MIND GAP
MIND GAP
Marina Cohen
DUNDURN PRESS
TORONTO
Copyright © Marina Cohen, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Project Editor: Michael Carroll
Copy Editor: Cheryl Hawley
Design: Jesse Hooper
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Cohen, Marina
Mind gap / by Marina Cohen.
Issued also in an electronic format.
ISBN 978-1-55488-801-6
I. Title.
PS8605.O378M56 2011 jC813’.6 C2010-902445-1
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
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For Martha
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to send a heartfelt thank-you to the following people: to readers, Dr. David Jenkinson, Mac Martin, Nora Tuchagues, Dave Benner, and 7B; to Phil Perlmutter for assisting me with legal terminology and Kevin Klayman for sharing his “street” knowledge; to my husband, Michael Cohen, for his love and support; to my agent, Margaret Hart; and to the amazing staff at Dundurn Press, including president and publisher Kirk Howard, associate publisher and editorial director Michael Carroll, and my editor, Cheryl Hawley.
CHAPTER ONE
“In or out?”
Jake shaded his cards with his left hand. He peeled up the corners with his right. Two of clubs. Ace of spades. He glanced at the cafeteria table. Face up, in a neat row, lay the seven of diamonds, the two of hearts, and the jack of clubs. Deuces, he thought. Story of my life.
“Come on, man — in or out?”
Over the hum of gossip, the shuffling of feet, and the grinding of chairs, Jake heard a twinge in Cole’s voice. He looked up, and their eyes locked for a second. Jake could read his best friend like a cheap magazine. Cole had a big mouth, but he got nervous quickly. He was bluffing.
“In,” said Jake, tossing his second dollar into the pile. He shifted his gaze to the dealer.
Damon was more difficult to read. From his greasy hair to the tattoo of a crown dripping blood emblazoned across his knuckles, all the way down to his brand-new Nikes, the guy was stone cold.
Damon threw a buck into the pile. He kept his grey eyes trained on Jake as he slowly flipped over another card and placed it next to the jack. Queen of clubs.
Cole checked and began chewing his lip.
Too obvious, thought Jake, battling the urge to smile. He pushed a stack of four quarters into the growing mound. Jake had a lousy hand, but at this point he had nothing left to lose.
Damon answered.
Cole shook his head and swore. He threw down his cards and began shovelling fries into his mouth. Cole seemed to take his losses much harder these days.
Damon flipped over the final card, dragging Jake’s attention back to the game — ace of diamonds.
Two pair, thought Jake, ace high. Nice.
Jake willed his pulse to slow. His mouth was a thin line. He ran a hand through his thick hair. Then he picked up his last stack of coins and tossed them casually into the heap. Nine bucks. Ten, if Damon continued. Not what you’d call a fortune, but hey, it was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Jake slipped his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He shifted his cellphone. Stray nickels and dimes danced between his fingers. If he lost this hand, he could kiss next week’s lunches goodbye. Like he’d done this week. And last.
“Call,” said Damon. He placed his two cards onto the pile of money as though he were claiming it. He had a pair of aces.
Jake let out his breath. The deuces came in handy, after all. He turned his cards over one by one. Jake watched Damon’s eyes darken. Suddenly, they reminded Jake of shark eyes — cold and lifeless. Jake stretched out his arms to rake in his winnings.
“Why, gentlemen,” said a deep voice, “you wouldn’t happen to be partaking in the quite illegal and most suspendable act of gambling, would you?”
Jake peered over his shoulder at the towering six-foot-six figure of his English teacher, Mr. Dean.
“At the very least it would mean a week’s worth of detentions for each of you.”
Cole could wriggle his way out of a clogged pipe. Trouble was, his mouth was quicker than his brain. “Gambling? Us? Course not, sir. We’re just having an enjoyable game of Fish. And this money here?” He jerked his chin toward the pile. “Why, it just happens to be sitting on the table doing nothing.” He sat back looking pretty proud of himself.
“Nothing?” Mr. Dean frowned. “Hmm, I see.” He scratched his chin, then volleyed glances from Damon to Cole, finally settling on Jake. “Well, if this money is just doing nothing, then I’m sure you gentlemen wouldn’t mind if I donate it to the Salvation Army where it can do something?”
Jake rolled his eyes and scowled, but kept his mouth shut.
Mr. Dean patted Jake on the shoulder. “Life is an endless series of choices, Mr. MacRae.” He leaned in, scooped up the loot, and strolled off, humming “Amazing Grace.”
Jake gave Cole a shove. “You idiot.”
“What’d I do?”
“This money just happens to be sitting here doing nothing …” Jake mocked. “Couldn’t you have come up with something better?”
“I didn’t hear anything brilliant shooting out of your mouth. And I guess you’d have wanted a pile of detentions instead?”
Jake picked up his cards and threw them across the table.
Cole sneered. “Think of it as bail.”
Damon