by Nancy Isaak
A quiet voice spoke from deep in the shadows. “It’s also ours.”
* * * *
We spun around quickly to find two boys—each around twelve years of age—coming out from the bushes on either side of us.
They were holding shotguns.
“No!” I yelled, as Kieran and Brandon both went for their guns. “You’d never make it!”
Their hands twitched—but they froze.
Porter, meanwhile, took a step forward, his hands in the air. “No harm intended,” he said, calmly. “We were just looking for a safe place to live.”
“Well, this is our home,” said the boy on our right. He was half-Asian, skinny, and had shoulder-length black hair. “You should go.”
The boy on our left—an African-American even skinnier than the first, motioned with his shotgun. “Exit’s that way, bros.”
“This isn’t fair,” whined Rhys behind me. “We walked so far!”
I shushed him. “It’s fine, Rhys. There are lots of houses on this Point. We’ll just find another one.”
“Yeah, well if you do,” said the first kid, “watch out for the Locals.”
The black kid laughed. “Because they’re crazy, man…Locos!”
“Come on, guys,” I said to the others, turning. “Let’s go.” A moment later, however, I turned back—I couldn’t leave without asking. “Listen,” I said, hands up—trying to appear non-threatening. “I know this is probably a stupid question but—is there any chance that Kaylee is still alive and in there?” I motioned to the gabled house in front of us.
The Asian kid immediately lowered his shotgun. “You’re a friend of Kaylee’s?” he asked, surprised. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“You know Kaylee?”
“Yeah, kind of,” he said. “Her dad is married to my aunt. That makes me her second step-cousin or something like that. How do you know Kaylee?”
“I go to school with her. Is she here?”
The kid looked down at his feet. “Sorry, dude.”
* * * *
Of course, Kaylee wasn’t there.
But she was also everywhere.
As Ian and Andrei showed us around the mansion, I caught remnants of her throughout the house—an old doll sitting on a chair, a soccer ball in the corner, an Agoura High t-shirt hung in the closet.
And then there was her bedroom.
She might have lived with her mother, but she apparently still maintained a room here. Ironically, her bedroom in Malibu was larger than the whole upper floor of her townhouse in Agoura Hills.
There was a large walk-in closet, full of designer clothes, purses, and shoes. Kaylee even had her own attached bathroom—with a Jacuzzi tub and steam shower.
I tried not to think of her in that room but—I was still a 16-year old boy.
Let’s just leave it at that.
JOURNAL ENTRY #8
I can see why Kaylee lives with her mom.
There are pictures all through this house of Kaylee’s dad and the woman he married. Her dad has to be in his sixties and his peroxide-blond wife in her twenties. And she’s got massive boobs, the kind that look rock-hard and probably come from silicone—very ‘trophy wife’—very Southern California.
Brandon—of course—thinks she’s ‘way hot’. Personally, she’s the kind of fake woman who doesn’t interest me, but I don’t want to say anything because she’s Ian’s aunt. He’s one of the kids who’s been living in the house here.
Ian’s a nice kid; he’s part Asian, part Jewish. The other kid who’s living here is Andrei; he’s African-American. They’re not related, obviously—just friends.
In fact, Ian isn’t even from around here. He actually lives up in Oregon—a little town called Bend. He was down here with his mom when ‘it’ happened. They were housesitting/vacationing while Kaylee’s dad and step-mom were in Europe for a couple of weeks. Ian said that he just woke up the day after Halloween and—when he went down to breakfast—he couldn’t find his mom anywhere.
Andrei’s story is even weirder.
He lives up at the far end of Malibu, right around Leo Carrillo State Beach. He says that he was running on the beach with his dad and that there were people everywhere. Suddenly, he tripped and when he looked up—everyone was gone.
A beach full of people—disappeared.
* * * *
I don’t know if it was fate or luck that brought Ian and Andrei together.
Andrei was walking south on Pacific Coast Highway, trying to find somebody—anybody. And Ian was walking down Dume Drive toward the highway.
Eventually, they both met up—two 12-year old boys who’d had their whole worlds and their families ripped away from them.
They’ve been inseparable ever since.
* * * *
I think that both boys are kind of relieved to have some older guys around. It’s probably been difficult for them, trying to work things out. Ian says that there are other boys on the Point—mostly older—but they’re a gang called the ‘Locals’, and they don’t want anything to do with them.
He says that—sometimes—the Locals run along Dume Drive, breaking into houses and shooting at cars. One time, the boys even saw a couple of the Locals beating up another kid just for coming onto the Point to go fishing on the beach.
Ian and Andrei were hidden behind a trashcan—watching. They said the kid got away, but that the Locals yelled after him that they’d kill him if he ever came back onto the Point. Since then, Andrei and Ian have stayed locked up in the Michelson house—eating from the food in the pantry—afraid to go out.
And afraid that the Locals will come in.
* * * *
One of the nice things about being in a house this big—is that we can each have our own room if we want. For one ridiculous moment, I thought that maybe I’d sleep in Kaylee’s room, but I quickly realized that would probably be just too weird. Instead, I chose a room up on the third floor.
