Page 25 of The Intruder

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.

The little boy looks at me, then back at his brother, pouting. “But you said we could!”

“Yeah, later.” Anton shoves his little brother out of the way, but he’s gentle about it—almost playful. He’s careful not to hurt the younger boy. “Quit bothering me, and we’ll play after dinner.”

Brad follows us down the hallway, but when we disappear inside Anton’s room, he doesn’t bother us anymore. “Sorry,” Anton tells me.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, not bothering to say that I wish I had a little brother or sister.

Anton’s room is really small, and I wouldn’t say it’s neat, but it’s better than mine anyway.

There aren’t any fish tanks, that’s for sure.

He’s got some dirty clothes on the floor, but they are pushed to the side of the room, and you can easily walk through it without relying on trails.

He’s even got a desk that is mostly cleared to work on.

I was worried the room might smell like cigarettes because he smokes, but it doesn’t smell like that at all.

“So tell me how you want to do this.” Anton sits on the edge of his bed, letting me have the desk. “Like, tell me how we’re supposed to divide up the work.”

I take my binder out of my backpack and lay it out on his desk. It’s so nice to have the space to work on rather than trying to get everything done on my bed. I take the cap off my pen and lay it down next to the notebook without having to worry it will get lost in the sheets.

“Well,” I say, “I guess it makes the most sense for each of us to take one type of rock and research it; then we can compare them together.”

“Yeah, makes sense.” He looks down at his watch. “All right, so we’ve got an hour to do this before my dad gets home. Well, he might be home later if he stops at the bar. And if that happens, you really don’t want to be here.”

He flinches when he says it, then looks a little embarrassed, like he said too much. Except I don’t know how he could be embarrassed about anything after seeing my house.

“Sorry,” he says. “My dad is a huge asshole, that’s all.”

I tap my pen on my notebook. “You know, I got my mom to stop drinking.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? How?”

“Well…” This is something I have never told anyone, and I can’t believe I’m about to tell Anton, my sworn enemy.

“I used to do chores for my neighbor, and while I was at her house, I found this bottle of something called ipecac. I looked it up, and it makes you throw up. So I put a few drops of it in all my mother’s liquor bottles. ”

Anton’s mouth falls open. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Yeah, it totally made her throw up, and then she stopped drinking altogether. I guess she got sick of being sick.”

“Wow…”

“I could bring it for you,” I say. “I still have most of the bottle left.”

“Yeah, I’ll take it.” He grins at me but then winces and touches his split lower lip. “You’re actually pretty cool, Ella.”

I sniff. “Glad you noticed.”

“I always noticed.”

Yeah, right. “Really? Then how come you called me names all the time?”

“Well, because Smella rhymes with Ella, obviously.” He looks down, picking at a hole in his bedspread. “I don’t know. Nothing ever seems to get to you, but when I called you that, your face would get all red. Same color as your hair.”

I don’t know what to say to that. He’s right. Usually I let insults roll off me, but somehow when Anton called me out, it got to me.

“Anyway, I’m sorry.” He lifts his eyes, the right one tinged with purple bruising from yesterday. “I swear I won’t call you that again.”

I don’t know if I believe him, but I’ll still bring him the bottle of ipecac.

If his dad is half as bad as my mom, he could use it.

Anyway, Mrs. Fleming doesn’t have any use for it anymore.

She still hasn’t been back home since her little accident.

I’m guessing she hasn’t woken up, or else the police might have shown up at my door.

I start to make an outline, dividing up how we’re going to do the work on the project.

I didn’t notice it, but the sleeve of my sweatshirt rode up as I was writing, and the angry red blister from the cigarette burn last night is now visible.

Anton has been leaning over my shoulder, and his eyes widen when he sees it.

“What happened to your arm?” he asks me.

“Nothing,” I mumble.

“It looks like a burn or something.”

“It’s nothing.”

Anton opens his mouth, but he doesn’t ask me any more questions about it. That’s good, because I’m not going to tell him what really happened. I’ve already told him too much today. That’s a secret I’m taking with me to my grave.