If my life were an Archie comic, Andrew would be Reggie. On crack.
When I get to school Monday morning, I decide to speak privately to Randall about it.
“Did you know Renée is Andrew Tomas’s younger sister?” I yell right into his face.
He holds up a finger—he needs to finish the paragraph in his book. WHAM! Down come my books on his desk, illustrating the urgency of the matter.
Randall looks up from his copy of Kerosene with a frustrated groan. “Jesus, Locke. You didn’t know that?”
“No, I didn’t fucking know that! She’s YOUR friend, not mine! This girl’s older brother is the jock asshole in an eighties movie! I’m fucked!”
Randall stares a bit, his face devoid of thought. “I don’t see why this is so much of an issue.”
The venom roars in anger. I blink hard. “Randall, what the hell are you talking about? There’s no way I can be with this girl when her brother tortures me every day at school! I can just see a family dinner—‘Hey, Andrew, pass the pork chops!’ ‘Here you go, you freak-ass bitch!’”
“Since when are you going to Renée’s for family dinners?”
“Well, not yet,” I say, turning crimson, “but perhaps someday I will! Perhaps I meet her mom and dad and all they’ve heard about is how much of a ‘whack spazzoid’ I am!”
Randall’s face darkens. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Locke.”
“Why not? What part of this shit SHOULDN’T I worry about?”
He doesn’t even look up from his book when he verbally punches me in the heart.
“Renée’s parents are dead.”
I reach for words and find a big empty space. I speak, and all I get is a thin, reedy noise, like a deflating balloon.
“Yeah,” continues Randall. “That I didn’t expect you to know. But it’s something you should.”
I suppose so.
“Wow. Randall, that’s…”
“Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
I manage a slow nod and a gulp. “The Goth thing’s not just for show, is it?”
“She’s a dark one, man. You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just new, I…you know, I’ve never met an…orphan before.”
“That’s not a very PC word, man. Besides, Oliver Twist was an orphan. Annie was a fucking orphan. Renée’s just a girl with no parents. Call her an orphan and she’ll probably slug you.” A smile crosses his lips, just a little; the idea amuses him.
“How’d they—”
“This line of questioning needs to end right now, Locke,” says Randall, looking at his book. I’m about to ask why when I hear my last name shouted from behind me. I turn around and surprise, there’s Andrew Tomas standing right in front of me, back hunched slightly so that his six-foot-five frame can lean down to my five-foot-ten size. Scenes from Jurassic Park flash before my eyes.
“How was your stay at my place last night, Locke?” he asks, mock sincerity bright in his voice. “Did you have an okay time? Was everything to your liking?”
“Hi, Andrew,” I say softly. I need to keep it together. The venom shakes and shouts, tensing my muscles, but I plaster my hands at my sides. This is Renée’s older brother, and I have to start dealing with that right goddamn now.
“Answer the question, Locke.”
“It was fine.”
“Good!” he barks accusingly. “Because that visit to my house was your last. My sister may be a bit of a freak, Vinetti, but not your kind of freak. Not a psycho.”
The venom swells in me to the point where I want to cry or scream, I’m not sure which. It’s no longer flying off the handle; it’s building, storing itself until it takes over. You’re nothing, Tomas, it cries, preparing to strike. Give me one more minute of buildup, and then say the wrong thing. I’ll rip your face off. I’ll make you eat your fucking teeth.
“What about her house, Andrew?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot, which just makes him look like an idiot. “What does that mean?”
“Well, apparently I’m not allowed in your house. What about her house? Can I visit there?”
Andrew slaps a big hand on my shoulder. It weighs, eh, seven pounds. “Is that supposed to be funny, Vinetti?”
I could break every single one of your goddamn fingers right now. I could bite a hole in your neck the size of a grapefruit.
“You’re making me angry, Andrew,” I say. I squint my eyes, squeeze my fists till my fingernails dig into my hands. You like this girl, I repeat to myself, and that means you can’t do this.
“Listen, Lou Ferrigno, I don’t give a shit how angry you get. Just keep your grubby hands off my sister, y’dig?”
“Leave me alone, Andrew,” I snarl, pulling his hand off my shoulder.
“Or what?”
The venom grins and starts going haywire. Oh, fuck, it’s too late. I blew it. This is happening. It’s—
“Okay, guys, back off,” snaps Randall, pushing roughly between us. “Both of you, just chill out. None of us need this bullshit right now. Andrew, go away. Locke, sit the fuck down.”
Andrew shakes his head and snorts. He likes Randall—the two of them have partied together in the past, though, as Randall puts it, “we’re nowhere near friends”—and so he doesn’t try and get past him. Instead, he just points at me and says, “You better keep that dog on a leash, Randall, or else I’m gonna have to put it to sleep.”
“Whatever, Andrew. Walk away.”
You’re lucky, Tomas. You owe Randall your nose. Let’s do this again sometime, huh?
He backs off slowly, grumbling under his breath. I do the same, sitting back down and letting my aching fists turn back into hands. Sweat begins swelling on my brow as the blood begins its routine of rushing into and draining out of my face. Rage roars through my ears to the point where the classroom is seemingly nonexistent.
