“I don’t know,” Phil said quietly, shaking his head. He put a hand onto the window.
“He’s probably very imaginative,” Joanne offered.
Phil turned around to face her, a cynical grin on his face. “Well, I just love a kid with an imagination, don’t you, honey?”
“Phil,” she pleaded. She wanted this boy. She had seen him on other visits, watched him. She could get him out of here, maybe give him some love. It would be good for him, and for her.
Phil’s cruel smile faded and he stepped closer to her. He reached down and took her hands. “I just want to know what we’re getting into, Joanne. I don’t want you, or me, taking on more than we can handle.”
Mrs. Poole cleared her throat. “He’s a lovely boy. Very bright . . . very sweet. But if you think it’s too much then . . .”
Joanne spun around. “No!” she said too loudly. “I mean, we’ve had difficult children before. And Andy doesn’t look like any problem at all.”
She caught Mrs. Poole looking at Phil. And Phil smiled and looked at Joanne.
“Well, I suppose we can help the little guy out. I’m game,” he said, giving Joanne’s hand a squeeze. “If it’s what you want . . .”
Joanne smiled.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Poole said. “I’ve put a copy of Andy’s records inside a folder, along with the time for his scheduled sessions with Dr. Barlow. It’s very important that he continue to receive support while away from the center.”
Joanne nodded as she went back to the window to watch Andy, who was awkwardly fingering through his cards, searching for the perfect one to go fishing for . . .
They seemed like nice people.
Andy slid into the center seat belt of the big station wagon.
His mom always told him to sit in the center. The center rear seat belt. Always . . . It was the safest.
The woman looked a bit like his mom. Except she seemed a little older. She kept turning around and smiling at him. She said he should call her Joanne.
“Yes . . . Joanne,” he said quietly.
The man tossed his bag into the back of the station wagon. He didn’t seem as friendly. He was quiet, as if he were thinking about something else.
The heavy doors of the station wagon slammed, and Andy turned to see Mrs. Poole on the steps of the Children’s Crisis Center, waving at him.
He never asked her . . . or anyone . . . What’s a crisis? Is what happened to me a crisis?
Andy waved back. And the man pulled away.
The woman turned and looked at him. “So, Andy, what do you like to eat?”
“All kinds of things . . . ,” he said.
Joanne’s smile grew larger. She wants me to talk, he knew. “But what’s your very favorite thing, Andy?”
He looked away. The Children’s Center was gone. They moved down a big street, through a part of the city Andy had never seen before.
“Chocolate,” he said.
The woman’s smile fell a bit, and Andy guessed that there might not be much candy to eat in this house. “Besides that?” she asked.
The car burned a corner, moving onto a highway, leaving the tall buildings behind.
“Eggs, I guess. I like eggs.”
“Great. We’ll make eggs for breakfast.”
Home. Your home, Andy thought. Not mine. I have a home. I have a . . .
“I had breakfast,” he said.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get hungry,” the woman said. “Maybe later . . .”
The man looked back at him, taking his eyes off the road. “Joanne is a terrific cook, Andy. Terrific . . . you like sushi?” Phil smiled when he asked the question.
It’s not a real question, Andy knew. It’s a joke of some kind. And Andy knew that there was something about this man he didn’t like.
And the man looked back again.
“Huh, Andy, do you?”
Andy was looking forward, where the man should have been looking.
And he saw the truck. It was a giant truck, moving over from another lane, moving closer to them, closer, until it was moving right in front of them.
The truck driver didn’t see them.
Joanne saw him. She screamed. It was loud. A terrible scream. Just like the scream Andy’s mother had made. Over and over. When she screamed at Chucky . . .
“Phil! Look out!”
Phil turned back to the windshield. He yelled, “Jesus Christ!”
That was a bad thing to yell, Andy knew. We’re going to hit the truck, he thought. We’re going to smash right into the truck. But maybe I’ll be okay because I’m in the middle seat belt. Maybe I’ll be safe and . . .
