Spells Like Teen Spirit

by Kate M. Williams

  “I have no idea,” I said. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and then ran out the door. “Bye, Dad. Love you!”

  “Love you too,” he called after me, then paused. “Wait a minute—are you wearing a bra on the outside of your shirt?”

  I didn’t bother to answer, because as soon as I was barely inside Janis’s car, she was already pulling out of the driveway. “What’s the fire under your butt this morning?” I asked, struggling to buckle my seat belt.

  “Can’t tell you until we get Cassandra,” she said.

  “Can we get coffee before we get Cassandra?” I asked.

  “Trust me,” she said, “you won’t need it! This will totally wake you up!”

  “Sure,” I said, and yawned. As she drove, I took in Janis’s look, which was unusually subdued: she just had on ripped jeans, combat boots, and a vintage A Tribe Called Quest T-shirt under an old red-and-black flannel that, even though I couldn’t see the back of it, I knew had “Nevermind” painted on it in drippy silver letters. I was usually pretty good at picking up on Janis’s fashion cues, but this one was kind of confusing, unless it was maybe some sort of nod to the fact that 1991 was such a good year for music that Tribe and Nirvana both released albums on the same day?

  “What’s this outfit called?” I asked, and Janis just huffed.

  “There was no time for outfits this morning,” she said. “And I was up super late last night. But trust me, it was all worth it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I trust you, I trust you,” I said as we pulled up outside Cassandra’s house. To my surprise, Cass must have been watching and waiting for us, because Janis had barely stopped before Cassandra was out the door and jogging toward the car. She opened the back door, tossed a couple of boxes to the other side, and then climbed in.

  “Okay,” she said, “so what’s this all about?”

  “Well,” Janis started, “when I got home last night, I figured I could just stay up and spend hours digging around on the internet trying to find out more about Phantom Limp, or I could just call the bar and see if I could get their info.”

  “So you called the bar?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “And what’d they say?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “They wouldn’t tell you?” Cassandra asked.

  “No,” Janis said. “There was no answer. They were closed.”

  “I know,” I said. “Brian drove by and said the same thing.”

  “Weird,” Cassandra said. “So, then, what’d you do?”

  “I spent hours digging around on the internet, of course,” Janis said. “And I found your dad’s employment history. He did not pay a lot of taxes.”

  “What?” Cassandra said. “You can just look that stuff up?”

  “We can’t, but Janis can,” I said, by way of explanation.

  “So, guess where he worked?” Janis said. Cassandra and I just sat there.

  “Big Lots?” Cassandra said finally.

  “No,” Janis said. “At the mall!”

  “Wow,” I said, “I never figured Erebus as the type to have a cool job.”

  “But it wasn’t just anywhere at the mall,” Janis continued. “He worked at Spill the Beanies!”

  “What the hell is ‘Spill the Beanies’?” Cassandra asked.

  “A Beanie Baby kiosk!” Janis crowed triumphantly. Cassandra and I were quiet and let this information wash over us like sunlight at dawn.

  “So that’s how he met Wanda,” I said finally.

  “It has to be,” Janis said. “He only made six dollars and fifteen cents an hour, but I bet he got an employee discount and access to new products before they hit the shelves.”

  “Which means he could have had something that Wanda wanted,” Cassandra said.

  “Wow,” I said. “Who would have thought that the missing link was a cart on wheels?”

  “Not just any cart,” Janis clarified, “but the Spill the Beanies cart. And that’s not it! There’s more.”

  “What else?” Cassandra asked. “Did you get his Social Security number too?”

  Janis shook her head and ignored the sarcasm. “No,” she said. “Another number. A phone number.”

  “And so you called it and the phone booth outside your house started ringing?” I suggested.

  “Well, no,” Janis said. “I didn’t call it at all. I mean, I’m not going to call it by myself! But here, look! It’s a number to book Jacking Limbs, or whatever they’re calling themselves this week.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Where’d you find that?”

