Property of the State (9 page)

1.16: Tighty-Whities

It's barely eight when I sneak down to the basement, Caliban at my heels. The rec room is quiet and empty, dust-free after my efforts on Thursday. The door next to the fireplace looks like an afterthought, plain and dark, a wooden airlock with an ancient deadbolt and no knob. I'm half-surprised when Kristina's key slides into the keyhole. The door opens with the barest squeak. As promised, there's no bleat from the security system.

Caliban darts out ahead of me into a space shaded by the looming chimney and the laurel hedge. I've worked for the Huntzels for months, but this is the first time I've seen this end of the house from the outside. The slope of Mount Tabor drops sharply here, too steep for landscaping. Last year's leaves crackle under my feet. After throwing me a look, Caliban disappears into the brush. A weedy path spills down to the street, hidden from the house by a wall of arborvitae.

With Kristina's key, I can come and go as I please. I can only guess why she gave it to me—maybe more weird Huntzel gratitude for what I did to Duncan. But who the hell knows? I head to Uncommon Cup for breakfast.

Two hours later, I'm sweeping the upper veranda when Philip appears at the foyer door. He stops to watch for a moment, expression unreadable behind his plastic mask. I don't think he needs it now. Probably thinks it makes him look like some kind of super villain. The Chessinator. He's got his Book in one hand. I assume Mrs. Huntzel chased him outside to “get a little sun.” The bruising around his eyes has cycled from wannabe Goth to comical raccoon.

I lean on the broom. “Hey, Philip. What's the deal with Kristina, anyway?”

He jumps when I speak, startled. Stares at me for a long, blank moment.

Why do I even bother? He never answers my questions—a position I approve of most of the time. But Kristina…I don't know where she came from, don't know where she went. Or why she showed up at all. Sleep with a girl within two minutes of meeting her and it makes an impression, even if you never touch each other.

“Why do you care about Kristina? She's an ogress.”

Not the word I'd choose. “Just wondering.”

He's quiet for a long time. Usually that means he's trying to figure out how to be clever or evasive. Since he sucks at both I'd rather he just told me to fuck off.

“I refuse to discuss Kristina.”

Fuck off it is.

He goes looking for somewhere else to obsess, leaving me to my menial labor. Usually I don't mind pushing a broom or scrubbing floors, but this morning the mindless task leaves my brain free to ponder the women in my life.

Kristina. Mrs. Huntzel and her gun. Anita's fearful kindness—
Did your laundry, sorry about the face
.

Mrs. Petty has been dark since Tuesday in the corral. Usually I wouldn't care, but I'm not thrilled she left me to twist with the cops.

When you don't need them, you can't get rid of them. When you do, they're nowhere to be found. Get used to it.

As I work, my mind keeps looping back to Trisha. I wonder how things are going at the beach. Her silence is like a pressure in the center of my chest. While I was at Uncommon Cup, I went so far as to initiate contact. A miracle text.

Hey. Bring me a shell?

Half an hour and one pulverized donut later, I sent another.

That was a joke.

No response. Might be time to rethink my fierce opposition to emojis.

***

At noon, Mrs. Huntzel reviews the clipboard, then takes seven twenties from her purse. None smell like ass. “Thank you, Joey. Good work.”

I'm dismissed. One-forty is my best week ever.

As weekends go, this one is meh. I spend Saturday afternoon at Uncommon Cup working on Math and doing my American History reading. The only moment of interest is when I hear two girls rattling off a list of celebs who are “
sooo
grotesquely overexposed.” Bianca Santavenere makes the cut. Apparently she's been shopping a “leaked” sex tape. By the time the café closes, I'm a week ahead on History and Trig, and working on my counteroffensive for when Moylan sticks me with an
M
. I steal into the house through Kristina's secret door without incident, lie awake for hours wondering if she's going to make another appearance.

Sunday is dull as dry beans. Me mostly holed up in Kristina's room, Caliban farting at my side. I'm grateful for the company, but,
sheesh, dog
. I probably shouldn't get used to it; last thing I need is him scratching on her door to visit when I'm not around. Still, it's nice to think I'm not the only uninvited guest in the house. When the cops finally bust us, maybe we can share a cell.

Every few minutes I check my phone, resist the urge to text Trisha. I read
The Crucible
. Make progress on my DI project. Sleepwalk through a couple of Chemistry worksheets. At intervals, I sneak into the kitchen to scarf pizza rolls, potato salad, and pretzel sticks. Grazing from the food group P.

During the afternoon, I watch from a second-floor window as Philip pulls the 740i out of the garage and washes it in the driveway. Should be my job, but I
am
burning through a shit-ton of pudding cups so I can't really complain about a missed hour of paying work. It's been a week since I faced a plate of creamed chipped beef.

