CHAPTER 10
As we got deeper into November, Annie remained lost.
I had changed the Haunted House theme of The Tiger’s Den to a Thanksgiving Day one. In one of the smaller drawings, I even included a little girl in red tights enjoying Thanksgiving dinner, as an Easter egg find of Leotard Girl.
The Anne Marie Green (Annie) Is Missing forum discussion became filled with comments and several leads for the police. Lots of people thought they had seen her out trick-or-treating on Halloween night, but no one knew where she had gone afterwards and some of those sightings turned out to have been not of Annie, but of someone else dressed up like a witch. One of the witches turned out to be a petite fifty-year-old mom hoping to get some extra candy for her kids. The police were kind of pissed about that interview from what I heard in the rumors swirling around our school and throughout The Tiger’s Den.
Around mid-November, computer whiz Kailee changed the streaks in her hair from Purple Passion to Shocking Pink and came up with an idea for strengthening the bonds in our student administrator group. She suggested we form a club outside the school and meet in a kind of clubhouse location. She asked if any of us had clubhouses or tree houses in our backyards from when we were little or if any of us had younger siblings with one.
I thought right away about my attic bedroom. It was perfect. It had a window seat, a couch, a desk. But then I realized: no way, no how were we meeting there. It also had a ghost. An unpredictable ghost at that. A ghost who didn’t even understand the afterlife and how it worked, who could pop up at any second.
“Shade? Shade? Are you with us?”
I looked up. “What?”
Kailee repeated something she must have been saying, “So, what do you think about George’s suggestion?”
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I explained that I should check it. I had a text from Brandon: What time are you coming home?
Oh, my God. You had to be kidding me. Was I right or was I right? We were never meeting at my house! That was that.
I turned to George. “Ummm, what do you mean, exactly?”
George explained to me that there had been a lot of foreclosures around town. There were a few blocks where almost all the houses had been abandoned. Homeless people were actually squatting in some of them and the police mostly left them alone. “We could go check out some of the abandoned buildings, find one in decent enough shape where no one’s squatting. It would be really cool.”
So we decided to do that. We’d have our own club in our own abandoned house. We’d have fun. We’d bond.
After comparing our schedules, we came up with Friday after school as the best time to meet. We decided to meet at a diner close to a block of houses on which so many had been foreclosed, homeless people appeared to be the primary inhabitants.
The rest of the week dragged by, as I made it through one school day after another. On Friday, the hands on the school clock seemed to get stuck. When classes finally ended on Friday and the last bell of the week buzzed throughout the building, I jumped up from my seat and practically ran home, looking forward to the adventure of finding an abandoned house that we could turn into a clubhouse.
We met at the diner at 4:00, had cheeseburgers and soda and waited until dusk to go out and explore the abandoned houses. We thought dusk would be best for two reasons. We figured we’d be less conspicuous under cover of sunset and nighttime. We also figured more homeless would be returning back to the places where they squatted as the sun went down and we’d have an easier time telling which buildings were occupied.
As the sun dropped from the sky, painting the horizon with broad brushstrokes of orange and yellow, we paid our bill and slipped out onto the darkening street. Two blocks over, we began investigating empty houses.
It took us a little while to figure out the best way to approach the problem. Kailee had brought a flashlight, so that we could look into the windows to search for evidence that people were living there. George had heard that many foreclosed houses still had furniture in them, pieces that would eventually go to auction, but for now could make a clubhouse incredibly more comfortable than a bare bones place.
The first window we peered into left me with quite a shock.
It was abandoned all right. And inhabited by squatters, no doubt about that. But it was what they were doing that gave me the creeps, sent chills up and down my arms.
There were about two dozen people sitting or lying down on dirty blankets and sleeping bags spread out across the floor. About half of them were asleep or passed out. In the middle of the room, a scrawny tattooed guy with wild hair and a beard down to the crew neck of his T-shirt had a strip of tubing wrapped around his arm. In the opposite hand, he held a needle that he plunged into his arm as we watched.
Our flashlight didn’t seem to disturb him. We weren’t sure why. I’m guessing he hadn’t noticed it. Nevertheless, as soon as Kailee realized what we had stumbled upon, she jerked the flashlight away from the window.
As we walked away, we discussed what we had just witnessed.
George was pretty upset. He started off by swearing. “Damn! I hadn’t even thought about that! Crack houses, drug dens. Man, I do not want to get messed up with that. So much violence involved with those kinds of places.”
Kailee pulled herself together enough to joke around a bit. “What’s the matter, George, you going ultra-conservative on me, all anti-drug and whatnot?” She smiled and laughed, but her laugh sounded forced and her face looked pale.
