You'll Like It Here (Everybody Does) (17 page)

“What's on your head, boy?”

“P-paint,” I stutter. “J-just paint.”

“I never saw no paint like that. Did you, Kevin?”

“No, I never did. It's shining all over the place. You from another planet, kid?”

These words send shock waves through me, but Carl and Kevin are laughing their heads off.

“Honest,” I say, “it's just paint.”

“Whatchu been paintin', kid?”

“Uh … well, this friend of my mom's, he works as a
sign painter. He paints those signs down there by the river.”

“What signs?” Carl says.

My mouth is so dry, my lips are sticking to my teeth. “You know the ones. No Swimming. No Fishing. You know?”

“Yeah, I've seen those signs,” Kevin says. “So what?”

“Well, I was helping my m-mom's friend, and I got some in my hair, that's all.”

“What's his name? Your mom's friend?”

“I d-don't know. I mean, I forgot.”

“You're lighting up the city,” Carl says.

“It's fluorescent paint,” I say. “It's supposed to glow in the dark.”

For a long, miserable moment I stand there under their scrutiny. My own light casts a blue halo over their faces, and I can see their bewilderment. Anybody with a brain would know that even fluorescent paint wouldn't glow this brightly. So I pray they don't have brains.

“I never saw anything like it,” Carl mutters.

“Me neither” comes from Kevin.

I try to divert their attention from my hair by saying, “I missed c-curfew, and I was scared. So I hid.”

Still they continue to stare at me.

“Can you let me into my building?”

“Not on your life, boy. We'll collect a reward for you down at the police station.”

“Please, just let me in. My family will give you a reward.”

They laugh again. “You're funny, kid.”

“We couldn't let you in if we wanted to,” Carl says. “Nobody gets in after eight-thirty. Besides, don't have no keys.”

“Those your groceries back there?” Kevin asks me.

“Yeah. I just went to the store for my mom and lost track of time. Is that a crime?”

“Yes, it is,” Carl says in a hard, cold voice. “Now hold out your wrists.”

As if in a dream—or a nightmare—I hold out my wrists and watch Carl snap handcuffs around them.

“What's your name?” Carl asks me.

“Aren't you going to read me my rights?” I know it's a stupid thing to say even before the words are out of my mouth.

“Read you what?”

“Nothing.”

“So, again, what's your name?”

“David Blue. I live with my mom, my gramps, and my sister in number 603 here in Building 9.”

“Okay, David Blue Hair, let's go to the police station.”

The two men kinda shove me down the alley behind Building 9. My teeth begin to chatter as I stumble along between them.

“Please just let me talk to the night watchman,” I beg. “I'm sure he'll let me in just this once.”

“Are you that dumb, kid?” Carl say. “There's no night watchman.”

“Sure there is. I've seen him down there patrolling after lockdown.”

“That was me,” Carl says. “And I wasn't patrolling.
I'm a bounty hunter, and I was looking for idiots like you who can't tell time.”

If it were Meggie, she would cry. If it were Meggie, she would have nightmares for the rest of her life. But it's me. It's Meggie's big brother, always so smart, so cool, and never afraid.

“What will happen to me?”

“Maybe you'll be sent away—indefinitely,” Kevin says in a creepy whisper. “You know what that means?”

At the moment I don't want to know.

It takes hours and hours to get to the police station on foot. At least it seems that way. The building is so brightly lit, it looks like a huge chandelier in the middle of this dark city. Good. My hair won't look so alien under an electric light.

As we enter the front door, I think of Officer Brent. Maybe he'll be here, and maybe he'll vouch for me, tell them I'm a good kid, just new in Fashion City and ignorant of all the rules. Yeah, then he'll take me home.

But it's not Officer Brent at the front desk. It's a black man with the worst case of bloodshot eyes I've ever seen, and a scowl on his face to match. There's a nameplate on his desk that says
BOB SPINDELL
.

“Look, he's not glowing as much now,” Kevin says to Carl.

“You should see his hair in the dark,” Carl says to Bob Spindell. “It practically lighted our path.”

“Who are you?” Bob Spindell growls at me.

