Son of the Enemy by Ana Barrons Page B

would have to tell anyone, including me, that you’re in possession, so no one would ever be in a position to give you advice that might be considered unethical, or even illegal.” He sat back. “That worry will be gone from your mind, and your father will probably let you live.”
    Ty gave him a shaky smile. “And the cops won’t have any reason to arrest me.”
    “Right. And I won’t have any reason to kick your bony little ass around the block.”
    Ty stared at him. “You’d really kick my ass?”
    John leaned forward until his nose was only inches from Ty’s. “You want to find out?”
    Ty slid from the booth and stood. “No way.” He backed toward the restroom. “No thanks.” There was fear in his expression, but John could see right through it to the relief in the boy’s eyes.
    Somebody gave a shit.
     
     
    Ty entered the house through the kitchen and literally tiptoed up the back steps to his room. The first thing he had to do was get rid of every bit of dope he had in there, if he could remember where he’d stashed it all. He pushed the door open and was greeted by a strong lemony smell—some kind of cleaner. The carpet had been newly vacuumed, his bed was made, his clothes picked up. It didn’t look like his room at all. What the hell was going on? Nobody ever touched his room unless he said it was okay. It was his sanctuary, and up until now it hadn’t been breached. He’s gone one night, and they come in and sanitize the place?
    Then he noticed a bunch of his posters were gone. The giant marijuana leaf, even some of the bands, but they’d left the old Bart Simpson and Lord of the Rings posters. What the hell? He shucked off the ratty jacket and went to his dresser. He had some pot stashed in his bottom drawer so he opened that one first.
    “Holy Christ.” Someone had folded all his clothes. He stuck his hand in and felt around, then checked every other drawer until it was clear his stash was missing. He felt numb.
    It was the same story in his closet. His bong was missing, and the tennis-ball can where he’d hidden a baggie stuffed with some fine Jamaican. Holy shit. He backed out of his closet and sat on the bed. It was almost as though they figured he was dead and went through his stuff, throwing everything out and straightening it up so some other kid—the perfect one his parents would have preferred—could move in.
    He lay back against the pillows, careful not to put his dirty sneakers on the clean comforter. He felt strangely hollowed out. By now Frankie from the guardhouse would have let his father know he was home. All the way over on John’s motorcycle, he had planned out what he would say. He’d start by apologizing for not calling, explain that he was just freaked out about Christian and needed time to get his head together, deny that he had done up any of the coke, because that’s what his dad would want to hear, accept the punishment his dad would no doubt mete out, which would be no sweat because his dad wouldn’t follow through anyway, and then promise to be better. But first he would get his ass up to his room and get rid of everything before the police showed up with a search warrant.
    It never occurred to him that his father would have someone else take care of it for him. And make it look like some fucking preppie lived in the room.
    He didn’t bother to sit up when he heard footsteps approach his door, didn’t answer when his father knocked and called his name. The door opened, and there was his old man, dressed for success in a dark pinstriped suit, white shirt and red power tie. Smiling, for Christ’s sake. Maybe he’d had a double Bloody Mary for breakfast.
    “Why didn’t you answer?” his dad asked. “Are you okay?”
    Ty shrugged, wishing he could have stayed on the back of John Emerson’s bike and just kept going so he didn’t have to feel so…irrelevant. So unnecessary. Extraneous. Worthless .
    “Well, come on downstairs,” his dad said. “The