Property of the State

by Bill Cameron

  4:03. Twenty-five minutes to go.

  “Joey, please.”

  I look at him now. “Et tu, Brute?”

  “Joey—”

  “Julius Caesar. Act Three, Scene One. I had to read it twice my freshman year. October at Forest Grove, then again at Parkrose in January. Same curriculum, totally different page.”

  That’s the last thing I say. Not even goodbye when—days later—4:28 arrives and I flee.

  2.3: I Never Use It

  All evening, faces swirl in my head. Courtney and Duncan. Reid. The detectives. Even freaking Bianca. Mrs. Petty makes an appearance, though she’s been so quiet the last week it’s only a cameo. I try to concentrate on covalent bonds at Kristina’s desk. Failing that, I scratch at a sheet of paper with my pencil, notes for my Crucible paper. Reading back over them, they make less sense than my feelings about Trisha.

  It’s after ten when the solution hits me. I need food. I haven’t eaten since lunch. After Reid, my stomach was too knotted. When I arrived at the Huntzels, I watched through the kitchen window as Philip and his mom slurped soup before I crept to the other end of the house to Kristina’s door. I haven’t risked coming out all evening, but they have to be in bed by now. Mrs. Huntzel is such a grandma about crap like school nights.

  Silence follows me down the north stairs through the living room and into the rec room, the only sound the faint tap-pad of my feet on the slate floor as I pass under the glass eyes of the animal heads. But halfway across the landing between the rec room and the utility basement, I hear a voice.

  “Philip?”

  Mrs. Huntzel stands at the head of the spiral stairway. Acid surges into my throat. The basement landing is dark. My first instinct is to dart back into the rec room. But she moves before I do, descending and calling out again. I hesitate, then slink into the darkness under the curving stairway. Halfway down, she pauses, one foot a step lower than the other. Her slipper is inches from my nose, visible in the gap between the stair treads. She’s close enough to hear my heartbeat. The scent of Gold Bond sucks fluid from my eyes.

  The scuff of a footstep draws my attention to the utility basement door.

  “What are you doing, honey?”

  “Nothing.”

  Philip materializes in the dark doorway. He’s in his underwear, feet bare. His violin hangs loose in one hand, bow in the other. I press back against the wall, crouch into a tight ball. If either of them hits a light switch, I’m looking at jail time.

  “Philip, you need to be more careful with your violin. It’s too valuable to sling around like that.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Think about your future. If you take care of it—”

  “Who cares?”

  She draws a sharp breath. For a second, no one moves.

  “Honey…why do you do this to yourself?”

  “Leave me alone.” He reaches around and scratches his back with the end of the bow.

  “You’re only making it worse.”

  “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

  “That’s not true. You’re good at lots of things—”

  “I hate chess.” The venom in his voice is chilling.

  “Philip, please.”

  “She—”

  “We all agreed.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You were so young.” Her long sigh seems to fill the space around me. “You’ll understand someday.”

  I can hear him breathing, but the shadows are too deep for me to make out more than his form. Pallid skin, the dark hollows of his eyes. Most of the time, Philip comes off as little more than a high-strung crank stuck on the fuck you setting. But right now, I’m wondering why he doesn’t have a Reid of his own.

  “Come on, honey. I’ll make you some cocoa.”

  “I don’t want any cocoa.” But he shuffles across the landing and climbs the stairs. His mother makes soothing sounds. He grumbles in response.

  I don’t move until silence falls, then I return the way I came. Caliban nearly gives me a heart attack when he shoulder-bumps me in the library. I’m too flustered to stop him when he follows me into Kristina’s room and joins me on her bed. Sleep eludes me—if not him—for hours, but now only one face swirls in my mind.

  I hate chess.

  “You’re the one who knows them,” Courtney claimed.

  Yeah. Sure.

