“Want to watch TV up in the lounge until lunch? They have Nickelodeon, Iris said so. SpongeBob and Rusty Rivets and The Loud House.”
“Not now,” Luke said, “but you knock yourself out.”
Avery studied the two of them a moment longer, then headed up the hall.
Once he was gone, Luke turned back to Maureen. “It’s not too late, that’s what I’m saying. But you have to move fast. Meet me here tomorrow. I’ll have a name for you. Somebody good. Somebody with a track record. I promise.”
“This . . . son, this is too good to be true.”
He liked her calling him son. It gave him a warm feeling. Stupid, maybe, but still true.
“It’s not, though. What they’re trying to do to you is too bad to be true. I really have to go. It’s almost lunchtime.”
“I won’t forget this,” she said, and squeezed his hand. “If you can—”
The doors banged open at the far end of the hall. Luke was suddenly sure he was going to see a couple of caretakers, a couple of the mean ones—Tony and Zeke, maybe—coming for him. They’d take him somewhere and question him about what he and Maureen had been talking about, and if he didn’t tell right away, they’d use “enhanced interrogation techniques” until he spilled everything. He’d be in trouble, but Maureen’s trouble might be even worse.
“Take it easy, Luke,” she said. “It’s just the new residents.”
Three pink-clad caretakers came through the doors. They were pulling a train of gurneys. There were sleeping girls on the first two, both blond. On the third was a hulk of a red-haired boy. Presumably the WWF fan. All were asleep. As they rolled closer, Luke said, “Holy crow, I think those girls are twins! Identicals!”
“You’re right. Their names are Gerda and Greta. Now go on and get something to eat. I need to help those fellas get the new ones situated.”
11
Avery was sitting in one of the lounge chairs, swinging his feet and eating a Slim Jim as he watched the goings-ons in Bikini Bottom. “I got two tokens for not crying when I got my shot.”
“Good.”
“You can have the other one, if you want it.”
“No, thanks. You keep it for later.”
“Okay. SpongeBob is good, but I wish I could go home.” Avery didn’t sob or bawl or anything, but tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes.
“Yeah, me too. Squish over.”
Avery squished over and Luke sat down next to him. It was a tight fit, but that was okay. Luke put an arm around Avery’s shoulders and gave him a little hug. Avery responded by putting his head on Luke’s shoulder, which touched him in a way he couldn’t define and made him feel a little like crying himself.
“Guess what, Maureen has a kid,” Avery said.
“Yeah? You think?”
“Sure. He was little but now he’s big. Older even than Nicky.”
“Uh-huh, okay.”
“It’s a secret.” Avery didn’t take his eyes from the screen, where Patrick was having an argument with Mr. Krabs. “She’s saving money for him.”
“Really? And you know this how?”
Avery looked at him. “I just do. Like I know your best friend is Rolf and you lived on Wildersmoochy Drive.”
Luke gaped at him. “Jesus, Avery.”
“Good, ain’t I?”
And although there were still tears on his cheeks, Avery giggled.
12
After lunch, George proposed a game of three-on-three badminton: he, Nicky, and Helen against Luke, Kalisha, and Iris. George said Nicky’s team could even have Avery as a bonus.
“He’s not a bonus, he’s a liability,” Helen said, and waved at a cloud of minges surrounding her.
“What’s a liability?” Avery asked.
“If you want to know, read my mind,” Helen said. “Besides, badminton’s for pussies who can’t play tennis.”
“Aren’t you cheerful company,” Kalisha said.
Helen, walking toward the picnic tables and games cabinet, hoisted a middle finger over her shoulder without looking back. And pumped it. Iris said it could be Nicky and George against Luke and Kalisha; she, Iris, would ump the sidelines. Avery said he would help. All finding this agreeable, the game began. The score was ten-all when the door to the lounge banged open and the new boy walked out, almost managing a straight line. He looked dazed from whatever drug had been in his system. He also looked pissed off. Luke put him at six feet and maybe sixteen years of age. He was carrying a considerable belly in front—a food gut that might become a beer gut in adulthood—but his sunburned arms