someplace?”
At first I don’t get it,
then when I do I don’t like the joke. “Her name’s Quicken and she's
silver with a black face.”
The woman steps outside.
“Sounds interesting, but it’s not here.” She eyes me and lights a
cigarette. “You the new neighbor next door?”
I nod.
The woman flicks her ashes
over the balcony.
“Who is it?” A gravelly
voice comes from inside, then a man pokes his head out and fixes me
with heavy-lidded eyes. “Whaddya want?” His jowls jiggle when he
talks.
“Butt out, Gerald.” She
sounds as if she’s giving commands to a particularly stupid dog.
She flicks ashes at his feet and he ducks inside, leaving the door
open. The woman follows after him, but before closing the door she
says, “Cats come home when they get hungry.”
I try a couple more doors,
but nobody answers. At Apartment 152 the door jerks open and a man
in an orange prisoner-style jumpsuit stands staring at me. Looking
over the man’s shoulder is a lanky boy with short dark hair and
intense eyes that travel from my chest to my hips and back, making
me feel like I forgot to put clothes on.
“Whatta ya sellin’?” the
man asks.”Whatever it is we don’t need it.”
The boy’s eyes make another
sweep over me.
“I’m look for a Siamese
cat? Have you seen her? She’s wearing a —”
“I ain’t seen no cat.” The
man shuts the door so fast I still have my mouth open.
That’s enough of meeting
the neighbors. “Jerk.” I go to the pool
area to check behind the barbeque pit and under plastic lounge
chairs, but there’s no sign of Quicken.
Keith walks down the short
path from the carport and lets himself through the gate. He kneels
at the edge of the pool and tests the water with his hand. “I
wonder what the percentage of pee is.”
“That’s gross.”
“Any luck?” He flicks the
water from his hand.
“Quicken’s the only sane
one in this family. She's escaped.” I test one of the plastic
chaise lounges to see if it collapses. When it doesn’t, I sit with
my legs stretched out.
Keith joins me, his arms on
his knees, staring at his feet. “This place totally sucks.” The
silence hangs between us until he says, “I’m dropping
track.”
“Track is all you ever
wanted to do.”
“Not at Las
Pulgas.”
I know why. He doesn’t want
to compete against his old teammates. He knows Las Pulgas will lose
because Channing has topnotch runners.
This is the first time in a
while we’ve been alone and talked, instead of sniping at each
other. He hasn’t gotten a haircut in two months, so the way his
sandy hair falls across his forehead reminds me of Dad. Now I can
work on that promise. Today I’ll talk to my brother like he’s
human.
Keith plucks at his
Channing Track shirt as if he wants to rip it to pieces.
I get that, too. He’s as
ashamed of where we’ve landed as I am. “Come on. Let’s blow this
dump and see if we can follow Quicken’s escape route.”
We walk the perimeter of
the complex, calling to Quicken. When we come to the street we turn
toward the center of town. Bits of black plastic flutter tangled in
spiky weeds along the sidewalk and the curb is littered with used
paper cups, candy wrappers and other trash I don’t want to
identify, litter the curbside. At the stoplight, we start back,
discouraged. If Quicken crossed into town, we’ll never find
her.
When we reach the driveway
leading into the complex, I stop to look more closely under the
bushes. I now notice that the sidewalk on the left side of the
driveway becomes a dirt road. It’s like whoever paved around the
apartments ran out of concrete.
“Let’s look down there,” I
say to my brother, pointing.
Keith starts in that
direction, saying, “Quicken might have gone exploring.”
“Wait.” I point at a sign
partly covered by a low-hanging limb. “That says ‘No
Trespassing.’”
“We’re not trespassing.
We’re looking for a lost cat. Come on.”
The road slopes away
At first I don’t get it,
then when I do I don’t like the joke. “Her name’s Quicken and she's
silver with a black face.”
The woman steps outside.
“Sounds interesting, but it’s not here.” She eyes me and lights a
cigarette. “You the new neighbor next door?”
I nod.
The woman flicks her ashes
over the balcony.
“Who is it?” A gravelly
voice comes from inside, then a man pokes his head out and fixes me
with heavy-lidded eyes. “Whaddya want?” His jowls jiggle when he
talks.
“Butt out, Gerald.” She
sounds as if she’s giving commands to a particularly stupid dog.
She flicks ashes at his feet and he ducks inside, leaving the door
open. The woman follows after him, but before closing the door she
says, “Cats come home when they get hungry.”
I try a couple more doors,
but nobody answers. At Apartment 152 the door jerks open and a man
in an orange prisoner-style jumpsuit stands staring at me. Looking
over the man’s shoulder is a lanky boy with short dark hair and
intense eyes that travel from my chest to my hips and back, making
me feel like I forgot to put clothes on.
“Whatta ya sellin’?” the
man asks.”Whatever it is we don’t need it.”
The boy’s eyes make another
sweep over me.
“I’m look for a Siamese
cat? Have you seen her? She’s wearing a —”
“I ain’t seen no cat.” The
man shuts the door so fast I still have my mouth open.
That’s enough of meeting
the neighbors. “Jerk.” I go to the pool
area to check behind the barbeque pit and under plastic lounge
chairs, but there’s no sign of Quicken.
Keith walks down the short
path from the carport and lets himself through the gate. He kneels
at the edge of the pool and tests the water with his hand. “I
wonder what the percentage of pee is.”
“That’s gross.”
“Any luck?” He flicks the
water from his hand.
“Quicken’s the only sane
one in this family. She's escaped.” I test one of the plastic
chaise lounges to see if it collapses. When it doesn’t, I sit with
my legs stretched out.
Keith joins me, his arms on
his knees, staring at his feet. “This place totally sucks.” The
silence hangs between us until he says, “I’m dropping
track.”
“Track is all you ever
wanted to do.”
“Not at Las
Pulgas.”
I know why. He doesn’t want
to compete against his old teammates. He knows Las Pulgas will lose
because Channing has topnotch runners.
This is the first time in a
while we’ve been alone and talked, instead of sniping at each
other. He hasn’t gotten a haircut in two months, so the way his
sandy hair falls across his forehead reminds me of Dad. Now I can
work on that promise. Today I’ll talk to my brother like he’s
human.
Keith plucks at his
Channing Track shirt as if he wants to rip it to pieces.
I get that, too. He’s as
ashamed of where we’ve landed as I am. “Come on. Let’s blow this
dump and see if we can follow Quicken’s escape route.”
We walk the perimeter of
the complex, calling to Quicken. When we come to the street we turn
toward the center of town. Bits of black plastic flutter tangled in
spiky weeds along the sidewalk and the curb is littered with used
paper cups, candy wrappers and other trash I don’t want to
identify, litter the curbside. At the stoplight, we start back,
discouraged. If Quicken crossed into town, we’ll never find
her.
When we reach the driveway
leading into the complex, I stop to look more closely under the
bushes. I now notice that the sidewalk on the left side of the
driveway becomes a dirt road. It’s like whoever paved around the
apartments ran out of concrete.
“Let’s look down there,” I
say to my brother, pointing.
Keith starts in that
direction, saying, “Quicken might have gone exploring.”
“Wait.” I point at a sign
partly covered by a low-hanging limb. “That says ‘No
Trespassing.’”
“We’re not trespassing.
We’re looking for a lost cat. Come on.”
The road slopes away
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