LITMIR.BIZ

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out a puff of breath, when I sit on it. Across the room, three small holes in the wall stare back at me. Roxy moves close so our thighs touch. She’s got a fairy tattoo on her foot. It starts by her toes and goes up to her ankle, like the fairy is flying away.

      She leans her head back and sighs. Her beer is between her knees and it makes goose bumps all over her skin. I stare at them, thinking it’s kind of ugly how smooth skin can hide all those little pimples.

      Her bangs fall away from her face. I can see close up, she isn’t much older than me. Piercings run up her ear and one is in her nose and eyebrow.

      “You from the city?” I ask.

      She shakes her head. “Reserve at God’s Narrows.”

      “How long you been here?”

      “A few weeks.”

      The beer is starting to loosen me up. I sink further into the couch and stop thinking about her ugly goose flesh, or how much of our bodies are touching each other. I dent the can with my fingers, listening to the metal pop in and out. More people spill into the house from outside.

      “There’s a room upstairs, you wanna see it?”

      I look at her, like why? but she gives me a look. Like I should know why. My gut starts to churn and I wonder if she’s shitting me. But she’s already standing up. The dip in the leather where her body was disappears in seconds, like she was never there. I take another swig of my beer, draining it.

      She crooks her finger around mine and leads me up the stairs.

      Jakub

      Lincoln gives a low whistle. “You did that last night?” He tilts his head, pushing up the flat brim of his baseball hat. His narrow slits of eyes with their heavy line of lashes scan the piece, drinking it in. The piece looks even better in the daylight.

      “Yeah. Where the hell were you? I went by your place at midnight and the lights were out.”

      Lincoln pulls the brim of his hat back over his eyes. “Henry’s back.”

      I give a noncommittal grunt. “Is he gonna hang around for a while?” I pull my hood up. It’s the last few weeks of summer, still hot out, too hot for a hoodie, but I like being able to disappear under it.

      All I can see is Link’s mouth. “Got a new tattoo. It says ‘Brothers to the End.’ Right across his chest,” Link brags.

      What lies did Henry spin to make Lincoln think the tattoo was for him? Biting down hard, I want to tell Lincoln that after a year and a half in jail, Henry has a whole gang of brothers. But criticizing Henry never gets me far. Some weird hero-worship thing keeps Lincoln from admitting who his brother really is: a criminal.

      We walk toward the park, kicking a can back and forth. A few kids on BMX bikes are doing tricks around the fountain.

      I pull my black book out of my backpack. A gift from Father Dom last Christmas, the book’s textured paper holds the lead of my pencil and makes my drawings come alive. Not an inch of space is squandered. “What do you think about this?” I show him designs for a big piece, something that will take up a whole wall.

      Lincoln pushes his hat back to see it better. He raises an eyebrow, but other than that, his expression doesn’t change. “Think you’re a king now?” There are only a couple of graff writers in the city who are kings. I’m not there yet, but maybe someday.

      “Thought we could work it together.”

      “Another neighbourhood beauti-fuck-ation project brought to you by Morf-Skar Productions!” He holds his knuckles up and I hit them with my own. “Bam!” we both whisper.

      A crew of Red Bloodz rolls into the park with swagger and red bandanas, five of them fanning out. Henry’s in the middle, head shaved, his arms bare in a white tank top. Bigger than I remember. He doesn’t look like anyone I want to tangle with. I wince at the tattoo on his neck. That had to hurt. He catches Lincoln watching him and gives him a chin nod.

      Henry’s muscles and blistering white undershirt make him look like a Roman god, perched on the fountain. “He wants me to join them,” Lincoln tells me, so quiet it’s like he doesn’t want me to hear.

      I narrow my eyes. “Are you going to?” I ask.

      Sticking his fingers through a rip in the bottom of his T-shirt, he doesn’t look at me. “I dunno. He’s my brother,” he says with a shrug.

      “Who’s been gone for the last year and a half,” I mutter. I stuff my sketchbook into my backpack. A page tears. Valuable, thick paper. I zip up my bag, a couple cans bang together.

      “Where are you going?” he asks.

      “It’s Tuesday. I have to help at the church.” I sling my pack over my shoulder. “Wanna come?”

      Henry’s eyes are on us. I can feel them. Link probably can, too.

      He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll hang here.”

      “He’s not here to stay, you know that, right?”

      Lincoln looks at the ground and nods. “But he’s here now.”

      I have to go. Father Dom will be waiting. I can’t force my friend to come with me, no matter how much I want to.

      The best time of day to go to church is late afternoon on a summer day. Outside, the sun is at its hottest, the pavement baking. And in our sweltering apartment, with its one small electric fan whirring in futility, odours emerge, clinging to the heat seeping out of furniture and carpet. There’s nothing to do but sit and sweat in the stink.

      But the church is always cool; none of the heat finds its way into the silent cocoon. Smelling like furniture polish and old wood, it’s the most familiar place I know. No matter how many times we’ve moved, there’s only been one church: St. Mary’s Parish. Invitingly cool, the heavy wooden doors slip shut behind me.

      A side door opens and Father Dominic walks up the aisle. The white smock hides his ever-expanding waistline, compliments of the pierogi and braided sweetbread left on his doorstep by the women of the church.

      As often as not, he shares his food with us. After all these years, he and Dad are like brothers, the only family either one has in Canada, besides me.

      Father Dom walks with purpose, taking in the paintings, the stained glass, making sure all is in order. He pauses at the end of a pew, lays his hand on a woman’s shoulder, and bends down to whisper something in her ear. With a sympathetic look, he stands and surveys the few of us in his presence.

      Straightening some choir books, he makes his way to me. “Jakub.” He says my name like Dad, the old way, making the J into a Y and accenting the oob on the end. Link says it that way, too, or just calls me Koob. Other people, like teachers, get tripped up on the letters and settle with Jay-cub. I don’t correct them anymore. It’s a losing battle.

      “You’re late.”

      I bow my head apologetically. Father Dom clucks at me. “You missed your father. He left a few minutes ago.”

      “Was he serving?”

      “Lunch today. Bean soup. That old woman with no teeth asked him to marry her again.”

      I smile, feel my crooked teeth rub against my top lip. Dad could have been in the line for free lunch; instead, he volunteers to dish it out. “We help the less fortunate,” he always tells me. “Dad, we are the less fortunate,” I remind him. But he waves a hand at me like I’m talking crazy.

      “You look like shit.” A typical comment from Father Dominic. Beloved by all, with a mouth like a sailor. Raised in Yonkers, New York, by Polish immigrants, he’s never lost his accent, or changed who he is.

      “Late night?”

      I

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