17
“Rules?” Jem said as he pulled to the curb in front of Rainbow House.
Daniel—in full glam now, with glitter on his cheeks, his eyebrows freshly shaped and gelled, and enough eyeliner to make a hooker reach for her beer—gave Jem a look that said, Really?
Jem pressed the lock button for emphasis. “Let’s hear ’em.”
“Don’t leave Rainbow House.”
“And?”
“Stay around other people.” And then, in the kind of tone that made reasonable people want to murder teenagers, he added, “Unless I’m going to the bathroom.”
“And?”
“Keep my phone on.”
“And if any of us calls you, you answer it.”
“Oh my God, I know.” The boy was wearing a black skirt over black leggings—and Jem was a thousand percent sure that Ammon didn’t know about this article of clothing—and he gave the skirt a tug and shot another glare in Jem’s direction. “I’m going inside now.”
“New rule.”
“What the fuck?”
“Two new rules.”
“No glitter in the car,” Daniel said with a roll of his eyes.
“That’s not a rule; that’s common sense. It’s like you do a craft with glitter every night, Danny.” Jem held up one finger. “No swearing because Tean doesn’t like it.”
“You swear all the time!”
He held up a second finger. “And you stay away from old guys.”
“Or what? You’ll beat them up?”
“Fucking A’.”
“You can’t,” Daniel said. “You’re not allowed back inside Rainbow House.”
“Danny my boy, sweet summer lad, I will kick down the door and drag every old fucker out by their ear hairs if I feel like it.”
Daniel didn’t bother to respond, but his eyes made Jem think that his thoughts were some combination of eww and you’re so weird.
“Have a fantastic time,” Jem said. “Tell everyone hi for me. And follow the fucking rules so I don’t have to hang you off an overpass by your heels.”
“You’d have to catch me first,” Daniel said, and he unlocked the door and slid out of the Subaru with a smirk. He straightened his cropped pink tee—another piece of clothing that was definitely contraband—and pale skin flashed in the streetlights as he bounced toward the old Victorian home.
Jem thought maybe he’d liked Daniel more when he’d been a tragically suffering closet-case. Then again, maybe he’d just liked him more before all the teenage hormones had started pumping.
This section of the curb was a no-parking zone, so Jem rolled around the block, found a spot, and parked.
There were fewer streetlights here, and they were spaced far enough apart that he was sitting in darkness.
He killed the Subaru, and the cold began to leak into the car.
It was only a couple of hours. He had a good coat.
He could turn the engine on and off if he needed to, warm up for a few minutes.
Sure, it’d be nice to be able to wait inside, like he used to.
But it was his fault. Going crazy like that.
Going after Wendell. Completely losing his shit.
You can’t lose your shit or you go on the shelf.
For a moment, Decker was right there with him, all around him. The smell of the cleaner. The fluorescent lights that were always on. The noise, because there were kids that never shut up. Kids screaming. Some of them screamed for no reason. But sometimes there was a reason.
He laid his head back. Got himself settled.
When he breathed out the next time, the windshield fogged, and then the fog shrank down to nothing, and he could see again.
He’d thought he’d already known how to keep a handle on his shit.
You learned it when you were bouncing around in care, because you saw kids who couldn’t do it.
You saw them blow up. You saw them scream.
Break things. You saw them push a stroller with a baby off the stoop, and you barely caught it in time, and then Mrs. Fares thought you were messing around, and she hit you across the back so hard that you still had a handprint the next morning.
Those kids, the ones who couldn’t get their shit together, they only bounced so many times before they ended up in a group home.
And you didn’t want to end up in a group home.
In a group home, they had those doors that locked by themselves.
In a group home, the older kids stole your shoes.
They did other stuff. Worse. Because they knew the adults wouldn’t come check.
Jem unbuttoned his coat.
Kind of like Decker.
So, he’d learned how to keep it all under control.
And then you got to Decker, and you found out you didn’t know jack shit. The pressure between his knees. The Cheetos breath on the back of his neck.
He got out of the car. He’d find a gas station. Buy a cup of coffee. Stretch his legs.
What were you thinking?
It had been the surprise. The shock of seeing him again.
What the fuck were you thinking?
He hadn’t been prepared. It had been too long. He’d almost forgotten about it until he saw him again.
