The Book of Sam:

A New Draft

Hey Wattpaders,

As many of you know, I've been neck-deep in an intense editorial process for The Book of Sam. After a year, it is almost complete. I'm sure every writer says this—but unlike me, they're all filthy liars—but the new draft is a completely different and more realized novel. A new beginning, a new ending, a more comprehensive history of Hell, more Sam backstory and I removed like 10,000 things. In some instances, I've rewritten the same sentence 20 times only to end up with the original sentence. That's writing, amirite? Amirite? AMIRITE?

I'm proud to present to you the first two chapters of The Book of Sam. My hope is that the yearning for more is so intense that you find yourself mired in an existential angst that burns your soul and renders you useless at your job or school or to those who rely on you. My lesser hope is that you simply enjoy the story, characters, and world sparking an interest to read more. This is why it's good to have two hopes and not just one.

Your Pal,

Rob Shapiro

Chapter 1

Harper James

Where is she, I thought, as I sat on the steps of my front porch, a safe distance from the noise of my family. Inside my house was the pounding of a PlayStation controller amid video game gunfire, heavy feet running up and down stairs and rising above all that was my dad, screaming at my mom about something I did or left on or forgot to put away or something. I didn't pay much attention to it, lost in my own head.

Harper was almost an hour late. The plan was to go to Queens Quay to board a ferry to the Islands. There, we'd spend a night huddled around a bonfire at Ward's Island. I'd been looking forward to this night all week, the first where Harper didn't have family stuff or cheerleading practice or a model UN meeting.

I leaned back, my elbows pressed on the wood, trying to see around the Frazier's house, hoping Harper would pop into view.

I hadn't seen her since Justin Breslow's party last Friday. His parents were in Las Vegas, so he announced to the entire cafeteria that there would be a party at his house. Since I was eating alone in the corner of the room, I was officially invited. So, I went—and by went, I mean I stood in corner, talking to Harper as she fended off guys trying to press up against her. I walked her home and before we parted, I asked her if we could hang out on the islands next week, one of her last before she was to leave for Paris on academic exchange. I also applied for the same program and was swiftly told to improve my application before trying again. She happily agreed to my proposal before kissing my cheek.

I checked my phone for the hundredth time. No texts, but a couple dozen Snapchat notifications, which I was sure were just snaps of some party I wasn't invited to. I made a mental note to check later.

That annoying voice in my head started yapping, conjuring scenarios where something bad had happened. Harper lived only a block away and had made the short walk to my house thousands of times without incident. Both of our houses were on streets that touched what was once Toronto's boardwalk, The Esplanade. It's a ribbon of road that runs east-west along a shimmering Lake Ontario and once buzzed with transport trains hastening into stations, twirling carousels, distilleries and refineries. Eventually, the trains were moved above and below ground, the carousels disbanded—the sad painted horses packed into kitschy restaurants to amuse kids as their parents ate—and the distilleries and refineries were shut down to make way for new industry. Toronto expanded south. Like prison bars, condos cut the city off from the water, though, I still liked to tell people that I lived by the lake. It was more interesting than saying I lived by the new 45-story condo on top of a Whole Foods.

Whatever activity was happening on The Esplanade was not spilling onto my street, where the only action was a dog peeing on a flowerbed, some discarded flyers cartwheeling across the pavement and Jake Springer, a kid from my school, who was helping his dad change the oil in their car. His dad was wiping the dipstick with a grey cloth, showing Jake how to read the level.

The shouting from inside my house grew harsher. I walked over and snuck a look between the curtains. My sister, Amy, marched down the stairs and passed like a ship through choppy waters in between my parents arguing in the hallway. She was the oldest of the kids and most immune to the stress of our home. I couldn't make out what my parents were saying but my name was mentioned. I'd done something wrong.

I retreated to the steps of the porch but this time I chose the bottom one to give myself a little more distance. I tapped my feet to the beat of the song I was humming, trying to think of happy thoughts—bunny rabbits, baseball, Harper—that kind of stuff.

Finally, Harper appeared from around the corner, her face blocked by a bubble of pink gum. The sight of her quieted the noise from my family as if a steel door had hermetically sealed it off. Her hands were shoved in the pockets of her ripped jeans and her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail except for two strands that bracketed her face. She threw me a half-hearted wave and a practiced smile, which wilted in seconds. Harper was as subtle as a marching band and even from a distance, her mood was evident. Something was wrong.

We met at the foot of the steps for a hug—a big, warm one without any restraint as she squeezed around my neck. How many more hugs would we have before she left?

"Ready to go?" I said.

She tilted her head down, staring at her shoes, one of which she kicked into the ground. Her nose crinkled as if she smelled something pungent.

