Theo by Ed Taylor Page B

his shirt flapped open and people snickered, even the girls, who squealed and tried to keep the boys from pulling their buttons, but some of them didn’t try too hard, and some of the boys didn’t try hard to pull, so it’s already starting, the doing one thing and meaning something else.
    Mingus is emerging onto the terrace now, carrying something in his hands. One of his cars. He makes things. They look like cars but he calls them weapons. He says they have power, and value, and some people want to steal the power.
    What’s up, man. Mingus is looking up at Theo walking toward him, heading for the kitchen.
    I’m hungry.
    Me too, starving for everything. I am famished all the time.
    What are you doing with your car.
    I’m taking it outside – if the government finds out it’s in here, the house becomes a target, because this ain’t no car. It’s power for the one who holds it. I’m getting it away from the house. Made it last night.
    There were police here but they left.
    See. See.
    They were here to talk about immigration.
    Of course, they always have a front, but that’s never why they really come. They get their orders from deep in the tower, andsometimes even they don’t know why, they’re just following orders, man. But the real power’s right in my hands and they know it.
    Mingus hunched over the car, looking up, and started running toward the trees. I’ll be back. Don’t talk to them, okay. They can take stuff out of your brain before you even know it’s gone.
    Okay but they’re not here.
    Halfway down the grass, hunched and running, Mingus yells back, they’re never gone.
    Theo keeps moving toward the opened French doors, the dogs trotting behind, wondering if it is true about police. Theo is afraid to ask too many questions, or even think them. Is that being superstitious: some people think that’s bad. Theo can’t help it, however. Birds, insects, when a shadow passes over and something you’ve never seen and don’t understand attacks – superstition is what animals know. Maybe you called it to come, by saying its name.
    Theo’s eyes adjust to the dark inside and he walks toward the kitchen, empty now except for the dogs who hustled ahead and now lie on the cool terracotta. He feels better, his head feels better. Not hurting too much but things fuzz over a little at the edges.
    He opens the refrigerator and has to pull hard because it’s so big. Inside is a bottle of champagne, and some kind of plant in a glass of water. And jars, sauces and things to put on other stuff, like mustard, mayonnaise, jars with Chinese writing on them. Some plastic packets of ketchup, duck sauce. A couple of big pale orange squash, with green knobs. Theo knows there was cheese yesterday and yanks open the bottom bin, where sometimes apples appear and sometimes big deep green leafyheads that look like lettuce. Now it’s empty except for three oranges wrinkled as old heads. They have faces.
    Theo slams the door and moves to cabinets and shelves. The dogs aren’t scrabbling on the tile so they must not be hungry. He hears noise now, from inside the pantry, and whimpering, then banging of some kind, thumping, rhythmic. Sex noise.
    The door is closed and he keeps moving, his loose pants poking out. He feels his face flush, knowing someone else could see anything he’s doing anytime, strangers, unless he’s in his room. He hopes it goes down but hoping makes it worse. He hears whispers and mewing noises from the pantry.
    Theo hums and sings, makes his eyes look at the wall of cabinets. On a shelf is gold foil, a tube of biscuits, which Theo grabs and runs with, a relay baton; but run which way. Is his mother okay. What is wrong with her. Do they want her, too.
    Theo thinks of his butterflies, of the birds outside, the dogs, the eyes of the birds and dogs. Theo sees the house full of people, people in every room, closets, pantry, storage areas, people everywhere, open drawers and there are people in them. Run. He