Sunday night I sneak through the basement to the kitchen—reading alone for hours is hungry work. As I pass through the rec room, I hear the sound of violin music. At first, I think it must be coming from upstairs. I wonder if the Huntzels have guests. But as I near the door to the utility basement, the music grows louder. For a moment I find myself caught up. The sound is strange and resonant, loud, frenetic. And missing something, though it's not clear what until the sound abruptly stops and Philip steps through the vault door. He's carrying a violin in one hand, bow in the other. Wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-whities, his body slick with sweat.

Wriggling bugs crawl through my gut. It's only because he goes the other direction, toward the kitchen stairs, that he doesn't bust me. I slink back to Kristina's room, no longer hungry. Getting late anyway.

As I'm trying to fall asleep, I think back to my dream the first night I was here; the feverish violin music must have been Philip. I had no idea he could play anything except chess. I don't know classical music, but even I could tell he's good.

What I don't want to know is why he plays alone, in the vault. And definitely not why in his underwear.

1.17: That Was a Joke

Monday morning. I guess it's fall now, since I tramp down to Hawthorne through rain and the smell of wet leaves. But I forget my soggy shoes when I get to Uncommon Cup. Trisha sits with the fish, mug in one hand,
The Crucible
open in the other. I get a regular coffee—cheaper than a double shot—and skip the donuts. Coagulated eggs, soysage, and watery orange juice await me at school—repulsive, but free.

I sit down. Before I can say anything, her eyes spill over me. “Don't worry.”

“Don't worry about what?”

“He wouldn't let them ask me any questions.”

I can't believe I've forgotten the detectives already. Maybe not forgotten them. Just…other things on my mind. Guns and green-haired girls. Secret money. I meet Trisha's gaze. “Why not?”

“Maybe he doesn't like cops.”

One thing Mr. Vogler and I have in common.

“Did you invoke?”

“Is that what it's called?” She grins. “How many times have you been arrested, Joey?”

I look at the fish. “I'm surprised they didn't call your caseworker.”

“That guy's useless. Probably doesn't even remember my name.”

They can't all be Mrs. Petty I guess. As I sit there wondering what it would be like to have a caseworker who didn't know my name, Trisha tips something into her mug from a silver flask.

“You want some?”

“Uh.”

“Good grief. It's just Baileys.” She taps the flask with her index finger, but then she tucks it away in her jacket. Her eyes scan the café. “I like it here. Want to come back after lunch?”

I swallow. I can't tell if she's changing the subject on purpose, or actually likes Uncommon Cup. I want to know more about the police, but she's more interested in the café.

“Well?”

“I have to show up for DI today. And then after that I need to spend time in the computer lab before Trig.”

“Right.” She nods as if she understands, but a shadow of disappointment darkens her gaze. Unless it's my own reflected back at me. “You know, Joey, you could borrow my Katz laptop. I got a MacBook for my birthday.” The Comp Lab Troll must love her.

“You don't have to do that. It's only a few weeks.”

“Don't be silly. You could come home with me and pick it up instead of going to the lab.”

The mental image of Mr. Vogler setting attack dogs on me flares behind my eyes. “Let me see how it goes today.” Before she can press, I add, “How was the beach?”

Now I'm the one changing the subject. She hesitates, then lets it go. “Tedious. Mom had some big work project, so it was just me and dad until Saturday night.” Her cheeks darken. “He took my phone.”

She must see the panic on my face.

“Don't worry. I erased all the messages. I always erase my messages.”

“I texted you a couple of times.”

“I know. He told me.” She turns her book over and leans forward, her voice going quiet and conspiratorial. “He got all weird about it, like you were communicating in code. ‘What does he mean,
bring me a shell
?' I said it meant you wanted me to bring you a shell.”

“It was a joke.”

“Obviously, dumbshit.” A gleam dances in her eyes, then she leans to her side to root around in her book bag. When she raises up again, she's holding a sand dollar. “I brought you a shell anyway.”

Electricity arcs up my spine. She presses the sand dollar into my hand. Part of me wants to run, like I'm caught in a burning building. Instead, I run my thumb over the coarse surface. It's white as milk and fits perfectly in my palm.

“You didn't have to do this.”

“I know.”

A trace of adhesive on one side tells me she got it at a tourist gift shop. I stare at it for a long time, trying to figure out what to say.
Thank you
would probably do. A random factoid is what trips off my tongue.

“They call these sea cookies in New Zealand.”

She snickers. “They do not.”

“They do too.”

“How do you know that? And don't give me some dippy male-answer-syndrome bullshit either.”