"Let's not go," she said, her voice barbed.

"Why not? We've been planning this all week." I was annoyed she would even make that suggestion.

"I'm just not in the mood anymore," she said.

She took a breath, her eyes moved sideways to avoid contact with mine. I was starting to think our hug hello was a pity hug, a "sorry your aunt didn't make it" hug. She crossed her arms.

"Have you looked at your snaps in the last hour?" she said, trying to be casual.

I shook my head, "no, my phone's been blowing up though. Why?"

She fidgeted, doing things like crossing and uncrossing her arms or adjusting her ponytail even though it was fine.

"What is it?" I said. "You're being weird."

"Maybe we should go inside," Harper said.

She took my hand and pulled me up the porch steps. I tensed, nervous as to what she was going to show me. Did someone post something about her? A pic no one was supposed to see? That happened to a girl we know named Priya. She was a quiet girl who met a guy online. After some pleading and manipulating, she sent him a topless selfie. The next day it was on the screen of every phone and tablet at school. A cruel prank by a popular girl who told the principal she did it out of boredom.

My house was a zoo. My youngest brother Stephen was playing a videogame with gusto in the living room, his feet propped on the coffee table in front of an opened bag of chips. Amy was running back and forth from her room on the top floor and the laundry room in the basement, leaving a trail of socks and tank tops from the mound of clothes she was carrying. My other brother, Aaron, was in the backyard hitting whiffle balls against the house. Then there was my other sister, Bethany, the quiet one. She was at the dining room table with a textbook cracked open, taking notes on her tablet.

If anyone thinks being a middle child is tough, try being one of three.

I closed the front door with some vigor to alert my parents that we had a guest. The red left my parents' faces as soon as they saw Harper. My mom, complete with her usual look of frustration, was petite with short brown hair and freckles. She looked exhausted, evidenced by the light purple bags under her eyes. She wasn't yet 50 but looked like she had a century's worth of fried nerves. My dad was silent, looking through me as he always did. He had a head of thinning black hair, his temples salted white. His gut sloped over his belt and he pulled his broad shoulders back before letting out a deep, annoyed breath. My mom gave me a look. Go upstairs.

Harper and I went into my bedroom and closed the door. I flopped on my twin bed, knocking an empty ramen container off the messy blanket. Harper sat next to me, thumbing the screen of her phone that she angled away to shield from my view.

"Seriously, what's going on? Are we really not going?"

No reply. Harper could have been a million miles away in that moment. She was rarely this quiet, more the type to stand up in a crowded theatre and scream that the girl running upstairs to escape the killer was an idiot. Every stroke or tap of her thumb filled me with worry. I steeled myself against whatever I was about to learn.

"Okay," she said.

She held the phone to my face. As soon as I saw what was on the screen it was as if an airlock opened and all the air in the room escaped in a loud whoosh. A black and white pic of me sitting alone in the cafeteria. The word "Monday" written at the bottom. This was followed by a series of similar photos, one for each week day. Every pic was a portrait of me looking sad and sullen, surrounded by but separated from students frozen in a state of natural happiness. Harper clicked to another pic, this one was of me sitting alone on a grassy island in the quad. Sweat pooled on my palms and in my armpits. Looking at these pics, my face didn't just become hot; it was on fire. A whole album cataloguing my loneliness existed online, and would exist online forever. Below the first pic was a lengthening thread of comments: "fag", "loser", "LAME AF", "kill yourself, Sam – signed everyone", "No one would miss that guy", "basic", "who's dis?".

The last photo made my chest feel caved in. I immediately recognized the locker room. In front of my open locker, I stood completely naked, reaching to hang a towel on the inside hook, my pasty backside exposed in all its glory. The patches of hair on my shoulders, the red constellation of back acne. It was all there.

I went limp, tears stung my eyes. Harper fell onto her back, her hands on her head.

"That's why I was late. I was trying to fix this," she said, her eyes vibrating.

I stared at the background of my laptop: a pic of me and Harper biting into cronuts at the CNE last summer. I couldn't bare looking at her. I just wanted to die.

"Say something," Harper said.

"Who did this?" I whispered, unable to find my voice.

"That asshole, Kyle. He's got the pics from his friends on Yearbook Committee."

"Why was the yearbook staff in the locker room?!"

"I don't know but we're gonna tell your parents, the school, the police, everyone, I don't care."

