House Broken (6 page)

ELLA

E
lla would never admit it, but she was looking forward to her parents coming home, even if they were bringing crazy Nana. It had been a long weekend. She and Prince Charles (and Diesel) had stayed with Uncle Ivan and Aunt Leigh and, of course, Pierce and Spencer. You'd think that was an accounting firm and not a pair of teenage boys, right? They were okay when they were little, same as the Prince, but then they'd turned into testosterone-crazed lunatics. She'd steered clear, except that (a) she had to keep tabs on the Prince's activities, as previously noted, and (b) the twins were friends with Marcus Frye (His Most Gorgeousness). To have any chance with Marcus she'd have to be chill around his friends. And for super immature and annoying guys, they weren't all that bad.

So all weekend—at least the part of it when they weren't playing baseball, watching baseball, or talking about baseball—the Prince and the Accountants were scheming. Ella wasn't eavesdropping or anything (she wasn't a creeper), but when she sat still with a book or her poetry notebook, people—especially ones with their heads up their asses like these guys—treated her like furniture. Sunday morning she was in the living room on the couch working on a poem, Diesel snoozing on the floor next to her. In came the Accountants and the Prince from the kitchen. The back of the couch hid most of her, but the boys wouldn't have noticed anyway. They were talking about how they wanted to be in the Battle of the Bands at school. All the Novaks were musical. When they got together it was like a friggin' jamboree. Pierce played drums and Spencer played electric guitar. A senior jazz junkie called Rango said he'd play bass for them. He was weird, but even the Accountants knew bass players were supposed to be. They still needed someone who could sing, and they didn't want a girl because they were Neanderthals like that.

Anyway, the Prince wanted in. The Accountants didn't think a freshman was any better than a girl. The Prince turned on his princely charm big-time.

“Let me audition. You won't regret it.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, no way.”

“I know my talents, gentlemen. I can sing.”

“I don't think so.”

“Yeah, I don't think so.”

And then it got interesting. Charlie reached into his pocket
and pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off twenties like some little shyster.

“How much to let me try out? Twenty? Forty?”

Pierce grabbed two bills. “Okay, let's hear it. Pick a song. If you don't suck, forty more will get you in front of the band.” Like he was some fucking talent agent. And as if two-thirds of the band wasn't right there.

Ella the End Table smiled to herself. That was a lot of cash for a kid who didn't have a job. Whatever he was up to, she'd soon make it her business.

The Prince stepped back, like his brilliance might shatter them, and cleared his throat.

Pierce said, “What're you singing? In case we don't recognize it.”

Spencer snorted.

Ella knew. He'd been singing it in his room for two weeks. Probably googled “Best Rock Audition Songs for Clueless Dicks.”

“‘Rock on You.'” The Prince put on his most authentic bad-boy rocker face, jammed an invisible mike in his face, and sang:

Hey, baby, baby, dancin' to the beat,

Pickin' up my rhythm, lookin' so sweet.

Spencer turned to Pierce. “It's Lousy Ferret. Great band.”

“Shut up, dickhead.”

The Prince climbed up the stairs behind him while he sang and got all growly for the chorus. Good thing his voice had changed all the way. Otherwise he would've sounded like a hyena trying to yodel. Diesel's ears perked up, and he cocked his head
as if he couldn't decide whether Charlie was in pain and needed help.

Hey, baby, baby, here's what I'm gonna do:

Take you home, throw you on the bed, and rock all over you.

Rock on you! Rock on you!

The singing wasn't half bad but between the fist pumping and hip thrusting, Ella didn't know whether to laugh or puke.

Rock on you! Take you home, throw you on the bed, and rock all over you.

Spencer was getting into it. He bit his lower lip, stuck out his chin, and grimaced the way guys do when they want to be all tough. Even Pierce couldn't help himself. Started fist pumping along with the “Rock on you!” parts. Ella had to hand it to the Prince. He could work a room.

Halfway through the second verse, Pierce remembered he was supposed to be cool and put his hand up. “Okay. Okay, Charlie. That's enough.”

