Property of the State

by Bill Cameron

  “I only meant to get breakfast.”

  She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. We sit there, Trisha stroking my palm with her thumb. Her amber eyes capture me, and in that moment I feel like I could lose a day just looking into them. Neither of us has touched our coffee. My donuts lie in ruins.

  “The fish are like us.” She looks at the tank. “They’re always moving, but they can’t get away.”

  I wonder if she has a plan, or if she’s like every other foster I know. Waiting for the next bucket of shit to spill into her life. A lot of kids in her situation—long-term placements—are adopted. That the Voglers haven’t made the arrangement permanent probably means something.

  “I could show you what I hid in the space you built for me.” Her gaze returns to me, liquid and disconcerting. Like the way she looked at me when I showed her how to secure the finial at the peak of her headboard, concealing the hollow space I’d augured out inside.

  I look away. “Keep it secret. Even from me.”

  “Joey.” She draws my name out again. “No one expects you to go to school today. Everyone knows you’re Duncan’s friend.”

  Right.

  In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been pegged with Wayne’s smut addiction, got my face smashed for pointing it out, witnessed the pervo piss his pants, and learned Duncan Fox got run down in the street. Yet somehow Trisha Lee is what knocks me off balance.

  “I’m sorry.” I need to stay at Katz to keep The Plan on track. “I gotta get to school.”

  0.7: Private Lunchroom

  I’m not much of a chess player. Hell, I don’t even like chess.

  Yet when I came to Katz, first thing I did was join the Chess Club. I went to the meetings after school twice a week. Played every day at lunch. According to club rules you had to log a minimum of six games a week (Sunday off for good behavior). The serious players managed a lot more. Philip often played four games at once. During my brief tenure with the club, he whipped my ass at least twice a week while defending his position as first board against all comers.

  But it was worth it, because membership in Chess Club got you something no one else at Katz had.

  Access to the private lunchroom.

  Katz is the ninth school I’ve attended. Freshman year alone, I moved three times. One morning, a week into the school year, I opened the bathroom door to find my foster father dead on the toilet. Heart attack. The dude did like his bacon. A situation like that means emergency placement—wherever there’s a spot. I found myself twenty miles away—Lents to Forest Grove—with nothing but the few things I could stuff into my suitcase.

  Six weeks later Mrs. Petty put me in what she thought would be a more permanent home. Northeast this time, Parkrose. New neighborhood, new parents. New school. The one good thing to come out of that placement was my foster dad introduced me to carpentry. Mr. Rieske was a cabinetmaker—had a workshop out back bigger than the house. Gave me my first hammer. But come Valentine’s Day, my one decent placement ended when he drove into the concrete divider at the Gateway exit on I-84. Mrs. Rieske’s neck was broken by the steering wheel. He bled out before EMTs could arrive. Lucky me, I was at the house with two other fosters and a sitter. Next day, I found myself in North Portland, sharing a bedroom with a bald kid who masturbated to a photo album filled with snapshots of—I think—his biological parents. At least I got to stay at Parkrose High School. The long bus ride each way was a welcome escape from the mess at the house.

  Except, fuck, the noise, noise, noise. Trisha says I’m the Grinch, but I honestly don’t understand how everyone else deals with the freaking noise. Since most of my placements have been in multi-kid households, I move from chaos to cacophony. At home, it’s TV, shouting, fapping, weeping. At school, it’s lockers slamming, heels clacking and squeaking against tile floors, and unending jabber. Always the jabber. In the hallways, the bathrooms, under our desks during lockdown drill. No one ever…shuts…up. The cafeteria is the worst. So when I learned about the private dining room, I was ready to commit to a life of chessery, or whatever you call it.

  By February of my sophomore year, the Katz Learning Annex was something of a last resort for me.

  I’d just been kicked out of Central Catholic for calling a staff member a dried-up hag in desperate need of a lay. How was I supposed to know she was a nun? She looked like an English teacher. The distinction was lost on the principal and my foster parents. Ciao, Natrones. Hello, Boobies.

  Normally, I’d go to whatever school was in my foster home’s neighborhood. Central Catholic was a special case, a setting where I would be “both challenged and strictly supervised.” Fail. With Katz, Mrs. Petty wanted to try something new, and somehow had the muscle to walk me past the usual application process. Maybe they had a Sad Lil’ Orphan exception.

  We started in Cooper’s corral, where I got the standard sales pitch. Something about diversity and intellectual freedom. I didn’t listen. “Alternative educational setting” is just a fancy way of saying “you’re on your own, sucker.” Fine. Sold. Now where am I going to sleep tonight?

  But nothing is ever simple. “The Katz philosophy is based on a foundation of empowerment through critical thinking, but critical thinking requires an informed mind.” I had to take the tour.

  As Mr. Cooper led Mrs. Petty and me through the halls, he rattled off empowering factoids. The school—mystery of mysteries—had classrooms, a library, a media center, and computer lab. Even a gym—an echoey, faintly rancid chamber not much bigger than a classroom. Sports aren’t really a thing at Katz. There are no extracurricular athletics, so the facilities are only the minimum necessary to meet state PE requirements. Cooper sounded apologetic, as if he secretly wished Katz had a shot at the state basketball championship.