Kyle McGee formed in my mind: his moon face and fetal moustache, his bushy eyebrows and pointed features. The only thing he loved more than his faux hawk was calling me a "fag", a "freak", and a "retard", which he had done consistently since grade six. He took pleasure in embarrassing me and making sure I was always aware of my shortcomings, which included sports, math, music, being uncoordinated, some acne, being banned from the A/V club and generally failing at most things. He had whipped snowballs at my head, pulled my pants down as I walked down the hall, punched me while I stood defenseless at a urinal and spat in my food. Now that we were older his taunts had matured and become crueler. He had gotten the whole school to laugh at me.

Dread hung in the air, thick as fog. We sat at the edge of my bed, our stares unmoving. Harper leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and gum cracking in her mouth. If she was a cartoon character, fumes would have been leaving her ears.

Calling her protective of me was an understatement. We had a running joke about the over/under on how many days I would survive without her. She bet on five but the smart money was on three. Even my family got in on the fun.

My greatest fear was about to be realized. In two weeks, there would be an ocean between us. She would be in another corner of the world, learning and having the experience of a lifetime. She would make new friends, meet exotic boys in berets and I could already imagine how the volume of emails would dwindle week by week until our relationship withered down to just being old friends.

"I'm gonna kill him," she said, not breaking her stare with the wall. I've always been an anxious guy and the thought of that comment thread growing through the night and the next day and the day after that was painful. A thought I've had for years nagged me: nothing will ever change except to get worse.

"Snaps expire at least," I said.

"They're also on Instagram, Facebook and someone hacked the school's homepage."

A tear rolled out of the corner of my eye. I wiped it away. "Maybe people will forget about this in a few days."

"You say that every time and they never just forget," she said, her voice shaded with disappointment. "They always find new ways to bully you."

Harper inched over and placed her hand on my back. Our watery eyes and flushed cheeks reminded me of when we were kids and she'd be consoling me over a playground beating. I looked to the floor where we used to roll out sleeping bags and lay on top, swirling our flashlights on the ceiling until my dad yelled at us to go to bed. Life was simpler then.

"I have to go," I said, not wanting to be the subject of her pity.

"Sam, you can't just run away. You need to deal with this," she said. "Stop being such a...a...."

In lieu of finishing her sentence, she dropped her arms in defeat. We were each feeling a rising tide of anger but were handling it differently. My brain started to throb. I rubbed my forehead, trying to alleviate the pressure building behind my eyebrows.

"You have to stand up for yourself. You have to do something for once and not just hide," she said, her emotion bubbling to the surface.

We were deathly quiet, unsure of how to diffuse the situation. She took my hand and our fingers interlocked.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

I needed to be alone. Despite her pleading, I left Harper in my room and headed to Dundas Street to catch a streetcar west.

Chapter 2

Cloaked Atlas

A twilight version of the city slowly slid by the streetcar windows. As we approached a busy intersection, I pulled the cord and got out at the corner of Dundas and Spadina Avenue, the heart of Chinatown.

Everywhere was crowded—the sidewalks, crosswalks, bus shelters, restaurants and bars. Escape was impossible. My mood was lodged in some sort of abyss as I walked underneath the streetlamps activated by the night, past an old Chinese bakery, some trendy coffee shops and a small fruit market. I arrived at a frosted glass door nestled in between the oldest dim sum restaurant in Toronto and a comic book shop. Above the door hung a sign.

CLOAKED ATLAS

BOOKS / MAPS / ARTIFACTS

I'm not much of an adventurer—big spoiler, right? My uncle, on the other hand, is a full-blown, no holds-barred, grab the bull by the horn, sword between his teeth adventurer. His life's work can be found in a dusty shop on the second floor of an old building.

Since it was after business hours, the staircase that led to my uncle's shop was awash in a pattern of shadows and a red emergency light. I unlocked the door, ran up the steps and with one more turn of a key, I was inside, cut off from the world. I was safe.

Moonlight bathed the cigar-scented interior appointed in dark walnut. The silvery light allowed me small glimpses of the brown parquet floors and the slowly rotating ceiling fan. Maple bookcases filled with leather bound books dominated the walls. In between the bookcases was a cozy reading nook with a circular rug, a purple wingback chair and small end table. At the back was a glass jewelry case that needed a good cleaning. Swords hung close to the ceiling spaced about a foot apart. As a kid, I was always climbing up the shelving to reach a sword only to have my uncle grab me and place me back on the floor. It wasn't until I was 10 that he let me hold one.

Cloaked Atlas opened its doors in 1995, yet after a few decades, most Torontonians still didn't even know it existed. The more the city became engulfed by high-rises and chains, the nondescript shop seemed to fade from public view and float above street level in some alternate world. It wasn't a place for idle shopping. The only time I remember it getting foot traffic was during the Pokemon Go craze, and all those people left the shop Pikachu-less, some even crying after being yelled at by an old man who didn't appreciate trends in mobile gaming.

