Property of the State Read Online Free

Mrs. Petty tracks me down and dumps me in some stack-’em-and-rack-’em warehouse where everyone sleeps in triple-bunked cots and fetal alcohol savages issue beat-downs out of boredom. If I was schizoaffective or borderline personality disorder I might score a room in a country club like the Parry Center, but—my luck—I’m not even on the autism spectrum.
    The situation outside isn’t much better. Whacked out hobos will throw down over a doorway or a dry spot beneath an overpass. Downtown, pimps troll runaways for mouths to add to their blowjob squads. I might ride the MAX until it stops running. Warm and dry, but I’d risk getting rolled by rail thugs, if I’m not booted by a transit cop first. In the shelters—assuming I could score a bed—it’s beat-downs or worse, all over again.
    For all that, I prefer my chances outdoors. Wayne will already have his story worked out—“He attacked me. All I did was push him away to protect myself.” I’ll take a hobo over the system any day of the week—at least you can sometimes cut a deal with the hobo.
    I pause next to a rusty Camaro to hork bloody snot into the gutter. In this neighborhood no one will notice—domestic bloodlettings are as common as feral cats. Rain falls onto my neck out of a sky more blue than gray. The rainbow will be behind me, but I’m in no mood for fucking rainbows. I can hardly breathe, my face feels like someone drove a spike through it, and my options are for shit. Except: keep moving.
    At Eight-second Avenue, a bug-eyed kid in the backseat of a passing minivan takes a break from his in-flight movie to gape and point. The van drives on, but a hooker on the corner finishes his thought. “What in hell happen’ to you?” Half a block later, I catch my reflection in the window of a discount cigarette shop.
    I look like zombie apocalypse, phase two.
    There’s a McDonald’s on the next block where I sometimes stop on my way to school. I don’t get but two steps through the door before an assistant manager scoots out from behind the counter. He’s waving twig arms and shaking his head. His neck is four sizes too small for his collar.
    â€œYou hooligans aren’t welcome here.”
    Hooligans? “I just want to wash my hands and face.”
    â€œBathrooms are for customers only.”
    â€œFine. I’ll have a vanilla shake.” I pull a tangle of singles from my pocket so he knows I can pay.
    For a second his Adam’s apple quakes, like maybe he works on commission. But then his eyes go hard. “Get out, before I call the police.”
    I need to get cleaned up and under cover until I can figure out how to keep my long-term plans on track. Cops I do not need.
    There are other places along Stark Street—a pizza joint, a few restaurants, a coffee shop—but I have no reason to expect a warmer welcome in any of them. Marcy would let me clean up at Uncommon Cup, the café where I feed my caffeine jones, but UC’s on the far side of Mount Tabor and way down Hawthorne. Thirty blocks—and me bleeding the whole way.
    Then I have a thought: the Huntzels are half as far as Uncommon Cup, on the west slope of Mount Tabor Park. Mrs. Huntzel won’t cover for me with Mrs. Petty, but if I’m lucky I can get there before the APB goes out. She’ll let me wash up, maybe loan me some of Philip’s clothes. When she asks what happened, I can tell her I was jumped by hooligans.
    The Huntzel house is a castle, the kind of place where magazine-ad teens live in shows on the CW. The view alone—of the Hawthorne and Belmont districts and all the way to downtown Portland—screams money. Not that the Huntzels are flashy. Mrs. Huntzel may drive a Beamer—the 740i, her one indulgence—but she gets her hair done at SuperCuts. Mr. Huntzel drives an old Toyota and dresses like a Walmart greeter. And Philip dresses like me . Still,