Property of the State (11 page)

2.0

Events are like a frayed cloth.

2.1: Here's the Thing

Cooper heads me off at the pass before I can sneak out to Uncommon Cup to look for Trisha. “Joey, not even
you
are allowed off campus during the school day. You heard what we said at the assembly.” I didn't, but I suppose it was something about locking us down because of what happened to Duncan. I don't have it in me to argue. Not after the way he cockblocked the cops.

For the rest of the morning, I wander the bowels of Katz Learning Annex, listless and edgy all at once. Unlike me, Trisha evades Cooper's lasso. She fails to appear even at lunch, which is when her crit group meets. Denise says she's working on something new. “She needs to be alone when she has a new project, Joey.” Apparently Mr. Vogler still has her cell, so no point in texting.

The afternoon continues the suck. In Directed Inquiry, Harley May says my source list “shows a disappointing lack of range and depth.” After that, I get four out of ten on a trig quiz. Moylan's sad smile might be more convincing if not for the twinkle in his eyes. By the time the final bell rings, I'm ready to chew glass.

There's no sign of Trisha at Uncommon Cup, so I trudge through rain to the Huntzels. First stop, the garage. I examine the front end of the BMW, but I don't know what I'm looking for. There's no damage, but maybe there wouldn't be. People are soft; cars are hard. Philip would have washed off any blood. CSI, I'm not.

Short of asking a direct question, I have no way of finding out if Philip or Mrs. Huntzel had anything to do with the accident. All I know for sure is Courtney belongs to Team Duncan. Beyond that, her dramatic speech, a little innuendo, and a Sunday afternoon car wash don't add up to much. And even if it did, what can I do about it? Call the cops? I can picture
that
scene. “Hey, Detective Heat Vision, why are you hassling me when you could be looking at the notorious Huntzel crime syndicate?” That'll work. Besides, Philip and Mrs. Huntzel would have been at the hospital getting his fright mask about the time Duncan's head was cracking pavement.

I can't let Courtney knock me off The Plan. So far, I've managed seven days on the lam. A mere two-hundred-fifty to go 'til early graduation.

Sure.

I work through my Monday set—foyer, conservatory, and dining room, wax and buff—on autopilot. Philip and Mrs. Huntzel hover on the fringes; I ignore them. But later, as I'm rolling the floor buffer off the lift in the basement, Philip shambles down the stairs. Courtney's punch line—
You're the one who knows them
—pops into my head.

What I know about them is precisely jack.

“Hey, Philip.” When he stops, I realize I have nothing to say. Obviously, I can't ask him if he or his mother committed hit-and-run assault. His eyebrows drop and I spit out the first thing which pops into my head. “I haven't seen your dad in forever.”

Without his mask, his reliable glower is on full display. “What do you care?”

Good question
. I feel like a cretin. “I noticed you guys have been driving his car. Something wrong with the BMW?” Subtle.

His bruises have turned yellow, which makes him look sicklier than usual. “What's it to you?”

In anyone else, his testiness might be suspicious.

“Never mind.”

I put the buffer away, then head down to Division and 50th for food cart tacos. I don't like spending the cash, but I'm sick of waiting around for Philip and Mrs. Huntzel to clear out of the kitchen. Or maybe I'm sick of pudding cups. If such a thing is even possible.

An hour later, back in Kristina's room, the evening dies under the weight of Harley May's demands on my source list. The job is made more difficult by my lack of internet access, which means I spend hours shuffling pages printed in a computer lab frenzy. After I take it as far as I can—I'll be keyboarding handwritten revisions at school tomorrow—I pound through trig homework, then open
A Clash of Kings
. Reading comprehension eludes me until my book light dies. I set the book aside and peer into the darkness. I couldn't sleep if you hit me in the head with a hammer.

Near midnight, the door opens and closes. I'm looking at her when she turns on the overhead light. Tonight, her green hair is pulled back in a clip. She's wearing her vest over a short pink skirt and black turtleneck.

“Oliver! You're dressed! I'd actually expected you to go the other way.”

“What would that have got me?”

“Dick cut off.” A blade longer than my hand
snikts
from a black metal handle in her hand. She grins fiercely when I flinch.

I'm not in the mood for crazy girl antics tonight. “I'll sleep in the rec room. Or under a bridge.”

