ArchivedLogs:Misplaced Youth

Misplaced Youth
Dramatis Personae Jackson & an OCFS caseworker	2013-04-16 Hey, it's not SPENCER lost this time!
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. It's bright and early in the morning when a rap comes on Jackson's door. Rapraprap. Raprap/rap/. It's firm, Authoritative. Outside the door there is a woman in a neat blue knee-length skirt and white blouse, sensible flat shoes, a light jacket. With her, one bored-looking NYPD officer in uniform. She has a tablet tucked into one arm and is waiting. Not impatiently. Just waiting. Jackson is a little frazzled in answering this knock, hurrying to get clothes on (swishy yellow skirt, cheerful blue-and-white top patterned like puffy clouds on a blue sky) to head to teach his class for the day, filling a thermos with coffee and grabbing a pair of muffins and a banana by way of breakfast. He sets these things down on the counter, skittering in socked feet over to the door to peer out the peekhole. His expression shifts into a frown, though by the time he opens the door it has changed drastically, healthy colour replacing pallor and hiding shadowed eyes, makeup shimmering faint shimmery-blue, an easy-warm smile on his face. "G'mornin'," he greets, politely, holding the door open just a little and watching the people outside it curiously. He doesn't invite them in. "Can I help you?" "Mr. Holland?" The woman sounds faintly skeptical, on this, but she glances down at the screen of her tablet, glances back up at Jackson, nods. "Yes. May we come in?" Jackson still doesn't move, doesn't invite them in; he looks at the pair with a slight tilt of his head, no wavering of his small smile. "Can I ask what's this about?" The woman presses her lips together for a brief moment. "Forgive me. My name is Kaitlyn Hoffman, I'm with the Office of Children and Family Services. I'm here about Sebastian and Shane Nguyen." The officer with her doesn't say anything. He's just watching. Behind Jackson further into the apartment and only barely visible through the mostly-closed door, the light quivers; his smile does not. His hand does tighten around its handle, though. He lets out a slow breath as he pulls the door further open, gesturing both people inside. Kaitlyn steps in briskly, looking around the apartment with an appraising air. The police officer follows soon after, mostly just looking at Jax. A little warily. A little suspicious. "Where are the boys, Mr. Holland?" Jackson's eyebrows raise, and his smile fades as he closes the door behind them. "-- Beg pardon?" "The twins," she says slowly and deliberately, like perhaps Jackson is hard of hearing. Or understanding. "M'sorry, miss, I just -- they was removed from here a month ago." Jackson's tone is still calm, quiet, though it's several degrees cooler now. "I'd guess they're wherever you all put them." Kaitlyn is unabashedly wandering, poking into bedrooms, poking into bathrooms. The linen closet. In case there are twins /hiding/. "They are not," she says eventually, "and we know that there have been incidents with the children returning here rather than to their placement homes. We thought perhaps they had come here." "-- You /lost/ them?" Less calm, here. Jackson's voice raises in pitch -- not a lot. But /edged/. His arms cross tight around his chest and he does not attempt to /stop/ this inspection, though he does watch it with a growing frown. The officer stands at straighter attention when Jackson's voice shifts, tensing and watching the photokinetic closely. Kaitlyn just frowns, pausing in the hall to look back at Jackson suspiciously. "When was the last time you saw the twins?" Jackson hesitates. His lips press together, and he doesn't answer for a while. But eventually, reluctantly: "-- On the 31st. March. They was at a concert I went to." Kaitlyn nods at this, tapping something into her tablet and looking pretty unsurprised by this answer. "They was just before they decided -- right." Her lips thin again. "Right." She continues down the hall, poking into Jax's bedroom, as well. Eventually, though, she returns, looking slightly unsettled. She takes out a card, handing it over to Jackson. "Call us," she says, "straight away, if they contact you." She gestures to the officer, heading for the door to let herself out. Jackson takes the card in silence. He just nods, watching the woman leave. His knuckles press hard against his lips, the room behind him filling with a murky swirl of ghostlyhazey figures as soon as he closes the door.