“Is Officer Brent here?” I ask, and the sound comes out as a squeak and a croak.

“Officer Brent?” he scoffs. “Officer Brent? Boy, don't you know anything?”

“Not much,” I say miserably.

“Well, Officer Brent is a white man, right?”

“Yes, s-sir.”

“Blacks got the night shift. Whites got the day shift.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he yells at me. “Why? I'll tell you why! 'Cause they're white, that's why! And we're black! That's why. Anything else you wanna know?”

Somewhere during this conversation, Carl and Kevin leave, probably to collect their reward in one of the other rooms, and I'm alone with this wild man. I give Officer Spindell my name, Mom's name, and our sector letter and building number.

“What's that on your head?”

“P-paint, s-sir.”

“Paint?”

“Yes, sir.”

Then I have to go through the story again about painting the signs.

“Please let me call my mom,” I beg. “She'll be so worried.”

He just looks at me and yells,
“Singer!”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the loud boom of his voice.

A huge black man with muscles like truck tires comes lumbering down the hall. He's scary and mean-looking.

“Got one for you,” Officer Spindell says to the man.

The big man says nothing, just glares at me.

“Singer's specialty is getting answers out of people,” Officer Spindell says to me, “and he's real good at it.” Then he gives me a big toothy grin. “So this is my advice to you—give him the answers he wants, else you might find yourself just another splatter on the wall.”

“Follow me” is all Singer says.

And I do as I'm told, thinking this could be a nightmare worse than any Meggie ever had. I follow Singer to a room with a table and two chairs in it, another door to the left, a large clock on the wall, and nothing more. It's five minutes after ten. Mom and Gramps and Meggie will be meeting the Gilmores on the balcony about now. Maybe Gil will tell Mom he has a friend who knows the chief of police or somebody, and he'll just make a call, and … Who am I kidding?

In this room the walls might have been painted white a century ago, but now they are pretty well messed-up with rust-colored stains. Rust-colored stains? I think of what Spindell said about splatters on the wall. Was he serious? Could those stains be dried blood? I swallow hard.

“Sit down,” Singer commands.

I collapse into one of the chairs. Singer sits down heavily in the other one and lets out a long, slow sigh. “What's that in your hair?”

It comes to me that if I could get rid of the blue, maybe it would be forgotten.

“It's paint,” I say, “and I've got some paint thinner right here in my pocket. Can I get it?” I indicate my right pocket with my cuffed hands.

“You've got paint thinner in your pocket?”

“Yeah, in a vial. I've been helping this man paint signs, and sometimes I get it all over me. Can you …” I lift my hands to remind him that I'm cuffed.

Singer stares at me until I feel like a worm. Oh, if only I could crawl away and out of his sight.

“I just want to p-prove to you it really is p-paint,” I stammer. “So you won't think it's s-something else.”

“What else would it be?” he asks.

I have no answer for that, and I expect he'll push me for one, but what can I say? Then Singer surprises me by standing up and coming around the table with a key. Silently he unlocks the cuffs, then sits down again.

I pull out the vial of vinegar and open it. “Got a mirror?”

Singer rolls his eyes. “Bathroom right there,” he says, indicating the other door. “Keep it open.”

I go into the bathroom and look at my reflection in the mirror. My face is pale and dirty, and my eyes seem all hollowed out. With trembling fingers I apply the vinegar to the blue, and in a matter of seconds it has dissolved. Then I go back to face my fate.

“Do you work for the Resistance?” Singer says to me, and his voice comes out flat and tired.

“No, sir. I don't even know what it is.”

“Who's your leader?”

“I told you I don't work for them.”

He leans across the table and says, “We can do this the easy way, boy, or we can do it the hard way. Now, give me names.”

Tears are forming in my eyes. I can't help it. “I swear
to you,” I say with as much sincerity as I can muster. “I went to the store for my mom and lost track of time. That's why I missed curfew.”

And much to my shame, the tears spill over.

“You know what I can't abide, boy?” Singer says with a sneer. “Crybabies, that's what. Ethan Singer hates crybabies.”