  “We do compete in a number of areas. Our forensics squad is active, and the chess team did very well last year.”

  Whatever. I was more interested in the locations of the fire extinguisher cabinets and alarm switches.

  As he yapped, I stared sightlessly into the cafeteria, or, as Cooper called it, the Commons, “where students relax and refresh over the midday meal.” I happened to be watching as a girl with amber eyes exited the food line and slipped on a puddle of spilled milk. She caught herself—wipeout averted—but I might have reacted when her gaze met mine. Maybe my jaw dropped as Cooper happened to mention the Chess Club, because suddenly he got the idea that I gave a rat’s ass.

  “You should come meet the team.”

  Please. But he marched us across the Commons into the narrow hallway which led to the gym. For a second I thought he was taking us back there, but then he stopped at a closed door and swung it wide. Inside, nine or ten kids sat at small square tables eating lunch and playing chess. Cooper spoke to a stout, sandy-haired kid at a far table. “Duncan, we have a new student considering Katz. He’s interested in the club.”

  I wasn’t, but I was interested in the room. Small, lots of natural light, two smoke detectors, and—best of all—quiet. Katz isn’t a big school, but the Commons thrummed with typical, toothaching din. In the calm of this hidden chamber, my powers of critical thinking felt instant empowerment.

  “What’s the story here?”

  It was my first question of the visit, which not only inspired a giddy fit in Cooper, but even got Mrs. Petty’s attention.

  “This room was the instructors’ lounge in the days before Katz was Katz. Since ours is a student-oriented program, we felt it was more appropriate to resource the space for student activities. The chess club holds daily practice here during lunch.”

  Duncan, clearly not thrilled by the interruption, stood. Cooper introduced him as club president.

  “You play?”

  “Sure.”

  “You any good?”

  Now that was a question. I didn’t know. Maddie taught me to play when I was six years old. She used chess
as a way for the children to earn privileges and develop our little pea-brains. A game got me a half-hour of PlayStation or TV. After I learned the moves, the stakes went up. Win a game to earn full-hour, but lose and get nothing. The woman was nuts. Mad Maddie, the older fosters called her. Still, I picked up some chess basics. Even beat her a few times before my stash of half-rotten mac-and-cheese in the back of my closet earned me a new placement.

  Duncan inspected me. Easy to guess what he saw. No family, Walmart knock-offs. An Other. Duncan Fox was well-fed, well-clothed, cocky. His teeth gleamed inside their Invisalign braces. His hair had never been cut in the kitchen.

  I looked him in the eye and answered his question. “Good enough to beat your ass.”

  We both knew I wasn’t talking about chess. But Mr. Cooper clapped me on the shoulder and suggested I sit down for a game while he and Mrs. Petty went off to talk details.

  The others came around to watch. A change of pace, I suppose. Duncan won in minutes. Then he stood up and brushed me off with a wave of his hand. “We don’t need you.”

  But one of the others shook his head. “You can’t stop him from joining.” Philip Huntzel, who chewed carrots as he watched the game, open-mouthed and intense. His teeth were bigger than his eyes and he had a high-pitched, buzzy voice. Elf features straight out of The Hobbit. Aspergers was my guess. Reid hates it when I diagnose people almost as much as I hate it when he diagnoses me.

  Duncan grumbled something about how they could do without the deadweight, but Philip shrugged.

  “Read the bylaws.”

  Anywhere else, Philip would be lucky to be merely ignored. In the Katz chess room, he was Jesus. Later, I’d learn he went undefeated his freshman year in tournament play until the state championship. This year, as a sophomore, he’s expected to win it all. Not sure what he saw in me then. Maybe another weirdo. Or maybe it was part of some rivalry with Duncan. When he spoke, Duncan backed down, but I could see the bottled-up rage behind Duncan’s eyes. None of my business.

  Besides, I was focused on the lunchtime peace and quiet before me, all for the low, low price of a game of chess.

  Things were looking up.

  1.8: The Rapist

  “Joey, your interest in sexual imagery is normal.”

  Wednesday, four p.m., and we’re back to the porn.

  Now it’s Reid Brooks, my therapist. This is his opening, the first words out of his mouth after the empty pleasantries. We only have twenty-eight minutes together, so he likes to get right on it. But calmly. Once I said, “Therapist is just the rapist with a college degree.” I thought I was being hilarious. His response: “Plus I bill insurance.” Nothing ruffles Reid. If I jumped on his desk and hooted like a monkey, he’d offer me a banana.

  His office is in an old brick building on Belmont about five blocks from Katz. Third floor, quiet, good light. In addition to his desk, there’s a tall bookshelf, two leather chairs, a low table with a box of tissues, a credenza full of games and toys. Each of the four walls has a clock on it, presumably so he can track the time from any direction without looking like he’s clock-watching.

  “You’re uncomfortable. I get that. This is an uncomfortable topic to discuss with adults.”