It's possible I'm making it up, but it feels like actual information. “I read it somewhere.”

“Let me guess. Wikipedia.”

“Probably.”

“Dumbshit.”

At least she's smiling as she leans back in her chair and stretches her arms over her head. My gaze falls on her breasts, rising and falling as she breathes, and the electricity returns. Then I catch movement behind her. From the counter, Marcy leers as my face goes molten. Trisha drops her arms and leans forward. “What?”

“What what?”

“You're blushing.”

“No, I'm not.”

She cups my hand in hers, hiding the sand dollar inside. “I like it.”

I turn to the fish tank and will my flesh to blanch. Fail. “Thanks for the sea cookie, Trisha.”

“You're welcome, Joey.” With that, she stands up. “I've got to go. Denise and I are getting together before school.” Her warm fingers brush the back of my neck. “Think about my offer.” After she's gone, I catch Marcy gazing at me, a half-smile on her lips.

For the first time in days, the overheated pressure in my chest is gone. The lack of sensation throws me, as if I've lost something important. Tension gives me an edge. Worry reminds me of the danger lurking behind every encounter. Anxiety keeps me from making mistakes. Trisha feels like a mistake. A beautiful mistake. I'll see her again before the day is out, but already I miss the feeling of her hand on mine.

I grip the sand dollar in my pocket, walk to school in a daze. Not wanting what I want.

At Katz, the corridors are jammed with people, moving in clots, talking, opening and closing lockers. I lose my way in the hallways, hear nothing, forget to eat free breakfast before Day Prep.

The noise comes crashing back in the form of the two cops who cut me off on the way into Harley May's classroom. Detective Man-Mountain puts a hand on my shoulder, heavy as a sandbag. Detective Heat Vision does the talking, her squirrelly voice sharp in my ears.

“Joey, we need you to come with us.”

At first, the command makes no sense, but slowly the meaning penetrates my fog.
Where
? But I'm unable to speak aloud, or to twist out of Man-Mountain's grip. He smiles grimly, and guesses my question.

“Not to Directed Inquiry, that's for sure. It's time for you to explain to us where you
really
were when your buddy Duncan got run down in the street.”

0.18: The Book

It's fair to say my idea to escape school, the Boobies, and even Mrs. Petty and state custody grew out of the punch I threw at Duncan Fox. Not that The Plan came to me in the moment.

In that moment, last April, all I knew was my fingers were tingling and Moylan was demanding an explanation.

“Joey gave Duncan a beatdown.”

Moylan stormed across the room to separate us, eyes like boiled eggs, but the words seemed to dampen the fire in me. Philip was already on the floor collecting pages of the Book. Trying not to cry. I exhaled, turned my head toward the rain-swept windows. Saw nothing but gray light and uncertainty. I imagined my next school. Somewhere with yellow lines painted on the floors.

“Boys. With me. Now.”

I only knew Moylan as the Chess Club advisor—I didn't yet have him for Math. The tournament season was over, so he worked with the ranked players after school. Since there was no danger I'd ever be one of those, I sat at the back of the room during club meetings and did homework while I lost my game.

I had a feeling I was about to get to know him better.

He didn't push us. Didn't touch. Smart teacher. But I could feel his eyes guiding us through the door, up the hallway, and across the Commons. We passed near Trisha, who sat with Denise and Beth Black and a senior I knew only as Jen the Amazing. Their table was covered with printed manuscript pages, marked up in red and purple ink. “What happened?” Trisha mouthed, concern darkening her eyes.

Moylan didn't give me a chance to answer. He marched us to the office, barked at Mrs. An as we came through the door. “Is Mr. Cooper available?”

“I'll page him.” Mrs. Huntzel was there, too, but rushed out when Moylan told her to “see to Philip in the chess room.”

He turned on us. “You two. There.”

There
was a bench against the wall outside Cooper's office. We sat as far from each other as possible, a four-foot expanse of oak between us. Not far enough. Moylan vanished and the office hum settled in around us. I exhaled adrenalin vapor and stared at an ink-jetted sign taped to the counter. NO TALKING. From the other side, Mrs. An chatted with a student aide who came in after Moylan left us to stew. Maybe they couldn't see the sign.

Duncan put his elbows on his knees, grabbed his head. I'd never really looked at him, but now his hands drew my gaze. Tufts of his hair stuck out between long, meaty fingers. His forearms were as thick as my calves, his shoulder muscles piled up around his ears.

If I hurt him, it was only because I landed a sucker punch.

“Duncan.”

