Zenobia July

by Lisa Bunker

  Robert gave Zen one last hard glare, turned on a heel, and left.

  At lunch, standing on the table-decision spot, Zen saw that Arli’s table of orphan misfits was already packed. Arli, Clem, Dyna, a kid Zen didn’t know, and Elijah were all there. Even without Elijah sitting right there, she couldn’t bear the thought of another gender-lecture from Arli, so she headed for Siberia, as it was called—the farthest corner, where a few tables usually sat empty all lunch. She ate facing the wall and spoke to no one. Shields up. Walls in place. When the bell rang she sat another minute, letting the room empty out behind her before turning around. When she did, though, Natalie was still at her table, with her friend Olive. As soon as their eyes met, Natalie did the finger-wiggling thing again.

  By this point in a very trying day, Zen was in just the right frame of mind, edgy and fierce, to deal with this straight on. She got up and walked over. Natalie watched her approach with a calm, superior expression. Olive gaped. Zen stopped in front of them and said, “What.”

  Natalie shrugged.

  “That thing you’re doing with your fingers,” Zen said. Her voice came out low and steady. Almost like friends talking. The odd intimacy of enemies. “What’s it supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” said Natalie just as evenly, “that you have freakishly bushy eyebrows. They look like caterpillars.”

  Olive burst out laughing.

  “Big, ugly, hairy caterpillars.”

  Zen flushed and scowled. Olive was still laughing. Natalie contented herself with a smile, equal parts fake sweetness and real malice. There was a shutter sound effect. Olive had snapped another picture. Zen whirled and stomped away.

  The caterpillar incident made an already dark day even darker, and Zen only barely managed to keep herself from arranging some new way to bail. Somehow, though, she persevered. At least she hadn’t had to come face to face with Arli. She still had no idea how to work past the awful text exchange.

  But then there was the part at the end of the day when Zen had just started walking home and Arli came panting up behind. “Hey,” vo called. Zen kept walking. “Hey,” again. Fine. Let’s get this over with. She stopped and turned.

  “What happened last night?” Arli said. “We got cut off.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And I forgot to send you stuff. But I will.”

  Zen groped without success for anything to say. Arli was already moving on. “And sorry about the table being full at lunch. I mean, we could have squeezed you in, but I get the feeling you don’t like having too many people close to you at one time.”

  Wait, what? She had just settled it in her mind that, despite early indications to the contrary, vo was utterly clueless. Startled into speech, she said, “Um, that’s right, actually. Thanks for noticing.”

  “You’re welcome. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.” An expectant pause. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask?”

  The old rhythm—if anything could be called old between two people who had only known each other for a month. Despite herself, Zen smiled a little. “You like to be asked, don’t you?”

  “Why, yes, actually. Thank you for asking.”

  Zen was amazed to discover she had a laugh in her. Arli laughed too. “Okay, fine, why did you want to talk to me?”

  “Because I’ve been thinking about what you said that time, about why don’t I invite you, and, well, my family really is seriously weird, but . . .” Was vo actually looking bashful? “But, I was . . . What I mean is . . . would you . . . you wanna come over sometime?” They stood looking at each other. “To my dad’s house, I mean. There’s no easy way to have you come visit my parent I can think of.”

  Zen felt something loosen inside her and decided not to be mad, at least at this one other human, in this particular moment, anymore. “All right,” she said. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  Arli beamed. “Cool!”

  “I have to ask Aunt Lucy first,” Zen said.

  “Okay. But you really wanna come over.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Okay, good. Good. I’ll message you about . . . yes.” An awkward good-bye wave, and they headed in their opposite homeward directions.

  INTERLUDE: SEEING ZEN

  Melissa

  The cross was the first thing I noticed, actually. She has a cross on a chain around her neck, just like I do. Which, I know at least some of the other kids at school go to church, but Mom says not all that many, and of the ones that do, almost none of them would wear a cross. Not so you could see it. Mom says it’s a shame that the world has come to this, and I think she’s right.

  Anyway, Zenobia came over to our house. I invited her, because I made the decision over the summer that I was going to try to make more friends. And we had a nice time. There was a weird thing that happened where Mom was asking questions, and Zen said both her parents were dead, and then she got all emotional, and Mom had to comfort her. That is sad, for sure. To lose both your parents so young. I wonder if she did something really bad so that God had to punish her like that.

  She’s not very good at word games. She got the worst score of all three of us, by about a hundred points, and after a while I could tell she was bored.

  She did get weird about that other kid. The girl who thinks she’s a boy. I just said what Mom said about how sad it was that some poor kid’s parents would do that to her, actually encourage her like that. And Zenobia got all snappy. I did like Mom says and turned the other cheek. Still, though, I didn’t understand her reaction.

  I do like her, though. She really loved the bracelet I made for her, and besides that she just seems nice. I think I’m going to invite her over again.

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE KEDUM HOUSE was in an older neighborhood with mostly small houses, some in poor repair, some defiantly tidy. Tired fences leaned, dogs lolloping behind some. Trees with slots cut through for utility wires loomed overhead. It looked like a neighborhood where a lot of people had done a lot of hard living for a long time.