  ***

  In the cold morning light, I see Caliban has filled Kristina’s bed with dried mud and leaves. I’m going to have to do laundry soon, a practical need I find weirdly comforting. Laundry: sheets and my own clothes—an achievable goal. But first I have to eat, and free breakfast won’t come soon enough. Fortunately, Marcy has day-old donuts at Uncommon Cup. I can get twice my usual quota without breaking my budget.

  A couple of olds have corpse-camped the fish tank table, frowning at dead tree news over bran muffins and coffee. They probably don’t like the Pandora station Marcy plays in the mornings—music from my own lifetime. I sit near the door and stare out at the rain. The donuts are stale and taste like sand, but they fill the void in my middle. I try not to think about Philip, but that just means I think about Duncan instead.

  And someone else.

  Then, as if in answer to a wish I’m not willing to make, she’s there. I look up and in the space of a breath, I fall into her amber eyes.

  “Jo-o-o-oey.”

  I’ve missed you. I don’t know why I can’t say it out loud. Maybe she’ll pick it up telepathically. That works. Right?

  “You’ve done a number on those donuts.”

  The tabletop is a field of crumbs. My coffee cup is empty. Butterflies flutter through me and I jump to my feet. “Sit down. I need a refill. I’ll get you something.”

  She smiles and slides into the chair across from me. “You’re sweet.”

  My nerves crackle inside me. Marcy smirks when she takes my order—double shot for me, salted caramel latte for Trisha—then refuses my money. “On the house, lover boy.”

  I’ve no doubt my face is the color of a baboon’s ass when I return with our drinks, but Trisha doesn’t say anything. It’s her turn to peer out at the rain. She glances my way and smiles gratefully when I pass her the latte.

  “It’s been a while.”

  “I needed some time.”

  “Beth said you were writing a poem.”

  She nods. Sips her latte. I notice she doesn’t pull out her flask. Maybe Baileys doesn’t go with salted caramel. “You didn’t text.”

  “Your dad—”

  “He gave it back this morning. My bitching finally wore him down.” She looks at me. “If you’d texted, he probably would have had held out longer.”

  “He doesn’t like me.” I’m sure it’s obvious to her, but it feels like a confession when I say it.

  “That’s okay. I do.” We sit quietly for a while. I catch myself enjoying the warmth of my cup. Her presence is calming. My mind clears as a patch of blue breaks through the clouds. I want to ask her what she’s been working on, but the silence feels nice. I’m sure she’ll tell me when she’s ready.

  At some point, without thinking, I pull the sand dollar from my pocket.

  She breaks out into a grin. “You still have your sea cookie.”

  I run my fingers over the rough surface. “Of course I still have it.”

  “I’m glad.” She reaches out to stroke the sand dollar’s edge. Her fingers brush my own. The touch is like a jolt of electricity. She pulls away quickly. Her gaze returns to the window. As her eyes follow rivulets of rain down the glass, a confusion of emotions seems to war across her face: surprise, uncertainty, sadness. After a moment she shakes her head and blinks. “I almost forgot.” A sheepish smile turns her lips up as she reaches for the backpack at her side. “I brought you my laptop.”

  M
y face goes hot. I’m sick of my face going hot.

  “I can’t use it at school. Cooper will freak.”

  “Tell him to kiss your ass.”

  “That should work.”

  She laughs. “So use it at home. Or here. It’s got Jeff’s script on it, so they won’t even know you have it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She knocks off her latte, then shoulders her bag. It’s only 7:05. We have plenty of time before Day Prep.

  “Denise?”

  “Yeah. But I wanted to see you first.”

  She turns toward the door, then looks back over her shoulder. “By the way, the battery is all charged.” There’s something in her voice, a playful lilt, which makes me wonder if she suspects what’s in the battery compartment in my own laptop. I open my mouth, but I can’t think of how to ask without giving the secret away. She waves goodbye, then heads through the door with a jangle of bells and a gust of rain-scented air.