“Don't talk to me.” He sounded like he had marbles in his mouth. I didn't want to talk to him. Or maybe I did. I remembered the look on Philip's face as he gathered up his scattered pages of notation. Thought about Duncan's big hands and his desperate need to be first board. It was all so stupid. Not just the fight, but everything leading up to the fight. Hell, wind it all the way back to the moment Cooper first led me into the lunchroom and the original act of stupidity was mine, thinking I might have a place there.

All wanting something ever gets you is trouble.

“Listen—”

“Read the sign.”

“You want me to tell you how to beat Philip or not?”

When he answered, “Shut up,” I could tell his heart wasn't in it. He sat clutching his head for a minute like he was trying to hold his skull in place. “Fine. What?”

“I didn't beat him.”

“What do you call it?”

“He made a mistake and I jumped on it.” The aide laughed at something Mrs. An said, then greeted a newcomer with way too much enthusiasm. Lunch must have ended—I recognized Beth's voice.

“So all I have to do is wait for the next time Philip Huntzel screws up? Great tip there, Einstein.”

“Just listen for a minute.”

He slouched away from me, radiating nervy heat. I closed my eyes, inhaled a scent like warm metal. Tried to ignore the noise and chatter on the other side of the counter. A pencil tapping, phone ringing. Lockers slamming out in the hall. Finally Duncan let out a long breath.

“Okay. Tell me.”

“You don't lose to Philip because of the Book.”

“What do you know about it? You're not a student of the game.”

Which is why I won
. I thought about Philip's mistake, my unexpected victory, and wondered if what I was about to tell Duncan was an apology—or an act of revenge. Maybe a little of both. “I know Philip can only see things his way. The Book is all about trends and analysis. What did you do before? What are you likely to do next?”

“So?”

“So you play against the Book, you lose. No way can you analyze better than Philip. His brain works like a spreadsheet.”

He lifted his head. One side of his face was twice the size of the other, but what got my attention was the sudden intensity in his gaze. The Book was Philip's greatest asset, a looming presence in every game. Philip's muscle-bound thug menacing every opponent.

“What are you suggesting?” Duncan's voice was urgent now.

“Do what I did. Make screwy moves. Surprise him. If you go off-Book, he can't fit you into his analysis. He gets frustrated.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Like Fischer-Byrne.”

“Who?”

“Fischer against Byrne, 1956.” He stared at me. “The Game of the Century?”

“If you say so.”

He shook his head at my tragic ignorance. “In 1956, Bobby Fischer beat Donald Byrne. Fischer was thirteen, Byrne an adult champion who didn't expect a challenge, even from a prodigy. Fischer won by exploiting a Byrne error in the development phase and then luring him with an unexpected queen sacrifice which netted him a material advantage. Byrne never recovered.”

I had no idea what he said. “So there you go.”

I leaned my head against the wall. Felt a slight vibration, like a motor. Behind the desk, the aide answered the phone. I couldn't see her, but it sounded like Courtney. Fresh from her loss to Philip, witness to Chess Club Fight of the Century. When she got off the phone, Mrs. An asked her and Beth to stuff envelopes in the supplies nook. Based on the giggles, a hilarious chore.

“You're not a student of the game.”

Duncan was back to holding his head in his hands.

“So you said.”

“You open with your rook pawns, then bring your rooks out. You think you're being aggressive, but you concede the center.”

I regarded him for a moment, realized this was his
quid pro quo
.

“Aren't the rooks my strongest pieces, aside from the queen?” Mad Maddie taught me that.

“Not if you concede the center.”

I didn't have an answer to that. Maybe he was right.

He lifted his head to look at me, guessing my thought. “I
am
right. Think about it.”

At that moment, I realized Cooper and Moylan were standing there eavesdropping. Cooper had a faint smile which dropped when Moylan cleared his throat. He directed us into the office, told us to have a seat. Moylan stood at one end of the desk, arms folded. Cooper sat on his throne and made church fingers. The stench of pomade just about brought my lunch up.

“You boys have been very disruptive today. I think I speak for both Mr. Moylan and myself when I say we're very disappointed.”

I remember thinking the
verys
were a bit much. He waited, but I didn't know if he expected us to say something, or if he wanted his words to settle in. I wouldn't have spoken up either way. Duncan glanced at me, then looked down at his hands, palms up in his lap. He probably figured I had more experience getting reamed in the principal's office. If I wasn't going to talk, neither was he.

Cooper proceeded to outline our offenses as Moylan nodded in stern agreement. They'd done a whirlwind investigation; neither Duncan nor I disputed the facts as presented. Aggravated assault against the Book seemed to bug Moylan more than the fight itself. Duncan never raised his head.