  “Well, that wasn’t actually so hard,” Janis said. “It was just on their Myspace page, front and center.”

  Cassandra whipped out her phone and started to dial.

  “Wait!” Janis screeched. “At least turn off your caller ID first!”

  Cassandra stopped dialing. “Okay, but how?”

  Janis took her phone and, tapping around all the cracks in the screen, hit a few buttons, and then handed the phone back to Cassandra. I held Janis’s phone so that Cassandra could see the number, and she dialed and then put it on speaker and held it out so that we could all hear. It rang, and rang, and then just as Cassandra was about to hit end, someone picked up. Or rather, a voice mail.

  “Hey,” said a gruff male voice, “you’ve reached Tom, Todd, Chad, and Brad, and we’re too busy rockin’ out to come to the phone right now.” Insert earsplitting guitar riff here. “So leave your name and number, and we’ll call you back. Maybe.” Then there was a drum solo and someone howling into the mic. Then BEEP.

  I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Janis looked at me with horror on her face, and Cassandra quickly pressed end. “Well,” I said, wiping my eyes, “at least we know it’s the right number.”

  “They all share a cell phone?” Cassandra said, looking at her phone like it was covered in mucus.

  “I bet it’s a landline,” I said.

  “And we just left an anonymous giggling message for the people we’re trying to stalk,” Janis said.

  “Come on,” I said. “They want people to laugh, right? They can’t be serious with that message. It has to be a joke.”

  “Esme,” Janis said, “you saw them. They are totally, one hundred percent serious.”

  “They had a drum solo on their outgoing message,” I started, looking at Cassandra for backup, but she was just nodding.

  “Serious,” she said.

  “So, what now?” I asked.

  “Well, fortunately, your Janis already figured that out,” Janis said. “And through some reverse look-ups, I found out that the phone number belongs to a Tom Spano, and I got an address. I also found out that Tom Spano is forty-two, has lived in Spring River his entire life, and was most recently employed as the tile and linoleum manager at the Home Depot.” With that, she put the car back into drive and pulled away from the curb. At the corner, I wasn’t surprised when she turned in the opposite direction from school.

  “So, we’re going to go check it out, right?” Cassandra asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Janis said. “But first, coffee.”

  “Thank God,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  Janis got a hot mocha, I got my usual iced coffee, Cassandra got a Pepsi, and then we got two strawberry sprinkle doughnuts, a cinnamon bear claw, a chocolate twist with bacon sprinkles, and a hot pretzel. The pretzel was for Cassandra, of course, who somehow didn’t like doughnuts but wanted a pretzel before eight a.m.

  The address associated with the band’s phone was on the south side of town, and as we drove, the sky was gray, and everything seemed pretty quiet. We’d pass the occasional car, but no one was walking and no kids were playing outside. In the parking lot of a gas station, someone had set up a card table selling Valentine’s gif
ts: large stuffed bears with white fur holding hearts that looked damp in the gloomy morning, and dozens of red roses punctuated with baby’s breath, all of which would certainly be wilted, if they were actually real, by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around.

  Janis turned onto the street and slowed the car to a crawl. “There it is,” Cassandra said, pointing to a small, gray house with a couch on the front porch and a dark purple PT Cruiser parked in the driveway. I choked on my coffee when I saw the car. I’d always pegged Erebus as the kind of guy who would drive a PT Cruiser, and how right I was. I was going to have to start giving my car intuition a whole lot more credit. Janis sped up as we passed.

  “What are you doing?” Cassandra asked. “Go back.”

  “I’m not going to just hang out outside their house,” Janis said. “That would look super suspicious.”