The shop was home to the unique items and artifacts that my Uncle Bear obsessed over. He had turned a PhD in archeology into a life of globetrotting adventure. His stories were the stuff of legend—treasure hunts through the foggy London night, uprisings in the streets of Giza, meetings with shadowy figures in the secret rooms of St. Peter's Basilica—It was only after a dangerous excursion to Jakarta that he was forced to settle down. As he tells it, he was being chased across a rooftop when he tried to make a leap between buildings. Despite his best efforts, which were usually good enough, he missed the mark and fell through a series of awnings, landing on a spice stand in a crowded market. The result was a broken vertebra, the rest of his life relegated to a wheelchair and smelling like cumin for a week. Uncle Bear was never one to focus on the negative. He came home to Toronto and created a mecca for dealers, traders and merchants from all over the world. He always said that if he hadn't broken his back, he never would have met his partner, Raymond, who had always been kind to me. In my next life, I hope I get them as parents.

Not to stray too far but please note that Uncle Bear's collection are not antiques, and if you call them "antique", he will stab you with a Gladius that was used by an actual Roman foot soldier. He reserved that derogatory term for dainty Russian statues and Fabergé eggs (the scourge of the industry, as he called them).

I worked at Cloaked Atlas a few nights a week, giving my uncle and Raymond some nights off to go to the movies. Besides Harper, Uncle Bear was the person closest to me and the shop was my true home. There were no tests bludgeoned by a red pen or team rosters minus my name pinned to cork outside the school gym. There were no meetings with the guidance counselor, Mr. Clapp, who liked to remind me that repeating a grade was always an option. There was no Kyle or fear that any passing snicker or whispered word was secretly directed at me.

I had a small bedroom in the back. When I used it I had to follow my uncle's strict rules: up before the cry of seven, clean the shop before breakfast, bed impeccably made before I left the room. For a man who lived such a wild life, he really enjoyed a nicely made bed.

My uncle and I have always been close but our relationship took off a few years ago after an incident at this one family dinner. My entire family was celebrating Aaron being named MVP of the Greater Toronto Hockey League. After several toasts and speeches in his honour, my dad stood up and told us how proud he was of my brother, the hockey star, and Bethany, the honours student. He then gushed about Stephen, who was the youngest student at his prestigious arts school and then got a little choked up when he congratulated Amy on her acceptance to law school. He then looked at me and announced to the table that some young men just mature late.

Uncle Bear turned to me and reassured me that the true greats don't need acclaim or validation, and that in his heart, he knew I was destined for big things. I saw him yelling at my dad outside the restaurant before he rode off in a cab. After that night, I spent a lot more time at Cloaked Atlas.

I sat on the floor, hugging my knees and thinking about the future. In two weeks, Harper would be gone and I'd be even more alone. I let my face fall into my hands as my breathing retreated into a childish whimper.

As I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, I noticed the corner of a book poking out from underneath a bookcase. Scrolled in faint cursive were the initials, "M.W.F.R". As if it was calling to me, I pulled out the coverless book and wiped a layer of dust off with my hand. The first page felt familiar. My uncle used to read me this book. It was about a demon named Stolas who rose from the life of a slave to rule Hell. When I say Hell, I'm not talking about the boring Hell that most people learn about in church. My uncle was in no way religious, actually his views on religion were the only thing he and my dad agreed on. These were stories of demons, creatures, sorcerers and an emperor. It was mythology pretending to be history and I loved every word on every page. I remember my uncle telling me how these stories were very old and he had learned about them on his travels. I guess I eventually outgrew them.

I started reading and instantly I was seven-years-old again, swept away by Stolas' life: a demon destined to die a slave but he refused, and instead, waged a war to make sure others never suffered the same fate. He fought in great battles, moved crowds with his words and worked to create a better, fairer world. He defeated the vicious Emperor Belphegor in a fortressed city that the Emperor constructed at the centre of Hell and named after himself. For his sacrifice, Stolas was dubbed The Liberator of Belphegor.

At some point, the sun broke through the curtains. I was only a few pages from the end when my eyelids became heavy. I succumbed to sleep, sprawled on the floor. My last thought was of Stolas standing atop the bell tower in his hometown of Ragewick, looking out onto the land that he had rebuilt.

****

"Sam," the ashy voice said. "Sam."

A few drops of cold water landed on my face.

"Sam!"

My eyes slivered opened to find Uncle Bear slightly tipping a full glass over my head. A knowing smile plastered his face.

"Why are you pouring water on me?" I said as I wiped my face with the inside of my arm.

