Property of the State (16 page)

I try to understand why she held on to this all day, all evening. The answer seems obvious enough. She believed one thing about us right up to the moment I wouldn't answer a simple question. Then she started believing something else.

“I guess you got yourself a—” Her voice cracks and she shakes her head. “You got yourself a
rich
girlfriend now.”

I'd give anything for an undo.

“At least I have my Krugerrands.” She jumps to her feet and storms across the rec room. I should follow, but something holds me back. From the landing, I hear the bathroom door slam.

I grab the Baileys, suck down a long gulp. Then another. The creamy booze curdles in my belly and I feel like I'm going to be sick.
She'll come back
, I think, or hope.
Then I'll fix this—somehow
. I lie back as the room spins around me. But I drink again, and again—until the bottle is empty. After a bit, I doze off. Or pass out.

Then wake—abruptly. For a moment panic surges through me, but the room is dark and still. I push myself up and shuffle out to the landing to check on Trisha. The bathroom is dark. I suppose she could be roaming the house, but after what happened, I can't imagine why she'd stick around. She must have slipped out the kitchen door before Philip and his mom got home, or if she left after, maybe they didn't notice the security system alert.

I return to the couch. A bit later, when I hear Philip playing his violin, I flee to Kristina's room. The atmosphere is thick with dread. I crack open the window, desperate for fresh air, and fall back on the bed.

My shirt is still damp from Trisha's tears, but I don't bother to change. It's not much, but it seems the least I can do. In the end, maybe the only thing we have in common is our status with the State of Oregon. Rejected, neglected, abandoned, molested. But aside from that, she's a girl desperate for someone to share her secrets and I'm a boy who will never tell.

2.12: Are You Awake?

At some point during the night, I awake to find her in bed, curled around me. My head is mush from the Baileys, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. I didn't hear her come in. Now she has one leg thrown across my thighs, an arm draped over my chest. Her breast makes a hot spot on my chest. She breathes into my ear. In my sleep, I must have snaked an arm around her back; my hand rests on her hip. She shifts slightly and coos in her sleep. Then she's still again.

I don't know what to make of her presence, nor how she found me. Rather than ponder questions I can't answer, I leave my hand on her hip and breathe in her scent. Her exhalations are steady and soft. Half lost in a dream of her amber eyes, my thoughts clarify. Together in the darkness, I match her stillness.

And then her breathing changes.

“Are you awake?”

It's Kristina.

For a second I feel like the bed has vanished beneath me. My body goes stiff and seems to shrink in on itself. Then a laugh presses upward through my throat, something wild and out-of-control. I'm afraid to let it go, because if I do, I'll sound like a mad man.

“Jesus.”

“I was cold.”

We're under a sheet, a comforter, a quilt. We're in a house heated by a steam boiler the size of an SUV. She's not cold—she's on fire.

“Are you familiar with the concept of pajamas?”

“You're too tense.”

“I can't imagine why that would be.”

“I told you to get used to this.”

“No, you told me to get used to a naked girl traipsing around the room, changing clothes and stuff. Not a naked girl wrapping herself around me in bed in the middle of the night.”

“I'm wearing underwear.”

“A distinction without a difference.”

She's quiet for a long time. “Maybe you have a point there.”

I sigh. Sleep is impossible. The fog returns, centered on my forehead and chased by pain the shape of an axe blade. Inside, a tiny voice tells me to pull my arm from around her if I want to calm the flutter in my chest and the awkward stirring below my waist. Instead, I wriggle uncomfortably, unable to remove my hand from her thigh. A sound leaks from my throat, half-moan, half-whimper. After several minutes, she expels an exasperated sigh.

“You are
such
a baby.”

“What?” I hate the whine in my voice.

“You heard me.” She slides her hand down my belly and snaps the waistband of my sweat pants. I squirm to escape, but she throws the blankets off and draws away. In that instant, my mind fixes on the memory of her breast pressed against my chest.

