THAT NIGHT, SCRATCH ATTACKED. I don't mean he kicked the front door down and burst in swinging. Or came crawling out of the phone like a snaky ghost. No, it wasn't broken windows or bloody threats. All the same, it was an attack. And it made me even more a believer in what Relly had said that day.
As usual, the house was empty when I got home. My dad was out, at work, I guess. And I had no idea when he'd be back. I nuked some four-cheese lasagna and ate it standing at the kitchen sink. It was good, real good. My dad's cooking was always the best. And he always made sure there was something excellent waiting for me in the fridge.
I could see a faint reflection of my face in the kitchen window. Only, for a minute it didn't really look like me. I stopped eating, put my plate in the sink, and stared. Who was it, if not me? Was I getting so crazy that I didn't even know my own face? Slowly, the little jab of panic faded. Yeah, that was me, I told myself, not some stalker peering in.
After checking a third time to make sure all the doors were locked, I went upstairs.
I kept hearing weird noises. Usually the scratching of tree limbs on the windows didn't bug me at all. Usually I was fine with the house creaking softly, like the distant noise of my dad's bedsprings as he settled in for sleep. Most times, the hum of the furnace was a comfort when I was alone.
That night, however, everything seemed wrong.
There was still mist on the bathroom mirror, though nobody had used the tub all day. The numbers on my alarm clock were flashing, like when the power has gone off. Only, they weren't pulsing in a regular beat. They flashed quickly, then were steady, then throbbed and faded and came back twice as bright.
The worst thing, though, was when I opened my bass case and took out my Ibanez. I wrapped my fingers around the neck and knew somebody had been playing it, somebody with grimy hands.
Now, I'm very careful about wiping it down after I play. I have special rags to rub the strings and I make sure the neck is dry before I put the bass away.
So the feel of the neck, kind of cold and sticky, scared me as much as it grossed me out. Somebody had been looking through my stuff, messing around with it, leaving a faint trail of black fingerprints. And that somebody, I knew, was Scratch.
I guess I could've run. But I didn't know where my dad was at that hour. And I didn't think Relly's mom would be too thrilled to find me back there, banging on her door. I thought about Butt. I knew he'd be fine with me showing up at his place. Only I'd never been there and didn't know if I could find it at night.
Call the police? Right, they'd love to hear some kid blabbering about steam on the bathroom mirror and ick on her bass.
So what I did surprised even me. I called information and asked for the number of Festus B. Knacke.
"Yes? Hello?" He sounded different than at school, older, a lot older. I wondered if he dyed his hair, wore dentures, maybe even some kind of corset to school to pull in his gut and make him stand up straighter. "What is it?"
I was quiet for a minute. A couple times, back in middle school, I'd done some phone pranks. This was different. I wasn't silent to bug Knacke. No, I was afraid, and I was full of doubt.
"Is anyone there?" he asked. "Hello?"
"Uh, yeah, this is Zee. You know, from sixth-period bio."
"Yes?"
"I, uh, I'm calling to tell you—"
He was listening, close. He waited.
"Scratch was here, in my house. I don't know how he got in. But he was here."
No response.
"Well, I'm just calling to say that we've got you figured out. Me and Relly. We know all about you. Frankengoon had me dragged down to the office today and he showed me the notebook you stole. It's mine and you've got no right taking it. I want it back."
"What you want and what you can have are two different—"
"You can't just steal my stuff! It's private. It's got nothing to do with school. I wasn't causing any trouble. It's mine and you've got to give it back."
"I think it would be best if we continued this discussion tomorrow. Speaking face to face is always better, don't you agree?" Now his voice was oily as a talk show host's. He was back in charge. I yelled and made demands. He was smooth and in control now. "We'll discuss this at school. I'll make sure that Mr. Franken can join us."
"I don't want—"
"Goodnight, Zee," he said, and hung up.