“Fighting will not be tolerated. You're both on three-day in-school suspension, effective tomorrow.” He looked at me and added, “The only reason it isn't more severe is because this is your first strike.”
At Katz
, he seemed to be saying. “As for Chess Club itself…?”

Cue Moylan. He opened his arms like a spider uncurling. “Joseph. You are dismissed from the club. It's clear you're not interested in the game.”

Back to the general population, but at least I wasn't facing another school. Three days ISS was easy time.

“Duncan, you've been an important part of the team since your freshman year. However, our club officers can't be brawling. You'll have to step down as president. Your rank is unchanged, of course. Should this kind of thing not happen again, you'll be eligible to run for club office for your senior year.”

I didn't think Duncan was surprised either. He seemed even less troubled than I was by my sentence. He could power-trip with the best of them, but I don't think he wanted president nearly as much as he wanted first board.

“We've also decided the club meeting behind closed doors creates too much opportunity for mischief. From now on, the club can use my classroom during lunch so I can supervise.”

I didn't care that Moylan could see me shake my head in disgust. Typical adult overreaction. Duncan's the one who lost his shit; I'm the one who threw the punch. Nobody else did anything wrong, but everyone had to pay. I looked into Moylan's eyes. Something smoldered back there, a flame that flared when he turned my way.
This is all your fault
. I could have said something, but when someone like me tries to defend people like Colin Botha and Courtney An, we only make things worse for them.

Cooper cleared his throat. “Duncan, you can go. Mr. Moylan, thanks for your help.”

What that told me was Mrs. Petty was on her way. Duncan shuffled out. I wondered how hard Moylan would land on him for ripping up the Book. Philip was the golden child of the chessboard, after all. I was more worried I'd be stuck alone with Cooper for hours. But a minute or two after Moylan closed the door, Mrs. Petty burst through.

It was like hearing the chorus of some Cranky Adult song.
Fighting will not be tolerated
…
running out of options
…
had I forgotten why I was here?
I thought I was being empowered by critical thinking. I guess I'd never be allowed to forget the nun. I faded, but somewhere in there among the lassoes and six-shooters, it hit me. My problem was too much school. Each day of internment was another opportunity to fuck up. Escape was my only hope, the sooner the better.

Eventually the ass-chewing ended and I found myself in the outer office. Mrs. Petty stayed with Cooper to plot behind my back. My adrenalin rush was gone. Mrs. An was gone, too, but the cabinet next to her computer monitor hung partway open—a gleam of metal inside caught my eye.

I scanned the office, the windows looking out into the corridor. All clear. Courtney and Beth were in the supplies nook, too busy getting stoned on envelope glue to notice as I slipped behind the counter and reached into the cabinet. A couple dozen keys hung on hooks, each tagged. I grabbed one labeled “Lounge/Public Conference” and hoped I'd guessed right. The aides were still giggling as I slipped the key into my pocket and headed for the door. Mrs. An passed me on her way back from the Commons with a fresh cup of coffee.

I bumped into Mrs. Huntzel in the corridor. I sorta knew her, of course. She was practically an employee.

“You looked out for Philip.” Her first words ever to me.

The way I saw it, I punched an asshole in the mouth. Philip may have been the trigger, but I wasn't thinking about him so much as Duncan. Then I turned around and told Duncan how to beat Philip. The way she smiled at me, honesty would get me nothing. “His notebook is pretty important to him,” I offered.

“It's
very
important to him.”

“Yeah.” I figured that was enough. And I wanted out of there anyway. Any second Mrs. An could notice the missing key and call in an air strike. But when I turned away, Mrs. Huntzel put a hand on my arm.

“I have some work I need done up at the house. Odd jobs. Is that something you'd be interested in?”

No
.

That was my first thought. If she knew my story—working in the office, she'd have to—she probably saw me as a charity case. But then I thought about how hard it was to come by cash. Carpentry supplies weren't cheap. My treatment plan required that I earn spending money in exchange for chores, but Wayne had a Scrooge-like approach to that idea.

And anyway, I
was
a charity case.

“What do you have in mind?”

“There are rooms in the basement which need cleaning out. After that, we could see.”

Rooms? What kind of basement was she talking about?

“I can pay you ten dollars an hour.”

Better than McDonald's. I was sure Mrs. Petty would be cool with it. Wayne wouldn't care. Hell, he'd be glad to be rid of me for a few hours.

“Sounds great. After school?”

“You can ride with Philip and me.”

That day was my first ride in the BMW, my first look at Huntzel Manor. A month later, after I built a new set of shelves for the butler's pantry and proved I could use a power buffer, she made me houseboy. Turns out Mad Maddie's cleaning lessons were of some use after all.