Property of the State

by Bill Cameron

  This is one of Reid’s techniques. We run through it every month or so, usually when I’m being difficult. I don’t mind, because it’s easy and uses up time.

  “Our goal is to redirect my destructive impulses into productive behaviors. We focus on the positive benefits of honest communication, and the constructive expression of feelings. You encourage me to open up about my needs so we can find appropriate ways to meet them, and discourage my habit of sabotaging my progress with poor decision-making.”

  “You express yourself well when you want to.”

  I was reciting from memory. “It’s a gift.”

  He smiles again. “So use that gift now. How do you feel about what happened to Duncan?”

  A more important question is why haven’t the Boobies called out the Marines?

  Wayne wouldn’t come looking for me himself. Not the Boobie style. And Anita couldn’t if she wanted to. But they would let Mrs. Petty know, and probably the police. Teen runaway! Be on the lookout! Not that cops give two craps about runaways, but if I got picked up in a sweep,my name would be flagged in the computer.

  If Wayne hasn’t called Mrs. Petty, it’s not because he’s afraid of what I’ll say. History always works against me; all he needs is a plausible yarn. “The boy went mad!” Whatever he’s come up with, we all know I’m in a final straw situation. My days as ward of the Boobies will end. Except Wayne apparently has decided not to rat me out.

  Only one reason I can think of why he might want me around.

  Money.

  I don’t know what a foster parent stipend brings in. Enough to cover my food and day-to-day needs, allegedly. Not that the Boobies spend much. I eat subsidized breakfast and lunch at school. I pay for double shots and my cell phone out of my Huntzel income. Hell, I even bought my last pair of shoes. How much can creamed chipped beef and toast cost?

  “Joey?”

  Reid is talking. “Sorry. What?”

  “We were discussing Duncan.”

  “What about him?”

  “Where’d you go just now?”

  “I’m sitting right here.”

  The Look. “How about Duncan? Are you worried about him?”

  A lose-lose question. If I say no, a checkmark goes in one column. Mrs. Petty’s oversight tightens, maybe I find myself in a compassion development group: eight weeks of sitting around a table with cat burners and Dexter-wannabes. If I say yes, Reid will want to explore my feelings.

  I stand mute.

  Reid waits a moment. Someone out in the hallway is crying. A voice makes comforting sounds. A door closes and it’s quiet again, except for the faint rumble of a bus in the street outside. I sniff and for the first time since last night don’t taste blood. I can even smell a little bit now: furniture polish. All I want to do is keep my head down. Show up at school. Graduate early. Escape. Is that too much to ask?

  Apparently.

  “Joey, do you know when you get to stop coming here every Wednesday?”

  “When I turn eighteen?”

  “It can be sooner than that.”

  I don’t say anything. This is an old ritual too.

  “When you prove you’re capable of trust, we’re done.”

  “Nothing’s ever that easy.”

  “Joey, if that was easy, you’d have been out of here years ago.”

  I glance at the clock. 4:19. Not enough time to get cornered. “I hope he’s…okay.” I do hope he’s okay. Doesn’t mean I want to share on the subject.

  Reid nods. “Let’s talk about that.”

  Nine minutes later, I step out onto Belmont, bemused. The sun is dropping fast toward the West Hills, the chill pushed by a cold breeze out of the Gorge. All I can do is catch the next bus heading east. I get off just short of I-205, walk the last few blocks to the Boobie Hatch. I can feel my pace slow as I near the house, but then I let out a long relieved breath. Both cars are gone. All I want to do is slip inside, snarf some cold chipped beef, and go to bed. Tomorrow morning is soon enough to face the Reckoning of the Boobies.

  But when I get to the door, my key doesn’t work.

  That bastard changed the locks.

  1.9: Housework

  When I ring the bell this time, Mrs. Huntzel comes to the door.

  “Joey.” Not a greeting, a statement of fact. “It’s Wednesday.”

  “Well, yesterday got messed up, so I thought I would catch up today. I know it’s late, but I had my thing after school.” I don’t use the word therapy with anyone but Reid and Mrs. Petty.

