by Nancy Isaak
That hurt.
* * * *
Ten days into February—after two nights of blessed absence—Kieran suddenly appeared at the dinner table with a tattoo on the side of his neck. He grinned widely as he and Brandon sat down in their regular seats.
“Yeah,” Kieran bragged. “I’ve got a tat.”
He turned this way and that, so everyone could see the words written on his neck in black ink by what seemed to have been a somewhat shaky hand.
It’s my life—what’s left of it.
“Didn’t that hurt?” asked Rhys, his eyes wide.
“How did you do it?” Connor was leaning forward, trying to get a better look.
“I did it,” said Brandon, looking proud of his handiwork. “Used a needle and some ink I took out of a pen.”
“You used a needle!” Rhys looked almost white. “How?!”
“Dipped it into the ink. Had to punch it in Kieran’s neck again and again,” smirked Brandon. “Just like this.”
He demonstrated with his hand, tapping away at Kieran’s neck. When he pushed a little too hard, Kieran slapped his hand away. “Stop it!”
“You’re such a little baby,” teased Brandon. He reached out and waggled a finger under the bottom of Kieran’s chin. “But I still love you anyway, Kiki.”
Porter and I shared a disgusted look across the table.
“You don’t approve, big brother?” asked Kieran, smirking.
I turned to him and smiled. “Actually, I think your drawing is very pretty.”
Kieran’s face immediately dropped. He didn’t say another word during the whole meal.
It made it almost pleasant.
* * * *
If there was one good thing about Kieran and Brandon during that time—it was that they seemed to be taking the security of our tribe more seriously. They volunteered often for the night watch shift—spending a good eight hours up on the roof—from midnight until just after dawn.
Of course, they were usually too tired afterward to take part in any of their other duties. Instead, the rest of us often had to pick up their slack while they slept off their fatigue in the guest house.
Still—At least, they were finally contributing.
* * * *
With the younger boys not participating in the gym anymore, Porter suddenly found that his classes had become significantly larger. Andrei and Ian were regularly attending school now, and Rhys was usually there at least one day out of the three.
Wester was turning out to be a whiz in Math, and Ethan thoroughly enjoyed any lesson that allowed him to draw pictures. Andrei took to science and would even show up early to help set up for experiments. Ian was simply an all-round good student. Classes were easy for him and, often, he would wind up tutoring the other kids.
Rhys, unfortunately, was a whole other type of student. When he did show up, it was usually for Life Skills day. He had no interest in homework and couldn’t care less if he failed a subject. As he told me one day, “It’s not like my marks are going to matter.”
Sadly—he was right.
Because we had no future.
We only had now.
* * * *
Once again, I found Connor sitting in his chair next to the eaves, his leg propped up on an overturned pail. He had the binoculars up to his eyes and he was peering intently in the direction of the Locals.
“How’s the cage building coming along?” I asked, sitting down beside him.
“From what I can see, it’s almost done.”
He handed me the binoculars so I could take a look.
When I peered through them, I could just make out Joe walking around the cage. He appeared to be pulling on each individual bar, leaning back to make sure that they were securely fastened.
“What do you think the cage is for?” asked Connor.
“I don’t know,” I murmured, still looking through the binoculars.
A smaller guy suddenly walked into the cage. Joe closed the door behind him, locking it. Then, the smaller guy worked his way around the inside of the cage, shaking this bar, kicking at another, trying to squeeze through two more. Finally, he appeared to give up and Joe unlocked the door and let him out.
I put down the binoculars and handed them back to Connor. “Very weird.”
“Are you worried about it?” he asked.
“They’re building a cage,” I told him. “A cage big enough for a bear to stand up in—or a human. Yes, I’m worried about it. I’m very worried.”
“Maybe it’s supposed to be a jail,” Connor suggested. “For one of the Locals who does something bad. Like a punishment or something.”
“Maybe.”
But I wasn’t so sure.
* * * *
Ian and Andrei came home just before dusk, excited about what they had discovered in a large house down on Fernhill Drive. They plunked down two huge cartons on the dinner table in front of Porter and me—one filled with boxes of British shortbread cookies, the other containing tins of Pacific Northwest salmon.
“It’s like this giant storeroom—half the house—filled with boxes of food!” Andrei exclaimed. “They’re all piled up higher than my head.”
“We think maybe that the guy had one of those online gourmet food stores,” added Ian. “Because there were lots of computers there, like maybe people worked in the house during the day, filling out orders.”
“He would so get in trouble,” said Andrei. “Big no-no in Malibu. Having a business like that on the Point. I’ll bet he was doing it all in secret.”
“Well, duh,” said Ian. “It would have to be in secret, wouldn’t it?”
“Did you write down everything that was in the house?” asked Porter, rising to go get his spreadsheet.
