Property of the State by Bill Cameron

about that.”
    Nine minutes later, I step out onto Belmont, bemused. The sun is dropping fast toward the West Hills, the chill pushed by a cold breeze out of the Gorge. All I can do is catch the next bus heading east. I get off just short of I-205, walk the last few blocks to the Boobie Hatch. I can feel my pace slow as I near the house, but then I let out a long relieved breath. Both cars are gone. All I want to do is slip inside, snarf some cold chipped beef, and go to bed. Tomorrow morning is soon enough to face the Reckoning of the Boobies.
    But when I get to the door, my key doesn’t work.
    That bastard changed the locks.

1.9: Housework
    When I ring the bell this time, Mrs. Huntzel comes to the door.
    â€œJoey.” Not a greeting, a statement of fact. “It’s Wednesday.”
    â€œWell, yesterday got messed up, so I thought I would catch up today. I know it’s late, but I had my thing after school.” I don’t use the word therapy with anyone but Reid and Mrs. Petty.
    â€œOh.” She smiles like she’s not sure what to make of my arrival, but then she turns and waves me in past her. I cross through the mudroom into the kitchen. Bread, deli meat, and vegetables are spread across the center island.
    â€œAre you hungry? I’m making a sandwich. You should have one.”
    â€œI have a lot to do.”
    â€œNonsense. You and Philip are exactly alike; you never eat enough.” She puts her hand to her forehead like she’s checking for a fever, then offers me that smile again. “Go. Sit. Do you prefer mustard or mayonnaise?”
    â€œMustard, I guess.” I don’t really care. But I haven’t eaten since lunch. I shuffle over to the nook where Philip eats his breakfast, slump into one of the chairs. I’m tired, not in the mood to work. But that’s not why I’m here anyway. The job is just my way into the house.
    Mrs. Huntzel busies herself at the counter, knife blade tapping the chopping block as she slices tomatoes. Outside, I watch Caliban climb the hill above the laurel hedge. Off on adventures. My phone vibrates in my pocket. My first thought is Mrs. Petty, catching up at last. But when I check, it’s Trisha.
    how was schl? call if u want.
    I’m trying to decide how to respond when Mrs. Huntzel sets a plate down in front of me. Artisan bread, aged cheddar, fresh greens, paper-thin tomatoes, and what would be a week’s ration of smoked turkey if Wayne was doling it out. Kettle chips on the side.
    â€œDo you want something to drink?”
    â€œJust water. Thanks.”
    â€œI’ll get you some milk.”
    She pours milk for both of us and joins me at the table. But rather than eat, she stares out the window. Her eyelids are heavy and her breath whistles through her nose. For a second she reminds me of a girl I knew a few years back: a compulsive shoplifter who would cut herself every time she got caught. You meet all kinds in the system, and you get used to most of it after a while. But cutters always freaked me out. When I bite into the sandwich—mayo, not mustard—my chewing roars in my ears. I follow Mrs. Huntzel’s gaze. Sunlight plays through the trees up the slope above the hedge. She seems to be watching the dance of light and shadow. At the Boobie Hatch, the TV would be on full volume in the background.
    â€œWhere’s Philip?” Breaking the silence.
    â€œDid you see him today?”
    â€œJust for a minute.” The only class we share is Trigonometry—Philip is a grade behind me, and miles ahead in math brains. But Moylan doesn’t allow chatter. Philip sat alone at the back of the Commons during the assembly. He was wearing the plastic mask Trisha told me about. I thought about going to talk to him, but people kept interrupting me until finally Cooper called for quiet. Afterward, he clonked into Trisha as he raced from the room, sent her phone flying. His fault from where I was