The man braked. Andy felt his body fly forward, pulling against the straps. The car screeched to a stop.
The truck kept gliding in front of them. A big truck, taking forever. Andy looked at the side of it.
And he saw the face. The bright red hair. Horribly bright, he thought. And the freckled face and the blue eyes, each as big as a bowling ball.
Another Truck of Good Guys, it said on the side.
The giant face seemed to be looking at Andy as it passed them. The car seemed to tilt, turning, sliding. Then he heard a horn. The truck driver, honking out a warning. And then the truck was past them.
“Damn it,” the man said. “That asshole nearly killed us . . .”
The woman put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Phil . . . ,” she said softly, looking back to Andy.
The man nodded.
“You okay?” the woman said.
“Yes,” Andy answered.
“Crazy truck driver,” the man said. Then he laughed. “Crazy . . .”
The woman reached back and patted Andy’s leg. He liked her. She seemed nice. Like a mom. Even though she wasn’t his mom.
I have a mom, Andy thought. These people are just taking care of me. Just for now. That’s all.
He turned to look to the right. Just in time to see the truck pull off the highway and move through a gate.
He saw buildings and a big sign that said, Play Pals Toys. And there was a giant Good Guy on top of one of the buildings, its big hand going up and down, up and down, waving at everyone as they drove by.
Or maybe, thought Andy, he’s waving just at me.
4
They left the city.
Andy watched as rows of beautiful white houses and bright green lawns rolled by. Some of the houses were guarded by big trees planted in front, trees that looked great for climbing. Others were surrounded by walls of bushes. There were no tall buildings here, no buses, no stoplights. It looked quiet, safe . . .
“How’s it look, Andy?” Joanne asked.
“Nice,” he said, forcing a smile.
The woman was trying so hard to make sure he felt okay.
The car slowed in front of one of the white houses. Then Phil turned left, into a driveway.
“Here we are, champ.”
Their house had a lawn and a gigantic front porch. It probably had a backyard, too. A backyard would be good. Andy leaned forward in his seat.
The car stopped. And Joanne turned to him again. “So what do you think?”
“I’ve never lived in a house before. Just apartments . . .”
“You’re going to love it,” she said.
Phil opened the back of the station wagon, getting his bag. And then he opened Andy’s door while Andy undid his seat belt.
Andy looked up at the house, at the windows, wondering, Which room is mine?
Joanne took his hand. It felt funny at first, but he held on as she led him along. She turned to her husband.
And Andy heard her say, “A house just isn’t a home without children.”
But Phil didn’t say anything.
As Andy walked up the steps to the front door, he saw that everything was shiny and new-looking—the porch, the floor, the windows—everything was bright with fresh white paint. It was all so different from the dark building where he lived with his mother.
J
oanne opened the door. It slid open soundlessly.
And Andy thought about another door . . .
Chucky was after them. The policeman had been hurt. And they were alone again, he and his mom, running around the house, being chased by Chucky.
Only Andy knew it wasn’t Chucky any longer. He knew it was someone else—someone hiding in the doll.
And that someone had a special knife. With strange swirls of red and black on it. It looked like an Indian knife from the museum. It had a wet red blotch at the tip.
From the policeman.
Except Chucky didn’t want the policeman. The policeman had just gotten in the way.
Chucky kept yelling in that horrible voice.
“Give me the boy! Give me the . . .”
He used the F-word. And his voice was terrible. It was a monster’s voice.
He screamed, “If you give me the boy, I’ll let you go. Just give me the boy!”
Mom pulled Andy into the bathroom and slammed the door, holding it tight against Chucky.
And Andy remembered thinking, He’ll never get in. He’s only a doll. And it’s a nice strong door and my mom is right here, holding it shut tight.
Then the knife came slicing through the wood.
Again. And again. Jabbing at his mother. She screamed, trying to move, trying not to get cut. Until the door was filled with holes.