Show over. Ella got up and cut across the living room. The boys noticed her for the first time.

“Hey, Smella.” Charlie swayed like he was drunk on his own manliness. “Did you like it?”

“Was that you? I was on my way to the kitchen to see if the garbage disposal was stuck.”

• • •

Later the same day they all went over to Aunt Juliana's house. She was the middle Novak. Theo was the eldest, then Anica, then Juliana, then Ivan, and finally Ella's dad. Juliana was the only one who was divorced and the only one with no kids. She did have a boyfriend, Jon, and a Doberman, Aldo. She hadn't had either of them very long, but as Granny Novak said, every single time they got together, it was a step in the right direction—the boyfriend, not the dog. Like Juliana'd invented divorce or something.

Her house was in Novato, in the older, less strip-mall part of town. It was small but it was just her and the dog. Jon, who introduced himself as “Jon without an H,” still had his own place, although there was talk of them “shacking up,” as Grandpa put it. Ella and the rest of them went straight through the house to the backyard. Jon without an H was at the barbecue. For a nerdy guy he looked like he'd turned a steak or two in his time, which was how you had to be if you were a guy and you wanted to hang with Novaks. That and never talk trash about anyone in the family. Which was pretty cool, if you think about it. Maybe in twos or threes they came clean with each other, but they didn't make a team sport of it.

The rule applied to pets, too. Ella and Charlie called Aldo “Adolf,” but not in front of Juliana or anyone other than their parents. That dog was scary. Usually Ella's mom didn't let them use “demeaning nicknames”—“the Accountants,” for instance—but when it came to that dog, she made an exception. Juliana got him as a puppy but never trained him. In fact, according to her mom, she encouraged Adolf to be aggressive. Not intentionally, but it was all the same to her mom. Ruining pets (or kids for that matter) by not laying down the law was wrong, whether you meant to do it or not. It wasn't a big deal when Adolf was small. If he jumped on you, you could just push him down. If he nipped,
you could put your hand around his muzzle and he'd get the picture. But now he was way past that stage. And he had a thing for Jon without an H.

Juliana hadn't had many people over since Aldo arrived. Now she was trying to prove she fit in with the married folk, that her guy could feed everyone, too. The whole Novak horde wasn't there, but Jon without an H had this gigantic grill absolutely covered with meat, plus some tofu or whatever for Anica's daughter Kristin, who didn't eat things with eyes. Adolf parked himself under a tree near the grill, and kept watch on either the meat or Jon without an H's back. It was hard to tell which, but something was making him drool. Then Juliana went over to see how things were going, and Jon without an H started moving some sausages from the grill to this huge platter. That was Adolf's cue. He skulked toward them, his head low like a lion stalking. Ella heard a growl roll out of him like faraway thunder. Jon without an H heard it, too, and twisted his head around. Juliana had the tray with the meat. Adolf stopped in his tracks.

Jon without an H didn't take his eyes off the dog. “Did you feed him, Jules?”

“Of course I did.” Her voice was really casual.

“Cause he looks hungry.”

Other people started to pay attention.

Juliana said, “Maybe I should give him a sausage.”

From behind Ella, Uncle Ivan said, “Probably not a good idea to encourage him.”

“It's just a hot dog.” Juliana handed the tray to Jon without an H. “Here. You give him one, then you'll be friends for life.”

Adolf turned the volume up on his growl as Juliana gave his whole dinner to the intruder. His haunches quivered for a second; then he sprang. Jon without an H must have played video games
because he threw the tray at the flying dog, hitting Adolf in the nose, then leaped sideways in a total ninja move. Adolf landed in front of Juliana and knocked her over. A bunch of people, Ella included, got hit by flying sausages. Jon without an H scrambled to his feet and crouched like a wrestler, worried the dog was coming after him. But Adolf had gotten what he wanted, at least for that day. No one was stupid enough to pick any sausages up off the grass, and Adolf scarfed them all down. Ivan helped Juliana up. Jon without an H picked up the long barbecue fork thing and kept the grill between him and the dog just in case. When Adolf was done eating, Juliana put him in the garage.

