Watcher (8 page)

Anyway, she'd come at me when that happened — arms flailing and (I swear) eyes closed. Nuttiest sight you ever saw. She was no more threatening than a housefly and about as much of a challenge to swat away. Not that I actually swatted her. I'd just get hold of her wrists and stand back until she wore herself out trying to kick me. Then I'd kind of walk her to a chair and plop her down.

This was no time for any of that, though, not if I was going to save my room. I pushed those thoughts off and kept a serious look on my face. Then I let her slowly coax it out of me, but not until I'd made her swear she wouldn't tell anyone because it was embarrassing. I thought that was a nice touch — kind of made it sound more realistic, in case she wasn't entirely convinced.

“Okay, okay,” I said at last. “Do you know anything about fungus?”

“Fungus?” she said, in a tone that was so disgusted you'd have thought I'd offered her some for dinner.

“Yeah, like, in a rash ... on a person.”

She looked horrified. “Whereabouts?” she asked, leaning away from me.

“Uh, it's kind of a travelling condition,” I said, barely managing to hang onto my straight face. “It seems to move around. First it's in one place, then that clears and it shows up somewhere else.”

“Eeeww.”

“Yeah, I know. It's real itchy, too.” I scratched a couple of spots on my legs and chest for good measure. “And scaly. Want to feel it?”

“No!” she nearly shrieked before getting a hold of herself. “I don't want to be mean or anything, but it could be contagious. You should see a doctor right away.”

“I dunno, it'll probably clear up eventually,” I said. “I've only had it for a few months.”

“Porter! You have to see a doctor! Does Mom know about it?”

I shook my head sadly. “You're the only person I felt like I could talk to.” I thought that was a nice touch. Lynn's face softened.

“I'm so glad you felt you could come to me,” she said, almost choking up. “But you
have
to see a doctor!”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Just don't tell Mom.”

“I won't, if you
promise
to get it looked at right away.”

“I will” I said solemnly. “I'll go to the walk-in clinic tomorrow, right after school.”

I don't want you to get the idea from this that I'm one of those casual liars who'd rather make something up than tell the truth. I'm not. I'm no saint, but I'm usually pretty truthful. This, however, was an emergency situation and I preferred to think of the story as more of a trick than an actual lie. Anyway, when Mom came home a couple of hours later I didn't think I was going to have to worry about a big fight over my room. I was right.

First Mom raved about Lynn's situation, going on about how she'd
always
said Conor was no good (she'd never said that) and how Lynn should be dating a doctor or lawyer (she must think doctors and lawyers are just dying to date high school dropouts) and of course she can stay with us as long as she needs to and Porter will be glad to let her use his room again.

I didn't even have to open my mouth.

“Uh, no, that's okay,” Lynn smiled, trying to act like she was being fair. “He let me have it last time. I don't want to kick him out of his own room again.”

“Don't be silly.” Mom waved a hand as she spoke. “You're a girl. Girls need more privacy than boys.”

“No, it's
okay
,” Lynn repeated. She looked at me uneasily, like even the mention of using my room might cause fungus to start growing on her. “I'd
rather
sleep out here.”

They went around it a couple of times, which was entertaining for me, since I had no part in the argument. In the end, Lynn persuaded Mom that she wanted to be able to watch TV to help her fall asleep and the whole thing was dropped.

“Did you kids eat?” Mom thought to ask then. “I can fry some eggs and wieners for you.”

“That'd be great,” I said quickly, before Lynn could tell her we'd had some Kraft dinner a while earlier. I can
always
eat.

“I don't know, maybe one egg for me,” Lynn decided. “I'm too upset to be able to eat much.” That was true. She'd picked at her bowl of KD and almost half of it had gone into the garbage.

Mom fussed over her as she cooked. She went on about how the whole thing was a blessing in disguise because it would give Lynn a chance to get back on her own two feet.

“You've got to keep your strength up,” Mom told her (for what, I couldn't tell you — Lynn hadn't worked in six months or more).

“I will, Mom,” Lynn said, sniffling.

Mom nodded. “Well, eat your egg, dear. Remember that time heals all wounds.” (How that tied into eating an egg, I had no idea.)

There was no mention of Lynn getting a job, which you'd think would be on the top of the list for someone who was supposed to be getting back on her own two feet. Maybe that was because Mom hadn't worked in so many years herself. I used to wish she'd get a job, spend some time in the real world, or barring that, that she'd put a little more effort into taking care of our place. The apartment gets pretty grungy sometimes and even the laundry builds up until I lug it down to the washers in the basement.

I think maybe she was depressed and couldn't drag herself out of the slump. When she wasn't at someone else's place she slept a lot, right in the middle of the day and everything. Maybe it was a way of escaping her own life.

Tack's mother wasn't anything like mine. She kept her place spotless, but she also ruled her boys like a drill sergeant, and she always had something critical to say to them. It seemed like she didn't even like her own kids, the way she was always telling them they were lazy and stupid and wouldn't amount to anything. Like your father, she'd say. She slapped them sometimes, too, right across the side of the head.

I found it weird how they just all took it. Not one of them talked back, or tried to stop her from hitting them when she went that far.

My mother did slam me up against the wall once, when I was younger. We were having a fight about something — I don't remember what — and all of a sudden she just grabbed me and pushed me, with my T-shirt clumped in her fist.

