Rogue

by Lyn Miller-Lachmann

  Finally, Dad hands me the phone. It’s been nearly an hour and his battery is in the red.

  “I’m sorry about the little boy that you babysat,” Mami says. “I hope he gets better soon.”

  I didn’t babysit him. He was my friend. I don’t correct her because she’ll think it’s weird that I play with little kids. She already thinks it’s weird that I play with toys.

  “And I hope they find a good home for him and your friend. So they can stay together.”

  I think of the unfamiliar words I heard. “¿Qué es un foster home?”

  “Your father said they’re looking for the boys’ family first.”

  “They’re in Iowa.”

  Mami sighs. “I’m praying for them. That someone can find the relatives. Their people must be worried about them.”

  The battery beeps, and I forget what I wanted to say.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Kiara,” Mami says.

  “I … miss you too, Mami.” Now I remember. She didn’t answer my question about the foster home.

  “I know you’ll love Montreal. Now that you’re older, there’s so much we can do together.”

  “Mami, how do you say ‘foster home’ in Spanish?”

  “Casa de acogida.” She pauses. “We can work on your Spanish too. And your French. You’re lucky to be so talented with languages.”

  I smile. She wants me. She thinks I have a special talent, which is almost as good as a special power. At least it’s a way I can make her proud of me.

  But then my smile fades because of the state exams that I failed on purpose. When she finds out, she’ll remember I’m the mutant she shouldn’t have had.

  CHAPTER 28

  VIDEO OF THE BURNING HOUSE LEADS CHANNEL 8’S ELEVEN o’clock news.

  I try to tune out the pleasant voice of the anchorwoman, telling me once again what I saw with my own eyes—that Mr. and Mrs. Elliott got third-degree burns on their heads and arms. And what I didn’t see—that Brandon got third-degree burns on his back and broke his arm while trying to escape. Dad never lets me stay up for the late news, but tonight he didn’t make an attempt to send me to bed.

  Right away I learned that Brandon had recently turned six—which means somewhere in the ruins is the Steel Cage Ring that Chad bought him for his birthday.

  The TV cuts to a school picture. Brandon has a huge smile that shows his missing baby teeth. I don’t have to touch the photo with skin and eyes and hair to feel as empty as Ms. Marvel did after Rogue touched her and stole her emotions.

  The picture fades, replaced by the anchorwoman.

  Brandon was transferred by helicopter to a pediatric burn unit out of state where he is expected to recover. His parents, Chad and Melissa Elliott, are listed in critical condition at University Medical Center. Police believe that they were operating a meth lab out of their rental house, and when officers arrived at the neighborhood to investigate a child abuse report, the Elliotts disposed of the chemicals by pouring them down a drain. Police expect to charge both tomorrow on a variety of felony counts.

  A mug shot of Mr. Elliott flashes on screen. His hair is a lot darker than I remember.

  Wait …

  How could the police have taken this mug shot for his court case tomorrow if he’s burned up in the hospital? I shudder at the image of his melted fingers.

  According to police, Chad Elliott previously served three years, from 1996 to 1999, in the Iowa state penitentiary for the manufacture and distribution of methamphetamine …

  That makes it a really old mug shot. I scoot closer to see what else might be different about Mr. Elliott. Not much. The same hollow cheeks. He had a sore on his lower lip then that wasn’t there when he played music with Dad.

  Police originally believed the Elliotts’ older son, twelve-year-old Chad Junior, was also in the house, but he was later found safe at a neighbor’s house. He remains there, awaiting further arrangements.

  The TV cuts back to the fire and rescue workers running around.

  The explosion rocked the quiet neighborhood around nine this morning. Neighbors say the owner of the house, Diane Mackenzie, recently relocated to Philadelphia …

  I glance up at the ceiling. Had Chad been there and not here … had Mrs. Mac not moved because she saw her husband’s ghost … had Dad not called the police …

  I wonder if Dad’s thinking the same thing because he stares down at his hands and his carefully clipped guitar player’s fingernails. I push one of Brandon’s wrestlers back and forth across the wooden floor.