  Arli’s house was a beat-up old place set back from the street, with a yard full of weeds, an old pickup on blocks rusting under the car park, and a saggy roof. As Zen got out of the car, Arli’s hand popped out through a sideways-levered little window—bathroom, probably—and waved. Zen said okay to Aunt Lucy, who drove away.

  Arli came out onto the little concrete plinth that did for a porch. “Hey,” vo said.

  “Hey.” Zen picked her way up the walk, which was a row of hexagonal cement tiles sunk in the grass. Arli looked uncharacteristically subdued. When Zen had joined ven on the porch, vo said, “So, this is it. My little dump of a house.”

  “It’s bigger than my old house,” Zen said. “In better shape, too.”

  “I find that hard to believe. But thanks for saying.” An awkward pause. Then, with an effort, “Okay, so, wanna come in and meet the fam? Such as they are. My dad’s home, and you might even get a glimpse of my brother.”

  “Lester.”

  “That’s not his real name, of course. His real name is Lynx.”

  “Links? You mean like, parts of a chain?”

  “Or a golf course? No. L-Y-N-X. Like the animal.”

  “What a strange name.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So what’s up with that? Named after animals?”

  “My parent had some odd ideas . . . um, I’ll tell you another time. Dad, this is my friend Zen.”

  They had made their way into the living room, which was crowded with decrepit furniture, stacks of magazines, a weight set, some dirty plates here and there, and other miscellaneous grunge and clutter. Near the window a bald man with a heavy, lined face and a white cotton T-shirt sat at a little card table, busy with something. He looked
up, seeming to have to work to refocus his eyes. “Hello,” he mumbled.

  “Hello, Mr. Kedum,” said Zen. “It’s nice to meet you.” Stepping forward, she saw what he was doing. He was cleaning a gun.

  Mr. Kedum looked blank for a second, then said, “What was the name? Sorry, didn’t catch it.”

  “My name is Zenobia, sir,” said Zen. “Your . . . Arli calls me Zen for short.” A pause. “So do other people.”

  “Zen. Okay, fine.” Mr. Kedum’s eyes shifted to Arli. “Your friend is polite.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And more normal than I was expecting.”

  Arli glowered at this, but said nothing. Zen was curious about the weapon he was cleaning. It looked familiar. “What is that?” she asked. “A Ruger?”

  Arli’s dad jolted slightly. “It is, yes,” he said. His voice was so flat it was hard to tell, but maybe he was surprised.

  Zen felt Arli’s eyes on her. She flushed. “My dad had one, is all,” she said. “Just like it. So I’ve seen one before.”

  Brakes squeaked outside. An engine cut off. A car door slammed. The bald man’s eyes had drifted away. He turned back to the table. A sudden rat-a-tat sounded from the door, oddly precise in its rhythm. The door clonked like it had been kicked, then shuddered open. A boy came in, holding a drumstick in each hand—that explained the rat-a-tat. It was Lester, or Lynx. He had his eyes mostly closed and was grinning and head-banging to music only he could hear. He played another drum lick on the rim of a lampshade by the door. Then he saw Arli and Zen, and froze.

  Everyone stared at each other for a moment. Lynx’s face went red, and he snarled something without words and disappeared down the short hall that led, presumably, to bedrooms. A door slammed. After a second, the house began to shake. The manic hammering of double kick drums. The rasping scream of heavy metal vocals.

  Zen looked at Arli, feeling embarrassed. From Arli’s expression vo was feeling the same. After a second they both nodded. Bonding through squirm. Arli made a move with veir head toward the front door. “Come with me,” vo said. “I want to show you something.”

  Zen gestured toward the hall. “I thought . . . your room . . .”

  “It’s not much to look at. And do you really want to go any deeper into that?” The music was like jackhammers.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Come on, then.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  AN INITIAL STRETCH of sidewalk, and then Arli cut down a dirt path between two fenced yards. It opened into the outer reaches of a school field. By the looks of the playground, it was an elementary school. Generations of pushing feet had cut deep grooves in the ground under the swings. Tetherball poles with no tetherballs on them dotted the asphalt.

  Arli led Zen around a corner into a long, narrow stretch between a blank wall on one side and a fence on the other. The ground was mostly bare dirt. Beyond the fence lay a strip of scrubby trees and bushes, then a ditch, then backyards on the other side. The green was thick enough to be hard to see through. Dogs barked and engines rumbled round about, but right where they were felt isolated and deserted.

  Halfway along, a stairwell plunged into the ground next to the building. The stairs were made of rough concrete, and led down into shadow. Zen said, “What are we doing here?”

  “This is the entrance to my secret place,” Arli said, and started down. Zen followed, gripping the steel handrail. The air got cooler with each step. It smelled like damp cement. Grit and trash at the bottom, and a blank metal door. No keyhole in the knob, but there was one in a small round plate above.

  Arli fished in veir pocket, brought out a key, and held it up with a flourish. Zen looked at the lock, at her friend. Really? Arli nodded. “Where did you get it?” she whispered. It seemed important to whisper.

  “Lynx gave it to me.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know. He never told me.”

  “And he gave it to you.”