She goes into the bathroom and clunks around for a while. When the door opens, I catch a glimpse of a tee-shirt and yoga pants before she flicks the bathroom light off. She climbs back under the covers, but keeps to her side of the bed. My body tingles like there's a buffer of ionized air between us.

“Better?”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? As she exhales agitation and drums her fingers on the comforter, I lie there, staring at the blinking smoke detector on the ceiling and wondering where they'll stick me when all this comes crashing down. Mars, I hope.

But after a while, her breathing slows and she turns onto her side toward me.

“You
are
a baby, you know.”

Sigh.

She chuckles for a moment, then goes quiet. “Listen, I know it was weird today at the Square. It would have been weirder if you'd stuck around though.”

You're telling me
. I wonder what she'd say if I admitted to spotting her with Mr. Huntzel.

“It's fine.”

“If it's fine, why are you lying there huffing and puffing like I'm the third little pig?”

I sit up. “
I'm
huffing and puffing? You're the one who—”

She laughs and smacks me on the arm. “Got ya!”

“Jesus.” I drop back on my pillow. “You are a total mystery. Hell, you're miles past a mystery. I mean, you act like…
this
…is nothing.” Why my mouth is running is the real mystery. “You don't even
know
me.”

“I know more about you than you think.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You think you can keep your secrets from me, Oliver?”

“I don't have any secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets.” She leans toward me. “Tell me one. See if you can surprise me.”

“I'm an orphan.”

“That's not a secret.”

“It's the only thing you need to know about me.”

“We're all orphans.”

I don't feel like arguing. Her mother is asleep a hundred feet away. Talk about secrets—that woman has secrets. Bianca and Italy, the sack of money, the hospital? But before I tumble down that rabbit hole, Kristina asks a question that makes me wonder if her secret is the ability to read minds.

“What do you remember of your mom?”

Ice water runs through me. It's been a long time since Reid asked me the same question. “Nothing.”

“You were still with her until you were almost six.”

“How do you know that?”

In the darkness, I can sense her smile. “Maybe I've been checking up on you.”

Her mother must have told her father what she knew, and he shared my life over a Honkin' Huge burrito. “Why are you asking me this shit?”

“My house, my rules.” Her tone is suddenly combative. “Answer or find somewhere else to squat, orphan.”

“I don't remember anything!”

“Bullshit.”

Her heartbeat thumps in the darkness. The scent of my own sweat stings my nose, draws tears from my eyes. “What the hell is with you?”

“I was raised by wolves. Now spit it out.”

I sigh. “Well, I was born under a tree—”

“You remember being
born
?”

“Obviously not.” I rub my eyes, swallow a thick wad of phlegm. “Do you want to hear this?”

“Sorry. Born under a tree.”

“It was in the forest on a hillside above Sandy.”

“Sounds nice.”

“This is how nice it was.” I lick my lips. “Eva Getchie, my alleged mother, went into labor while out hunting mushrooms. She sat under a tree for ten hours until my head appeared. Then she grabbed me by the neck and yanked me out and threw me down in the dirt. Got up, walked home. Some other mushroom hunters found me the next morning, barely alive. So even if I did live with her off and on for a few years until her rights were finally terminated, don't you think it's just as well I don't remember any of it?”

For a long time she doesn't say anything. I'm glad she doesn't ask questions, because I don't want to explain how Eva spent time in jail, how my first caseworker tried to reshape her into a proper mother after her release. Parenting classes, counseling. A spectacular failure, but the worst of it, I'm told, was before my memories begin. An emptiness balloons inside me. I feel stupid and guilty, find myself aching for the oblivion of sleep. Based on past history, I won't wake up till after she's gone—though I may suffer dark dreams.

Of course, she's not finished. “Bloody Christ, you're a walking tragedy.”