  Old Mr. Toomey, who lives two houses up Cherry Street, is now talking into the Channel 8 microphone.

  “No, the wife and I, we had no idea what was going on. We often saw the boys playing in the park …”

  “No, they didn’t play in the park,” I shout at the TV, my voice breaking. “Their parents made them stand lookout there.”

  Dad makes a shushing sound and glances up at me. “I want to hear this, Kiara.”

  Mrs. Alvarado, the neighbor on the other side of Mr. Toomey, now appears on the screen.

  “They kept to themselves … No, there wasn’t a lot of noise, and not a lot of people coming or going either. That’s why we never suspected anything.”

  And Mr. Toomey.

  “They just moved in. I don’t think anyone really got to know them.”

  The two anchors appear again. Tomorrow on Live at Five: Experts discuss how to spot a meth lab in your neighborhood—and what to do about it.

  Dad has turned away from me. While the anchorman reads the national news, I spread what’s left of Brandon’s wrestlers on the floor and sort them into the good guys and the bad guys.

  A Tech Town commercial comes on. I glance at the table in the corner of the living room, where my computer used to be. After I hung up with Mami, Dad carried all its pieces one by one to my bedroom. The first thing I asked Mr. Internet as soon as I plugged in the power cord was “what happens to kids who don’t have a home?” because I wanted to find out where Chad would go after I left—and Brandon as soon as he got out of the hospital.

  They would first look for a relative to take him in. If they couldn’t find one, there are foster homes with loving parents who know how to help a kid who’s had a terrible life.

  Mami may not know, but Mr. Internet knows what foster homes are. Loving parents who know how to help a kid … That means Chad and Brandon would get to live in a better place. But they might end up somewhere far away—and no longer my friends.

  After a mattress commercial, the anchors reappear on the screen.

  In other police news, more than a dozen teenagers have been arrested following an underage drinking party in College Park last night. Two students from the high school were treated at area hospitals for alcohol poisoning …

  I let the wrestler slip from my hand.

  Alcohol poisoning? Is that what happened to Chad? And should he have gone to the hospital?

  Then the police would have met Dad there. They wouldn’t have come to our neighborhood, and Brandon wouldn’t have run inside.

  Nineteen-year-old Stephen Nickolaus …

  Veg. My gut twists.

  … and eighteen-year-olds Brian Gerardi and Joshua Laiken were among those arrested and charged with trespassing, aggravated alcohol possession, and unlawful dealing with minors.

  I cover my face, but I can’t block out Veg and Brian and Josh standing next to the height chart, all of them over the six-foot mark.

  The other suspects, all under eighteen years of age, have been released to their parents and their cases remanded to juvenile court. More arrests are expected as the investigation continues.

  I grip one of the wrestlers to steady my hand, but it still shakes. The investigation continues … Does that mean they arrested Antonio? I don’t know who picked him up from my house, or if he returned to the party, or if evil Josh ratted him out.

  Does that mean I’m next? I shot a video of Chad drunk.

  I think about my p
hone call with Mami. She sounded excited to see me.

  If I go to Montreal, I won’t have to worry about the police coming after me for being at the party and making videos. I won’t have to look at the burned-out house on the other side of the park where Mr. and Mrs. Mac and Chad and Brandon used to live.

  My hand steadies. I scoop up the remaining wrestlers. Chad wanted to run away with Brandon. Now is my chance to run away, too. To start over somewhere else.

  I smile at the thought. I won’t be Crybaby Kiara or Crazy Kiara in Montreal, and Mami can tell me how to act so I make new friends. Because for the first time in my life, I’ll be the New Kid.

  Dad hits the remote control, and the TV goes black. “I think we’ve seen enough trouble,” he says. When I don’t answer, he adds, “Let’s go to bed. Tomorrow is another day.”

  Tomorrow is another day. The day Ms. Latimer arrives with my test scores.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE FIRST WORD MS. LATIMER SAYS TO ME WHEN SHE arrives is “why?” She tells Dad and me that I failed every one of the state exams except science. On that one, I received a perfect score.