  When she’s gone, I lift the lid. No need to power up. The display awakes, a document open. A poem. Untitled, but with her byline at the top. At first I’m confused. I got a MacBook for my birthday, I remember her saying.

  I’ve never written a poem, except for some poorly rhymed nitwittery in English class during middle school. I have no idea what’s involved when you give a damn and have something to say.

  Trisha gives a damn.

  I read it twice, then slip the laptop into my pack as a chill settles into my bones. I don’t think my coffee will help.

  by Trisha Lee

  Mother distracts herself with poetry: Haikus about wind

  Whispering and scurrying

  Through autumn’s last leaves.

  I wait, but all she’s got for me

  Are quoted lines about the contradictions of ice

  And murmurs: “A girl can always use new clothes.”

  I ask her to stop—

  I ask him to stop—

  But my voice flies like leaves on the wind.

  He channels Mother’s breezy promises of new clothes.

  Voiceless, I’m the girl in every brown leaf—

  His waxy hands creep like spiders, their need as sharp as ice.

  Eyes closed, I compose poems to myself.

  A haiku wind blows, a litter of leaves lifts me

  I ask it to stop—

  My body slaps against a windowpane of ice

  Raw, naked, and unwound.

  “After,” he breathes, as I tremble like a leaf

  “I’ll let you pick out some new clothes.”

  My heart ticks, a broken clock wrapped in his clothes

  A sound too loud to come from inside me

  “Just think of after—” he breathes, and I quiver like a leaf.

  —as if it will ever stop—

  A trick, a trap, his voice is a pleading wind

  Falling through caverns of jaundice-coated ice.

  He announces himself with clinking ice,

  Consoles himself with a gift: for once it’s not clothes.

  I compose a failed haiku about wax and wind

  And how, if only for a moment, I want to own myself.

  I cannot breathe until everything stops

  I cannot leave—

  I fall like autumn’s last leaves

  My voice shatters like ice

  “He’ll never stop—”

  I gather the coins, the needless clothes

  Like shards of glass littered around me,

  The abomination caught in the wind…

  In life, at least for me,

  Events are like a frayed cloth.

  They continue to unwind.

  2.4: Lifeline

  Trisha will be with Denise in the Commons. I want to see her, but I need time to make sense of things, in a place where no one will bother me. The library, maybe, enforced quiet at a time of day when almost no one else will be there. I’m barely through the school doors when Courtney cuts me off. She puts a hand on the center of my chest.

  “The cops are here.”

  My stomach, already in knots, lurches. “What else is new?”

  “They want you.” Her lips sink into a frown. “Your caseworker is in with Mr. Cooper too.”

  I close my eyes, at a loss for where to go. Mrs. Petty knows about Uncommon Cup. If they don’t find me there, they’ll head to the Boobies looking for me. Once Wayne and Mrs. Petty get their wires uncrossed, my sojourn at the Huntzels is over. It was stupid to think I could make it work all school year, but the thought of going back into custody depresses me. I suppose I could throw myself on the mercy of the court. “Look…my Katz Meow!”

  Like that ever works.

  I give Courtney a sad smile and shrug, turn back to the door. She pulls at my arm. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Duncan opened his eyes.”

  “He’s awake?”

  “Not exactly. He’s not talking, but he’s responding to people.” She squeezes my arm. “The doctors won’t let the cops see him yet. But they are encouraging friends and family to visit. People he trusts.”

  I’m not his friend. But I don’t say that. I don’t mention Reid’s opinion of my trust issues either. “Have you seen him?”

  “Before school. I told his mom I’ll come after too.” But you can go right now, her eyes seem to say. She gives me a shove.

  I have a thought and dig my heels in. “Listen. Can you do something?”

  “What?”

  “My laptop is on Cooper’s shelf.” It’s probably stupid, too-little, too-late. “Any chance you could snag it for me?”

  Her eyes narrow. “You think I owe you something?” Her glare radiates challenge.