George didn’t smile at all. “No, it’s nothing like that. What we saw looked like organized drug use, meaning some serious drug sales are probably taking place over there. I don’t like the idea of the potential for violence where we’re trying to have our little club meetings. You know what I mean?”
The smile on Kailee’s lips disappeared.
I made my first suggestion of the night. “Maybe we should start looking on another block?”
George answered, “We’re probably going to find the same type of crap on any block where there are enough abandoned houses for squatters to go unnoticed. I vote for just making sure we pick a house far enough down the block to not run into people going in and out of that particular house ... or any other building where we discover that kind of thing going on.”
Silence followed. Both Kailee and I shook our heads in agreement. What George was saying made sense, even though it made us uncomfortable and somewhat frightened.
We moved five houses down and across the street to continue our search. Shining our flashlight in several windows, we discovered two houses that had furniture and signs that people were still living there: fresh fruit on a table, papers spread out across a desk, TV still on, things like that. In one case, a guy actually came out of the bathroom. We jerked the flashlight away from the window and hightailed it away from there.
One hour later, we finally found our first place that looked like a real possibility. It appeared to be vacant. There were quite a few pieces of furniture, which made it the perfect place for a clubhouse; but there were also quite a few pieces of furniture missing and a lot of dust, which added up to the realization that this house had probably been abandoned. There was no For Sale sign on the front lawn, though, which hopefully meant that realtors would not be barging in with clients to see the place.
George suggested our next step: search around the sides and back of the house to see if we could sneak in through an unlocked basement window.
Kailee suggested something that should have been much more obvious: “Shouldn’t we check the doors first, just to see if someone left them unlocked?”
George replied, “Duh.”
So we did that first, checking the front door and then the back and another door off a small side porch. They were all locked.
Kailee said, “OK, George. Your idea next: check the basement windows.”
Unfortunately, all the basement windows were locked. In the back of the house, however, we heard something bangi
ng as the wind picked up. Looking around, we discovered that a first-floor window had been left open. We studied it for a bit. It looked awfully small.
George volunteered a suggestion: “Shade, you’re kinda small. Do you think you could fit through there and unlock the front door for us?”
I did not like that idea. Not at all. And especially after what we had seen in the drug house. But I wasn’t going to admit it. “Sure, I could try.”
George hoisted me up on his shoulders until I could reach the bottom ledge of the window with my hands. Swinging my feet and legs off his shoulders, trying to push myself off the wall of the house and up through the open window, I fell a handful of times before finally making it through.
I crawled through the narrow space, landing with my hands on the floor and then slithering the rest of my body from the ledge to the floor. I stood up and looked around. I didn’t hear anyone, so I headed to the front door and let George and Kailee in.
We searched the house, top to bottom. It definitely seemed abandoned. There was too much undisturbed dust. It’s interesting, the way human beings leave evidence of their existence. It was all missing. No tubes of toothpaste, no wet sinks, no smells of recent cooking, only a few ratty pieces of clothing in closets.
We were happy. We had found our place.
We sat down on the living room furniture that had been left behind: a couch with stained and torn cushions, one recliner chair and a coffee table scarred with nicks and scratches.
We decided to clean the place up a bit on Saturday, to meet there with mops and buckets and dust rags. We decided that if any of the neighbors stopped to ask us what we were doing, we’d tell them we were a cleaning crew hired to fix up the house. George pointed out that that should work, as any of the respectable neighbors would probably think the house was getting ready to be put on the market and would be glad of that. They wouldn’t question us any further.
CHAPTER 11
When Saturday rolled around, I woke up early, even before my alarm went off, which was unusual for me. I bounded downstairs, expecting to eat breakfast alone, when I discovered that my mom was already up, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. As I entered the kitchen, she put the newspaper down and smiled at me.
That was a bad sign. From years of experience, I knew that probably meant things were about to change. I hoped to God we weren’t going to move again.
“Shade?”
“Yes?” I headed over to the toaster and popped in a slice of bread.
“I’m going to return to Alcoholics Anonymous.”
As I grabbed butter and strawberry jam from the refrigerator, I asked bluntly, “We aren’t going to move again, are we?”
My mother looked surprised. “No, why would we do that?”
I slammed a knife down on the counter a bit more forcefully than I had intended. My mother did not ignore it. “Shade! Watch out for that counter! I can’t afford to replace those tiles!” In a lower, calmer voice, she said, “There’s absolutely no reason why we would move. There’s a perfectly good Alcoholics Anonymous group right here in town, at a local church.”
