Sleight of Hand
By Natasha Deen
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About this ebook
Natasha Deen
Natasha Deen loves stories: exciting ones, scary ones and, especially, funny ones! As a kid of two countries (Guyana and Canada), she feels extra lucky because she gets a double dose of stories. Natasha is the author of many books including the Lark Ba Detective series in the Orca Echoes line, Depth of Field in the Orca Soundings line and In the Key of Nira Ghani which won the Amy Mathers Book Award and was nominated for the Red Maple, MYRCA and R. Ross Arnett Awards. She is also a recipient of the Queen Elizabeth II Platinum Jubilee medal. Natasha lives in Edmonton.
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Sleight of Hand - Natasha Deen
Acknowledgments
C h a p t e r O n e
I see my chances for a new life die in the eyes of the interviewer. It’s always in their eyes. They go flat, lifeless. And it always happens toward the end of the interview. Doesn’t matter that I have work experience or that I’m willing to do any job and put in long hours. Doesn’t matter that I’m a good student and on the track team. They ask that fateful question, and I have to answer honestly.
That’s when their eyes go dead. It’s all, Thank you, Mr. Malhotra. We’ll call you.
They never do.
This interview’s no different. Bike-courier job. After-school hours, weekend gigs. I could work around my mom’s schedule, make sure there’s always someone to take my little brother, Sammy, to his after-school stuff. I’d told all of this to the interviewer. She’d smiled, called me a good son.
Not always, but I don’t tell her that.
Then she’d laughed, said the job was mine.
Just as I am breathing the tightness out of my chest, she says, Oh, shoot. Last question.
She rolls her eyes, as though it is an annoyance to have to ask me. Have you ever been arrested for theft?
Yes.
The smile holds—she thinks I’m joking. When I don’t say, Gotcha,
realization kicks in.
End of smiles. End of her thinking I’m a good son.
What were you arrested for?
I stole a car.
And you were convicted.
Yes.
I want to tell her more, but it’s complicated to explain. Plus, it would make me look like I’m trying too hard to minimize what I’ve done.
She gives me a look like I just farted. Thank you, Mr. Malhotra. We’ll call you.
No. Please. I made a mistake,
I told her. Got caught up with a dumb moment—
Stupid. Now I just look like I’m trivializing my choices. It was a bad decision, and I regret it.
She’s standing, ready to shove me out the door. Glancing around like my presence is dirtying her white furniture, white walls, white suit.
Please. Mrs. O’Toole. Give me a chance.
I stay seated, unwilling to budge. This is my twenty-second interview. My twenty-second rejection. If I could go back in time and not steal that stupid Lexus, I would. One idiot moment. One stupid choice, and my life’s been screwed ever since.
Mrs. O’Toole sighs. Takes off her red glasses and rubs her eyes. It’s not me,
she says. It’s our clients. There are sensitive documents that get shipped. We can’t take the risk.
But I didn’t steal any files—it was a car—
Javvan.
I stop. Use of my first name means it’s a for-sure no.
I have a ton of kids who want this job.
She gives me a pointed look. A ton of kids who didn’t steal and didn’t get convicted.
Two more years, and my youth record gets wiped. It may as well be twenty years. This thing will never stop following me.
I have another interview.
Her expression is full of pity. I’m sorry. Good luck—I’m sure someone else will hire you.
Yeah,
I mumble as I stand and head for the door. That’s what the last guy said.
If I could be a coward and wait until my record’s expunged before looking for work, I would. But gainful employment is part of my probation. Interviews suck. The disappointed looks of my never-to-be-bosses suck. And what I have to do next sucks more.
It takes about an hour to bike the Calgary streets to my probation officer’s building, chain up, then head in. I sit in the room. It’s empty except for some cop in uniform. We wait in the dingy outer office with its 1970s decor and 1990s Reader’s Digest magazines. Fifteen minutes later, my probation officer comes out. Mary Stevens. In my head, I call her Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary. She doesn’t believe bad kids can be good. Doesn’t believe that good kids can do bad things and still be good. Her favorite word is recidivism. That means once a criminal, always a criminal.
Mary gives me the usual prissy smile. Javvan. Good. You’re here.
The way she talks makes my eyes twitch. High-pitched. False. The dead-giveaway tone that adults who don’t like kids use. Ms. Stevens,
I say.
Come in, sweetie.
She calls all of us sweetie when other adults are around. Ditto with calling us her kids. Yeah. Right. If that were really the case, she’d have tossed all of us into foster care.
I stand.
She stops. And don’t forget about your phone.
Right.
Mary has a rule about electronic devices in her office. I shut off my phone and drop it in the basket. Rumor is, some kid tried to sneak one in, but Mary had some kind of electronic-detection tech and caught him. Then she reported the violation of his probation. He got booted back to the remand center, where he promptly got his butt kicked and landed in the infirmary.
You have a job yet?
The nice-girl act falls away as soon as the door clicks shut. Mary gestures to a brown folder as she drops her skinny butt onto the wood chair. It would look good for you to have employment.
By that, she means it would look