This is why I never tell Reid anything, though I suppose there are rules to keep him from openly mocking me. Still, why Kristina? Why not Trisha, for fuck's sake? A few hours before, if I'd had the courage to answer a single question, I might still be downstairs. Trisha and I could listen to Philip play his violin, unburden ourselves in the dark.

Would it have been so bad to tell her about Wayne, or about Eva? To explain the strange doings of the inhabitants of Huntzel Manor, including the girl with the green hair? To give her more than silence? Surely that would be preferable to feeling so raw and exposed. From that scene in Yancy Krokos' shipping container to the revelation of the Krugerrand, it's clear all she wanted was someone to understand, someone like herself. A foster, an orphan. And if anyone might understand me back, wouldn't it be Trisha Lee?

Yet, somehow, Kristina Huntzel is the one who peeled me open and laid bare every raw nerve.

Jesus.

2.13: YouTube

Trisha doesn't respond to my texts. I spend most of Saturday away from the house, unable to face hours upon hours in Kristina's pink room. My phone is effectively dead in my hands.

I'm at Uncommon Cup. Come hang out?

Silence.

We could talk. Or just do homework.

Nothing.

Too bad I can't concentrate on Chemistry worksheets or Trig problems. My thoughts rattle around inside my skull like ball bearings in a tin can. In a fit of childish mortification, I left Trisha's laptop in Kristina's dresser when I escaped the house. Seemed like a good idea in the moment, but now I'm stuck with no way to work on half my assignments, or scour Google. My crap 7-11 cell phone doesn't do Internet. True, at Uncommon Cup, I'm surrounded by laptops, but instead of asking a stranger to do a search, I wait till I go to the counter for my fourth double-shot of the day to ask Marcy what she knows about Bianca Santavenere.

She thinks for just a second. “Well, she's no Lindsay or Charlie, but on the Famewhore Catastrophe Continuum, Bianca is at least a C-list calamity. Why?”

“I dunno. Her name came up.”

“You never struck me as an aficionado of three-digit cable channel pseudo-celebs.”

I feel stupid. “I saw a video, this Italian show where she was cheering for a kid playing a violin. But I don't speak Italian.”

“You don't say.” She gives me a look. Another customer appears, so I return to my seat with my espresso. It's still hard to concentrate, but I tell myself the math won't do itself. Based on my pathetic progress, it won't get done by me either.

After a while, my legs start to bounce in my chair—too much caffeine, I tell myself. The café feels claustrophobic, so I gather my unfinished assignments. My first thought is to walk off the twitches, circle the block once or twice and return to my station to await the girl who will never come. But hours of forced marching end with me standing across the street from Trisha's house. It's become the kind of glorious fall day Portlanders rave about during fits of denial about the winter bearing down on us. Dappled sunlight through leaves just starting to turn, a warm breeze smells of grass.

Oppressive.

The Voglers live in Alameda, northeast Portland—five miles one way as the boy hikes. I've come so far it seems stupid not to take the last dozen steps to the front door. I can't do it. After a minute or an hour, I hunch my shoulders and turn away.

They're probably at the coast anyway. I hope Mr. Vogler didn't bring any Krugerrands.

When I return to the house, I dig out the laptop, only to discover the Huntzels don't have WiFi. A few spotty networks from the neighborhood come up, all password-protected. I don't want to slog back to Uncommon Cup, find myself reading Trisha's poem instead. It feels like a punishment, so I read it again. A few lines stand out.

I gather the coins, the needless clothes

Like shards of glass littered around me,

The abomination caught in the wind…

One day last summer, a few weeks before Mr. Vogler in the driveway, Trisha and I were sitting in the grass on the Mount Tabor summit watching a pair of crows dive-bomb a hovering hawk. It circled lower and lower, dodging its assailants, until at last we lost sight of it in the trees. After it was gone, the crows perched atop a couple of Doug firs and bragged to anyone listening.

“Guess they wanted rid of him,” I said.