The toast turned a nice golden color, just the way I liked it. I pulled it out of the toaster and started slathering it with butter and jam. Life was looking up.
For about two seconds, that is. My mother continued, “I’d like you to go to Al-Anon meetings again. I was told there’s an especially great Alateen group here—you know, an Al-Anon group especially for teenagers. I realize that my behavior has affected you greatly. My drinking has affected both of our lives in so many negative ways, I think we both need help.”
I set down my plate of toast across the table from my mom, opened the refrigerator door to grab some orange juice, and replied as nonchalantly as I could manage with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, “I don’t think I need help right now, Mom.”
As soon as the words had popped out of my mouth, I realized they meant trouble. One thing about Poppy Griffin that never changed was her weird combination of being fragile and narcissistic, all at the same time. She was easily wounded when contradicted, but always insisting that her way was the right way and that included her way of attempting to run my life.
I tried to undue the damage of my challenging statement before the Sword fell and I was forced to show up at Alateen meetings. “I mean, I needed help at one time, Mom. But I’m good now.” I realized I should add some encouragement for not moving, while I was at it. “Moving here was one of the best things we ever did.” Oh no, I hadn’t just praised her for moving around a lot, had I? My heart pounded and my hands started to tremble. I felt pressure to explain more clearly. “Moving around so much has been really hard on me.”
My mom’s eyes went wide. Oh no, I had insulted her. I continued, stumbling along to prove I didn’t need to go to Alateen meetings, “Well, you know that, right? That moving around was hard on me?”
My mom started to become agitated. I knew the signs. Her lips tightened. She got a hardened look in her eyes. She started drumming her fingertips on the table. Then she lit up a cigarette. Finally, she responded with a very curt statement, “Of course I knew it was hard on you. And Alateen could help with that.”
I felt panic. I pictured a silver knife. My wrist bleeding. My heart started racing. Working hard to keep my voice from sounding weak or shaky, I said, “But, Mom, that’s all in the past. Moving here has worked out great for me. I never want to move!” There, I said it. A vote for not moving again. “I love my new high school. I’m the Art Director for the Central High School Student Forum and I have my own cartoon strip in the school newspaper. I have friends, really good friends, here. I have a lot of support. I feel good about myself for the first time in a long time.”
I looked at my mom, waiting for a response. I don’t know what I expected to hear back. Maybe the idea that she’d offer to look at my cartoon strip, that she’d be the least bit interested, bubbled up in my subconscious; but that was only wishful thinking. All she said was, “Your schoolwork won’t be affected by all those activities, will it?”
I answered, “No, no, not at all. I actually think I might be on the honor roll this term.”
“Well, that’s good. I don’t want you to end up like me. I wish I had done better in school and went on to college. Life could have been so much better for me.”
And there it was, once again. Hanging in the air like invisible poisoned fruit, waiting to be plucked from the tree and discussed. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant ... with me ... so young, life would have been better. She would have been a great success.
Sure.
And monkeys would have grown wings.
And world peace would have been achieved.
And Poppy Griffin would have stayed sober.
Not buying it. Not for a minute.
I simply said, “Well, thanks for understanding,” as sweetly as I could. And then I tried to eat my toast in silence.
But my mom would have none of that. She wanted to talk.
Mom clutched her coffee cup in her hands. Looking at me with eyes so sad they could shame gorillas into doing social work, she asked me, “Shade, how about you go to one teensy-tiny Alateen meeting for me? Please. It would help me immensely.”
Teensy-tiny? Seriously? What was this, Alateen or Alababy? Just to end that discussion right then and there, I agreed to attend one Alateen meeting. That’d show her; I’d do exactly what I didn’t want to do. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever grow a backbone.
Then Mom tried to get friendly, find stuff out about my life. “Soooo, Shade, what’s happening at school these days?”
I stared at her in silence for a few seconds, which felt like an aeon. From the blank, expectant look on her face, it seemed that she hadn’t heard a word I had said about working on the school forum and newspaper and that I would most likely get on the honor roll this term.
It also looked like she hadn’t washed off her makeup last night. That was not attractive.
I st
opped staring. I said, “Well, there’s a lot going on, actually. Did you hear me say that I’m now the Art Director for my high school’s student forum and that I have my own cartoon strip in the school newspaper and that I’ll probably be on the honor roll this term?”
She waved her hand in the air like she was shooing away flies. “Oh, yeah, yeah, of course I heard you say that.” She pointed to her head, as though trying to demonstrate that there were smarts in them there brain. “I have a mind like a steel trap, you know.” She laughed.
“Yeah, good one.” I laughed, too.
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