It’s smaller than most of the others. Ian says that’s because it’s for a maid. Still, I like the room because it’s up high and I can see what’s coming along Dume Drive from the window.
Porter is sleeping almost directly below me. He chose his room because it’s next to the library. Apparently, Kaylee’s dad likes his wives young and his authors old. Porter says that he’s going to start with Aristotle and read his way through to Zola.
Ethan and Wester didn’t want their own rooms. Instead, they are sharing one—two rooms down from Porter’s. They are like two peas in a pod now—racing through the house, always giggling and laughing.
Rhys is in a room that’s directly across from the one that Andrei and Ian are sharing. Because the three of them are so close in age, they’re becoming fast friends. Where one of them goes, I’m usually certain to find the other two close behind.
Truthfully, I’m happy that Rhys has found some new friends. And Andrei and Ian seem to be good normal kids.
But—then there’s Kieran.
He—sadly—has decided to room with Brandon.
And not in the main house. Instead, they’ve taken up residence in the guest house, halfway toward the back end of the wooded property. They’ve each got their own bedroom there, and a small kitchen and bathroom—neither of which are in working condition, of course.
There’s also a basketball court just outside of their guest house. We can hear them playing there—the ball bouncing constantly day and night. I worry that the Locals will hear them, but my brother and Brandon don’t seem too concerned.
Frankly, I also worry when I don’t hear the basketball.
Because, if they’re not in the guest house, if they’re not on the property—then where do they go?
* * * *
For the most part, we’re all staying close to the house at the moment.
The property is enormous and the younger guys enjoy racing through the trees and the grape vines. There are a few oranges still on the trees—a little sour—but we still eat them. Like the others,
I’m looking forward to next spring, when the apples and grapes start growing again. Ian says that there’s even a banana plant here somewhere, but that it doesn’t grow fruit every year.
(Fingers crossed that this coming year we’ll have bananas.)
Meanwhile, Porter is worried about our water situation. Because there’s no irrigation now—no sprinklers. It’s pretty moist here on Point Dume, but Porter thinks that, once next summer hits—the ground will dry up and most of the plants and fruit trees will die.
I’m hoping he’s wrong; I’m worried he isn’t.
We’re lucky here in this house because Mr. Michelson keeps a very full pantry. There are even some boxes of food stored on racks in the garage. I had Porter do a survey of everything that we have and he thinks—if we’re very careful—we have at least six to eight months of food.
Brandon and Kieran, however, still want us to go down to Pavilions and clear out the store. So far I’ve nixed the idea. While I think bringing in more food is always a good idea, I’m also concerned about these Locals that Ian and Andrei talk about. If these guys are really that violent, the last thing we should be doing is taking away their food supply.
Besides—this Point is full of huge houses.
We can always go shopping in them.
* * * *
Even though Brandon thinks it’s stupid, we’ve created a ‘bathroom area’, out near the far end of the estate. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, having to walk that far—especially at night.
But every time I’m there—and I smell the stink—I realize that Porter (as usual) was right.
You don’t sh*t where you live.
And if you have to—you do it as far away as possible.
* * * *
Rhys, of course, has been whining about going surfing down at Zuma Beach. I have to admit that I’m jonesing for a day on the waves, too.
I’m itching to try out a board that I found in one of the garages on the property (there’s two—garages, not boards). It’s an ancient longboard that’s made out of wood—like something straight out of Kahanamoku’s days—no fins, nothing.
But I’m worried about the Locals.
If they corner us out on the water, it could get ugly. And it’s not like we could surf with our guns—although Kieran says he’s willing to try.
Being a Malibu-boy, Andrei knows most of the kids in the area. He says that these guys might call themselves the ‘Locals’, but that he hasn’t seen them before—and that most of them are definitely not local surfers.
That’s unfortunate because—if they were—I’d probably know them. All the guys I know who surf the waters around here are pretty normal dudes. They can get a little territorial at times but it’s basically immature-stuff, not real violent.
It makes me wonder where these ‘Locals’ actually come from.
OUR FIRST THANKSGIVING
I found Ian sitting in a small alcove, just off the living room. He had a photo album on his lap and he was going through it page-by-page. As he saw me coming, he quickly wiped at his tear-filled eyes.
“Don’t worry about it, bro,” I said, sitting down beside him. “It happens to all of us.” I motioned toward the photo album. “Pictures of your family?”
“My mom,” he said, pointing to a photograph of a pretty dark-haired woman standing next to a Chinese man. “And that’s my dad. He’s dead now.”
“Sorry, bud. How’d he die?”
“It was a long time ago,” said Ian. “When I was just a baby. A car accident. This guy was drinking and driving and he hit my dad’s car.”
“Man, that sucks,” I said. “I hate when people drink and drive. It’s so stupid.”
Ian shrugged. “Not like that’s going to happen anymore.”
“Guess not.”
He turned to the next page.
Now the same dark-haired woman was arm-in-arm with another dark-haired woman of around the same age. They were walking down the street together, laughing.