  “Oh.” She smiles like she’s not sure what to make of my arrival, but then she turns and waves me in past her. I cross through the mudroom into the kitchen. Bread, deli meat, and vegetables are spread across the center island.

  “Are you hungry? I’m making a sandwich. You should have one.”

  “I have a lot to do.”

  “Nonsense. You and Philip are exactly alike; you never eat enough.” She puts her hand to her forehead like she’s checking for a fever, then offers me that smile again. “Go. Sit. Do you prefer mustard or mayonnaise?”

  “Mustard, I guess.” I don’t really care. But I haven’t eaten since lunch. I shuffle over to the nook where Philip eats his breakfast, slump into one of the chairs. I’m tired, not in the mood to work. But that’s not why I’m here anyway. The job is just my way into the house.

  Mrs. Huntzel busies herself at the counter, knife blade tapping the chopping block as she slices tomatoes. Outside, I watch Caliban climb the hill above the laurel hedge. Off on adventures. My phone vibrates in my pocket. My first thought is Mrs. Petty, catching up at last. But when I check, it’s Trisha.

  how was schl? call if u want.

  I’m trying to decide how to respond when Mrs. Huntzel sets a plate down in front of me. Artisan bread, aged cheddar, fresh greens, paper-thin tomatoes, and what would be a week’s ration of smoked turkey if Wayne was doling it out. Kettle chips on the side.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Just water. Thanks.”

  “I’ll get you some milk.”

  She pours milk for both of us and joins me at the table. But rather than eat, she stares out the window. Her eyelids are heavy and her breath whistles through her nose. For a second she reminds me of a girl I knew a few years back: a compulsive shoplifter who would cut herself every time she got caught. You meet all kinds in the system, and you get used to most of it after a while. But cutters always freaked me out. When I bite into the sandwich—mayo, not mustard—my chewing roars in my ears. I follow Mrs. Huntzel’s gaze. Sunlight plays through the trees up the slope above the hedge. She seems to be watching the dance of light and shadow. At the Boobie Hatch, the TV would be on full volume in the background.

  “Where’s Philip?” Breaking the silence.

  “Did you see him today?”

  “Just for a minute.” The only class we share is Trigonometry—Philip is a grade behind me, and miles ahead in math brains. But Moylan doesn’t allow chatter. Philip sat alone at the back of the Commons during the assembly. He was wearing the plastic mask Trisha told me about. I thought about going to talk to him, but people kept interrupting me until finally Cooper called for quiet. Afterward, he clonked into Trisha as he raced from the room, sent her phone flying. His fault from where I was sitting, but he called her a clumsy zebretta—whatever the hell that means—then bolted. There was no sign of him during lunch.

  “You’ve been hurt as well.”

  “I fell.”

  That’s good enough for her. Philip looks worse, but maybe it’s the mask.

  “You should be careful.”

  “Me and Philip both.”

  Her lips press together as if she wants to blame Duncan for my face too, but can’t work her way around his coma. She shakes her head at last, and glances toward the door. “Philip went up to be
d.” I wonder if he’s looking at his pictures of Bianca Santavenere. “I appreciate your company for supper. Mr. Huntzel is away again.”

  She still doesn’t eat. Something is on her mind, but the last thing I want her to do is tell me about it. Nothing good ever comes of knowing other people’s secrets. I finger my chips. The tension in the kitchen could crack teeth.

  I say, “I noticed the heads in the basement need dusting.”

  “They do?”

  “I can take care of it tomorrow, maybe.”

  “Whatever you think is best.” She picks up her milk at last and drains the glass. Then she stands and pushes her fingers into her eyes. “You’ll excuse me. It’s been a long day.”

  God only knows what made it so long; she wasn’t at school for the first time in the history of forever. She pads out to the main hall and is gone, leaving me alone with two sandwiches and a double helping of chips.

  My sandwich and chips are down before the soft echo of her footsteps fade. Then I wrap her sandwich and put it in the fridge, pour her chips back into the bag. Rinse our plates and glasses, stick them in the dishwasher. And listen. The house is dead quiet. The thing I like best about Huntzel Manor. Time to get to work.