These words remind me of all the times I have scoffed at Meggie for crying. I wipe my tears on my T-shirt and sit up straight.

“So Singer is your last name?” I ask in a calmer voice.

“I ask the questions,” Singer says. “You answer them.”

Still I go on. “Do you know Kitty Singer?”

Singer's eyes narrow. “How do you know Kitty?”

“She's my sister's friend.”

No, no, that can't be right. Blacks and whites can't be friends here.

“I mean, they know each other, and Meggie was really upset when Kitty was arrested.”

Again he looks at me for a long time, and I hold my breath. Then his face changes a little. Does it soften? He slumps slightly in his chair, and looks away toward the stained wall.

“She's my brother's little girl,” he says. “Same age as my own Emma. They're like sisters. But now … Well, first it was my brother and his wife, and that was hard enough, but the kid?”

“Meggie cried.” I speak rapidly, almost frantically, eager to relate to him on some level. “She probably had nightmares too, but she doesn't tell me about her
nightmares anymore because I made fun of her. That was mean of me, and I wish I hadn't done it.”

Singer is still looking at the wall.

“Meggie's a good kid,” I go on doggedly, hoping for something. I don't know what. But maybe if I talk long enough, he'll forget to hit me. “And Kitty's a good kid too. She keeps you entertained. She's really funny.”

Then Singer's face changes a lot. In fact, it seems to crumple right before my eyes, and for a second I think this big, tough police interrogator is going to start crying himself.

“I bet your little Emma is a cute kid.” I plunge ahead. “I mean, if she's anything like Kitty, she's gotta be cute and smart and funny too.”

“It ain't right,” Singer says, “to send away a kid like that—for an indefinite period.”

“What does that mean?” I ask in a whisper. “ ‘Indefinite period'?”

Finally his eyes come back to my face. He doesn't answer my question but repeats, “I tell you it ain't right.”

I can't think of anything else to say right now, and I sit perfectly still while Singer goes back to staring at the wall, deep in thought.

Finally he speaks again. “It ain't right to treat kids that way.”

I feel a tiny thrill of hope. I won't interrupt his thoughts.

“My old man,” he says. “Her own grandpa. How could he do that?”

I stare at my hands and wait, and wait.

“I can't do this anymore,” Singer finally says, and his big hands fall to his sides.

Still I don't speak. Does he mean he can't finish my interrogation? I'm afraid to ask. He continues to stare at the wall.

“I just can't do this job anymore.”

Oh, the job. He can't do this job anymore. Does that mean …? Long minutes go by. Then Singer stands up and looks directly at me.

“I'm giving you a warning this time,” he says. “I'll tell Spindell. Now you put your head on the table and sleep, you hear me? You see that clock on the wall? As soon as it shows six o'clock, you get out of here. Nobody will stop you. Okay?”

My head bobs up and down rapidly, and Singer clumps out of the room without a backward glance. Can I be this lucky? Will he change his mind and come back? Or maybe somebody else will come in here and finish the job? I'll just rest my head here, as I was told, and be quieter than the night. Maybe they'll forget about me. If I can't sleep, I'll keep my eyes closed anyway, and pray for six o'clock.

I think of Mom and how I talked to her at dinner, how I don't help her nearly enough, what a good mother she is, how proud Dad would be of her.

Then I think of Meggie. I remember how I teased her about not achieving blue, how I haven't been an understanding brother, how I don't give her enough credit for being smart, and she really is a brainy girl.

Am I jealous of her? Do I think maybe Mom and
Gramps give her more attention than they give me? But she needs them more. She was traumatized when she was really young.

Then I think of taking the Lotus after Mom told me not to touch the stuff. What a stupid thing to do. I sleep off and on, fitfully, fearfully on that hard, cold table, and my dreams are gray, distorted, nightmarish—like the Land of the Fathers.

I
can hear the sound of dishes in the kitchen. Mom and Gramps are eating their breakfast. Even with David missing, they must go to work whether they like it or not. You don't get days off in this place for much of anything. Keeping the factories humming is the main purpose in life, regardless of the pain in your heart.