign of my daughter\u2014but the woman has already caught sight of me.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey,\u201d she says. \u201cWe meet again. I\u2019m Vicky, by the way.\u201d She looks at me and when I don\u2019t introduce myself, she continues: \u201cI was just telling Samira that we moved here last week, today\u2019s my son\u2019s first day, and Jesus moving\u2019s hell, but it\u2019s a super school, isn\u2019t it? Such amazing test scores.\u201d She pauses for a second and takes an audible breath. \u201cSo . . . hey, about the other day, I was up to my eyeballs in stress and\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
She stops talking and glances at the school doors. I look at Samara and roll my eyes. Samara shakes her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey buddy!\u201d Vicky has spotted the boy she almost ran over with her car. He is bounding cub-like towards his nanny, who stands at the back of our group; he carries a worksheet in one hand and a camouflage-patterned knapsack on his back. When he sees Vicky he swerves out of her path and snakes around behind Josie\u2019s legs.<\/p>\n
Vicky nods at Josie and bends down, craning her neck to see the boy. \u201cI bet you remember me; I\u2019m the one with the wicked brakes. But we can be friends now, can\u2019t we? She fumbles in her purse and pulls out a Tootsie Pop. \u201cI have a son a bit older than you who goes to your school, and these are his favourite,\u201d she says, holding out the lollipop.<\/p>\n
The boy stares at his running shoes whose velcro straps trail on the ground. A pale stream of mucus flows from his nose into his mouth. Josie takes the lollipop. \u201cThank the lady, Jason.\u201d The boy says nothing. \u201cThank you,\u201d Josie says. \u201cHe likes them too.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy grabs hold of Josie\u2019s pant leg and wipes his nose on it. Then he takes her arm with two hands and yanks down. \u201cOw! Don\u2019t do that,\u201d Josie says. She pinches her lips into a frown, as the boy pulls her in the direction of the playground equipment.<\/p>\n
Vicky straightens up and turns back to Samara and me. \u201cCute kid. I was so freaked out that I\u2019d almost hit him\u2014 I kind of lost it but, hey, no hard feelings right?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure. No hard feelings,\u201d Samara says.<\/p>\n
Vicky looks from Samara to me and then, making a sun visor with one hand, she peers at the school doors. \u201cOh! I see my boy, gotta go. I\u2019m sure I\u2019ll see you guys around. Let\u2019s do coffee sometime, Samira.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure. See ya,\u201d Samara says.<\/p>\n
When Vicky is out of earshot, I say, \u201cSamira<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, she heard me wrong and I couldn\u2019t be bothered to correct her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd no hard feelings? Please<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n Samara turns towards the school doors. The stream of kids exiting has slowed to a sporadic trickle. \u201cWhere the fuck are the girls?\u201d she says. She turns back to me. \u201cWhy should we have hard feelings? You heard what Vicky said, she was stressed, it could have happened to anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, but Samara, she\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe thought\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere are worse things she could think. You would\u2019ve thought the same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n Samara looks me straight in the eyes when she says this and doesn\u2019t look away when I expect her to. A half-formed response, warm and bilious, rises in my throat, but as I look at her looking at me, I swallow it down. Still, I hold her gaze. I remember the blinking contests I used to have with my friends on a similar playground when I was a kid. The first one to blink was the loser.<\/p>\n Samara grabs my arm. \u201cHey, don\u2019t be so serious,\u201d she says. \u201cLet\u2019s go find the girls.\u201d Still holding my arm, she leads me up the wheelchair ramp toward the doors. Just as we get to them, they open, and our daughters file out. I notice something different: they\u2019ve switched sneakers.<\/p>\n Samara notices too and laughs. \u201cWhat have you been up to?\u201d she asks them. \u201cWe\u2019ve been waiting forever.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" North Toronto<\/strong>
\n
\nThe boy rides his bike onto the street without looking both ways. This is in front of my house, not thirty feet from where I sit on the porch reading a book. People still sit on front porches on my street. I do it too, but only because from my perch on the weathered loveseat beside the door, a fat spirea bush, spilling off-white blossoms this time of year, shields me from the eyes of passersby. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1952,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1196","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1196","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1196"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1196\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1894,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1196\/revisions\/1894"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1952"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1196"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1196"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1196"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}