Property of the State (3 page)

1.4: Zombie Apocalypse

All I can think to do is put distance between me and the Boobie Hatch. At best, I'm looking at a long, grim night ahead. At worst, Mrs. Petty tracks me down and dumps me in some stack-'em-and-rack-'em warehouse where everyone sleeps in triple-bunked cots and fetal alcohol savages issue beat-downs out of boredom. If I was schizoaffective or borderline personality disorder I might score a room in a country club like the Parry Center, but—my luck—I'm not even on the autism spectrum.

The situation outside isn't much better. Whacked out hobos will throw down over a doorway or a dry spot beneath an overpass. Downtown, pimps troll runaways for mouths to add to their blowjob squads. I might ride the MAX until it stops running. Warm and dry, but I'd risk getting rolled by rail thugs, if I'm not booted by a transit cop first. In the shelters—assuming I could score a bed—it's beat-downs or worse, all over again.

For all that, I prefer my chances outdoors. Wayne will already have his story worked out—“He attacked me. All I did was push him away to protect myself.” I'll take a hobo over the system any day of the week—at least you can sometimes cut a deal with the hobo.

I pause next to a rusty Camaro to hork bloody snot into the gutter. In this neighborhood no one will notice—domestic bloodlettings are as common as feral cats. Rain falls onto my neck out of a sky more blue than gray. The rainbow will be behind me, but I'm in no mood for fucking rainbows. I can hardly breathe, my face feels like someone drove a spike through it, and my options are for shit. Except: keep moving.

At Eight-second Avenue, a bug-eyed kid in the backseat of a passing minivan takes a break from his in-flight movie to gape and point. The van drives on, but a hooker on the corner finishes his thought. “What in hell happen' to you?” Half a block later, I catch my reflection in the window of a discount cigarette shop.

I look like zombie apocalypse, phase two.

There's a McDonald's on the next block where I sometimes stop on my way to school. I don't get but two steps through the door before an assistant manager scoots out from behind the counter. He's waving twig arms and shaking his head. His neck is four sizes too small for his collar.

“You hooligans aren't welcome here.”

Hooligans?
“I just want to wash my hands and face.”

“Bathrooms are for customers only.”

“Fine. I'll have a vanilla shake.” I pull a tangle of singles from my pocket so he knows I can pay.

For a second his Adam's apple quakes, like maybe he works on commission. But then his eyes go hard. “Get out, before I call the police.”

I need to get cleaned up and under cover until I can figure out how to keep my long-term plans on track. Cops I do
not
need.

There are other places along Stark Street—a pizza joint, a few restaurants, a coffee shop—but I have no reason to expect a warmer welcome in any of them. Marcy would let me clean up at Uncommon Cup, the café where I feed my caffeine jones, but UC's on the far side of Mount Tabor and way down Hawthorne. Thirty blocks—and me bleeding the whole way.

Then I have a thought: the Huntzels are half as far as Uncommon Cup, on the west slope of Mount Tabor Park. Mrs. Huntzel won't cover for me with Mrs. Petty, but if I'm lucky I can get there before the APB goes out. She'll let me wash up, maybe loan me some of Philip's clothes. When she asks what happened, I can tell her I was jumped by hooligans.

The Huntzel house is a castle, the kind of place where magazine-ad teens live in shows on the CW. The view alone—of the Hawthorne and Belmont districts and all the way to downtown Portland—screams money. Not that the Huntzels are flashy. Mrs. Huntzel may drive a Beamer—the 740i, her one indulgence—but she gets her hair done at SuperCuts. Mr. Huntzel drives an old Toyota and dresses like a Walmart greeter. And Philip dresses like
me
. Still, things stand out, and not just the BMW. Everything in the house is oversized, an exercise in excess, from the slate roof to the baby-grand piano in the basement rec room—a twenty-by-forty chamber also home to ping pong and pool tables, a fireplace big enough to roast a pig, and a half dozen dead animal heads on the walls. And that's just the daylight end of the basement.

Hell, there are thirty-two smoke detectors in the house. And people wonder why I need a week to clean.

I approach from the rear. Caliban—a freak show mutt who adopted the Huntzels, or maybe just Huntzel Manor—greets me outside the laurel hedge that forms the boundary between park and backyard. From the front, Caliban looks like a dust mop on stilts. The full three-hundred-sixty-view is even more absurd: a lion reimagined by
The Biggest Loser
. Mrs. Huntzel said she thinks he's half-Pomeranian, half-greyhound, half-pit bull. I don't
even
want to know how that happened.

When he sees me, he charges up the hill, tongue flapping. I flinch in anticipation of the tackle, but he barrels past and spins, then hip-checks me.

“Watch it, dog.” I rub his shaggy head and continue down to the hedge gate. The rain has stopped and sun shines through broken clouds. I cross to the veranda, peering through windows. No sign of life. At the side door, I knock and wait. The air feels dense, or maybe the pressure is all inside my head. If it was right after school, I'd go in—except for days when I ride with them, I often beat the Huntzels here. But it's past five. I feel weird arriving so late.

