The Vanishing Game (18 page)

Cold rain during the last week of May seemed a mean trick. With the promise of summer so close and school getting out soon, we should have been able to wear shorts and flip-flops. But not here, in upstate New York, where cold seeped its way down from Canada. I couldn't wait to be free of the stifling classrooms, the harassment from snotty girls, and teachers who gave out boring worksheets
.

I was on the bottom bunk doing my math homework. Across the room Beth sat on her bed, alternately reading a book and sending sly glances at me. Every so often her hand slid under her pillow, caressing the knife I knew was hidden there. I ignored her and worked on my fractions
.

I sensed someone standing nearby and looked up to see Dixon staring at me. His eyes were brimming with wetness, which he blinked hard to hold back. Tears, he knew, only annoyed Hazel Frey, and in the cruel pecking order of foster care they were also a sign of
weakness. During Dixon's few months at Seale House he'd learned not to let the other children see him cry, but seeing sympathy in my eyes, it was hard for him to keep back the tears
.

“What's the matter?”

He held out a bruised finger that had deep teeth marks on it. His hand was small and the imprints large, so I knew it hadn't been done by one of the little kids
.

“Who bit you?”

“The n-new boy,” he whispered, stuttering
.

“Do you mean the one who sits in the corner?”

Dixon nodded
.

I got off the bed and headed down the hall to the boys' room. Conner was sitting in the far corner, his knees hugged to his chest, his eyes scanning the others in the room. Jack and Noah sat on the top bunk, making notes from their programming books, while Georgie and Spence were building a tower with Legos. I walked up to Conner but he ignored me and picked at a scab on his knee. I'd overheard the social worker tell Hazel he was thirteen, which was hard to believe. A lifetime of hunger and abuse had stunted his growth, and he was the size of a ten-year-old
.

“If Dixon did something to bother you,” I said in a strong voice, crouching down, “then tell him to leave you alone. In this house we don't hurt each other. And we especially don't touch the little kids.”

Though he refused to make eye contact, I wasn't willing to move until he responded. He looked dirty even though the social worker had forced him to take a bath and put on clean clothes before coming to Seale House. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his
cheeks were sunken. Bland, thin strands of hair lay limply on his brow, and there were bruises on his scrawny arms and shins. I began to feel sorry for him. He looked so pathetic sitting in the corner, his face an unmoving mask
.

I didn't ask him “why did you bite?” since “why” was a word that shouldn't be used with foster kids. “Why” brought up a bucket-load of garbage from the past that most of them didn't want to share and the rest of us didn't want to hear. Simple commands were best. “Don't bite,” I stressed again, my voice kinder this time
.

I stood and started to turn away when Conner flew from his crouched position and latched on to me, his teeth sinking deep into my upper arm. With a yelp I staggered back, dragging him with me. I slugged him hard on the side of the head and the impact broke his hold. Pain shot up my arm but there was barely time for disbelief to register because he slammed into me, this time knocking me down. He clawed at me, his teeth snapping in my face. I managed to hold him back, but although I was taller than him, he had the wiry strength of a lunatic
.

Suddenly he was jerked away and Jack slugged him on the jaw. It didn't seem to faze Conner, who unleashed a flurry of kicking and scratching so wild it took both Jack and Noah to control him. It wasn't until Noah had his arm around Conner's neck in a chokehold that the boy finally stopped fighting
.

“We don't act like that around here.” Noah tightened his grip. “Understand?”

Conner looked at us with bulging eyes before giving us a sullen nod
.

“Okay, let him go,” Jack said
.

Conner scuttled back to the corner as the three of us walked over and stood in a semicircle looking down at him
.

Noah stared at Conner. “If you don't like it here, then run away.”

The boy laughed, the sound reminding me of the screech of a howler monkey I'd once heard at a zoo. “Changing my plans now!” His high voice was creepier than if he'd talked in Darth Vader's low rasp. “Was gonna get out of here tonight, but now gonna stay. Stay until I get back at you!”

He looked up at me, his expression blank. I expected to see hatred or fear but there was nothing there, as if his face were a plaster mask covering what really lay beneath. It was downright spooky, and worry began coiling inside me
.

“Better watch out for your little dog too,” he said in his girlish voice, his eyes moving past me
.

I turned and saw Dixon standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with fear. I left the room and guided him away from the door. Jack and Noah followed. “Stay away from him,” I said to Dixon as we stood together in the hall. He quickly nodded
.

I looked down at my arm. Conner's teeth had bruised and partially torn my flesh. The others anxiously studied the bite mark, too
.

“That one is crazy,” Jack said
.

“The stinking little Erv shouldn't even be here,” Noah said, calling Conner by the private slang we often used
.

“Maybe we should talk to Hazel.”

“She won't listen. He's another eight hundred bucks a month.”

“And now that she's sucking more coke up her nose, she needs every dollar she can get,” I added
.

“Shh!” Noah glanced down the hallway to make sure no one else was around and then looked at Dixon
.

The little boy slid his hand inside mine as Jack said, “Noah and I will just have to keep an eye on Corner Boy. We're bigger than he is, and there're two of us. Three when you're around, Jocey.”

Noah nodded. His dark expression showed he was resigned to the task. Dixon moved closer to me and I slipped my arm around his thin shoulders
.