"I couldn't find my poking stick," he said as he wheeled in reverse, giving me some room to sit up. "Why aren't you sleeping in your bed? Better yet, it's 10 in the morning, why aren't you at school?"

I sat up, my puffy eyes still adjusting to the sunlight. The shop looked so different in the light of day. Uncle Bear wheeled himself over to the counter where he collected a stack of receipts.

My uncle had aged so much in the last few years. His face was jowly and his chin hung like a chicken's. His waist had expanded and I hadn't seen his legs in years since he always kept them covered in this puke green coloured blanket. Liver spots made his scalp look like a game of battleship. Even his wheelchair squeaked more than usual.

A kettle squealed. He disappeared into his office and returned a minute later dabbing a tea bag into a steaming cup of water.

"Remember this?" I said, holding up the book so that Uncle Bear could see it.

"Of course, The Book of Stolas, a classic. I haven't seen it in some time," he said. "You used to love those stories; Stolas and Emperor Belphegor and the Architects of Hell."

A nostalgic smile. "So what is it, Sam, trouble at home?"

"It's everything—Harper, my dad, school," I said as I got up and stretched my arms and back. I didn't want to tell him about Kyle or Snapchat, because I knew it would just be an invitation for a colourful anecdote about revenge and then he'd ask me what Snapchat was.

"Harper is not a problem. Most don't even get one Harper in their entire lives so count your blessings. And I hate to speak ill of your father," he said, followed by a thoughtful pause. "But he's a total schmuck. Why Pat married him is a mystery fit for the ages."

Pat was my mom. You would never know it from her perfect book club attendance or the way she's always running around the house yelling but she was once a world travelling surfer, a carefree version of her much older brother. On a trip to Tofino she met an articling law student named Glenn who was on a frat trip and had been watching the sunset from the roof of his car. Within a year, she had hung up the surfboard, was married and settled into a basement apartment in Corktown. My uncle and mom had big dreams and he always resented the fact that she quit on them so young. He also reminded me that he loved all his nieces and nephews but that I was the best thing his sister had produced post-Glenn (as he called it).

"Well, my boy, if you're going to be a truant then let's do it right. Two swords."

I pulled down our usual two swords and handed him one. I took the starting position that he had taught me and we sparred. He barely looked at me as he blocked every one of my strikes. After a minute, I was exhausted and he was done his tea.

"You've gotten much better over the years, but you need to focus on that one decisive strike," he said. "Now, follow me."

I followed him past a standing globe, a jewelry case and a cash register into his office. Everything in the room had a yellow tinge from cigar smoke and the mahogany desk was covered in papers and receipts. A vintage Texas Instruments calculator rested on top of a map of Prussia. His computer took the cake though, since he had me remove the keys he thought were pointless, giving it a jack-o-lantern smile.

He picked up a pad of paper and a pencil from next to his computer and started jotting something down. I pulled a chair from the corner and sat across from him.

"Is this about Paris?" Uncle Bear said, not lifting his eyes from the pad of paper.

"I don't know what to do," I said. "I've had most of my life to tell her about...ya know, my feelings and stuff."

"Grow some fuzz on your grapes and take a chance," Uncle Bear said. He picked up a tattered cigar from the groove in an ashtray and placed it between his teeth. He didn't light it, opting to just suck on the end.

I leaned back knowing his advice was good, but if it was that easy, I would have done it when I was 12. Baring my feelings defied every instinct I had, but my uncle's advice was always on point. If he told you to buy one bag of flour over another, you could rest assured that his flour would produce fluffier baked goods. My favourite was how he haggled with salespeople who came into the shop, many of whom had travelled great distances to sell something to him specifically. He could sniff out a fraud from the moment the entrance chime dinged, and would know immediately if the possession was prized, its resale value or if it was one of the few that he wanted to keep as part of his own collection. One salesman, thick with a flat top head and skin that looked badly dipped in bronzer, was so distraught from my uncle's rejection that for weeks he would appear every day on my walk home from school. At first, he would pass by me and tip his hat hello. This eventually evolved to stopping me for a quick chat about baseball and the weather. Finally, he would hold me by the elbow threatening that if I didn't speak with Bear on his behalf, there would be consequences.

My uncle's private collection was kept secret from the world in a room that connected to the office. The only way in was through a door that was blocked by a desk. That's about all I can tell you since I've never actually been inside. In fact, the only time my uncle ever scolded me was when I was 11 and he walked into his office and saw the desk pulled out and my hand on the doorknob. I told him I just wanted to look around but he made me place my right hand over my heart and promise that I would never go in there, that I would forget it even existed. Even the persuasive power of Harper could never convince me to stray from my pledge. Believe me, she'd tried.