When no one comes, I make for the front door. Caliban pads along behind. The doorbell is a freaking gong: you can hear it anywhere in the house.

Nothing.

“Where is everyone, dog? Still at the hospital?”

Caliban wags his tail, which I take as a yes.

My head is about to fall off and gore has glued my shirt to my chest. Any minute, carrion birds will start circling. “They won't mind if I go in and clean up, will they?” Another wag. I'm surprised he can understand me. In my ears, my voice sounds like a swarm of bees. Not that it matters. I'm talking myself into what might be viewed as trespassing should someone get pissy about it. Small fries, if Cooper tries to start my laptop.

“I'm going in. Cover me.”

Wag.

I use my key at the side door and step into a mud room with openings to the front hallway, the south stairs, and the kitchen.

“Hello? Anyone home?” I punch in the alarm code on the panel inside the butler's pantry. On the long center island in the kitchen there's a Rite-Aid bag—Vicodin for Philip. They've been here and left again, if the silence is any indication. Knowing Mrs. Huntzel, she took Philip for ice cream.

Caliban follows me to the downstairs bathroom. The face looking out of the mirror sends a wave of nausea through me. Blood crusts my neck and shirt, and still oozes from a swollen gash near my right nostril. I soak a towel with cold water, hold it against my nose. After a minute—or an hour—the nausea subsides enough that I can rinse. When I finish, my face pulses in time with my heartbeat and my shirt is drenched, but the reflection in the mirror is slightly less harrowing. I hide the gash behind a
Star Wars
bandage from the cabinet over the sink.

I wipe up and put the towels in to soak in the laundry room, then return to the kitchen to see if anyone has come home. The house is a tomb, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall. The crackle of the Rite-Aid bag in my hand is louder.

Anita swears by OxyContin, but she won't turn up her nose at Vicodin. I've never had either. The dull, red ache in my head tells me there's a first time for everything. I quickly dry-swallow a pill and return the bottle to the bag. Hopefully Philip won't count.

I close my eyes and lean against the counter. Caliban sits patiently as I await the bliss state which seems to define Anita's existence. There's a metallic taste in the back of my throat and a throbbing between my eyes.

Anita is a moron. Or I am.

I open my eyes. Through the window I can see all the way to the West Hills. Money.

“This sucks, dog. Let's go find some dry clothes.” He wags his tail.

Philip's room is a minefield of empty cereal bowls and paperback science-fiction novels. My cleaning duties don't include personal areas, thank God. His Book is on top of the tangled wad of blankets and pillows at the head of the bed. That tells me all I need to know about how bad his nose is. He never goes anywhere without his Book, a three-ring binder filled with page after page of notation on every chess game he's ever played.

Rooting through his dresser for something to wear, I'm surprised by a folder under his socks. It's filled with clippings from grocery store tabloids, all pictures of Bianca Santavenere. Weird. I would not have pegged Philip for an obsession with the used-to-be teen star now best known for stunting wardrobe malfunctions to get on TMZ. I remember her mostly because Maddie, my first foster mother, used to watch reruns of Bianca's show while us kids cleaned house. It was one of those teen drama-fests—lots of expensive clothing, crying jags, and “we have to talk” moments. But Bianca is ancient now, like forty-something.

Philip, dude…seriously?

I snag a sweatshirt with the words
Symphonica d'Italia
on the front, whatever that means. A pair of gym shorts completes the ensemble. Back in the laundry room, I strip to my underwear. Clothes join the towels in the washing machine, heavy-duty cycle.

As I pull on Philip's sweatshirt, a wave of dizziness comes over me. I shake my head. Mistake. Woozy, I drag my backpack to the rec room. I'm thinking I should start cleaning—good way to explain my presence. But my arms and legs feel like mud. I need to sit down for a few minutes first. Catch my breath, maybe check messages. Mrs. Petty will have something to say even if I have no intention of calling her back.

The oversized sectional couch is softer than I remember. My phone rests in my hand, ignored, as I melt into the upholstery and peer at the moose head hanging over the mantle. A quarter-inch layer of dust coats the broad antlers. I can't believe I let it get so bad. I make a mental note for Thursday, rec room day. The other heads—bighorn sheep, a couple of pronghorns, a Thomson's gazelle—will need dusting too.

Caliban scootches up beside me and I scratch behind his ears. “You gonna back me up, dog?” His fur is a tangle of twigs and mud. “I could say I was coming over to take care of my Tuesday schedule and you knocked my ass down the hill.”

Wag.

“I agree. A Caliban-tackle face-plant is way more plausible than hooligans.”

1.5: Lay Low

A voice jerks me out of a slow-motion dream. I'm running from Wayne, running from Anita's forklift, from Mrs. Petty's Impala—all to a soundtrack of feverish violin music. Cooper is asking me why my laptop won't boot up. I blink and suppress a groan. The light through the French doors is thin and watery.

“Philip! How many times have I told you to wait until you have a full load before you do laundry?”