  “Well, we need a plan to find out if they really do live there,” Cassandra said. “Aside from just driving back and forth until someone comes out.” She drank the last of her Pepsi, screwed the top back onto the empty bottle, and was about to drop it into the recycling bin that was the floor of Janis’s car when something caught her eye. She leaned down and picked up a crumpled piece of paper. She put it on her knee and started to smooth it out. It was one of the many flyers I’d made for Pig. “Park the car,” she said. “I’m going to go knock on the door and ask if they’ve seen my dog.”

  “It’s barely eight a.m.,” Janis said. “They had a show last night. They’re not going to be awake by now.”

  “Their show was done by eight-forty-five,” Cassandra said. “So even if they partied until ten-thirty, they’re probably fine.”

  “True, true,” Janis said, turning the corner and putting the car in park. “We can see you from here,” she said, “so be careful, and scream if you need help.”

  “Will do,” Cassandra said, “very loudly.” She started to open the door.

  “Cass, wait!” I said, stopping her. “What if they recognize you?”

  “From last night, you mean?” she asked, and I shook my head.

  “No, from your parents.” Looking at her now, I was struck by something I’d noticed, but not really processed, when I’d seen Circe at the hotel. Even under the caked-on makeup, bad wig, and ill-fitting clothes, Circe had been a dead ringer for Cassandra. They had the same flawless skin, thick black hair, and full lips that Sephora would have loved to patent. “If they knew your dad, then they probably also knew your mom,” I explained. “And you look just like her.” I paused. I could see that Cassandra thought I had a point, even if she didn’t exactly like it.

  “You’re right,” Cassandra said. “So what now?”

  “I’ll go,” I said, and grabbed the flyer from her hand and then jumped out of the car before she could stop me. As I was walking toward their house, their next-door neighbor’s front door opened, and a woman came out carrying a bag of trash. If I was supposed to be canvassing the neighborhood for a lost dog, it would look weird if I wasn’t talking to everyone.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, turning up her driveway. “I was wondering if you’ve seen this dog anywhere around here?” She hefted the bag of trash into the can and then walked toward me. I held the flyer out, and she looked at it, then shook her head.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” she said. “The dog chipped?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then she’ll turn up. We’ll keep an eye out too,” she said.

  “Okay, thank you so much.” I’d started to walk to the band’s house, when she called out to me.

  “I wouldn’t bother with next door.” My ears perked up at her words.

  “Oh yeah?” I said, turning back toward her. “Are they out of town?”

  She glanced at the house, and a strange look crossed her face, a mixture of puzzlement and worry.

  “No,” she said, “they’re there. I just don’t like the idea of a young girl going up there alone.”

  “Really?” I said, deciding to play dumb to try to keep her talking as long as possible. “I think I’ve met the people who live there before. A redheaded woman with twins?”

  The woman shook her head. “No,” she said. “Used to be a bachelor lived there, but back in December he took off. Don’t know where he went, but all of a sudden four young guys moved in. One of ’em told my husband he was Tom’s nephew, but I don’t know. My husband thought he was lying.”

  “Four young guys?” I said. “So probably lots of parties and stuff. People coming and going all the time?”

  “No,” she said, the look on her face serious, “that would be normal. But these guys never leave. I’ve hardly ever even see ’em. House is like a tomb, and they’re always missing trash day.” She scowled at their overflowing cans.

  I felt a buzz with this new information. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “My friends are in the car, and I’ve got my pink mace.” I held up my keys so that she could see I wasn’t lying. “They probably won’t even answer, so I’ll leave the flyer in the mailbox.”

  “Okay,” she said, still seeming skeptical of my plan. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” I said, and headed next door. I turned back to see her hurrying inside.

  The band’s house didn’t have a path leading up to the door, so I walked up the gravel driveway. As I passed the PT Cruiser, I noticed that it was that color of sparkly purple that looks green in certain light.

  The closer I got to the house, the more the back of my neck started to prickle, and by the time I stepped onto the porch, my Sitter sense was overwhelmed. The house was dripping in magic. I could feel it snake around my ankles and up my legs, and run in rivulets down my arms. I hadn’t felt anything like this before. It was more alive than the Negative vibes, so more creepy-crawly and gross. There were charms here working overtime, and I wondered what sort of manipulation they could possibly be doing, since the house remained an unimpressive dump.

