Dull Boy (9 page)

I think I should be freaked that she broke into my house but I’m a little more confused than that. “What are you doing?”

“Avery.” She gives me this weird pouty look that totally clashes with the severity of her face. “I wanted to finish before you arrived, but this machine is not working. Now you’ve ruined your surprise.”

“Surprise?” This definitely still counts as a surprise. I did not expect to see this woman in my living room.

“I bought you a video-game system. You don’t have this one, do you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have one at all. My parents are like cave people.”

Slight exaggeration, but still: my mom acts like having at-home access to video games will ruin my chances of going to college, turn me into a serial killer, and ensure that I never get a girlfriend because I’ll be too busy propositioning hookers in Grand Theft Auto. Never mind that every other guy I know has one, and they’re fine.

“Ah. Well. We know that entertainment must evolve, just like everything else.” Cherchette winks at me conspiratorially. “Would you help me to get this working, Avery?”

I don’t have a game system, but Henry has three of them, and whenever he slept over he’d pack at least one in his backpack and we’d hook it up in my basement. Should be easy.

I’m untangling the monstrous octopus of cords, amazed at the mess Cherchette made, when she starts apologizing. “I understand that things went badly the other night. I didn’t intend that. I don’t blame you if you’re angry.”

“Why would I be angry?” I rip open one of the plastic packages with my teeth. “Because you set me up and almost got me arrested?”

“Yes, I suppose I deserve that.” She sighs. “But I had to see what you would do, Avery. You insist on putting yourself in this ‘hero’ role, and while it has been on a small scale . . . I had to see how you would react if a more dangerous situation presented itself.”

“And?”

“And I am worried.”

Cherchette’s kneeling next to me on the carpet, and a cloud of cold wafts off her, like when you stand in the refrigerated aisle in the grocery store. The air in my lungs feels like winter.

“The ‘criminals’ you encountered were carrying unloaded guns. If you had interfered in an actual robbery, you would have been killed.”

“Maybe,” I say, shivering. My fine motor control’s shutting down. I have to try twice to plug in one of the cables. “Maybe not.”

A buff space marine appears on the screen, his boot balanced on a dead alien’s armored back. I’m watching the shiny graphics of my new game, but my mind’s replaying the moment that gun got shoved in my face. Staring down the barrel, sure that I could make everything right. Not knowing the threat was never real.

“I want you to understand these things before it’s too late. You have a wonderful gift. I don’t want it to end up hurting you.”

The game’s theme music booms like a moody opening salvo.

“Is it working? Wonderful!” Cherchette claps her hands. “Now we’ll play.” She gives me controller one and keeps the other for herself. “Be careful not to throw the controller at the screen, Avery. I read about that—it will break.” She sounds concerned, which strikes me as absurd. I mean, she set me up to go toe to toe with two thugs in an antiques shop—wasn’t she worried about me breaking crap there?

“I’m not going to put a hole in my parents’ TV. Don’t worry.” I choose the cooperative mode; skip the intro and vanquish the first few enemies while Cherchette examines her controller.

“How do I do this?”

“Uh, just hide behind something. Or mash some buttons; you’ll see what they do.”

“He won’t stop jumping!”

“Try a different button. If you keep hitting that one, you’re going to keep doing that.” I try not to laugh as Cherchette gets vaporized by an alien, then sputters in shock that the alien was cheating.

We play for a while longer, Cherchette displaying some very dramatic poor sportsmanship, and then she tells me she has to go.

“But I will be in touch. And”—she reaches down and pats my head, sends a chill down my spine—“I’ve settled your bill with the antique-store owner. He’ll refund your parents’ money shortly. So don’t worry about that.”

“Really?” I can’t help it; this goofy smile takes over my face. My mom and dad might even let me out of that crappy school if the owner says he realized it was an accident or something. “Thank you! It was . . . a lot.”

“I will always take care of you.” Cherchette drapes this little fur cape over her shoulders, and gazes at me like . . . I dunno, like a proud parent or something. Her eyes narrow when she smiles, just a sliver of blue shining through, but the skin on her face remains as smooth as always. Like a watchful statue’s.

“See you soon,” she coos.

As soon as Cherchette leaves I yank all the cables out of the TV, bundle my new game system in a blanket, and run upstairs to hide it in my closet. Time flies when you’re having fun with a morally suspect ice goddess—my parents will be home any minute! I run back down and tear the box up, cram it into the bottom of our garbage can, and even dump some nasty leftovers on top so my parents are less likely to find it. I’m washing splattered spaghetti sauce off my hands when I hear the garage door open.

Five, four, three, two . . .

“Sounds like you’re doing well at your new school, kiddo.”

My mom clicks in after him, doing her “happy” walk (definitely different from her “angry” walk). “I got a call from your school today.” She’s smiling. What the heck could this be about?

“Uh, you did?”

“Assistant Principal Carmine said it’s remarkable how well you’re adjusting.”

Principal Carmine?
The only Carmine I know is Darla.

My dad sets down a paper take-out bag. “Your mom was so thrilled she even stopped to get Chinese food.”

“Thanks. Awesome.” I peek inside to see what she ordered. Mmm—it smells so good. I pry out an eggroll and bite into it.