“Stop whining.” She clicks the knife shut and stows it in her messenger bag. “I promise I won't hurt you.”

“Why doesn't that reassure me?”

“Is there some reason I
should
hurt you?”

“You tell me.”

“I gave you the key, didn't I? That should tell you all you need to know.”

All I need to know? I know precisely jackshit. If there's a good time to break my rule against asking questions, this would be it.

Why the key?

Why do you have to sneak in to your own house?

Why does Philip hate you?

Given how well my interrogation of Philip went, I keep my yap shut. She kicks her Chucks into the corner, then disappears into the bathroom—leaves the door partway open. I can hear her pee. After a moment the toilet flushes and water runs in the sink.

When she comes out again, she mistakes the look on my face.

“Don't sweat it, Oliver. No one can hear anything from this room unless they got their ear pressed to the—” She stops, glares at me. “What?”

Spit collects in the back of my throat, but I manage to spit out, “You're naked.”

“Don't be absurd.” Hands on hips, she looks down at herself. “You've never seen a girl in a bikini?”

I don't see a bikini. I see underwear, thin and edged with lace. The green fabric matches her eyes.

“Is this going to be a problem?”

Her nipples cast crescent moon shadows through her bra. A few hairs curl over the waistband of the panties in sharp relief to her cream-colored belly. I focus on the long, smooth expanse of her stomach, her belly button the least dangerous target.

Her fierce smile returns and she regards me for a long, agonizing moment. Then she strides across the room. Heat pours from my head through my chest, crashes against a matching wave rising from my groin. I lean back, hands on the arms of the chair, as she straddles me and rests her ass on my thighs. She grips my shoulders and leans forward. The pressure of her breasts against my chest bleeds the air from my lungs. Her breath is moist in my ear. “
Oliver
, is
this
going to be a problem?”

I want to answer, but a dizzying scent of flowers and earth throws my brain into a kernel panic.

She takes my earlobe between her lips, giggles softly as a shudder runs through me. When she reaches down between her legs and grabs the inside of my thigh, her touch is so electric I almost buck her off. She kneads my leg for a moment, then runs her hand up my chest. My gaze follows her own as she leans back. Her eyes seem to have their own gravity. “You've never been laid, have you?”

“Jesus.”

Her laughter is like stones falling into a well. She caresses my arms, shoulders to wrists. Without breaking her gaze, she guides my hands up to her chest, centers my palms on her breasts. When she releases my wrists, I start to pull away but she shakes her head. “Leave them.”

A shiver runs through me. I nod a little as if I have a choice.

“You like that?”

I don't respond.

“You're allowed to like it. I'd be surprised if you didn't like it, unless you're gay—in which case you'd like something else.” She giggles, licks her lips. “But you're not gay, are you?”

The smallest shake of the head.

“You're holding my tits, Oliver.”

“Okay.” A whisper.

“You're allowed to like it. I like it too. Not right now, but as a general rule, I mean.” A throaty chuckle. “Would you like to know what else I'd like?”

I do, even though part of me is afraid of the answer.

“I'd like you to get used to this, Oliver.”

I try to swallow, fail. “Used to this?”

“Used to
me
.” She does a little hip shimmy in case I'm not clear about who she's talking about. “I may not be here that much, but when I am, you have to deal.”

Deal?

“This is my room. I want to feel comfortable here.”

“Okay.”

“I need to be able to change clothes and take a shower and walk around in my underwear, because that's what I do here. In
my
room.”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying okay.”

“Okay.”

More laughter, less gentle. Her eyes flash emerald. “You're not hideous or disfigured.” Her eyes are nothing like Trisha's. They're hard as gems, cold as ice. I want to look away, can't. “Someday,
Joey
, I'm sure some girl will want you to fuck her.”

I feel like I'm going to choke.

“I am not that girl.”

She stands. I gaze at her breasts, no longer in my hands. Perfect and upright. But receding…receding. She drifts across the room, just a few paces. Might as well be miles away.

I close my eyes and shudder one last time. Philip was wrong. She's not an ogress. She's far more dangerous.

2.2: And: Scene

Trisha doesn't show up for school Tuesday or Wednesday. If Denise knows why, she's not telling. I only ask once—I don't want to look like some kind of stalker, an effort at which I apparently fail. At lunch, Beth Black puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “She's writing a poem, Joey. She'll be back.”