That night at the dinner table Conner sat down on the end of the bench, sliding his plate close to him. He began shoveling food in his mouth with his hand. Annoyed, Hazel demanded he use his fork. The boy grudgingly did so until she looked away, when he would hold the idle fork in his right hand and grab food with his left. Other than that, he seemed subdued enough. I wondered if being forced to spend last night down in the cellar, in Hazel's tradition, was enough to keep his behavior under control
.

After dinner and dishes, when the light was growing soft in the rainy twilight, Dixon sought me out where I was reading, a shy expression on his face. He handed me a piece of paper with a drawing on it. There was a girl riding a unicorn, flying past stars and the moon. “That's you.”

Whenever he showed me his artwork I was always surprised that a little boy could draw like that. I smiled. “It's really nice. One of the best you've done. Though I think this girl is too pretty to be me.”

“No, that's you.”

He was also holding his ragged book, and I lifted him onto my lap. “You start first, and I'll help you with the words you don't know yet.”

My chin rested against the softness of his curly hair as he opened
to the first page and started reciting the memorized words. “‘The gingham dog and the calico cat, side by side on the table sat. 'Twas half past twelve …'”

I glanced up from the ancient book's faded picture as Conner slowly passed by the door. His eyes washed over us like oil sliding across the surface of water
.

“Noah?” Dixon came closer.

“Hi. It's been a long time. What are you doing here?”

The boy smiled. “I live upstairs with my mother. This is her shop.” He turned to me and his smile faltered. Peering up into my eyes, he slowly exhaled my name. “Jocey?”

For a couple of seconds I held my breath. Would he be mad at me, like Georgie? Finally I said, “You recognize me?”

Dixon ran forward and grabbed me in a hug around the waist. I was touched, and I laughed.

He let go and took a step back. “You're so grown up! But your blue eyes are just the same, the way I always drew them. Wow, Jocey, you turned out real pretty.”

I smiled. “It's nice you think so. You've grown up, too, though I'd recognize you anywhere.”

A woman came through the archway. “Dixon?” In those two syllables I could hear her uncertainty.

Noah and I turned to look at her. She had marble-shaped eyes in a narrow face, though stylish black hair and mascara helped offset her homely features.

“Mom,” Dixon said. He set the paintbrushes on a table
and motioned her near. “I want you to meet my friends, Jocey and Noah. I knew them back at Seale House, before I came to live with you.”

She glanced at us with a troubled expression, but Dixon didn't seem to notice. “Where do you go to school?” I asked, wanting to make it less uncomfortable.

“Right here. Mom homeschools me.”

I glanced around the art store with its antiques, knowing it was a place other children would probably not be invited to come play. What was it like for Dixon, alone for hours with this older woman and not going to a regular school with other kids? Was she good to him? Her eyes were cautious as she studied us.

“Jocey was like a big sister to me,” Dixon said. “She looked out for me.”

Her face relaxed a little.

“Do you still draw pictures?” I asked.

He nodded with a look of shy pride. “Mom gives me art lessons.”

She looked at him with fondness. “He has a lot of talent.”

“I'm not surprised. I remember the unicorns you used to make, Dixon. You drew better at seven than I did at twelve. You must really like taking lessons.”

He nodded again, the smile still on his face. Beneath it I caught a glimpse of the pain that had always been so much a part of him. “Hey,” he said. “Where's Jack?”

Noah and I glanced at each other. “You haven't seen him? He didn't come here ahead of us?”

“No. Why would he do that?”

“Oh. Well, a little while ago he … disappeared. That's why Noah and I are here. He left us a few clues we've been following. We're trying to find him and thought he came to see you.”

“Clues? Like the games you played at Seale House?”

“Yes, a lot like that. And one of them led us to this gallery. When I saw you, I kind of guessed he'd visited you before we got here.”

“No. He hasn't, but I wish he would. I'd sure like to see him again.”

Noah's eyes scanned the walls that were packed with artwork. “This is a nice gallery. Care if we look around?”

His mother followed Noah's gaze. “That's fine, though I need Dixon to help me with something.”

She turned and walked away. Dixon followed. “I'll be right back,” he said over his shoulder.

I looked at Noah. “So why were we supposed to come here? Just to see Dixon is still alive and okay? I mean, I'm really happy he is. But what is Jack doing?”

“I don't know. If you ask me, that's been the question from the beginning. It's his game now. At this point we can't do much else except play along. Let's look around and see if he left us a clue.”

“Like what? I know nada about art, and even less about antiques.”

“You don't need to. Just look for something that doesn't belong.”

We started checking out the pieces we passed. There were lots of still-life paintings: bowls of fruit, flowers, that kind of thing. The rest were landscapes and portraits. There were also delicate tables, spindly chairs with satin seats, figurines, and other stuff I'd never waste money on. The more I wandered around in this confusing place, the more I wanted to slug Jack on the arm.

After several minutes Noah motioned to me. “What about this?”

I walked over to where he stood. An acrylic painting hung in a corner. It was a narrow abstract, about eighteen inches long, six inches wide, and hardly noticeable. A combination of splatters and swipes in muddy colors, it wasn't something I'd ever hang in my room.

“That's ugly. And the artist wants a hundred dollars for it! I could've painted that with a blindfold on.”

“Exactly.” Noah looked amused. He pointed to the initials in the bottom-right corner. “J. D.”

“Jason December!”

He removed the painting and we both looked at the bare spot, then at the back of the frame. It had a cardboard backing sealed with tape, but nothing else. Noah carried it up to the counter just as Dixon's mother came through the archway. “Can I ask about this?”