  Tuesday on Wednesday: living room and library, dust and vacuum. I note my start time on the clipboard in the mudroom. The vacuum cleaner and other cleaning supplies are kept in a storage room in the basement next to the boiler room. It would be a hassle if not for the one-man elevator that goes from basement to second floor, up the middle of the spiral staircase. I start in the library because when you dust, you start at the top and work your way down. Maddie the Mad Chess Woman drilled that lesson into me in first grade.

  It’s a big job, but I’ve been doing it since April. I’ve never broken any of the ceramic figurines on display in the living room: poodles and fat-cheeked girls wearing poofy dresses. The library is easier, even though I have to use a stepladder to get at the highest bookshelves. I work alone, the way I like it. Feels weird to run the vacuum cleaner with the house so dark and empty, different from the afternoons when Philip or Mrs. Huntzel might wander through. I try to hurry, but it still takes me more than two hours—longer than usual, probably because my face is pounding the whole time. Mrs. Huntzel won’t question the time. She never does.

  I’m rolling the vacuum cleaner onto the lift on the first floor when Philip appears at the top of the spiral stairs. The transparent plastic of his mask warps his elf face. “Why are you here?”

  “Just catching up from yesterday.”

  Mrs. Huntzel views me as Philip’s protector, someone to look out for him when she’s not around. Philip hates it, even if he does seem less jumpy when he knows I’m nearby. All it took was me knocking Duncan sideways one day to make a friend, I guess. Reid would ask me how I feel about that.

  But something is different now. When Philip reaches the first floor, he stops. “Your face is grotesque.”

  “At least I don’t have to wear that terrifying mask.”

  I can’t read his expression, but there’s something vaguely hostile in his stare. I wonder if he thinks I’m trying to one-up him.

  “Caliban knocked me down the hill.” The explanation sounds absurd and I laugh a little.

  “That’s stupid.”

  He heads for the kitchen and I take the lift to the basement, stow the vacuum cleaner and dust rags. When I come out, I can hear him climbing the stairs again. I wait until his footsteps fade and I hear the distant click of his door closing. For a second, I feel strangely unsettled, but I shake it off.

  The moment I’ve been waiting for.

  I move quickly through the rec room, salute the dusty moose as I pass, and climb the corner stairs up through the now-pristine living room to the second floor. I’m the only one who ever uses the library. Next to it is Kristina’s bedroom. The door no one ever opens.

  Until now.

  1.10: Where Are You?

  Mrs. Huntzel never speaks of Kristina, and if Philip does it’s only to badmouth her. “She destroys everything she touches.” From most people, I’d blow that off as emo bullshit, but Philip is the precise opposite of a drama queen. So I’m not sure what to expect when I enter the forbidden chamber. Black candles and a voodoo altar, maybe. Sculptures made of animal skulls. A closet full of whips and leather. Scientology books. Who the hell knows?

  What I find is a small, tidy room with a canopy bed, a child’s desk, and an empty chest of drawers. The walls are pale pink, with a border of yellow and blue flowers running near the ceiling. The curtains are lace, and match the doily on the wing chair in the corner. Every surface is clear, barely a layer of dust. I tiptoe around, even though it’s the kind of house where you couldn’t hear a pitched gun battle in the next room. On the bed, happy little unicorns frolic across the comforter, which is thicker than my entire mattress at the Boobie Hatch. One door opens onto the closet, the other a bathroom. I don’t run the water or flush. Maybe no one would notice, but I expect the door to burst open any moment to reveal Philip, Mrs. Huntzel, even the mysterious Kristina herself.

  “Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

  I suppress an urge to test the smoke detector, grab a quilt from the closet and plunk down on top of the unicorns instead. The sensation is at once familiar and unsettling. I’ve had plenty of early nights at the Boobies, confined to quarters. This bed is softer, and the quilt is smooth and cool against my bare arms. I wonder who keeps the room dusted.