“Well, I guess you were right,” says Randall, taking his seat. “Who knew Andrew would react like that?”
“I did,” I say a little too quickly.
Randall eyes me. “You okay? Bad moment?”
Talking feels clumsy. “I almost…your timing was good. Something was about to happen. Venom was getting…difficult. Fuck, Randall, fuck.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Glad I got here in time, then,” he says. “It’ll be okay. I mean, come on, if you start dating his sister, he can’t keep threatening to beat your ass, can he?”
I hope not. I need to get a carton of chocolate milk and calm down.
The rest of the day is problematic. The venom isn’t happy. Which raises questions.
Forget the drama-queen-fictional-reality bullshit. I don’t believe that the venom has opinions of its own or that it’s some sort of alien entity, using me as a host or some such nonsense. That’s an attractive thought, sure, but it’s the stuff of comic books, and reality’s my place of residence. The venom is part of me; it was born out of my own twisted, ridiculous mind, and as such, all of its preferences and thoughts come from my own. If I like something, the venom is quicker to like it, and vice versa. Thank God for that—it’s the only thing keeping my family and friends safe. I have never had a serious attack of the venom aimed toward my mom or my brother. Maybe in front of them, but never at them. Randall’s come into contact with it, but he has a good sense of when to cut shit out. Randall’s fatal flaw is that, because he’s so well-liked, he’s prone to cockiness. Every so often, I become the weird kid in the black coat who tags along with him, and the venom responds accordingly. Overall, though, it acts more like a barometer for Randall: When I begin to get abrasive, he takes it as a sign that he’s gone a little too far, and tones himself down his self-righteousness. Point is, I’ve never taken a swing at him or anything.
But things are changing. The venom has its own voice, its own plan. There’s more to it than a break in the dam or a short fuse on a big bomb. The venom’s taking sides and making sure I know what they are. I feel less in control of it than ever before, because it’s
not one poisoned personality. It’s two minds about everything, two competing viewpoints—or at least, one vying for access to the other.
The venom is not a fan of the Andrew Tomas situation. In fact, it’s so displeased by it that it’s decided to make this issue the be-all and end-all of its wretched little existence. Maybe if Andrew were just a tiny bit less of a stereotypical asshole, or maybe if I wasn’t so utterly enamored of this odd girl who wears too much makeup and plays board games with her cat, or maybe if she and Randall had warned me what I was getting into before I started falling for her, or maybe if she wasn’t so incredible and he wasn’t so fucking big—maybe then the venom could sit back and let me take care of this one. That is not the case. Renée’s face passes through my mind and I get goose bumps, but then it’s replaced by those squinted eyes and that asshole sneer. The smell of her skin crosses my nostrils, and for a moment I’m lost in romantic bliss, until the rank smell of his blunts-and-forties breath pops right into my brain. The idea of dating her is permanently linked to the idea of getting the shit kicked out of me by the school bully, all thanks to the venom. It won’t let me think about the one without reminding me of the other, just to make sure I understand its feelings.
Meanwhile, the dead parents are making the venom anxious. The venom is almost intimidated by the dead parents, which is an understandable reaction—I can’t begin to fathom something that horrible happening to me. Having my father leave was bad, but the idea of being truly left alone is a concept beyond anything I can grasp. And for a living, thinking entity based solely on sorrow and rage to be confronted with an idea so bad that it can’t truly process it, that’s humbling. “Humble” doesn’t exist in the venom’s dictionary. It’s used to holding dominion over all things miserable in my mind, but suddenly it’s looking at a trauma so horrid that it has no idea how to confront it.
So, between fighting for its place in the sun and feeling obsolete, the venom broods and stews in my head, fueled by nagging worry and depression. Every minute walking around school, I feel it work its way deeper into my mind, finding any way to make me unhappy. It’s taking this to the max. Being all it can be.
You can see where this is going.
I get home from school and Lon’s sitting on the couch, reading about sea turtles. He has two piles on the coffee table in front of him, and I’m assuming that one pile is what he’s already read and the other one is stuff that he has yet to read. They’re huge, the kind of books with little text but lots of glossy pictures with informational captions next to them. The kid never ceases to amaze me. There’s nothing more charming than coming home to find a small person who is earnestly eager to spend four hours scribbling notes about sea turtles. When I see Lon, I temporarily feel okay for the future of our species. He represents the people we all hope to one day know and elect into office. He looks up at me and gives me a know-it-all smile that suggests an impending trivia question.
“Hey, Locke, how long d’you think a sea turtle can live?”
I bite. “No idea. How long?”
“Over two hundred years.”
“Two hundred years? Damn, that’s one wrinkly old sea turtle,” I scoff, playing amazed. Lon’s ten, so he gets weird taboo pleasure out of hearing the word “damn” said freely in the house (if it’s an extra-rowdy day, I throw a “shit” or two in there, maybe a “bitch”; nothing makes a ten year old feel special like the casual use of swear words). “Do they get put in sea-turtle nursing homes? Do their shells begin to smell like old people?”