“Who’s that?”
“My aunt.”
“Kaylee’s step-mom?” I asked, astonished.
“That was before she dyed her hair,” Ian explained. “And before she got her boobies.”
“Did someone say ‘boobies’?!” Brandon plunked down beside Ian and leaned over to take a look. “Show me boobies!” he ordered. “Are we talking pictures of your bodacious auntie?”
Ian quickly closed the photo album, got up, and left.
* * * *
“Dude,” I said to Brandon, once Ian had disappeared around the corner. “Inappropriate or what?!”
Brandon looked confused. “What? I wasn’t even the one who brought up the boobies.”
“The kid is 12-years old,” I reminded him. “He’s lost everyone, the world has gone crazy, and he doesn’t need you getting a hard-on every time he mentions his aunt.”
“Well, then he shouldn’t have such a smoking-hot auntie, should he?”
I stared at him, annoyed. “Seriously?”
“Fine,” Brandon sighed. “I’ll keep my wet dreams to myself.”
“Good.” I got up to leave.
“Wait, Jacob. Like I’ve been meaning to ask you…Halloween—the night ‘it’ happened. You weren’t at the party—at Peyton’s house. You were supposed to be there.”
“I was invited but I didn’t want to go.”
“How come? I mean, it was the Foxes! They were all there—Peyton, Tray, Orla. And it was a rocking night—booze, beautiful chicks—Peyton’s dad even brought in a DJ.”
(A night with the Foxes…stalker-Peyton, mean-Tray, and the head-bitch of them all—Orla Whelan. And he wondered why I didn’t go.)
I shrugged. “I’d promised to take my brothers surfing. We stayed Halloween night at Leo Carrillo and surfed Zuma in the morning.”
“But it was Peyton,” insisted Brandon. “She’s like almost as hot as Tray. And you know she wants you. Dude, she’d do anything for you. And I mean anything!”
“Yeah, well,” I said, “I’m not interested.”
“Cause of the little blond mouse?”
The hackles at the back of my neck immediately went up. When I turned to look at Brandon, he was leaning against the wall, arms behind his head.
Grinning.
“You got something to say, Brandon?” I asked, irritated.
He shrugged—nonchalant. “You know, I didn’t recognize the little mouse at first,” he finally said. “But there’s this school picture in the hallway over there. Chick in it—I recognize her from the stands at Agoura. She watches sometimes, when we have football practice.”
“So?”
“So, I was just curious, that’s all,” he said. “If she’s the reason that you didn’t go to the party on Halloween?”
“Peyton is the reason that I didn’t go to the party on Halloween. I’m just not into her.”
“Well, then,” Brandon persisted. “Is the little mouse the reason that we’re here then—in this particular house?”
“Number One—little mouse’s name is Kaylee,” I said, quietly. “And Number Two—if you have a problem with being here, feel free to leave.”
Honestly—at that moment—I was hoping that Brandon would go.
Unfortunately—he stayed.
* * * *
Our first real ‘family’ meal was on Thanksgiving Day.
We found a number of canned hams in the pantry and Kieran and I used one, cutting it into steaks and grilling them on the barbecue. Meanwhile, Porter baked some buns, somehow substituting applesauce for the eggs in the recipe. Rhys, Andrei, and Ian were responsible for the mashed potatoes, and Ethan and Wester set the table.
Even Brandon did his part. He carried in the sodas and slapped them down on the floor in a corner.
For Brandon—that was a monumental effort.
* * * *
“The only thing missing was the cranberry sauce,” sighed Rhys.
“And the football,” added Brandon. “Especially the football.
”
“What’s cranberry sauce?” asked Wester.
We were all lazing around the dining room, our stomachs full, our eyes drooping with fatigue. The remains of our meal was scattered across the table and—in Rhys’ case—on the floor.
“My mom makes this great cranberry sauce,” yawned Andrei. “She puts raisins into it.”
“Our dad just uses the stuff that comes in the can,” said Rhys. “But I love it.”
I nodded, yawning as well. “He heats it up in the oven with the turkey.”
“What’s cranberry sauce?” repeated Wester.
“Duh...sauce made out of cranberries,” said Ethan. “Everybody knows that.”
“Wester’s from Haiti, remember,” I said. “They probably don’t have cranberry sauce with their Thanksgiving dinner there.”
“Do you even have Thanksgiving in Haiti?” asked Porter.
“We had it at the orphanage,” said Wester. “The Sisters made us turkey and corn on the cob. Then, we all had to say what we were thanking God for.”
“My mom and I do that,” Ian piped up. “Every Thanksgiving we say what we’re thankful for. Mom says we do it to remind ourselves how blessed we are.”
Brandon let out a massive burp. “I’m thankful for free booze and guns to shoot,” he crowed. “Now if only some fricking vampires or zombies would come our way, so we could blast the crap out of them, life would be just about perfect!”
“I’m thankful for no school,” Kieran laughed. “Who the hell needs it anymore—booyah!”
He and Brandon exchanged high-fives—Hoot! Hoot!