  “I like science,” I answer.

  “Don’t. Smartmouth. Me,” she says.

  “Kiara …” Dad’s voice is like a rumbling echo.

  But I didn’t smartmouth her. She asked me why I scored so well on the science test when I did so badly on the others.

  Dad examines the piece of paper with my results. “There must be a mistake. She’s never failed anything.”

  But there isn’t a mistake. I made sure of that. And now I have to take it back.

  “I’m as surprised as you are,” Ms. Latimer tells my father. “We ran the multiple-choice answer sheets through the Scantron twice. But she didn’t answer entire sections, and her essays had errors as well.” She casts a glance in my direction. I look away. “It seems as if she was trying to fail.”

  Dad steps toward me. “Kiara, did you want to fail those exams?”

  Eyes fixed on my shoelaces, I answer, “Yes.” And then I think of the party and my videos, and the words pour out. “It wasn’t because of you, Ms. Latimer. You were a good teacher. Dad was going to send me away for the summer, but I didn’t want to go because I didn’t want to leave my friends.” I take a breath and rush to speak before Dad or Ms. Latimer stops me. “But now my friends are going away and the police are coming for me because of the party, so please let me retake the test. Please. I promise I won’t flunk it this time.”

  “The police?” Ms. Latimer and Dad say at the same time. Jinx.

  “Yeah, uh …” My hands shake. How do I explain that I shot a video of a lot of underage drinking?

  Dad covers his face with his hands and then runs his fingers through his hair. “Ms. Latimer and I need to discuss this. Without you. Please take those bags up to Chad and wait in your room until we’re done.” He waves his hand toward a half-dozen bags of clothes and toys for Chad that the neighbors brought over this morning.

  “Why can’t I listen if it’s about me?”

  Dad’s voice is hard. Mean. “Because it’s not your decision. You’ve made a lot of decisions recently, and they haven’t been good ones. Your teacher and I are going to decide what we think will be the best for you.”

  “Don’t send me to juvie. They’ll stick a knife in me.”

  “Calm down, Kiara. No one said you’re going to juvie,” Ms. Latimer says.

  “I was at that party. In College Park. Dad had to pick me up from there.”

  “I doubt they’re looking for you. They’re probably looking for the kids who brought the liquor.” Ms. Latimer wags her finger at me. “But unless you start making better choices, Kiara, you are going to end up in a place you don’t want to be.”

  If she doesn’t mean the police and juvie, she probably means the special-needs class in high school. I should have kept my mouth shut, but when people ask me stuff, I have to tell them the truth.

  “But if I go to Montreal, you won’t put me in special ed, right?”

  Cold silence.

  I press on. “I agreed to go to Montreal. So I’m going, okay?”

  Ms. Latimer speaks first. “I don’t know where you are going. Given all the circumstances … your assault of that girl—”

  “She pushed my lunch tray to the floor.”

  Instead of telling me not to interrupt, Ms. Latimer talks right over me. As if she’s not even talking to me but to Dad even though she’s using you like she’s talking to me. “Your pattern of willful, defiant behavior … we may have to think about a more restrictive environment for school.”

  Dad gets into the act. “You need more structure than I can give you. If you can’t go to your mother’s because of summer school, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

  My hands curl into fists. My brain sizzles and presses against my ears. All I want to do is get out. Start over. See my mother.

  Who now actually wants me.

  While stomping up the stairs, I yell down, “Why don’t I get something I want for once?”

  Dad fires back, “Why don’t you think of someone besides yourself—for once.” His words sting like shotgun pellets.

  A bag with a Lego castle, a Nerf gun, and a football sits on the landing. I drag it the rest of the way to my brothers’ room and bang on the door.

  The response is weak, muffled. “Just a minute.”

  Chad opens the door, wearing Max’s torn and oversize pajama pants and the Boston College T-shirt I refused to wear. His face is pink and swollen, with scabs where he scraped it riding. His hair is askew, and the white crust still covers his lips. The new bandage Dad put on his arm Saturday night is dirty and curled around the edges.