Lon starts laughing, and for the next ten minutes I pretend to be a sea turtle with a walker, complaining about shell pain and claiming that the hermit crabs rob from my room while I’m asleep. Soon we’re both a giggling mess, with me trying to get out final zingers between gasps and Lon spinning on the floor like he’s on fire and loves it. I can never do this for anyone else. Randall gets it sometimes, but then my sense of humor is more quiet and dry. With Lon, I can go all out and act like a total idiot. Whatever it takes to hear him laugh. I think I might have to admit to myself that I’m physically addicted to that kid’s laugh.
Once I’m in my room, I exhale and allow myself the rare gift of an unhindered grin. Goddamn, Lon. You’ve made my day. My life, even. You’re the reason, plain and simple.
I walk into my room and hear: Cute kid.
Whoa. Okay. I stop, feeling cold all of a sudden. My room is silent. The hum of the city outside is all I can hear.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and consciously think, each word booming through my mind.
You, I think, you stay the FUCK away from him. You stay away now, and you stay away in the future. You never, EVER, come near my brother, because I guarantee that if you approach him—and I’m not saying you will, I’m just saying that IF YOU DO ever come near him—I will do whatever it takes to keep you from ever raising your ugly head again. Let’s keep in mind here that, as much as it pains me to say it, I am afraid of you. And when the person you live in is AFRAID OF YOU and is giving you an ORDER, you will fear it. I will destroy you. Any. Way. I. Can. And if you try to come anywhere near him, I will set you on fire and shoot you in the fucking ankle, so I can watch you hop around and bleed to death while screaming in pain. I will cut your screaming black head off and send my foot right through the back of your repulsive, rotting skull. You will be NOTHING. And once you don’t exist, he will be safe, and I will have won. Do I make myself CLEAR?
I wait for a response, a laugh or some kind of cruel little quip, and hear nothing. Behind my door there’s the flipping of pages in Lon’s book, and out of my window there’s the sound of tires and sirens, but here it’s quiet.
Did it actually speak in the first place? Was there really any reason to go on that mental rant? An idea strikes me, sending ice through my veins: Did I say that out loud? Was I mentally responding to words that came out of my mouth? Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, no.
Chocolate milk is of the utmost necessity right now.
My mom finds me in the bathroom with a determined look on my face, downing gulp after gulp of rich, brown emotional anesthesia straight from the carton.
“Good day?”
I take the time to belch before I answer. “It was okay. Got in an argument with Andrew Tomas.”
She shakes her head and clucks, “That boy needs to be locked up somewhere, I swear. He’s the kind of guy who gets cheerleaders pregnant. What was the argument about?”
“A girl,” I say casually, hoping my mom reacts the way I want her to so she can finally assign me the title of Normal Kid.
Her face explodes in joy. “A girl? Have you been seeing someone lately? Oh, wow, is it someone he’s interested in too?”
“Yes, a girl; yes, I’ve been seeing someone; and no, she’s his sister.”
My mom doesn’t say a word, just stands up, snatches the carton from me, and walks into the kitchen. She returns with the chocolate milk in a glass and a single black-and-white cookie, and then drags me by my hand into the living room and onto the couch. I begin to sip, and we talk. Our conversation takes the serious-talk-of-the-day form: She asks, I answer, and vice versa.
“When’d you meet her?”
“Saturday night, while I was out with Randall. She was with us.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s a Goth. But she’s really sweet.”
“What’s a Goth?”
“It means you dress like Alice Cooper or the people in the Cure. Do you know who the Cure are?”
“Yes, I know who the Cure are, thank you very much. Does she wear all that horrible schmutz on her face?”
“Yeah. She looks good in it.”
“Pff, sure she does. Where does she live?”
“On Fifty-third Street in a nice little apartment.”
“What do her parents do?”
“Lie in the ground.” It sends an electric current through my heart and down my backbone. That’s not how I meant it to sound. It’s not funny, and it’s not cool. It’s th
e most desolate, hopeless thing that can happen to someone, and that someone is mine. I can’t control the venom enough for even a little tact.
Mom frowns. “That’s terrible. Don’t say things like that.”
I bow my head a little. “Yeah, sorry. Tough situation to deal with, though, y’know?”
She nods, still put off by my bluntness. “Did she bring it up herself?”
“No, not yet, anyway. Randall told me, and I just don’t know what to say to her.”
“Then don’t. It’s not the kind of thing that you ask someone to tell you about. She’ll tell you when it’s time. Besides, you’ve only known her a few days.”
“She’s nice. I think I might date her.”
My mother goes back to planning her grandkids. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You going to ask her about it first? That’d be a good start.”
“Am I—Yes, I’m going to ask her about it! Mom!”
“Honey, some guys don’t realize that you have to ask before you can move in.”
“Was Dad like that?”
She doesn’t even flinch, and I love it. “God, no. Your father worked every angle until I couldn’t take it anymore and finally degraded myself by accepting his invitation to dinner and a movie.”
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