Uncle Bear put down the pencil, ripped the paper from the pad and handed it to me. I read what he wrote, confused about what was going through his half-mad mind.

"French baguette, beef broth, blue cheese, big bulb of garlic, 1lbs. of PEI mussels, The House of Usher (VHS)," I stopped reading and looked at my uncle who was nodding along.

"What is this?"

"No matter where I've travelled, no matter the year or the season or the people I've encountered there was always one truth that is unwaveringly universal," he said, a stern finger in the air.

I leaned forward, excited, and said, "What? What is it?"

"Everyone, and I mean everyone, likes dinner and a movie."

"Huh?"

Uncle Bear threw me a wink. I looked at the list and realized it was a grocery list and the message was clear. I was going to make dinner for Harper and then we were going to watch the old Vincent Price movie, The House of Usher. Fun fact about Harper: she was the world's biggest Vincent Price fan. One night we made guacamole using Vincent Price's recipe, which is an actual thing, and watched Edward Scissorhands. She hated the movie because Vincent Price was in it for only a few scenes. "Not enough Vinnie P.," she would say whenever it came up. Movies were the only thing we ever disagreed on—outside of how to deal with the Kyles of the world. Our biggest disagreement might have come after my mom made us watch The Princess Bride. I loved it. Harper not so much. She liked Fezzik but thought that Princess Buttercup was a useless damsel in distress.

"Ask Mrs. Choi downstairs if she can show you how to steam the mussels, she'll probably offer her kitchen as well. Raymond and I have plans tomorrow so you can entertain Harper right here in the shop."

I smiled.

Uncle Bear continued, "keep it simple, Sam, okay? A nice meal, good conversation and tell her how you feel. Don't just let things happen. Make them happen."

He wheeled over and gave my cheek two quick, soft smacks. I replied with a smile.

"You're going to be okay, my boy," he said to me before leaving me alone in his office.

I stared at the list as if it was the magic elixir that would help me find the courage to finally do what I needed to do.

****

The next morning, I awoke to some folded cash that my uncle had left me on the night table and a text from Harper in which she accepted my invitation for dinner and a movie. I was too scared to use the word "date", but regardless, her reply had a couple more smiley emojis than usual.

I felt charged, the opposite of the day before when my world was spinning out of control. I had a plan and it wasn't to head to school to face hundreds of my peers that had gone from ignoring my existence to knowing exactly how my bare ass looked. It also wasn't to run into my family. I would have to stop at home to change at some point, sure, but sneaking in and out without detection would be easy. The day was all mine to prepare for my "date".

I got dressed, hopped on my bike, list in hand, and rode east towards St. Lawrence Market, which looked like a massive firehouse but bustled with a carnival energy. Normally, preparing for something this big would give me a fever and the shakes. For whatever reason, though, I was feeling light and a good, fluttering kind of anxious. Of course, my throat tightened at the thought of having to say the actual words while looking directly into Harper's big brown eyes.

I locked my bike to a post and headed through the thin crowd in front to join the thick crowd that filled the old market. Below the high ceiling were butchers, fishmongers, and wine and cheese experts. The stalls were drenched in the aroma of roasting pork, fresh parsley and dill with notes of salted fish and vinegar. Somehow it all came together to form one appetizing, familiar smell.

I checked the list one more time. Uncle Bear kept it simple for me, knowing I wasn't going to succeed with a plan that required surgical execution.

My first stop was the seafood counter. A lab-coated worker scooped a pound of black mussels that still smelled like the Atlantic into a bag with some ice and wrapped it in butcher paper. Following the list to win Harper's love—okay, I might have replaced the words "for Roquefort mussels" with "to win Harper's love"—I went to the lower level and got all the produce I needed and a small hunk of blue cheese.

I left the market and pedaled towards my house. After 15 minutes, I dropped my bike on my driveway and walked to the side that led to our backyard. I hopped inside the window well and crouched down. There was a broken latch on the window that my parents had never fixed and us kids never reminded them because it represented a nightly chance at escape. I pulled the window open and climbed inside.

I ran up the steps, two at a time, and down the hallway filled with dull music coming from behind closed doors. It didn't mean anyone was home though, music playing in empty rooms was commonplace.

In the bathroom, I got undressed and hopped into the shower. The hot water relaxed me as I went over my plan. Drop the ingredients off at Mrs. Choi's restaurant at 4:30. She would show me how to clean the mussels and cook the broth. Then, she would let me prep everything in her kitchen as her staff got ready for the dinner rush. Since mussels cook fast, her nice husband, Mr. Choi, would steam them and bring them to the shop in a lidded pot around 7 p.m., which would give the broth time to simmer. All I had to do was set up a folding table, a couple of chairs, tablecloth, plates and some cutlery, all of which Uncle Bear made me promise would be clean. A Sam-proof plan if there ever was one.