Andrei shook his head. “There was too much stuff.”
“But we brought you this,” Ian handed Porter a file folder. “We found it on one of the desks.”
Porter opened it, reading. Slowly, he began to grin.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s an inventory,” he murmured, still reading. “Of everything they have.” He looked up, excited, tapping the file. “If this thing’s correct, that place has enough stuff in it to last us another half year at least. I mean, look at this list.”
Porter handed it over. I opened it up to the first page, reading down the stock list—crackers, olives, cheese, canned meat, cookies!
“I mean, we’ll obviously have to go over everything,” said Porter. “Check the ‘best by’ dates to make sure nothing has gone bad—especially since a lot of this stuff has come from overseas. But that’s also one of the good things.”
“That it’s all foreign food?” I asked, confused.
“That it’s all been pre-packaged for international sale. That means it’s probably got a longer shelf-life than a lot of food from around here.”
“And they’ve got a whole section full of chocolate bars from all these different countries,” beamed Andrei. “I tried one called Flake and it was so good!”
“And I had one called Crispy Crunch and I swear it was the best chocolate bar ever!” added Ian. “They have maybe twenty boxes of them!”
Bang! A door slammed nearby.
Taking the file from Porter, I quickly hid it in a nearby bookshelf. Then, I shoved the crates of salmon and cookies in Ian and Andrei’s arms.
“Hide them somewhere,” I ordered. “Do it now!” They headed toward the doorway on the other side of the room. “And don’t talk about this…not to anyone. I’ll tell you why later.”
They nodded and raced out.
Meanwhile, Porter said nothing, just stood there, looking confused.
Behind him, Brandon and Kieran came in through the doorway. “Well, lookee here, Kiki,” said Brandon, looking from me to Porter. “Don’t these two look a tad suspicious?”
“Don’t they ever,” said my brother, sitting down at his place at the table. “But who cares. Where’s dinner?”
“Just waitin
g for the pizza man,” I joked. “Probably got the wrong house again. Another five minutes and I guess we’ll be eating free.”
* * * *
I waited until later in the evening before I went up to Andrei and Ian’s bedroom. They were sitting on their beds, talking quietly. A candle flickered on a nearby table, casting long shadows on the walls.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “Mind if I join you?”
Ian motioned to a chair in the far corner. Closing the door behind me, I engaged the lock before I sat down.
“Where’s Brandon and Kieran?” asked Ian.
“They went out to the guest house,” I said. “But let’s keep our voices down, just in case.”
They both nodded.
“What did you do with the boxes?” I asked.
Together, they leaned over and pulled up the sides of the blankets on their beds. There were the boxes—one underneath each bed.
“Good work,” I nodded. “No one saw you?”
They shook their heads.
“Guess you’re wondering why I had you do that?”
“Not really,” said Ian.
“You don’t want Kieran and Brandon to know,” said Andrei, matter-of-fact. “Because you think they’ll go and take everything.”
Chuckling, I shook my head at them. “You guys are just too darn smart for me, aren’t you?”
They both grinned.
JOURNAL ENTRY #18
Ian got sick last night.
When I woke up this morning it was to the sound of someone puking his guts out. It was just outside my window and, when I looked down, I saw Ian on the front lawn. He was on his knees—and he was spewing.
My first thought was that it wasn’t anything serious.
I figured that he was just paying the price for eating too much chocolate from yesterday’s scavenging. But as the day wore on, Ian just got sicker and sicker. His skin turned pale and he became sweaty.
Around two in the afternoon, Porter got really worried. He had been monitoring Ian’s vital signs and discovered that Ian’s heart was racing; when he took his temperature, Ian’s was dangerously high.
Now, Ian is lying on his bed in his room, half-conscious and looking like a sweaty ghost. Porter won’t allow anybody but himself and Connor into the room, so Andrei is pacing in the hallway outside—back and forth, back and forth.
It’s been like that for hours now.
* * * *
Wester immediately understood the concept of quarantine.
I guess, coming from Haiti, he’d been in similar situations. Ethan took a little more convincing.
“But why can’t I go in?” he asked. “I’m not sick.”
“And we want you to stay that way.”
“But I promise not to touch Ian.”
“It doesn’t work that way, bro,” I said. “Whatever’s made Ian sick might be in the air. If you go in there and breathe it in, then you could become sick, too.”
“But Porter and Connor go in there.”
“And they both wear masks and plastic gloves. That’s to protect them.”
“From germs,” added Wester. “The nuns taught us that you don’t want to breathe them.”
“Then I can wear a mask,” insisted Ethan. “I’ll be safe then.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“But Porter and Connor are wearing masks. Does that mean they might get sick?”