  “Before he got all teenagery and mean, yeah. Passing it along.” Arli unlocked the door and creaked it open.

  Inside, Zen was strongly reminded of the secret spaces under Lukematon. Same pipes and wires. Same low, rough ceiling. And, once Arli flipped a switch, same bare bulbs in wire cages. Arli’s secret tunnels were less well lit than Zen’s, though. Between the pools of glare lay long stretches of dark.

  “Come on,” Arli said, and they began picking their way forward. At intervals lower pipes barred the way. In a couple of places they had to crawl. They came to a T. Arli turned right and kept going. This stretch had no lights, but there was a hint of a dim-lit edge farther ahead. Another corner. One particularly glary bulb, illuminating a dead end. No, wait. There was an opening low in the wall. Zen’s breath had started coming short. Virtual tunnels were fine. Real ones pressed in. But, drawn by a sense of being initiated into a ritual, she forced herself forward.

  The crawl through the black square led to a new passage. It was completely dark now. Zen heard rustling in the dark, and a flashlight clicked on. “Prepared,” said Arli.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Another couple of turns. They passed a ladder. “That goes up into the back of the auditorium,” Arli said. “If they leave it unlocked, you can get in and climb up where the lights are.”

  “Going low to go high.”

  “Yeah.”

  Zen shivered. It was an oddly thrilling thought.

  One last corner, and they entered a small concrete room, almost cubical. Some kind of water tank or pump or furnace took up a lot of the space, but around and under it, an underground clubhouse had been set up. Furnishings included a grotty scrap of rug, a wooden box with candles stuck to it, and two old beanbag chairs patched with duct tape. Around one, tiny foam balls littered the carpet. The air was warm and close, with tangs of mildew, wax, and smoke.

  “Welcome,” said Arli, “to the Fieldwork Sanctum.”

  “What an odd name.”

  “You’re not wrong. Do you know why it’s called that?”

  Zen thought about it. “Because it’s . . . hold on . . . sixteen letters with no repeats.”

  “Yes! You noticed! Thank you so much!”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Well, obviously not what, say, an archeologist means by fieldwork. The sixteen-letters thing is the first reason, but after that, I figure fieldwork could mean something like, going somewhere and working on life stuff. So this is where I come when I need to get away and think.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Pause. “You could call it FS for short.”

  “Yes, you could.”

  “And, check it out, FS also stands for ‘for short.’”

  “You know what,” Arli said, smiling. “You have become a chima of words. I thought I was the only one.”

  “Thanks,” said Zen. She looked around. “Did you bring all this stuff down here?”

  “No, I didn’t bring any of it. It’s all been here for a long time.”

  “Yeah, looks like it. Smells like it too.”

  Arli shrugged. “It is what it is.” Vo propped the flashlight against the box so that it pointed at the ceiling. Dim orange light showered down around them. Arli plumped into the wounded beanbag, and foam pellets jetted up in a plume. Vo gestured to the other beanbag. It looked none too clean, but it was too late to back out now. Zen lowered herself, and found she was almost lying on the floor. She felt something next to her hand and picked it up. It was a tattered girly magazine, so old the hairstyles looked like something on TV reruns. She made a face and tossed it away. Somewhere nearby some piece of machinery hummed, all on one droning pitch. Otherwise, silence.

  Zen said, “In a weird way, it’s peaceful.”

  “Yeah.”
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  “I see why you come here. It’s . . . secret. Safe.”

  “Yeah.”

  “A place to go where . . .”

  “. . . you don’t have to be anything you’re not.”

  “Right.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  AFTER AN INTERLUDE of quiet, Arli snagged the flashlight with an outstretched finger and started shining it different places. The shadows leapt and jittered, making Zen feel queasy, but she didn’t say anything.

  Arli said, “They don’t get me. At all.”

  “Who?”

  “My family. My dad and brother.”

  At least your parents are still alive, Zen thought, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “And at school. Nobody gets me there, either. And they can get really nasty sometimes. Like there’s this one group of kids, they call me . . .” Vo choked on the word, but then got it out: “‘It.’”

  Zen made a wordless sound of distress.

  Arli looked up, scowling, and mimicked in a nasty singsong, “‘Oooh, is it a boy or a girl? I can’t tell! Oooh, what is it? What kind of freaky thing is it?’”

  “Jeezum. I’m so sorry,” Zen said. “Let me guess: Natalie.”

  “Among others.” Arli scowled harder. “I get so mad, sometimes,” vo said. “Wanting revenge.” A long stare into a dark corner, then under veir breath: “I’ve done a few things I’m not proud of. . . .”

  Despite herself, Zen felt intrigued. She knew rage. The curious places it took you. “For instance?” she asked.

  Arli growled and shook veir head. “Never mind,” vo said. “But you know what? You’re lucky. You get to be a normal kid. Just another girl in the world. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  Zen dropped her eyes, folded one leg into the beanbag chair, and started playing with her shoelace. She yearned to say: But I do know what it’s like. Once the words were out, though, there was no taking them back. And even friends could make mistakes, let something slip. The risk was too great. She couldn’t say, and it just sucked so bad.