And Chucky just kept screaming . . . “Give me the boy! Give him to me and I’ll let you go!”
But she didn’t, Andy thought . . . as he walked through the door of the Simpson house.
Phil put down Andy’s suitcase in a dark hallway. Andy saw a big, open room to his left, filled with light. There were stairs just ahead . . . and he smelled food, different, strange aromas. That reminded him of going up in the elevator in his apartment building and smelling what everyone was making for dinner.
This isn’t my home, Andy thought.
“There you go, champ,” Phil said. “Take a look around while we hang up the coats.”
They watched him—he felt them watching him. He looked left again, at the big, open living room filled with light. He took a step inside. Everything was beautiful—the couch with its pillows sitting neatly in the corner and the dark wood tables that reflected the sunlight. Everything was so clean, so shiny.
He turned a bit and saw a table. It had a statue on it. He walked over to the statue.
It was of a mother holding a baby. Andy leaned down close to it, to get a better look at the face of the woman. She was smiling at the baby, and the baby was looking back at her. Andy reached out to touch the statue, to touch the woman . . .
Then Phil’s hand closed around his wrist.
“Oops, sorry, Andy. That’s a very valuable piece. It’s a hobby of ours, collecting things, figurines . . .”
Andy looked around, and he saw, for the first time, the other statues dotting the room. Funny, at first he had only seen this one.
“So,” Phil went on. “First rule—don’t touch the old stuff. Okay, champ?”
Andy nodded. Then Joanne was there. “Sorry,” Andy said quietly. He looked up at her.
“No foul,” Phil said, patting his shoulder. “You don’t go into the penalty box this time.” Andy didn’t know what he was talking about. “You just gotta be a bit careful in this room.”
The woman came close to Andy, and then she picked up the statue. She turned it in her hands, letting Andy see it.
“My grandmother gave this to my mother,” she said. “And . . . my mother gave it to me.”
Andy turned to Joanne. “And who will you give it to?”
The statue stopped turning. Andy watched the woman’s face change. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something. But then she just put the statue down, as if it were no longer important.
Andy knew he’d said something wrong.
Joanne took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go get your suitcase and get you all settled in. Does that sound like a good idea?”
“Sure,” Andy said, and he let himself be led out of the living room. When they got to the stairs, the woman said, “Why don’t you go on and take your bag upstairs? I’ll be right up.”
Andy reached down, picked up his small suitcase, and walked upstairs . . . noting how his feet made no sound on the thickly carpeted steps.
Joanne put her arm around Phil and pulled him close.
“He’s absolutely darling,” she whispered, watching Andy walk up the stairs. “He feels so fragile, lost . . .” She turned and looked right at Phil’s face. “What do you think?”
Phil smiled. “I think I’ll get used to him.”
And she felt him give her a squeeze back.
It is dark up here, Andy thought. The only light came from a window at the end of the hall. And there were a lot of doors up here, a lot of rooms. How can I tell which is mine?
He turned around to ask them where he should go. But he saw them talking quietly, whispering. They are probably talking about me, he guessed. Maybe they’re not so happy they brought me here. Maybe it would have been better if I had stayed at the center. Even though the other children screamed, even though there were children with hurt faces, even though there were mean kids who made him feel bad.
Maybe that might have been better.
He looked at the nearest door. Maybe this is my room, he thought. He walked over to the door and twisted the knob. As soon as the door was open, his nose wrinkled.
Smoke. Then someone complained, “Jee-zuz. Didn’t you ever hear of knocking?”
He could see a big girl inside. A teenager. She was sitting on her bed flipping through a magazine. A pale blue cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the room. There was a poster over her bed of some man with long black hair, dressed all in black, except for one hand. That was curled into a fist and covered with shiny metal spikes. Andy tried to read the words on the poster, but the lettering was strange.
He didn’t like the picture.