Then she kind of hissed at me, which is the best way I can describe it, and told me
she
was the boss, and as long as I was living in
her
house, I'd follow
her
rules. I was so mad I wanted to punch her right in the face, but she was acting like something possessed, which scared me, too, so I backed down. I guess she thought she won something that day.

Of course, that was a long time ago and there have been some changes since then.

chapter eleven

I
wasn't crazy about having Lynn around again — not full-time anyway — but I have to admit there
were
some good things about it. The big one was that she liked to cook. She was also a way better housekeeper than Mom. It was almost like cooking and cleaning were her twisted little way of rebelling — and not being like her mother.

Even when Lynn would just drop by to visit, she'd almost always wash a floor or scrub the bathroom or something. She'd tell me useful stuff, too, like how to get a stain out of a shirt or how to cook things right. I never used to cook meat even if there was some in the freezer, because it always turned out dry and tough as leather. But, thanks to Lynn, I learned to do a fairly decent job cooking most basic things.

On the other hand, she liked to talk. Not normal conversations, which might have been all right, but relationship stuff, like how guys and girls feel and think differently and stuff. It's all idiotic if you ask me. I used to think if she said one more “meaningful” thing to me, I was going to lose it completely.

I didn't think it would last long, though, so I tried to be patient and put up with her, especially since I heard her crying quietly to herself a few times. Even so, I had to fight the urge to flee whenever she got that certain look on her face and asked me if we could talk.

I've learned from experience that when a female — and it doesn't matter if it's your sister or mother or girlfriend, it's all the same — says “We need to talk,” what she
really
means is “let's discuss your shortcomings,” or, in a slight variation, “let's discuss the shortcomings of all males.” Lynn wasn't complaining about me, exactly. I was more a stand-in for Conor (he's actually a good guy and I never understood what he saw in my sister) and kind of a representative for males in general.

Her rants got really tiresome after about five minutes and she could go on for hours, mostly repeating herself in what I'm sure she thought were new and insightful ways. I didn't totally avoid her, but I admit I spent more time than usual at Tack's place, or just kicking around.

After the first few days it looked like maybe she really wasn't going back with Conor. He called a couple of times and even came over once, but they just ended up fighting. By the next weekend I'd resigned myself to the idea that she'd be around for a while. Still, I kept hoping that they'd put it back together eventually. Until Saturday, that is.

Tack was on his way over, so when there was a knock at the door, I just hollered “c'mon in” like usual. The door opened and this dude stepped in, only it wasn't Tack or anyone else I knew.

I thought he had the wrong place but then Lynn came hurrying along from down the hall and went up to him with a big smile and kissed him. It was just on the cheek but it still shocked me to see it. I mean, she'd been with Conor since she was barely seventeen. How could she be about to go out on a date with this other guy so soon after they split? In fact, when did she even have time to
meet
someone else?

“Oh,” she said, seeing me staring at them, “this is my brother, Porter.” She sounded like she was apologizing. “And, this is Daryl.”

“Hey! How ya doing?” he said. He gave a slow, one-motion wave, like a salute in the middle of the air. Probably thought it was cool. Made him look like an idiot.

“Yeah, hi,” I mumbled and turned back toward the TV.

Tack arrived just then and Lynn launched into another introduction. Tack was a little friendlier than I'd been, though he seemed puzzled.

“Well, we're off,” Lynn said cheerfully, like she wasn't doing a single thing wrong.

“Great meeting you guys,” Daryl added.

I ignored him and asked Lynn what she wanted me to tell her boyfriend if he called.

“I don't
have
a boyfriend,” she said, but her voice wavered just a bit.

“Who was that?” Tack asked me as soon as they'd left.

“I don't know or care,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” He dropped it. “So, you ready to go?”

We'd made plans to hang out at Pockets. It was kind of a fallback for us when we had nothing else to do because it was cheap. Two bucks a game if you were playing but you could just hang out and watch if you wanted.

Tack and I were both average players, so whether or not we shot a game depended on who was around. Some girls were impressed if you had a cool attitude and a cue in your hand. But a few were slick and accurate on the felt themselves and you didn't want to be shooting in front of them.

Tubby, the owner (who was actually frightfully thin) was an all right guy. He had rules and stuff but they were fair, and he only charged a buck for fountain pop.

We checked our funds and found that between us we had a little over seven dollars. Most of it was Tack's — he earned a bit here and there by doing odd jobs for a few people in his building. I usually found a way to pick up a few bucks, too, cleaning cars mostly, but there hadn't been much going on that week.

Didn't matter. We always threw in together. It evened out in the long run.

So, we were walking along and I was drifting a bit, thinking about this and that, when Tack alerted me to the fact that The Watcher was coming up behind us. I tried to catch a glimpse of him in a store window but in the dark with all the lights on inside and out, the reflection was too hazy.

“Take a right at the corner,” I whispered to Tack.

We did, and walked half a block out of our way before turning back. The guy had disappeared.

“He must have realized we were on to him,” I said, disappointed. I'd envisioned walking a ways down the street and then doing an about-face and going back like we'd forgotten something or changed our minds or whatever. In that case, The Watcher would have had no choice but to keep going, and giving him the slip would have been a cinch.

I'd thought that would be good practice for when I put my plan into place and turned things around — started watching him instead. Before I could get behind him, I'd need to figure out a few ways to throw him off when he was following me.

I figured Tack had done something that tipped him off this time. No big deal. It would be easier when I was on my own.

I'd been thinking about it a lot and I was just about ready to get started. In the meantime, the pool hall waited, and I had a particular reason for wanting to get there.