Page 33 of The Intruder

BEFORE

ELLA

I am fiddling with the combination on my locker when Anton comes up behind me.

I was dreading today because of him; I was sure he would tell the entire school about my weirdo house, and everyone would tease me about my biggest secret. But strangely enough, nobody has said anything—not a word. Except that doesn’t mean he hasn’t told. It just means that the word hasn’t had a chance to spread yet.

Anton looks better than he did yesterday, although he still looks like a kid who got beaten up very recently. He has a black eye, and his lower lip looks like it is one big smile away from splitting open again. He doesn’t say hello. He just taps me on the shoulder and holds out a scrap of paper. I take it from him, and when I look down at the scribbled handwriting, I realize it’s an address.

“That’s where I live,” he says.

“Oh.”

“You said you wanted to come over to my house to work on the project. So.”

“Oh.” I squint down at the numbers of his address. “Does that say twenty-four or twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-nine. Sorry, my handwriting sucks.” He frowns. “If you’re not doing anything right after school, I can show you how to get there. I usually take a shortcut.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He shuffles his weight between his muddy sneakers. “I’ll meet you behind the school at three fifteen.”

I nod, and he starts to walk away, but then I call out his name, and he stops. “Hey,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Did you…?” I gingerly rub my forearm, where the cigarette burn has turned into a blister. Eventually, it will heal and then leave behind a little white circle easily concealed by a long-sleeved shirt—or at least that’s what I assume based on last time. “Did you tell anyone about my house?”

Anton looks at me for a few seconds, then he lifts a shoulder. “Nothing to tell.”

As he walks away, I feel a mix of relief and disbelief that Anton Peterson kept my secret.

25

Before I go outside to meet Anton, I run to the girls’ bathroom. I don’t know what the bathroom is going to be like at his house, so I’d rather use it at school.

While I’m washing my hands with lots of soap, I stare at my reflection in the smudgy mirror. I showered last night, using one of the five billion bottles of shampoo and conditioner, so my red hair looks shiny, although a bit oily. I’ve got a couple of small zits along my hairline, but not too bad. Unlike my mother, I am fairly plain looking, except for my bright blue eyes, which are the same color as my jeans.

It makes me think of my father’s eyes, which must be blue like mine. I wonder if he even knows that I exist. Whenever I ask my mother, she won’t tell me any details, and then she gets angry at me for asking. Why do you want to know about that loser anyway?

I still believe that one of these days, I’m going to meet him. One of these days, I will find my father. And then everything will be different.

I finish washing my hands, then I go out back behind the building to meet Anton. I don’t see him right away, but then I remember there’s this little nook where the kids go when they want to smoke without getting caught. Sure enough, I find him there, leaning against the red brick of the school building, taking a drag from a cigarette.

I hate the smell of cigarettes so much, and I’m kind of upset that I have to walk with him while he’s smoking, but then thankfully, he stubs out the cigarette on the pavement before grabbing his backpack. He also grabs a spray bottle out of his bag and spritzes himself down, which gives him sort of a nice fresh-laundry smell.

“Let’s get going,” he says. “You have to leave before my dad gets home.” And we’re off.

I thought it might be awkward walking with Anton, but it’s weirdly not. We have a lot of the same classes, and we hate all the same teachers. I overheard this rumor that Ms. Curtis is hooking up with Mr. Paxson—they’re basically the two grossest teachers in the whole school. When I tell Anton about Katie Barnes catching them lip locked in Mr. Paxson’s Jeep, he lets out a peal of laughter. It makes me realize that while I’ve heard Anton laugh many times before, I’ve never heard him laugh in a way that wasn’t mean. Usually it’s at me. But this makes me want to make him laugh more.

Anton lives in a housing development, which, like mine, is for low-income families. But instead of having a whole house, his family just has an apartment. Although actually, his apartment is about the same size as our tiny house, just less vertical.

Anyway, Anton’s apartment doesn’t have anything embarrassing about it. It’s a normal apartment with the walls painted a dull off-white color, threadbare furniture, and a thin woman lying asleep on the living room sofa—his mom, I guess. Except when we get inside, this kid who looks about eight years old runs up to us, practically levitating with excitement. The kid looks a lot like Anton, except he’s about a head shorter. And his hair is a normal color.

“Anton,” the kid says. “Can we play Nintendo?”

“Can’t you see I got company, Brad?” Anton says irritably. He doesn’t seem interested in introductions.