  I hold the bag out to him. “Here you go. Someone dropped off some toys for you. There’s clothes too, since all yours got burned up.”

  I expect Chad to be happy that he has new toys and stuff, but he doesn’t say a word. He peers into the bag for a few seconds and then lets it slide out of his hands and onto the wood floor with a dull thunk. I go downstairs to bring the clothes, hoping also to hear what Dad and Ms. Latimer have planned for me, but they’ve moved to the kitchen and are speaking with hushed voices.

  When I deliver the bags to him, one at a time, Chad piles them in the space between the radiator and my brothers’ bunk bed without even looking inside.

  “Aren’t you going to open them?” I ask after I hand him the final bag, with four brand-new pairs of blue jeans. Boys’ size 12. His size. I found out when I threw his ruined pants away Saturday night.

  Chad shakes his head. “Don’t matter.”

  I don’t know if I’m supposed to keep saying I’m sorry for what happened to his brother and parents and his house when I already told him yesterday. He still seems sad, and I want to cheer him up because even though he’s going away, he was my friend. And unlike Dad and Ms. Latimer, he isn’t acting like a jerk and telling me I need “structure.”

  “I thanked all the people for you, so you don’t have to write them a thank-you note if you don’t want to.”

  He shoves his hands into the pajama pockets. “So what? I’m never gonna see ’em again.”

  “Are you going back to Iowa?”

  Chad doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes past me, hitting my upper arm with his shoulder, and walks barefoot toward the bathroom. I follow him. He slams the door behind him and after a few seconds I hear him peeing. But when he’s done, he doesn’t come out. I don’t hear him washing his hands either.

  I knock on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Go away.”

  I shrug and go to my room, but I leave the door open because my room is across from the bathroom and I’ll see Chad when he comes out. I bring the article on foster homes back to my screen and rehearse the lines: Foster parents offer loving homes to children who can no longer live with their parents and need a safe place to go.

  The bathroom door clicks open. Chad steps out. I rush out to the hall.

>   “Did you wash your hands?” I ask him.

  “Yeah.” He spits onto his hands, rubs them together, and holds them up to my face. Gross. I step backward and stumble into my door frame.

  Chad wipes his spit-covered palms on my brother’s pajama pants. I straighten up and step toward him. “I was looking up foster homes. Maybe if things don’t work out in Iowa, you can find one near here, and we can still be friends.”

  “You don’t know nothing,” he says.

  “I read about them on the Internet. They’re loving homes with nice people who’ll take care of you and keep you safe.”

  “Didn’t your teacher tell you not to trust the Internet?”

  I nod because Ms. Latimer once said Mr. Internet didn’t have all the answers and I needed to know the source of his information. But my source this time was the state Department of Children and Families site, and the state wouldn’t lie. I open my mouth to tell him, but Chad cuts me off.

  “I gotta get to Brandon.”

  “They took him to some other state,” I say. “I heard it on the news last night.”

  “He’s all by himself.”

  “I know.” I bet Brandon’s scared. I would be if I woke up hurting, all alone, and far from where I lived. “How are you going to get there?”

  Chad clenches his fists. Heat rushes through me, and I’m sweating and shivering at the same time. In my mind, I see Chad slamming his fists against his head, his mouth wide open, screaming, Why Brandon? He didn’t do nothing to no one! But there’s nothing I can do. According to Dad and Ms. Latimer, I can’t even take care of myself.

  I turn away from Chad and go into my room. Outside my window is the park and beyond that the empty sky where his house used to be. I lower the shade, and my room grows dim even though it’s just past noon. I run my finger along the spines of my X-Men comics, arranged in chronological order on my bookcase in the corner opposite my bed.

  So many heroes. Why can’t I be like them?

  I pace my small room. Bookcase to door, door to bed, bed to desk, desk to bookcase. Thinking.

  I left the six wrestlers on the corner of my desk, behind my computer monitor. I was going to ask Dad to send them to Brandon, but I don’t know if he’ll do anything for me now because he’s so mad at me.