“Okay.”

“She told me about the sand dollar, an interesting token. You should use it.”

“For what?” Beth wanders off without offering an explanation. In rapid succession, Cooper, Mrs. An, and Harley May stop me from stealing off to Uncommon Cup. Just as well, I guess. I have work to do. I finger the sand dollar, then grit my teeth and tell myself to stop being such a Bella. The Plan leaves no room for romantic entanglements.

The good news is no cops. At a short assembly after Day Prep, Cooper tells us they have finished at the school, but may have follow-up questions with some of us individually. I hope that doesn't mean they could show up at the Boobie Hatch unannounced. Cooper also tells us there's been no change with Duncan, though doctors remain hopeful. Harley May leads us in a creative visualization meditation. I visualize escaping through one of the Commons skylights with rocket boots.

More good news is no Kristina Tuesday night. The night before she had mercy on me and didn't sleep nude, but in the morning she walked out of the bathroom naked and dripping from the shower. Laughed at the abrupt flow of blood to my cheeks. I hope it was just the blood in my cheeks. I make a point of sleeping in sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee-shirt I stole from Philip, just in case.

Wednesday is more of the same. I ace a quiz in Trig, manage to turn in a source list which passes muster. When I'm not in class, I'm in the computer lab, hammering out a paper on
The Crucible
or catching up on ChalkChat messages. My laptop remains on Cooper's shelf, out of reach. But still no cops. If only I could skip my Reid appointment.

He's not himself. No cryptic smile, no scrutiny drenched in hidden meaning. His office smells like microwave popcorn, but when I make a joke about him not bringing enough to share, he doesn't pretend to be amused.

“The police spoke to me, Joey.”

And: scene.

Not really, but might as well be. 4:01 p.m. and I'm thinking about those rocket boots.

“They wanted to know about your background. What kinds of trouble you've been in.”

4:01…4:01. The clock on the wall over his shoulder is old-fashioned. The sweep hand clicks silently around the face, second by agonizing second, but I feel like I can hear it anyway.
Tick…tick…tick
?

“As you know, there are limits to what I can tell them. Your confidentiality is guaranteed.”

Thanks, Reid
. 4:01. How fucking long does it take for a minute to pass? I blink. It's as if the second hand has bounced backward on me.

“They asked if you had told me where you were when Duncan was injured.”

4:02. Finally.

“I didn't tell them what you told me—that you were in Harley May's class. Because I can't. I wouldn't. Do you understand that, Joey?”

There. It actually did jump backward a tick. I'm sure of it. Bastard clock. 4:02.

“Joey?”

One of the foster kids I lived with in middle school had a collection of comic books,
X-Men
mostly. He acted like they were made of gold, even though they were beat to hell and torn. Hard to keep things nice when you live the life of a foster.

“The nature of our relationship is such that nearly anything you say is between you and me only.”

The kid let me read them sometimes, but only
he
could touch them. The little control freak sat across from me at the dining room table, then reached over and turned the page when I said okay.

“There are only certain things I can reveal without your permission.”

I remember a character—I think it was a girl—who could move things with her mind. 4:02.
Tick…tick tick
.

“If you make what I believe to be a credible threat against another person…”

Right now, I'd give anything to be able to turn the clock ahead with my mind.

“…or against yourself.”

But I couldn't even get permission from a whack-job to turn the pages of a ratty old comic book.

“Or if you reveal a sexual encounter with a child.”

I wonder how old Kristina is. Eighteen? Twenty-five? A well-kept forty, like Bianca Santavenere? Do I count as a child? If she was here instead of me and confessed to sitting in my lap and pressing her tits into my hands, would Reid have to call the cops?

“But pretty much anything else, it's private. Between you and me. You understand that.”

Sweat cracks across my palms as I remember the feel of her breasts.

“It's about trust. You can trust me, Joey. You understand that, don't you?”

I let out a breath. Feels like I've been holding it an hour.
Tick…tick…tick
?

“You can trust me.”

I've heard this speech before. A hundred times.
I get it, Reid
.

“But trust goes both ways.”

Here it comes.

“I need to be able to trust you too.”

Reid will never give up.

“Joey, please understand what I'm saying here. It is in your best interests to answer the police's questions fully and honestly. You need to tell them where you were that day. It's important…for you. For your future.”

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.