I dried off and threw on some clothes. A black t-shirt underneath a nice button up shirt and the least wrinkly jeans I could scrounge up. With one look in the mirror, my confidence nosedived. I could see how Kyle and the other students saw me, how unimpressive I was. My body had no real shape, my nose and ears were too big for my face and my eyes were kind of far apart. My cheeks were also red, probably from the hot water. I didn't come together as a nice package.

Bury those thoughts, Sam. Not tonight.

I threw some clothes into my backpack that already had my ingredients and rushed downstairs, wanting to hit the road before anyone came home. I was steps from the door when an even voice said, "Sam".

My dad was seated on the living room couch that faced the front hallway. I hadn't noticed him. On his knee rested a tumbler with a thin layer of whiskey and two ice cubes. He was always one of two men: a man who moved invisibly through the house or a hurricane on the horizon. Both terrified me.

"Why are you home?" I asked, caught off-guard since he was rarely home during the day.

"I came home early so I could get to your brother's hockey game in time," he said, his voice already scolding. He tilted his head to examine me. "No school today?"

"I had last period off," I said.

Lying was the quickest way out of this conversation but he didn't seem to buy it.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

"Uncle Bear's."

My dad became annoyed at any mention of his brother-in-law. He placed the tumbler down and leaned forward. With his face captured in lamplight, I could see his bloodshot, loveless eyes.

"Sam, what are you doing?" he asked in a voice was always an octave higher when he spoke to me as opposed to my siblings.. "Stop wasting your time with that childish stuff. Your grades are embarrassing and you spend all your time at a crazy old man's hobby store. You need to be a man."

His words hurt and with every second that hurt deepened. I couldn't raise my head to look at him.

"I wish I knew how to help you," he said.

His rants always felt rehearsed like he would recite them while straightening his tie every morning. He called me aimless. He said that no one wanted me and the radius of rejection I lived within would eventually grow to include universities and potential employers, and in his eyes, it would never stop expanding. He had this habit of asking rhetorical questions, so much so, that most family dinners were reduced to being another courtroom for him to perform cross-examinations. He would constantly berate us with questions that were either rhetorical or indicting. This conversation was no different.

"You want to be a nothing your whole life?" he asked. He always said "a nothing" instead of just "nothing". It was his own personal touch to the insult or maybe he was just repeating what he had been called when he was my age.

I'd never met my grandfather—he died two months before I was born—but I had heard that he was a tough man. He loved to tell my dad—his son—how he'd never amount to a hill of beans (the measure of success in my grandfather's day) and if he ever found a wife, good luck supporting a family with no work ethic, smarts or talent. Even a casual observer could see that my dad wasn't in love with being a husband or a father or a lawyer. His life's purpose was more an affront to his own feeling of being "a nothing". He lived his life as an act of rebellion against his own dad. I never wanted to be like him.

"Well, the exchange program said there were certain things I could do," I cut myself off, knowing that every word was more ammunition for him to rip me apart. I could hear how unconvincing I sounded.

"Those programs are meant for young people like Harper or kids with a lot of achievements. A year in Paris is a reward."

My only defense was my uncle's belief in me but once again when I mentioned his brother-in-law, my dad slammed his hand on the table, shaking the coasters. He ran his fingers through his hair as if it helped him sharpen his insults. I clutched the doorknob, ready to leave. I could feel my face reddening.

"You are not your uncle," he said, emphasizing every word. "Those stories of his are just crap he made up to entertain people polite enough to listen. There's no future for you there."

My dad let out a guttural sigh of frustration. He got up and walked through the dining room to the kitchen. His gait was wobbly and a succession of hiccups caused him to pat his chest. Knowing he was distracted, I bolted from the house.

My bike turned so sharply onto King St. that the back tire almost gave out. I was a welter of emotions. I could say that I hated my dad but the truth was I didn't. I wanted him to appreciate me, to treat me the same as my siblings. A few of the street signs sounded off in my head—Victoria St., Bay St., York St., University Ave.—every block of distance between me and my home made me feel more free. I didn't care if I never returned. There was nothing there for me.

I waited in the alley that was a hub of cooks and wait staff smoking cigarettes until Mr. Choi appeared. He led me into the kitchen where Mrs. Choi was lifting a heavy pot of water onto a red burner. I spent the next hour surrounded by lemon carcasses and the skin of onions and garlic. I chopped herbs and vegetables and listened to Mrs. Choi run her kitchen like a military operation. Every 10 minutes, she would check on me and even grab the knife from my hand to show me how to properly chop certain vegetables.