  My phone vibrates in my backpack. I ignore it. My face hurts. Unless I steal one of Philip’s Vicodins, sleep probably won’t come. The phone buzzes again. I picture Trisha. I’m hiding out in a room that belongs to a girl I’ve never met. Dust tickles my swollen nose. The air smells of silence. And what am I thinking about? Not Duncan, or the Bobbitts, or Mrs. Petty and the frown she reserves just for me.

  No. I’m thinking about Trisha. Amber eyes and hands clasped below her breasts.

  In my mind, she’s sitting on her bed, the high wooden headboard behind her with its hidden compartment, its hidden secret. Her Katz laptop is open beside her. She’s annoyed at her cell phone because…buzzzz…I’m not picking mine up. Doing homework, writing poetry, G-chatting with Denise Grover. Texting me again.

  Buzzzz.

  I should call her. I want to call her.

  I don’t.

  Reid would say it’s a trust issue, or that I’m punishing myself. Maybe he’s right, but that just pisses me off.

  Fosters really only have one thing in common: we’re fosters. But everyone acts like we’re all supposed to be best friends, as if abuse, neglect, and termination of parental rights are all that matter. Cooper pushed Trisha and me together. “Hey, you two should be friends because, you know, your folks are state-assigned.” Not quite, but close enough. With almost anyone else it could have been a disaster, but not with Trisha. She’s got her shit together like no one I know. And those eyes don’t hurt either.

  Maybe I am punishing myself. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.

  ***

  I wake up when a single beam of sunlight falls on my face through a narrow gap in the curtains. It’s after seven. Two nights running, I’ve gotten away with misdemeanor trespassing.

  And two days running, I’m wearing the same clothes. No one will notice except Trisha. There’s a string of texts from her. Something tickles in my belly and I decide it’s safe to text back.

  Sorry. Meant to call but got busy last night, then fell asleep early. See you at school.

  I’m such a liar.

  I fold the quilt and smooth out the unicorns, then wash up in the bathroom. Everyone is gone, Mrs. Huntzel and Philip to school, Mr. Huntzel wherever he is. Always traveling—I haven’t seen him in weeks. I sneak through the basement to the garage, out the side door past the BMW.

  I trot down the hill to Hawthorne. I have to skip coffee, but at le
ast I make it through the doors at Katz early enough to grab free breakfast and avoid a Cooper Frowning. In Day Prep, Duncan is all anyone can talk about. I occupy myself by borrowing Sean Ferrell’s laptop and logging in to ChalkChat. Nothing too pressing, though I’m behind on Trig homework. Moylan doesn’t accept late assignments, but I have to do it anyway, if I want to pass the next quiz.

  After Day Prep, there’s another assembly. Great.

  I hold back, way past done with group hugs and communal weeping. A good time to slip out for a coffee, but when I turn down the hallway toward the side exit, I run into the cop.

  “We’re gathering in the Commons.”

  He’s as wide as he is tall, with a bullet-shaped head and a frown that seems to start at the back of his neck. Yesterday he was in uniform, but today he hulks over me in a blue suit and a tie printed to look like crime scene tape. Hilarious. The woman with him is smaller and less imposing, but the sharpness in her pale eyes tells me she’s a cop too. She offers a smile—bared fangs. “Come along, please.” Her voice is bright and high. I can feel it in the back of my mouth.

  I have no choice.

  At the assembly, they skip the soft soap. No Harley May leading us in a guided visualization of our personal grief process. The cops do all the talking. Detectives Stein and Davisson will be interviewing a number of students today. They emphasize the word detective. Per school policy—and probably against cop wishes—parents are being informed and may attend. Wayne and Anita wouldn’t have bothered even before The Incident, but I figure Mrs. Petty will make an appearance, should my turn come.

  Except not. The cops are using Cooper’s office for the interviews.

  I’m at the top of their list.

  First thing through the door I spot my computer in his glass case, tucked beside a stack of handheld game consoles and other contraband. Inaccessible, but at least I know some fascist district IT tech isn’t rooting through the laptop’s innards. If I’m lucky, Cooper has already forgotten it—at least until his Outlook alerts him my sentence is up.