And now you can’t go into Rainbow House. And Daniel’s scared of you, even if he makes jokes about it. And if you get arrested, what’s Tean going to do? Is he going to wait around for you to get out of prison so you can still get married?
Coffee. Maybe a donut, even if it was stale. Maybe he’d buy a pack of Marlboros and take up smoking just to have something to do. Did they still make those candy cigarettes—
Crossing the street ahead of him, lit up so clearly he might as well have been standing in a spotlight, was Wendell.
Jem froze for a moment. It’s dark. And he can’t see me.
And then those thoughts were gone, and his head was empty and black and there was something moving through it, as big and as dark as he was, like the night Tean had taken him down to the Jordan, the cloudy night, the pitch-black night, and you knew where the river was only because you could see where it wasn’t.
Jem dropped his shoulders, shoved his hands in his pockets, blew out a breath that tattered away from white into nothing. Be cool. It was that easy. Be cool, be cold, be ice. Be that black river you can’t see; you can only see around it.
His hand dipped into his pocket.
The point of the barrette was still as sharp as a knife.
The ROOS didn’t make any sound as he walked. Slow. No hurry. When you hurry, when you rush, you fuck up. You’ve got to keep a handle on your shit. You can’t fuck up now.
What are you doing?
Out from under the streetlight, Wendell was nothing but a shadow that flickered in the headlights of passing cars.
But then he got to the next streetlight, and he was on stage again: a North Face coat, dark jeans, pointy-toed boots.
His hair was smoothed into place, and now Jem could smell the faint hint of aftershave.
Grey Flannel. It had been like a cloud inside that house. It had been like fingers—
On his waistband.
—around his throat.
And then Wendell started up the steps of Rainbow House. The porch lights wrapped around him. He stamped his feet at the doormat and went inside.
Jem stopped. His hand was aching around the barrette. His fingers were cold.
He slid his hand back inside his pocket and watched the house for another minute. He could go inside; Nasha wouldn’t be able to stop him, not physically. But he let that play out in his head like he was watching a video: the arguments, the shouting, the police.
He turned back the way he’d come.
This time, though, he passed where he’d parked and kept going.
This was still a no-parking zone, so he turned at the next street.
This one was better lit, with a Sinclair on the corner and then a twenty-four-hour laundry and then apartments where most of the windows were dark.
Cars were parked along both sides. He ignored the ones that were covered in snow.
Not a minivan. Not a truck. Maybe a crossover, but not too big. No kiddie stuff in the back.
That almost made him laugh.
It was almost the exact same Mercedes, a two-door coupe.
Almost the same goddamn one. Some things didn’t change.
Cream colored. The inside spotless. It wasn’t any good for kids.
A coupe? Get real. And that light upholstery, you were asking for trouble.
Why hadn’t anybody at child services wondered about that?
Why hadn’t anybody seen the car and understood that something wasn’t right?
The same reason Nasha let him walk into Rainbow House and talk to—
Daniel.
—boys: He had money. Everybody needed money.
Jem tried the driver’s door handle. Nothing.
What are you doing?
He tried the other door, but still nothing.
He patted his pockets like he forgot his keys, in case anybody was watching.
No big deal. I’ll just go back and get them.
He walked up the block, crossed, and came back.
The twenty-four-hour laundry had a bell on the door, and when it rang, his heart jumped in his chest. Pins and needles ran through him: his neck, his chest, his belly.
Then the sounds of water sloshing, clothes tumbling, a fan set to high.
The lights were too bright, and the glare made him squint.
Washers on one side. Dryers on the other. Everything new. The smell of detergent.
Places like these sometimes gave them out for free, but if they did, he couldn’t tell where.
He checked the trashcan. A Big Gulp cup.
Paper that had gone through the wash. Nothing.
Next, the big countertop running down the middle, where you could fold your clothes.
He got onto his knees. Nobody else in the whole place, just him, just the hum of the machines.
And there, on the floor, where someone had dropped it: a wire hanger.
What the fuck are you doing?
Instead of making a loop, this time he jogged across the street.
The Mercedes was still there, parked at the curb.
Nobody had come out to look at the guy who had tried the door handles.
Nobody was waiting for him to come back.
As he crossed, he untwisted the wire hanger and bent one end of it into a vee.