Once I got everything flavoured and simmering to the Choi's approval, I went to Cloaked Atlas and started to set up the room. Guided by uncle's voice, which in my head, kept repeating, "ambience, Sam," I gave the place a serious sweeping, ridding it of dust bunnies that were growing their own dust bunnies. Then, I dragged a poker table to the bay window that framed the busy street and dropped a white tablecloth on top to cover the stained green felt. A chair on each side, a candle half-melted into a dried wax blob in between two table settings and I was done. I applied some more deodorant, rolled some lint off my shirt and slapped way too much cologne on my neck. It was almost 7 p.m. which meant that Harper would be arriving any minute and our dinner shortly after.

I sat in the chair staring out onto the darkening city, trying to shoot dead the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I watched happy couples and loving families make their way into the shops and restaurants. A few stragglers hopped onto streetcars that then parted in opposite directions. The energy of the city soothed me, as it always had. I grew up in a room that faced the expressway. Aaron and I would lean out the window, forearms perched on the ledge, and count the never-ending stream of cars that briefly zipped by in between the half-demolished buildings that looked like chipped teeth. Before the game began, we would each choose a colour and if more cars of your colour were counted, you won the game.

I was trying to think of anything besides the different ways this night could go south. It's not like I was going to ask her to dump her Paris plan but maybe if I told her how I felt, we could put in that extra effort to stay in touch. Or maybe we could do a long distance relationship for a year, that wouldn't be so bad. I could even save some money and visit her. Or maybe I would just get that one moment that I've imagined a million times. Whatever happens, I promised myself that I was going to do something.

You got this.

I was too lost in a daydream to hear the entrance chime sound. I eventually turned to find Harper leaned against the doorjamb, staring at me, her smile hinting at sadness. She was perfectly dressed in a green hoodie and jeans, some of her hair clipped at the back of her head.

"I didn't know it was going to be so fancy," she said.

"I'm a fancy guy."

"Those ramen noodle containers I always find in your bed are really fancy."

I pulled out her chair. She seemed taken aback by my refinement but that was the point. Tonight had to be different. I had to be different.

A minute later, Mr. Choi arrived from the elevator in the back, the one my uncle had built for accessibility. He dropped the steaming pot in between me and Harper and ran back to his waiting customers.

"Smells amazing. You did this?"

"Of course!"

I ladled some mussels into her bowl. She picked up an empty shell and used it to extract more mussels from their shells.

"So what's the plan?"

"The plan, right. I was thinking we eat this meal I spent all day preparing—no big deal—and then watch The House of Usher.

"Vinnie P.," Harper said, approving of the plan.

The moment felt right but I still couldn't bring myself to spill my guts, so instead, we ate in awkward silence, sneaking quick glances at each other. Why did words have so much trouble leaving my mouth? It was probably because Harper was like a unicorn: smart and beautiful and kind and tough and adored by all. Even acne somehow agreed with her.

Harper mercifully broke the silence. "What was that kid's name? The one who got kicked off the bus for looking up my dress?"

"Marco Vogelli," I said with a look of disgust."Perv."

"Right. He got kicked off the bus, and you got suspended for telling the principal that you punched him, even though it was me."

"Yup."

"You did good, Sam."

We exchanged smiles then went back to our food.

"What made you think of him?"

"I heard he's also going on the Paris exchange," she said, and my mood soured. We chewed on supple mussels in silence for a couple of minutes.

"I think we should talk about Kyle and what happened," Harper said in a sudden and serious tone. She leaned back in her chair.

"I really don't want to."

"Well, I don't want to leave knowing that it hasn't been dealt with," she said.

"Then don't leave," I said.

"Sam."

"Listen, I'd really like to spend a night with you and not talk about school or Kyle or whatever," I said. "Is there any way you'd drop this?"

"No."

"Maybe we should watch the movie," I said, annoyed and feeling like the night was already slipping away.

"I'll give you two options," Harper said, holding up two fingers in a peace sign. "You get to choose how the rest of the night unfolds."

"Deal."

"We can sit here and talk about what happened, and it'll probably lead to talking about your dad and the future or," she said, playfully trailing off to build suspense.

I shook my head.

"Or...," she pointed to the office at the far end of the shop and lifted her eyebrows. At first I didn't understand but then it dawned on me. She was offering me a way out of a conversation I desperately didn't want to have. The price was my uncle's private collection, and more severely, breaking a childhood pledge.

"I guess watching a movie is off the table," I said.

A conspiratorial smirk. Her answer was clear.

★ ★ ★

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