Return of the Trickster by Eden Robinson (ebook voice reader TXT) 📗

that you care. I’m just…I…need some space to feel shitty without worrying that you’re worried.”

Mave nodded. She reached over and smoothed Jared’s blanket. “I’ll be back.”

“Love you,” Jared said.

“Love you more,” she said.

Kota waited until Mave left the room before he rolled his eyes so hard Jared thought they’d disappear. Sarah came in a few minutes later.

“Mave’s taking us out to dinner,” she said. “Want anything?”

Jared shook his head and then added, mind to mind: Don’t leave her.

I won’t.

“Want anything, Kota?” Sarah said.

“A single beef patty and a garden salad, no dressing.”

“Got it.”

“Thanks.”

“Later.”

He heard Mave and Sarah laughing as they got ready. The blow-dryer whirring. Quiet music playing in Mave’s bedroom. Traffic humming outside. People on the sidewalk.

After they left, Kota asked if he would be okay while he smoked on the balcony. Jared nodded. Time passed. Hours or seconds. Kota returned and sat in the desk chair, not looking at him, not checking his phone, not sighing with impatience or trying to get him to eat or drink. Kota stared off as if he was in a movie and someone had given his character bad news and he was hurt but taking it bravely. A part of Jared that had been tensed eased. He could be a miserable lump without any pressure to pretend he wasn’t one.

Eventually, Jared went to the bathroom and Kota went for another smoke while he peed. They both reassumed their positions.

“You can dry out at my place if you want,” Kota said.

“It’s almost over,” Jared said.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“Bad habit.”

“Yeah. They mean well.”

“I know.”

—

Day two was worse and he didn’t care if he was making anyone feel bad. He breathed and that was all anyone was going to get from him.

—

On the third day of dry-out, my headache brought to me: blinding spasm flashes, throat-aching cravings and fear. In a treeeeee.

—

That night, he asked for his own pyjamas back and Mave handed him an adult-sized Buzz Lightyear set, both the loose pants and top too big for him, crackling with static from the plastic they came in.

“Seriously?” Jared said, holding the top up to his chest.

“It’ll be easier to find you if you take off running again,” Mave said. “ ‘Yes, excuse me, have you seen a teenager, yay high, black hair, brown eyes, devastatingly handsome, Indigenous, and, oh, wearing Buzz Lightyear pyjamas?’ ”

“Way to respect my dignity.”

“Yay!” Mave said, clapping. “Your first sarcastic remark. You must be on the mend.”

“Even Mom isn’t this mean.”

“I’m ruthless,” Mave said. “Your mom is a pussycat.”

—

“Crashpad says hi,” Sarah said, sitting at the desk, staring at her phone.

“Hi to Crashpad,” Jared said.

“He’s coming down in November to visit universities with his mom. Wants to know if he can take you out for your birthday.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jared said, his agreement automatic, the smarter part of his brain realizing that he might not make it, but no use in alarming people.

—

On day five, Kota and Justice didn’t come over and Mave retreated to her room to tackle writing her novel again. Sarah’s new cellphone pinged, and after she checked her message, Jared felt a hum from her, a tightening.

“What?” Jared said.

“Hmm?” Sarah said, playing dumb.

“Spit it out,” Jared said. You broadcast like me when you’re scared.

“Your mom’s found a splinter group from the coy wolves’ compound. They’re up in Abbotsford on a farm.”

“How many?”

“Sixteen.” Sarah grimaced then reluctantly added, “Your mom thinks we may need help.”

“From who?”

Sarah stared at her phone. They both waited for another message, but none came.

16

THE SELF-SERVE CHECKOUT COUNTER DOES NOT JUDGE

Jared turned the oven on. Mave had cake mixes in the cupboard and some pre-made vanilla frosting, which Mrs. Jaks had loathed. She would have wanted him to make everything from scratch, saying the quality of your ingredients means something and that cheap oils and bland sweetness make your bake generic. You might as well go buy your desserts, she would have said if she was here, a lecture she’d given him many times. When he’d started making pot cookies, he’d gone to her for advice and she’d been so pleased. They’d spent the afternoon baking batches and batches, the kitchen warm and filled with the aroma of chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, all vanilla and sugar. Mr. Jaks had tested each batch at the kitchen table, rattling off his comments in Czech.

Jared chose the Betty Crocker Cherry Chocolate Chip cake mix then sifted it through a metal sieve. He added an extra egg and vanilla pudding and the package of chips from the box. While the cupcakes baked, he brought out cooling racks and brought the butter out of the fridge to warm on the counter. He was rooting around when he found a jar of freeze-dried strawberries. He chopped them small, then crushed them between parchment paper. Mave didn’t have any heavy cream, but she did have a can of evaporated milk. The oven timer dinged and he brought out the cupcakes to cool. He was mixing the strawberries in with the frosting when Mave stumbled out of her bedroom in her Canucks pyjamas.

“What are you doing?” Mave said. “And why are you doing it so loudly?”

“Sorry,” Jared said, pausing the hand mixer. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Mave swiped her finger along the rim of the bowl. “You made this? From my cupboards?”

“It’s just frosting with some crushed freeze-dried strawberries.”

“I could eat this all day.”

“Do you have cake decorating stuff?”

“Yes, in the drawer beside my chastity belt.”

“You can just say no,” Jared said. “That is an option.”

“Smear the icing on the damn things and add sprinkles,” Mave said. “Done. Easy.”

Jared fashioned a piping bag out of parchment paper and carefully cut a half moon, slightly thicker on the bottom. Mave pulled a stool up to the other side of the counter. He did a practice rose onto a pretty saucer and handed it to her.

She tilted the saucer as she examined his artistry. “That’s a lot of work for something we’re