Antisocial by Jillian Blake

Author:Jillian Blake
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2017-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

Haven lives less than two miles from Prep. Since his dad works for the DEA, he travels a lot, so Haven is usually home alone. Haven always says he could stay inside for a year as long as he had his computer and an Internet connection. After the emotional and physical beat-down Rad and I are about to give him, he might be able to test that theory.

“There,” Rad says as we turn the corner into Haven’s cul-de-sac. She points silently at the house, perched at the end of the circle. Rad’s spent most of the past half hour saying one word at a time, grunting, barely making eye contact. She feels guilty about Nikki, but I’ve gone the other way, ready to scream at Mattie, at Haven, at anyone.

When Rad and I pull into the driveway, we hit something, and it crunches beneath my tires. Shit. I back up, trying to get off whatever the hell it is.

We get out and find that we’ve knocked two black garbage bags over and they’ve vomited all over the driveway. Some of it’s regular trash (delivery containers left over from the food Haven eats every night), but about half of each thirty-gallon bag is filled with what look like old video game cartridges, all of which seem to be for a game about that E.T. movie. (No, I’ve never seen it—sue me.) “He’s such a freak,” Rad says.

We ring the bell and knock on the door.

When no one answers, Rad yells Haven’s name loudly enough to attract the attention of a couple of neighbors, including an old lady with a Boston terrier who pops her head outside her door, then retreats.

Rad keeps knocking and calling Haven’s name. His dad’s obviously not here, and if Haven is, he’s putting on a good show. There isn’t a single light on in the house.

Rad starts walking around the side of the craftsman house. I follow. She reaches her hand behind a wooden gate with peeling white paint, just squeezing her arm inside. She unlatches the clasp and tells me to follow. It’s not the first time I’ve broken into someone’s backyard with Rad (usually there’s a pool involved), but when she leads me into the carport behind the house and starts searching around, I don’t understand.

“What are you looking for?”

Finally Rad marches over to a monstrosity of wires jutting out of a small plastic box attached to the wall of the carport. One by one she starts yanking them out of the socket and letting them drop to the ground.

Nothing happens.

“Now what?” I ask, confused.

Rad looks at her phone. Checking the time. “Wait for it,” she says, holding her middle finger in the air like it’s a universal sign for waiting, then pointing it in the direction of the back door. “Wait for it…five, four, three, two, one, zero, negative one, negative two—”

Only two seconds off the bull’s-eye, the door pops open. No lights have been turned on, but there’s no question that it’s the silhouette of a boy, not Haven’s dad.

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