“Ms. Carmine said you stopped a fight today.”

I almost hack up my eggroll.

My mom’s bustling around, all proud, setting the table. “It seems your instincts aren’t
all
bad. She said you managed to talk two known bullies into not fighting each other, and sitting down and
discussing
their problems instead. Can you believe that?”

Uh, noooo.

No one under eighteen would believe that. But she’s talking to my dad now, not me. Chattering on about how being in an environment “that lacks traditional peer pressure” and where I don’t have to worry about “being cool enough” (did she really just say that??) is allowing me to have a positive effect on the other students.

I empty a whole quart of beef and broccoli onto my plate. “Do you mind if I take this into the den? I need to do some work on the computer. One of the kids I helped today wants me to IM him to talk about his anger issues. That okay?”

My mom blinks, a little surprised. “I guess so.”

“Thanks!” I call out. I’m already gone. Logging in and hunting down Darla Carmine—the freaking craziest girl I’ve ever met. My mom’s not mad at me anymore, which is a good thing, but Darla still has some explaining to do.

Time to move in for the kill and ask a real question. Deep breath.

A new window pops up, this time with Nate’s screen name. I haven’t heard from any of my old teammates since I hung up on Henry the night of his birthday. Now the most detested of all my friends (past and future) wants to talk to me?

I’m still trying to respond with something more eloquent than F*** Y** when motor hands gets his next line out.

I grit my teeth. Yeah—you’re hilarious. You could go on all night, right? I click over to Darla’s window.

 

TONIGHT’S FLIGHT HAS
a purpose. I take a few slow breaths, pushing the air as deep into my lungs as it’ll go, till it’s like I’m filled up with sky. And then I push off, with every ounce of strength that I have. I will myself higher, higher . . .

A branch catches my sleeve and bends upward, scrapes the length of my arm until I rise past it and it snaps back down.

And then I’m free; I’m past the tops of the tallest trees and into the crisp, cold air, doing my best to navigate by landmarks that I can see from above, by the patterns I’m learning.

Catherine lives in a more rural part of town, where the houses range between neat but old and totally run-down. I land in a field and then check mailboxes until I find hers: 11605, the word
Drake
stenciled on the metal in faded white letters. There’s a rusty blue pickup truck propped on cinder blocks in the front yard. The tailgate is down and a few cats are curled up in the back. A black pickup truck sits parked in the driveway but the cats seem to avoid that one.

Other than the occasional twitch of a feline tail, it’s totally still out here. A television flickers through the front window, the only light on in the house—and I can hear what sounds like sports announcing, the muffled roar of the crowd. But there’s no sign that anyone’s awake. Looks like I’m safe.

Or not.

I’m halfway around the house when a skinny thirty-something guy in jeans and no shirt comes out. He’s carrying a bulging garbage bag, muttering that the whole place smells like cat urine.

Mr. Drake doesn’t notice me. He’s too busy wrestling with the bag of garbage, trying to cram it into a metal trash can—but the bag’s too fat to fit. He keeps trying to force it and getting pissed. Until finally it rips.

Bottles, cans, and all sorts of refuse tumble out. Catherine’s dad kicks the trash can with his bare foot and almost trips over it—then starts kicking the individual pieces of garbage, cursing.

In the middle of all this, a small black cat with a white patch over its eye tiptoes toward the mess and starts lapping at a crumpled food wrapper, speedy and nervous, like it knows it’s in trouble if it doesn’t get its fill and get out of there—but the cat’s not fast enough. Catherine’s dad’s foot shoots out and catches the cat under the ribs, sends it flying. “Damn cats!” he yells. He picks up a stray bottle and hurls it in the cat’s direction, then storms into the house.

I count to sixty to make sure he’s not coming back, then pick my way across the yard, searching for the cat so I can check if it’s okay. No luck at first—but then I see it dart out from under a drainpipe. It runs along the back of the house and leaps at an open first-floor window.

As if on cue, Catherine appears and plucks the cat out of the air, curls its body into a
U
, and cradles it against her chest. Kisses its nose.

A weird smile spreads across my face. She caught that cat perfectly—almost like she knew it was going to be there.
And
she’s being nice to it. So I wonder:

Does she have a psychic bond with cats?

And, uh, if so . . . is night vision part of the equation?

I squat down but it’s too late: two sets of glowing eyes lock onto me like freak-seeking missiles. Catherine uncurls the cat and lets it drop; vaults over the windowsill like a ninja. Nice!

But, ah, I don’t have much time to admire her moves—seeing as how she’s coming toward me with a tonight-you-die look on her face. Scrambling backward like a crab, I experience a moment of agility envy. She’s in my face before I have a chance to say hello. Claws bright white in the moonlight.

Catherine grabs my throat with one hand and shoves me back.

“Stop!” she angry-whispers. “Just stop!”

My skin tingles where one of her nails scraped my neck. I expected her to scream at me, to blow up like she did at school. So this . . .

“All of you—
stop
!” Catherine’s voice is raw and on the verge of breaking. Her words explode like a burst of air, the sound just barely attached.

Who? Darla and me?

“I’m not here to spy on you,” I say, afraid she’ll stop listening if I don’t explain fast enough. “I’m no danger to you. I swear. I’m just like you and—”