  I examine the books on his shelves. Abuse and Neglect: A 21st-Century Reconsideration…Clinical Approaches To Attachment Disorder…DSM-V. I doubt Reid has trouble falling asleep at night, but I wouldn’t want his nightmares.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  My mind flashes to Trisha. For a moment. “No.”

  “What were you just thinking about?”

  “I was thinking how creepy your books are.”

  He doesn’t sigh. Mrs. Petty would, but he simply gazes at me.

  “Mrs. Petty says you implied Wayne was the one who used your laptop inappropriately.”

  “I never mentioned my laptop.”

  He gives me the Look. The You’re Avoiding the Issue look. Him and Moylan.

  I say nothing. Never admit to anything—something I learned the last time I was falsely accused.

  “You know what I mean, Joey.”

  “It was a joke, Dr. Brooks.” I smile, but he knows better. He doesn’t ask me not to call him doctor, even though he doesn’t like it. He has a wall of framed degrees, but not one of them is for doctor of anything. Master of Social Work and Master of Clinical Psychology are the two biggies, but there are plenty more. Reid went to school for a long time. It’s one of the reasons I don’t say much to him. The man knows his shit.

  “Mr. Cooper suggested a review of your IEP.”

  An Individualized Education Program isn’t supposed to be about behavior. It’s meant to be about accommodations for students with learning disabilities. But they always shovel behavior stuff in there. When the velocity of Joey exceeds X, the school reacts with force Y to knock his ass back into a lower-energy orbit. Officially the IEP is intended to address my lapses into what Reid calls dissociative fugue. He says it means I lose awareness of myself and my surroundings. I say boring shit is boring.

  But right now, I’m not bored. Because I didn’t expect Reid to open with the porn. You ask me, events have advanced beyond the browser history on my Katz laptop.

  When I first sat down, Reid had asked about my nose, but I could tell he wasn’t really interested.

  “Botched trepanation.”

  He made a wincy face, muttered something about how I should be more careful. Then, “Oh, Mrs. Petty called. Something came up, so she won’t be joining us today. But she briefed me on what happened.”

  Here it comes, I’d thought. Mrs. Petty decided to let Reid break the bad news to me. New school. New placement. Medication, maybe. Juvenile detention also a possibility. Except he went right to the porn. No Wayne, no where was I all night? No secret laptop compartment.

  Porn.

  I don’t get it.

  These are the facts as I understand them:

  Wayne chucked me face-first into furniture after I suggested he masturbates loud enough to be heard over the engine of an old-school muscle car.

  I fled the Boobie Hatch and haven’t returned.

  There is no three.

  “Why don’t you tell me about school today.”

  “It was just school.”

  “We both know better than that.”

  “You mean Duncan?”

  “You’re his friend.”

  People keep saying that. Trisha over donut crumbs, Harley May Jones when she stopped me outside her classroom to say she understood why I skipped Day Prep. Even Mr. Cooper, who marched me into the corral after the assembly. “I know you’re his friend.” Why do they think that? Because we still talk to each other after the Fight of the Century? The favored myth seems to be we’re rivals who found brotherhood on the field of combat. That it’s détente, not friendship, is a fact which eludes most observers.

  “Did you talk about the accident?”

  “Did who—?” I remember where I am. “Sure. Some.”

  “Joey.” The Look.

  I sigh. It’s 4:12. Not even half done.

  “The police don’t know anything. Duncan hasn’t regained consciousness. No witnesses have come forward. At the assembly, some cop asked us to call a number if we knew anything. He said it would be confidential.” I can’t keep the derision out of my tone.

  “Sounds like you don’t believe that.”

  “You know how you can tell a cop is lying?”

  “His lips are moving?”

  I don’t want to reward him, so I stare out the window. The afternoon sun stings my eyes.

  “Not all cops are Sergeant Yearling, Joey.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  Zachariah Yearling was my foster oppressor when I was eleven, a cop they dumped me with after the aptly named Quittners dropped out of the system. There was a wife, t
oo, a beige woman I remember only as The Missus—dead now. Sergeant Yearling was the one who taught me about cops.

  Reid’s lips pooch out. Normally, he would challenge me, but today he’s got other things on his mind.

  “Where were you when it happened?”

  “They found him during fifth period.”

  “Which is…?”

  “Directed Inquiry.” Harley May is both the Katz official hippie and my DI advisor so I got a double-dip of her wet-eyed concern today.

  “That meets in the library, right?”

  No, but he knows that. He’s fishing. “I didn’t see it happen, Reid.”

  He folds his hands and smiles. “I don’t think you did.”

  At the assembly, in addition to Cooper and the cop, Harley May gave a little speech about honoring our feelings for Duncan. One-on-one counseling with a district grief specialist would be available for those who wanted it, or we were free to talk with her any time. Harley May is one of the school guidance counselors. The budget only allows one-point-five, so she has to double up as teacher a couple periods a day. Definitely not a nun. She dresses like she’s twenty-two, but her purple hair has gray roots.

  “Joey, we both know I don’t need to explain to you the goal of these sessions.”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think we’re trying to accomplish here.”