“I’m s—” he started to say.
“Forget it,” the girl said quickly. “Just close the door and . . .”
Then Joanne was there, just behind him in the doorway. “Andy, did you find . . . ?”
He felt the woman move him to the side-out of the way. “Kyle, what’s this? You’ve been smoking again. Hey, you know the rules.”
Joanne walked past Andy right up to the girl. “Okay, hand them over. Now.”
The girl rolled her eyes. She shot Andy a look, and he knew she blamed him . . . for opening the door . . . for getting her in trouble.
“Oh, Joanne, come on. They’re my lungs . . . Why don’t you . . .”
“Give ’em!” Joanne said, putting out her hand. “Phil will kill you if he finds you with cigarettes again.”
The girl shook her head and rolled her eyes at Andy a second time. But then she dug in her shirt pocket and pulled out a red-and-white box. She slapped it into the woman’s hand.
“Thank you.” Joanne turned to Andy, as if she had forgotten him. “Andy, this is Kyle. You can think of her as your sister while you’re here.”
Kyle glared at Andy and then made a sick-looking smile. “Charmed.”
Andy stepped a bit back, moving out of Kyle’s room. She was pretty, but with her short hair, red, made-up lips, and dark eyes lined in black, she looked as if she could be as mean as some of the kids in the center.
Maybe even meaner.
“Kyle,” Joanne said, walking over to her chest of drawers. There was a pink suitcase sitting on top of it. “Kyle, what is this? You’ve been here for three weeks and you still haven’t unpacked. What in the world . . .”
Kyle stood up. When she got off the bed, Andy saw a stuffed bear roll off it, a brown bear with a red ribbon around its neck. The bear landed face-down, and he saw the girl try to kick it away. As if she didn’t want anyone to see it was hers.
“Why should I unpack? What for? I’m never in one place for more than a month. Never. I’m always going somewhere new.” Kyle took a s
tep toward Joanne. “So why should I unpack?”
Joanne shook her head. She moved away from the suitcase, from Kyle. “Well, with that kind of attitude, I can see why. We like having you stay with us. But I’d like it better if you put your stuff away.”
The girl nodded. She looked down at Andy, catching him watching her.
Andy suddenly realized: I’m the new kid. She thinks that I’m just like her. But I’ve got a real mother, he thought. Someone who will come and get me. This girl couldn’t have a real mother. She couldn’t.
Joanne stood by Andy again. “And I’d appreciate a hand with dinner. I have to get Andy settled and . . .”
“I can’t. I have to work tonight.”
“Work? Again? You’ve been out three nights in a row. This is supposed to be a family, Kyle. I mean, it’s nice you can earn some spending money. But it would also be nice if you spent some time with us.”
“Yeah, well, I have a job, and I’m saving money because next year I’m going to be on my own.”
Joanne kept steering Andy out of the room.
“That may be, Kyle. But until then, I’d appreciate some help around here.”
“Er, sure.” Kyle seemed to agree. Too quickly, Andy thought. Then Kyle smiled, and all of a sudden she didn’t look so mean. “Joanne, can I borrow the car tonight? It takes forever on the bus and . . .”
“The keys are on my dresser,” Joanne said. It was the same tone of voice Andy’s mom had used when she would finally give in and let him have that extra cookie.
“Thanks,” Kyle said.
As soon as they were out of Kyle’s room, her door shut again.
Joanne looked down at Andy. “She’s okay . . . really,” she said, smiling.
Andy smiled back.
But he wasn’t sure about that at all.
5
“Just don’t give me any runaround on this, all right? Can you just tell me that I don’t have to worry about a thing?”
Boyd Mattson squeezed the phone, wishing it was the custodian’s neck. The head custodian was making lots of noise about the mess, how he would have to pull men off their regular rotation, maybe put some guys on overtime, maybe even a few on golden time.
The bastard was mining the situation for all it was worth.
Child’s Play 2 Page 3
