Strays (2 page)

“Just a little while.”

“I was working on somebody’s piece-of-crap Pontiac. And then I went to the gym.”

He sees me glance at the weights on the floor beside his bed.

“Those are for the in-betweens. You can use ’em if you want, but ask, okay? You can pretty much use anything of mine if you ask.” The grin morphs into a leer. “Anything except Megan.” He grabs a V-neck sweater out of his dresser and pulls it over his head. “You okay? This all a little too much?”

“I guess I’m all right.”

“That bow tie with the camo pants is a nice look.”

I don’t pay much attention to clothes. I could wear a tux to school and I’d still get called Litter Box O’Connor. “It’s my dad’s.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“He thought it made him look approachable.”

“Your dad did?”

I nod. “He said a shirt with an open collar doesn’t inspire confidence, while a regular tie is too corporate.”

“Could be true. What’d he sell?”

“Pets. We had a pet store in Santa Mira.”

“Seriously? Like PetSmart?”

Astin squeezes a dab of something onto one hand, then rubs it on his face. My mother didn’t even like to take baths. I’d pass the bathroom, and there she was in slacks and an old bra just washing under her arms.

“Smaller. A whole lot smaller.”

“Could you compete with those corporate guys?” he asks.

“We do okay.”

“And it’s
did.
”

I just look at him.

“You did okay. Your folks passed, right? It’s Teddy, isn’t it?”

“Or Ted.”

“Teddy, your folks died, right?”

Is this Astin pretending to get things straight, or is he really rubbing it in?

“Ted?”

“Technically, yes.”

He laughs sharp and hard. He says, “We just might get along. The guy before you bored me to death.”

I guess this is more of the Getting to Know You game. Well, it’s a whole lot better than Beat Up the New Kid. So I play along. “What was he like?”

“Mexican kid. In the system forever. And a total queer. He split for New York the minute he turned eighteen. What was he waiting for — the lousy yard and a half from the state? I’d have fronted him that to get his homo ass out of here.”

“Maybe he didn’t want the cops after him.”

Astin shakes his head. “That never happens to older kids. Little ones, yeah, because of the pervs and all that. But older kids, no. They don’t much care, and even if they did, they don’t have the manpower.”

I want to keep him talking. I didn’t like that other conversation. The less I think about my parents the better.

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The cops. The system. Social Services. Foster care. Try and imagine Ms. Ervin in her van stopping at every gay bar between here and the East Coast and showing Enrique’s picture around.” He shakes his head. “No way.”

“So I could walk out of here with no problem?”

“Probably. But where are you gonna go? All Ricky talked about was hooking up with some older guy. That’s not your scene. At least not in that outfit.”

“No, I’m not like that.”

“What you got here is three hots and a cot. Medical and dental when you need it. My advice is hang in there and graduate.” He points west. “It’s cold out there, man, and when you age out, all you get is a handshake and a kick in the ass.”

I look out the little window. “Do I have to ask if I want to go out for a walk or run an errand?”

“Nah. You’re not in jail. Just be back by sixteen hundred. Major Rafter goes nuts if you’re late.”

The light rail system in Pasadena is called the Gold Line mostly to make it different from the Red and Blue Lines, which go off in other directions.

The Lake Avenue station is six blocks north of the Rafters’; my old home is six miles east. Santa Mira is closer to the foothills. It’s arty but funky enough to be zoned for horses. The city council voted against a Starbucks. There’s a shoemaker and a butcher. And there used to be a pet shop.

Some rich people (who are also green) ride the Gold Line and then talk about the “urban experience.” All that means is a homeless guy talking to his hand puppet and a posse of wannabe rappers who huff and puff and call each other “dawg” and “playuh.”

The car I’m in is almost deserted except for a blind man and his dog — a big, cream-colored Lab. She’s lying with her face on her paws, but sits up when I settle across from her.

She looks pretty good. My mother used to organize intervention and rescue because some blind people take out all their troubles on their dogs. But this one doesn’t have a mark on her.

I say to her owner, “Since she’s not really working right now, do you mind if I pet your dog?”

The blind man turns toward my voice. “I’m sure Brandy wouldn’t mind. What do you think, girl?”