• • •

Later, after the sausage attack and after they'd all eaten, Ella's mom texted saying they'd be home in an hour, so they all piled in the car and headed to San Miguel, stopping first to pick up Diesel. It was pitch-black and foggy when Ivan and the rest of the family dropped off her and Charlie and their stuff. Ivan waited while she used her flashlight app to find the keyhole and open the door.

She remembered to turn on the driveway lights, which was nothing short of a miracle. Her mother hated to drive up in the dark, especially with fog, but Ella almost never remembered the lights. The Prince was about to leave all his crap right by the front door. She told him not to be such a complete slob, so he dragged it to his room, bitching all the way. She tossed her bag on the floor of her room. The words floated above her and she wondered whether she should tell her mom about Adolf. She'd be upset for sure and might go off on a long lecture about responsible pet ownership and all that. Maybe she'd let Charlie tell her. Bad news from him didn't seem to freak their mom out as much.

Ella visited the Build-A-Bear dispensary and took a couple hits. Then she flopped on the bed and rolled onto her stomach, looking idly at her desk. Oops. The SAT prep book. She was in such deep shit. Good thing her phone said she had time for exactly one test from the writing section before her mom came home and ordered her execution. It was nine less than she was supposed to have done, but it was better than nothing.

Twenty minutes in, she ran into the sort of question that often tripped her up. Not because she didn't know the answer, but because the five options for completing the sentence were so lame:

8. It will be hard to
—————
Leonid now that you have so
—————
him.

The answer was “mollify—incensed,” but how boring was that? What about, “It will be hard to make an Olympian of Leonid now that you have so disabled him”? Or, “It will be hard to get a decent settlement out of Leonid now that you have so totally screwed him.” She was finally enjoying herself. She moved on to the next question:

9. He was normally entirely
—————
, but in the embarrassing situation in which he found himself he felt compelled to
—————
.

Tempted as she was to get creative, she told herself just to finish the damn thing. She scanned the choices and lingered on the word
indolent
. Not the answer but it gave her a kind of déjà-vu feeling. What's that about? Then it hit her.
Indolent
. Perfect. She dug through her backpack and took out the most important
object in her world—her poetry notebook. She flipped to the last marked page—a mess of crossed-out lines, bubbled ideas, doodles, and a very large “ARGH!” But it was her beautiful mess, and so close to coming together. Like one of those optical illusions where the background and the foreground can switch. First it's a vase; then it's two people facing each other. Right before you suddenly see it the other way, if you pay attention, you can feel it about to happen.

The last line was “The slumbering notions of a half-starved god.” She crossed out
slumbering
and wrote
indolent
. She put her pencil down and read the line aloud. Leaning back in her chair, she laughed. The printout on her bulletin board said the date for the poetry slam in the city was May 26. Today was the thirteenth, so she'd definitely be ready.

There was a commotion at the front door, then footsteps down the hallway. She was still trancing about her poem when her mom knocked. She grunted and her mom came in.

“Hi. We just got home. Thanks for leaving the lights on.”

“Sure.” She closed the poetry notebook very casually. “Nana here?”

“Dad's with her in Charlie's room.”

Her mom scanned the desk. Swear to God, her mom missed her calling as a cop. She pursed her lips and frowned, but didn't say anything. Normally she'd be all over Ella's case about something: not doing her SAT or her homework or cleaning the bathroom or whatever. She didn't usually yell or lecture. Not exactly. More like a concise review of the facts, the rules, the goals, and—wait for it—the Consequences. Ella was pretty sure that was one of her first words. Dada, Mama, doggie, and consequences. When she was little, the review went like this.

Fact: Toys belong in the toy box.

Rule: When you are done playing with a toy, you must put it away in the box.

Goal: To keep the house tidy so we always know where everything is.

Consequence: Toys left out will disappear for one week.

As she'd gotten older, things had become a little more complicated. Take the SAT, for example.