  The couch on the porch was cracked black vinyl with stuffing coming out in several places, and there were lots of empty cans of Natural Light and glass bottles of something called Zima, which I’d never heard of. Behind the couch was a big plate-glass picture window, but it was covered with a Pink Floyd tapestry on the other side. I gripped the flyer, took a deep breath, and rang the bell, my finger feeling like I had dipped it into a can of maggots when it made contact. I tried to control my shudder.

  I stood there, waiting, but no one came, and I couldn’t hear anything at all inside the house. I took another deep breath, rang again, and waited. I was just about to turn and walk away when I heard a cough from the other side of the Pink Floyd tapestry. Then footsteps, and the sound of the door being opened. The guy who answered it had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was taut in an almost poreless, shiny way. Or at least the small amount of it that I could see was—he only opened the door about three inches.

  “What are you doing here?” he said through the crack. Such a point-blank question threw me off, and I forgot my cover.

  “Um…” I stood there, my mind a blank, and then…“Dog!” I blurted out, thrusting the flyer toward him. He didn’t take it, and I turned it sideways to slide it through the crack. “I’m looking for my dog. She disappeared awhile back, and I was hoping that someone here might have seen her.”

  “No dogs around here,” he said. He started to shut the door, and I held my foot out to stop it.

  “Actually,” I said, plastering a sheepish smile onto my face. “The dog was just an excuse. I really wanted to come here because I’m a fan. A fan of…” Crap! What was their most recent name? “Phantom Limp!”

  Now I had his attention, and he opened the door a little more, though he still didn’t smile. I wondered if he even could, and he was still completely blocking any view I might have had past him into the house. “You like that name?” he asked. “We were thinking about changing it.”r />
  “Oh yeah,” I said, nodding like my head was going to detach. “It rocks.”

  He pulled the door open fully and stepped out onto the porch. He was wearing gray sweatpants, black slippers, and a camo T-shirt. He had a thick ball-chain necklace on, which looked a little dangerous to sleep in.

  “Cool, cool,” he said, running his hand through his hair, and he looked me up and down. “I always thought our demo was older, more sophisticated. But tweens have a lot of market spend, and labels like a fan base with disposable income. They buy a lot of CDs. How old are you anyway? Like, twelve?”

  What the? He thought I was twelve? I tried not to think too much about the fact that a guy who thought twelve-year-olds still bought a lot of CDs thought that I was one of said twelve-year-olds. So instead I just smiled. “Actually, I’m seventeen.”

  “Cool, cool,” he said. “Almost legal.”

  And almost throwing up in my mouth, thank you very much.

  “So, what can I do for you? You want an autograph or something?” he asked.

  “Yes!” I said, not having to fake the enthusiasm. “I wanted you to, uh, sign my flyer!” He took it from me, and then looked at me expectantly.

  “What do you want me to sign it with?”

  “I, uh, don’t have a pen,” I said.

  “Hold on,” he said. He stepped back inside and shut the door. Two seconds later, the door reopened again. He had a purple marker, and he held it in one hand as he flattened the flyer against the doorjamb. “What’s your name?”

  “Es—” I started, and caught myself. “Ter. Esther.” He nodded, then wrote “To Esther, Rock on.” He scrawled his name with a signature that I was sure he’d practiced ten million times. “Thanks,” I said, and looked down at what he’d written. His name was totally indecipherable. “Thanks. I’ll see you around,” I added.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Tell all your friends. And uh, tell them to tell their moms. Or, like, their older sisters. Unless their moms are MILFs, then tell them too.” My grin stretched into a grimace, and then I turned and started to quickly walk back across the porch. I couldn’t wait to get away from him, and that house.