  I shake my head. “Forget it. I’ll figure something else out.” As problems go at this point, the potential discovery of my laptop’s hidden treasure ranks about the same as finding creamed chipped beef in my shorts.

  But then Courtney’s gaze softens. “Sorry.” She licks her lips. “I’ll try. No promises.” Then she pushes me through the door. Cold rain hits the back of my neck. I hesitate. Down the hall, Mrs. Petty steps out of the office, Man-Mountain hulking in her wake. That makes the decision for me.

  The number 14 bus is coming down Hawthorne as I run from Katz, so I jump aboard. No one appears to be following from the school. I let out a breath and drop into an empty seat behind the driver. The bus smells like someone took a dump on it.

  My hands bounce in my lap. Every face drips with suspicion. Just across the Hawthorne Bridge into downtown, I escape the bus. Rain chases me through Waterfront Park and across the Steel Bridge, but I hardly notice. Nerves push one foot ahead of the other. The hospital is farther than I expect, yet I spot the sign directing me to Emanuel Emergency sooner than I’m ready. The main entrance is even closer.

  Inside, I’m at a loss. There’s an information desk, but I don’t think I can handle talking to an actual person. A woman behind the counter sees my hesitation and takes matters into her own hands. “Are you here to see someone, young man?”

  My voice finds its way up from a hole in my belly. “Um. Duncan Fox?”

  She taps the keyboard in front of her, peers at her monitor through the bottom of her glasses. “Are you a friend or a relative?”

  “I’m his brother.” Where did that lie come from?

  “Damon?”

  That computer knows more than I do—I had no idea Duncan had a brother. “Yeah. That’s me. Damon.” It feels like I’ve thrown away an opportunity.

  “He’s in ICU, honey. Do you need directions?”

  Without giving me a chance to say yes, she points me toward an elevator bank, tells me which button to press, which turns to take. I must pay attention on some level, but I can’t remember what she said. My hand acts o
f its own accord, my feet follow. Men and women in scrubs and lab coats brush past me, impatient or indifferent. The plants are all made of plastic. I hate the smell of the place, Betadine and body odor, shit, and bleach. The PA system murmurs, too quiet to make out, too loud to ignore. My shoes squeak on tile, swoosh across carpet. The layout makes no sense. Steel-edged corners seem to appear in all the wrong places. Doors big enough to drive a truck through bar my way, then open the wrong direction at the touch of a button. At some point I stop. A man is looking at me. A nurse. His eyebrows seem knitted to his forehead.

  “I said, may I help you?”

  Dry saliva has glued my lips together. They open with a pop. “Duncan Fox?”

  He turns and gestures. “Through there.”

  Beyond the nurses station, a broad, open door leads to a tiny room full of tubes, wires, and machines. A smoke detector blinks on the ceiling. Duncan lies back on a narrow bed, a smooth white blanket tucked up under his armpits, hands on his belly. His face is oddly flat, misshapen, like a mud cast left out in the rain. An IV runs into the back of one hand. Another clear tube is looped under his nose and around the back of his ears—a nasal cannula, I inexplicably remember. I also remember how mine tickled my nose during my own hospital stay, ten years before.

  “Are you one of Duncan’s friends?”

  His mother, I presume—she has Duncan’s chin and sandy hair. She’s sitting in the corner next to the bed. When I meet her eyes, she jumps to her feet and crosses to me.

  “Uh. Joey.”

  “Of course, Joey. It’s good to see you again.”

  We’ve never met.

  “I don’t want to bother you, Mrs. Fox.” I start to edge out of the room, but before I can make my escape Duncan’s mother gloms onto me like a lifeline.

  “Actually it’s Mrs. Blount.” Her fingers are cold and as dry as old paper. “I remarried after Duncan and Damon’s father left us.”

  “Oh.”

  “You can call me Patty.”

  It’s been nine days since the accident; she doesn’t look like she’s slept nine hours in that time. Sunken holes for eyes, blotchy cheeks. Her face is a map of tragedy. I look away.