Mrs. Huntzel's voice. Close, but not too close. The laundry room is at the far end of the basement, but sound echoes strangely against the old stone foundation. I can't hear Philip's response, but I can guess, based on Mrs. Huntzel's next words. “Don't tell me you didn't do laundry. I'm putting it in the dryer as we speak.”

Sorry, Philip.

Gingerly, I explore my face with my fingers. It's mushy and tender at the point where my nose struck the corner of the desk, but the Vicodin must have done its job—I feel okay. Not great, since I'm pretty sure a family of mice have taken up residence in my sinus cavity. But not terrible.

I sit up, dig my cell phone from under my hip where it slipped while I dozed. No messages, which surprises me. Mrs. Petty should have been burning microwaves.

Sooner or later I'll have to try to walk back Wayne's stream of bullshit about what happened, but if she's in no hurry, neither am I. Between Wayne and my laptop, the system will reboot my life sooner or later, regardless of my busted-to-hell face. I could be looking at a lockdown farm.

I can handle getting yanked from Wayne and Anita's. I can even handle a group home. But if they pull me from Katz, I'll probably have to kiss early graduation good-bye.

One lousy school year. That's all I need.

But at the moment, I have a bigger problem. According to the clock on the cell phone display, it's a little before seven.

In the morning.

“Shit.”

Caliban, conked out beside me, lifts his head. His tail thumps the couch.

“Shhh.” I put my hand out and get a lick.

Sleeping over wasn't the idea. Whatever Mrs. Huntzel might think of me coming to work late due to a Mrs. Petty after-school intervention, I can't believe she'll be happy to learn I camped out for the night.

Behind me, through the rec room door I can see across the slate-floored landing to the doorway that leads into the utility part of basement. A long hallway runs past the vault—of course Huntzel Manor has a frickin' vault—and storage rooms to the laundry room tucked under the south staircase.

The main stairs lead to the front hall—risky. There's a passage past the laundry room into the garage cellar, but the only door out that way faces the kitchen. A skinny spiral staircase in the corner of the rec room climbs through the living room and up to the library on the second floor, but that takes me back to the main parts of the house. The French doors leading to the lower veranda aren't an option. They'll set off a security system alert as soon as I open them. And I don't have a key to the small door next to the fireplace. Not sure anyone does.

My best bet is to lay low and wait for everyone to leave. First bell is in less than half an hour. Mrs. Huntzel never misses first bell. Twenty minutes, tops, and I can let myself out. No one has to know I was ever here.

I hunker down on the couch.

Caliban noses my hand. He wants to play.

“Shoo, dog.”

Disappointed, he jumps down and trots off. He leaves a patch of leaf fragments and dried mud on the couch cushion. Something else to clean on Thursday. His ticking footsteps fade as he heads out the door.

I thumb through the menus on my phone, trying to decide whether to text Trisha, when Mrs. Huntzel passes on the other side of the French doors. Because of the slope, the lower veranda sits in a little bowl accessible only from the rec room or down narrow steps from the upper veranda. She's dressed for school in one of her gray suits. Her hair, copper fading to steel, is brushed back from her face. As I watch, she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket, lights up with an expert flick of a Zippo. Through the door, I can hear the sharp, metallic clack as she closes the lighter.

Her gaze uphill, she folds her arms across her chest, the cigarette between the first two fingers of her right hand. Smoke rises past her ear until she raises her hand to take a drag. When she turns, her expression is dark and troubled. As she exhales, her lips curve into a sharp frown.

At that instant, my cell phone chirps in my hand, a text message:

joey, so sorry about teh news. txt me
. <3

Trisha
. Talk about timing.

Mrs. Huntzel looks over her shoulder. Through the windows, her eyes seem to meet mine. I press back into the couch cushions, paralyzed, as her eyebrows narrow.

Half the house is uninhabited, but I manage to hide in the one room with an unobstructed view from outside. Better options are accessible via the spiral staircase not ten feet away: the library, one of the guest rooms, hell, even Kristina's room. Philip's older sister, no one enters her forbidden chamber. When I ask Philip about her, he bristles.
She's horrible.…Nobody wants her here.…She left, isn't coming back
. I could hide in her room for a month if I had to.

Mrs. Huntzel moves closer to the window. She takes another drag, shoots smoke through her nose. One hand goes to her temple to adjust a strand of hair. I'm half a second from diving over the back of the couch when I realize she's looking at her own reflection. She closes her eyes and shakes her head, then lets out a long, smoky breath. She's just turning away when Caliban appears, wiggling his bony ass. His appearance seems to startle her. The cigarette falls from her hand and rolls off the edge of the veranda.

My spark of anxiety about the fallen butt doesn't have time to flash as Mrs. Huntzel bends over to greet the homely mutt. “How on earth do you get in here?” She sounds exasperated even as she runs her hand through the dog's mane. No one knows how Caliban comes or goes. One of my first jobs for the Huntzels was checking the laurel hedge for dog-sized openings. Nuthin'. After that, they gave in to the inevitable and semi-adopted him, even allowing food and water dishes in the mudroom. “Come on. I have to get Philip to school.”

A moment later, she's gone.