I sighed—this was hard. “I’m not going to lie to you,” I told Ethan. “There is a slight chance that Connor and Porter will get sick. But they’ll have less of a chance if they wear their masks and plastic gloves. But if you’re in there and you distract them and they make a ...mistake—”
“They could get the germs.” Ethan’s face fell as he finally understood.
“And get sick,” I added.
“Stupid germs,” he muttered.
* * * *
A little while ago, I had a chance to talk to Connor, when he came out to get some of the canned chicken soup I was heating up on the barbeque.
“How’s Ian doing?” I asked.
“Not so good. His temperature has come down to almost normal, but he keeps throwing up and he’s really sweaty—like he’s got the chills or something.”
“What does Porter think he has?”
Connor shrugged. “He spends almost all his time with his head in that medical book of his. Right now, he thinks Ian has some kind of flu.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I said, relieved. “I mean, everyone gets the flu. It sucks to have it but—a day or so later—you’re all better.”
“Not according to Porter,” said Connor. “He said that flu viruses are real dangerous and kill a lot of people every year. If Ian has a really bad strain, then Porter says he could die.”
“And that’s why he’s quarantined him?”
Connor nodded. “To keep us all safe.”
“What about the rest of the guys?” I asked. “Has anybody else shown any of the same symptoms that Ian has?”
“No.” He shook his head. “But I haven’t talked to Brandon and Kieran, though. They went back to their guest house too quick. Wester and Ethan are in their room and I checked their temperatures before I came down here. They seem fine. Andrei is still pacing in the hallway. He’s good. And you don’t seem sick at all.”
I spooned some soup into a bowl and, putting it on a tray, handed it to him. “Feeling fine,” I agreed. “What about you and Porter?”
“We’re okay,” he said.
“Wearing gloves and masks, right?”
He nodded. “Porter says that we have to be real careful, because we can’t go to the hospital or see a doctor anymore.”
“If you want,” I suggested, “I can take that soup back in to Ian. Give you a break.”
“No thanks,” said Connor. “I want to go back in.”
“You like this, don’t you—taking care of Ian. You’re like Porter that way.”
“My mom’s a nurse. Maybe that’s where I get it from.”
“Well, she’d be really proud of you,” I said. “If she saw you now.”
* * * *
It’s scary—having one of our tribe sick. I keep wishing that I could just pick Ian up, put him in the Honda, and drive him to the doctor’s.
But the world is so different now. We’re simply going to have to learn how to do everything all over again.
WHEN HEARTS FLOAT
Ian’s condition steadily improved over the next two days. I told everyone that it was my chicken soup that ultimately made him better.
The truth was actually a little different than that.
Because—Ian wasn’t better.
* * * *
It was weird how—in a world of all boys—we were still so excited about Valentine’s Day. For the younger guys, it certainly had something to do with the art project that Porter had them doing at school. For Brandon and Kieran, it was the party they were planning.
And for me—I would guess that it was because I was living so close to the memories of the only girl I had ever loved.
* * * *
I snuck into Kaylee’s room early in the morning, just as the sun was rising in the east. The rays were creeping in through the window of the darkened room—small triangles of sunlight that tiptoed across the cold floor.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Kaylee,” I whispered, “wherever you are.”
As I tucked the small red valentine I had made into the corner of her growth chart, I suddenly heard a small tick, tick at the window. Spinning around, I discovered a small bird sitting on the windowsill, pecking at its reflection in the glass.
There was something so surreal about that bird—as if it was tapping away to be let in, as if it had an important message still to be delivered. Amused, I allowed my imagination to get the better of me.
This was no bird, I decided—but an ornithological representation of my green-eyed girl sending me a message. A litt
le birdie Morse-code, letting me know that somewhere—right at that very moment—Kaylee was leaving me my own Valentine’s Day card.
Totally ridiculous, I knew.
Still, the thought comforted me.
* * * *
We were all invited to tour the school’s first art project.
I showed up early, looking up in awe at a ceiling raining valentines. There had to have been dozens of them—all sizes—hanging down at different levels, some up close to the ceiling, others just brushing the floor.
And every valentine carried the name of someone who was loved.
* * * *
As soon as I entered, Ethan ran forward, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the center of the room. He pointed upward, to three valentines—one large, one medium, one small—all on one string, hanging from the ceiling all the way down to my waist.
“That big one,” Ethan explained, excited. “That’s my mom. Then the next one is Lily.” He smacked the bottom one, twisting it around and around. “And that’s Pugly. He’s my dog!”
“This is great, Ethan,” I said. “Good job. And look how neat and clear your writing is becoming.”
“I’ve been practicing with Connor,” he said, proudly.
Wester’s part of the installation consisted of four valentines, arranged as four corners of a square. In the center of the square was a large heart, split straight down the middle—one side painted red, white, and blue, the other side painted blue and red.