“I know how he feels.”

I looked at her, wondering if she was referring to the Voglers. She scratched one eye under her sunglasses.

“Did I ever tell you about my grandmother—my biological grandmother?” I shook my head. “She used to call me the Abomination.” I could hear the capital letter in Trisha's voice. In a moment of weakness, I asked her why.

She put her out her hand next to mine and seemed to compare them, hers warm brown and mine the color of spackle. I waited, but she only shrugged. “Doesn't matter.”

A lot of fosters—the ones who come into the system when they're old enough to remember—have little stories like that. At the time, I thought about Eva Getchie driving off in the pickup, but I kept that to myself. I never learned what Trisha's grandmother meant.

I wish I could ask her again.

Feeling foolish and alone, I hide the laptop in the bottom dresser drawer under my clothes. That night, I sleep fully clothed.

Sunday morning, I catch up on Thursday and Friday work. I'm afraid to face Mrs. Huntzel when it comes time to get paid, sure she'll say something about the hospital. But she doesn't blink when I finish and pays me with a terse thank you. After a loop around Mount Tabor through lingering fog, I slip back to the pink room to brood the day away. I should be working, or down the hill trolling the Internet using Trisha's computer. I can barely bring myself to sneak out to snork pudding cups. At least Kristina doesn't make an appearance.

Small favors.

Monday morning, the rain is back. Even so, the first person I come across through the doors at Katz—Denise Grover—is wearing sunglasses.

“Good weekend, Dee?”

“Fuck off.”

“How long did the party last?”

“Don't make me repeat myself, asshole.”

She must have talked to Trisha.

In Day Prep, even Ferrell and Somers are subdued. Honey Nut Cheerios must a killer ale make. I find a chair, wave a hand when Harley May calls roll—something she never did before Duncan. I half-wish I'd brought Trisha's laptop to do a little Googling, but it's just as well. The moment I pulled it out, Cooper would probably materialize in front of me.

After a minute, the PA system burps and the announcements start. I rarely listen anyway, but Krokos emits a long, low whistle from his desk, then starts laughing.

“Dudes. You have
got
to see this.” He's got his Katz laptop open. Ferrell and Somers scoot around in their chairs. Neither seems much interested at first, then Jeff's eyes pop. Harley May frowns at me when I join them, but doesn't say anything.

Krokos has a video up on the screen. YouTube is supposed to be blocked on the school network, but these guys always figure out a way. At first I can't make out what's on the screen. The video is obviously shot with a cell phone. It looks like a view through fog, dark at the edges with an object, pale and shapeless in the middle. The camera shakes and for a second there's a clear shot of a white brick ceiling, cobwebby and half-familiar. A bare yellow light bulb. Then the camera moves again, focuses and music starts up.

It's Philip.

My breath catches in my throat.

Philip in the vault.

Philip playing his violin
.

“This is not happening.”

The voice sounds shrill. With a start, I realize it's my own. The video was posted by someone whose username is a random string of characters, with a very unrandom “clmz_zebretta_” at the beginning. A new user account, no other videos.

I have no doubt who it is.

Other people pull out their phones. The hangover energy transforms into something else, something feral.

“Look at the views count.”

It's at nearly fifteen thousand for a video posted Friday at midnight. Three hundred Katz students can't possibly be responsible for so many hits.

Sometimes you don't know what makes a video go viral. But this one is easy. Guy playing the violin—whatever. Sure, he's good—clearly Philip is a virtuoso. But that's not it. Not the venue either. Not even the fact he's in his underwear. That kind of detail might generate a little buzz, but we're still talking mostly local interest.

The boner has a certain explanatory power. Even in the grainy video, Philip's response to his own performance is unmistakable.

But the money shot is, I'd say, the money shot. At 01:48, Philip's face twists into a grimace and the front of his tented briefs darkens.

Or, as Krokos puts it, “Dude made squirt for Mozart.”