Brandy stands up and smiles. I mean that. Her mouth curves up in a grin and her eyes sparkle. I take her head between my hands and lean until my forehead touches hers.

“You’re doing okay,” she says. “Keep it up.”

Now I put my arms around her. I can feel her wide chest against mine, her long face against my ear.

She adds, “I have a toothache.”

I pat her, kiss the space between her eyes, then press on her back end so she’ll sit.

I tell the blind man thanks.

“Not a problem. She warmed right up to you. Usually she doesn’t.”

“If you take her to the vet, there’s an abscessed tooth in the back on the right. Her right.”

The mechanical conductor calls the Santa Mira station and I stand up.

Brandy’s owner asks, “How in the world would you know that?”

“I’ve been around animals all my life.”

When I disembark (I like that word. It doesn’t sound like forever. I’ll pretend I’ve just disembarked at the Rafters’.), four girls from my old high school pour out of one of the other cars, so I go and hide behind the big square route map. Only my feet show, and I guess they might know me by my old desert boots except they’re not really interested in anybody but themselves. Their sweatshirts say
SANTA MIRA
. All they need is a zip code, and they could be mailed home from anywhere in the world. And if somebody stuffed them all in a very small mailbox, it’d be okay with me.

I watch them take the switchback stairs all the way to Foothill Boulevard, then head for the outdoor mall and probably the Old Navy store. They’ve got bags of clothes from the Gap and Banana Republic. But they always want more. Like a boy with spiky hair and a tattoo who’ll pull up in a Dodge Magnum, buy them lunch, and text-message a couple of friends. They’ll go clubbing and end up making out (some tongue but not much). Then the girls will call each other and squeal.

It all just makes me want to puke. I know one of those girls is Sally Denfield, the same Sally Denfield who stopped me in the hall last year and said, “So, Ted. Do you like to do it doggy style?”

Everyone acted like it was the funniest thing they ever heard. Then they closed in. Usually they just kind of pecked at me until I ran away. But this time Scott McIntyre hit me from behind and I went down. My books, and there were a lot of them, slid for what seemed like forever.

A lot of people saw it and nobody said anything. As usual. Even Mr. White, a teacher who was right there when it happened. I told my father (my mother would have just said, “No animals were hurt, were they?”), he called the school, and a secretary told him the office was aware that a good-natured stunt had backfired and it was being looked into.

No wonder I wanted to go to another school where nobody knew me. Then I wouldn’t be candy-ass Ted O’Connor who smelled like a pet shop. I begged my parents to move. They didn’t laugh at me exactly, maybe because neither of them had been popular. But they couldn’t move the shop and start over, and they told me so.

Well, now I’ve got my wish. I’m about to go to another school where nobody knows me.

The walk from the Santa Mira station takes maybe twenty minutes, twelve if you’re running from a bunch of guys in a pickup truck. I go up streets I’ve been on a hundred times, past lawns I mowed when I was twelve because my dad wanted me to “learn the value of money,” and then there it is — 1117 Oakwood. With its little front porch and green paint (because green paint was on sale and my father only bought things that were on sale). It made the place look seasick, but that didn’t stop the bank from repossessing it.

I stand on the sidewalk and shout, “Get out of my house, get out of my house, get out of my house!”

Because there are new people in it. The curtains are different, there’s a big, ugly planter on the porch, and a bicycle lying on its side in the Mexican sage.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.”

When I stop to catch my breath, a cat makes his way down the big avocado tree, drops to the ground, and heads right for me.

I don’t hunker down and make little kissy noises; cats hate that. They don’t mind looking up. They think it makes their necks look long and graceful.

“Don’t be stupid,” the cat says. “They’ll just call the cops.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I live here now. You know how that is. They move and take me with them. Pets are just baggage.”

“Were there others around when you got here?”

“A couple still are. You must be Ted. They asked about you. They said to say they’re fine. Not all of them made it, but that’s not your fault.”

“What happened?”

He licks his paw, then looks at it. “Oh, you know. Coyotes, fast cars, pneumonia. The usual.”

“Oh, God.”

“Yelling isn’t going to bring them back,” says the cat. “Go home.”

“It’s just a foster home.”

“Tell me about it.”

