Em Garner - Contaminated

“Oh,” I say when I see who’s on the other side of the door. “Are you here to fix the lock?”

Mr. Garcia, the landlord, shakes his head. He’s dancing a little on the front mat, which, like a lot of the stuff here, came with the apartment. It used to say WELCOME. Now it just says WE ME.

“No. No lock.” He peers over my shoulder and seems disappointed not to see anything.

I look over my shoulder. Nothing. Opal can sleep through almost anything. “So… what do you want?”

I have a long list of repairs that need to be done, but it occurs to me that Mr. Garcia’s not there for any of them. Why come now, and so early in the morning, when he’s been steadily ignoring us for the past six months? There can be only one reason, but I’m not going to bring it up first.

“I got a call from Jerry Wentling.”

“Yeah? Did he tell you he broke my lock?” I pull the door open to show him the splintered wood, the dangling chain.

Mr. Garcia looks at the lock, eyes narrowing. “No, no, he didn’t say nothing about the lock.”

“How about the fact his mother’s dog barks all the time?”

“No, no,” Mr. Garcia says. “Mrs. Wentling’s dog is fine.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you had to live next door to it,” I tell him. My bare feet are cold, but there’s no way I’m stepping aside to let him in. He’s the landlord, but I’m not sure he has the right to push his way past me. Then again, I’m not sure he doesn’t.

“Jerry told me about… it.”

For one split second I’m hoping he means the Connie in the laundry room. That Mr. Garcia’s come to tell me he’s added security, or even that he’s called the police. Suddenly I’d rather face the cops about a suspected murder than deal with what I guess Mr. Garcia’s about to say.

“What?” I can play really dumb when I have to. It’s particularly useful when dealing with adults or people in government agencies about things like trying to cash the same assistance check twice. Yeah, I knew it was the same check, but “oops, I’m sorry” and an innocent look got me out of that one.

“It,” Mr. Garcia says again with a swift look over my shoulder. “He says you have one of them in there.”

I make a show of looking over my shoulder. “A… kitchen table? A couch? They came with the apartment. I don’t really like them, though, so if you want to take them—”

“No!” Mr. Garcia turns an angry gaze to me. “You know what I’m talking about. One of them. Those Connies! You have one in there!”

“My mother’s come home,” I tell him as calmly as I can, even though I can feel the fury starting to build. It’s paired with familiar sickness rolling in my gut. Two sensations I hate but can’t seem to get away from anymore for longer than a few hours. I think I used to not feel so angry all the time, but honestly, I’m having a hard time remembering it.

“She can’t stay here! The lease is for you two only. No others allowed.” Mr. Garcia points a stubby finger at me.

I don’t flinch. “You take assistance tenants, right? You have a government contract? That’s why we got placed here. The government pays you money so you can house kids like me and my sister, right?”

“Yes.” He eyes me warily, like I’m trying to trick him. This annoys me, because I’ve never done anything to Mr. Garcia but complain about the stuff that needs to be fixed. I’ve never even been late with the rent. Yeah, we get a portion of it from assistance, but the rest of it comes out of my paycheck. I’ve always made sure he has it on time, which is more than what the Wentlings do. I know that for a fact.

“Well, I have paperwork releasing my mom into my custody under that new law—”

“Law? What law? You talking about that stuff on the news?” He grimaces and waves a hand, and, yeah, I know the news is mostly a bunch of crap, but that doesn’t make this any less real.

“Yeah. You heard about it.”

A lot of new laws have been passed. The one lowering the age of adulthood from eighteen to seventeen, for example, that let me take guardianship of Opal and declare myself emancipated. The ones that deal with all the money tied up in the accounts of the Contaminated, where it goes, how it’s distributed, what happens to it if the accounts have nobody to claim them. And of course, the one about taking them home.

“I haven’t heard nothing.” Mr. Garcia crosses his arms and glares at me. “The lease is for two people. Not three. And people! Not… them!”

“I have paperwork,” I tell him again. I feel like a CD skipping, the same lyrics blurting out over and over. “She’s entitled to residence in the same place as I am. I’m her guardian. Legally. I can show you the papers.”

“No, no! I don’t wanna see no papers! I got nothing to see! This is still my place!” Mr. Garcia’s voice rises, high like a little girl’s, as his face gets red. “They say I got to take your money and charge what they say, they don’t say nothing about me having to let you stay here!”

My stomach’s sinking, twisting into a knot at the same time. “But I have paperwork. I have…”

“I don’t care.” He points his finger at me again. “You and your sister can stay here. It can’t. I can’t have something like that in here! People are scared about that sort of thing! It’s not right!”

“Well, it’s not right that you don’t lock up your laundry room, either!” I shout.

He steps back at my sudden forcefulness. I follow him out onto the landing. The WE ME mat’s squishy and cold under my toes.

“I got attacked in there! Yeah, Jerry didn’t tell you that, did he? That an unneutralized Connie attacked me in there! Could’ve killed me! What do you think I should do about that, huh? Maybe I should sue you!”

Mr. Garcia’s threatened only for a second. “You see? Dangerous! Too dangerous! No, no, it has to go!”

Stupidly, I gave him too much ammunition. “She’s my mother, not an it . She’s got the collar—”

I can see curtains twitching in the Wentlings’ apartment across the landing, and in the apartment next door to me. The one next to the Wentlings’ has been empty for the past few months, but if it had occupants, I’m sure they’d be peeking out, too. Mr. Garcia doesn’t care if he’s making too much noise for this early in the morning, and I’m sure the neighbors appreciate the show even if it woke them.

“I don’t care about your collar or your papers! I don’t care about nothing! You get out of here by the end of the day! That’s it!” Mr. Garcia crosses his arms.

He’s about half an inch shorter than I am and not at all intimidating, but there’s no question he means what he says. I soften my tone, try a different way. “Please, Mr. Garcia. We don’t have anyplace to go.”

I might be imagining him bending a little. “Not my problem.”

I try a bit harder. “Please? I have to take care of my baby sister, and my mother isn’t a problem, really. I promise.”

“Jerry Wentling says she attacked him!”

“Jerry Wentling broke in my door and busted my lock!” I cry. “She was scared! Besides, did he also tell you the collar did what it was meant to, and totally knocked her down? She couldn’t have attacked him even if she tried.”

Something flickers in his gaze. “I don’t trust those collars. No. You go. Get out.”

I remember something in time to try again. Mr. Garcia’s daughter, Josie, went to my school. “What if I were your daughter, Mr. Garcia? Trying my best to just keep my family together—”

I know I’ve said the wrong thing the instant I say daughter . Mr. Garcia’s mouth slams shut, his eyes burn bright with anger. He shakes his head, then his fist right in my face. I step back.