I pet him a couple of times, and we touch noses. Then I walk back toward the Gold Line. I’m not even worried that my former classmates/tormentors might drive by in their shiny cars and throw Big Gulp cups at me.

I’m too busy remembering those last days. I got the insurance money for the totaled car and used a little of it for a farewell dinner. There were four dogs and ten cats. After they’d eaten as much swordfish and ground steak as they could hold, we had a family meeting. The cute ones decided to try the pound and hope they’d be adopted. The others said they would get along as best they could. A big, old scarred tom with a sense of humor said he thought they might stick together for a while. “Look for the headline,” he said. “‘Wild Cats Bring Down Mailman.’”

I get back to Pasadena in plenty of time for dinner: a pork chop that tastes like a sandal, applesauce, canned green beans, chocolate pudding.

“We’ll post a list of chores tomorrow or the day after,” Mr. Rafter says. “And we expect you two to do your part.” His wife just keeps pouring more purple Kool-Aid. She’s right beside me, giving off heat like a furnace, a lot of it coming from her plunging neckline.

Mr. Rafter uses the edge of his hand like a gavel.
Bang!
Down it comes again. “We’re counting on you boys to get along; anybody who doesn’t is out of here.”

He points at me. “Social Services gave us your paperwork, and I don’t like a lot of what I see. Seems like you both need new role models.” He glares at C.W. “I’d forget about Stoop Dog or whatever his damn name is and look closer to home. Astin here learned to keep his nose clean and he doesn’t give us grief anymore.” He glances to his left. “Isn’t that right, Astin?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Rafter lets both hands rest on his stomach the same way some pregnant women do. He waits until his wife has picked up our plates. “And one more thing — I don’t want to hear your bellyaching. You have a problem, call Ms. Ervin or see your school counselor.”

After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Foster Parent disappear, him out the back door, her down the hall. Astin stands up and starts to stack plates. “I’ll take care of this part and put stuff away in the fridge. You guys wash and dry.”

The last time I did this was the night before the accident. My mother twisted a dishcloth like she was going to strangle somebody in a James Bond movie and said, “Guess who brought the Saint Bernard back? Diana Bartlett.”

My father let the newspaper collapse. “Well, son of a bitch.” It was yesterday’s edition of the
Los Angeles Times.
He always read day-old papers because they’re free, just like day-old bakery goods are cheaper.

“You’re not screwing her, too, are you?”

Dad rattled the front page. “We’ve been through this, Lois. I’m not screwing anybody. Including you.”

I hated it when they argued, and they argued a lot.

C.W. nudges me. “Decide, man. Wash or dry?”

I reach for the Rafters’ hot water faucet.

“About time,” he says.

Astin opens a drawer, rolls up a dish towel, drops back, and lofts it toward C.W.

Scott McIntyre, the big shot who knocked me down in the hall, was a football player. Just not a very good one. I loved to read about how he’d fumbled the ball or thrown interceptions.

C.W. dries cups and glasses, wanders around opening and closing cupboards and drawers, and gets the lay of the land. Then he laughs. “‘Stoop Dog.’ That fuckin’ cracker.”

Astin shakes his head. “Don’t mess with him, man. It’s not worth it. Take it from me.”

C.W. puts a glass down. “What happened?”

“Oh, I did stuff like set my bed on fire, and I was always getting in fights. Let’s just say Bob convinced me to channel my hostilities. That’s my chopper out by the garage. I built that thing from the ground up. Anyway, Bob’s a by-the-book guy. Do what he says, and you’ll be all right. She’s the nutcase.”

“Like how?”

“Wait till you meet Little Noodle.” Astin’s grin is a whole lot like a smirk.

“Who’s Little Noodle?”

“You’ll see.” He teeters on the back legs of his chair, trying to balance. His long arms are out like wings. I could ask a real bird, “Why are you showing off for a couple of orphans?” And he would tell me the truth, because animals never lie.

I hand C.W. a blue plate as he asks Astin, “That’s it? I’ll see?”

Astin nods. He likes knowing something we don’t.

“How long you been in foster care?” C.W. demands.

“Forever.”

“Here?”

“Mostly.” Astin stands up. “It’s a piece of cake compared to the first couple of places. Wanting to stay here is one of the reasons I shaped up. What about you?”