Anita raised a hand listlessly. “Hey, guys. Would you mind giving me a ride?”
Anita
THERE WERE ONLY A FEW restaurants left in the city that were committed to staying open 24-7, no matter what went down in the world outside, and Beth’s Cafe was one of them. The place was so busy that people had to stand between the stools at the counter, the edges of their plates overlapping. And even if the menu looked like some classified document that had been heavily redacted—at least 80 percent of it was x-ed out—there was still enough fuel for the generator to make hot coffee, and toast, and pancakes, and hash browns, and that was enough right there to keep the sleigh bell above the door jingling.
Anita had spent most of the last eight days at Beth’s, drinking unfathomable amounts of coffee, fortifying herself with waffles, and talking with strangers. When she got tired, she’d pad out to her car and pass out in the backseat. Sometimes she thought about going home, where she could trade a bit of groveling for a warm bed and some homemade food. But then she would remember her mother’s face the last time they spoke—you go and damn yourself—and she figured she’d sooner sleep out on the street than go crawling back.
Maybe she would have spent the rest of her short-lived life like that—eating diner food and sleeping in the Escalade (which was just a dead hunk of metal now, as she’d accidentally used up all the gas when she fell asleep once with the engine running)—except that one afternoon she overheard something in the café. A couple, probably in their mid-twenties, were seated across from two huge camping-style backpacks. The waitress asked them where they were coming from.
“Portland,” the guy said.
“What are you doing in Seattle?”
“We’re here for the party,” the woman said. “The one at Boeing Field.”
“That’s a long way to come for a party.”
“I guess. We came with a whole caravan, actually. It’s pretty much the only thing any of our friends have been looking forward to for the past month.”
Anita had more or less forgotten about the Party at the End of the World, figuring it was every bit as dead as all her other dreams. But as she began to chat with other customers at Beth’s, she discovered that a lot of people were still planning to go. In a way, it would happen even if it didn’t happen. They didn’t need Chad to turn it into an “event” or a “community space,” they just needed warm bodies.
Anita knew then that she had to find Andy. Because what would the Party at the End of the World be worth without him there? Sure, she’d been pretty pissed at him that night at the navy base, but trying to stay angry at someone you loved was like trying to keep an ice cube from melting in a cup of hot chocolate: impossible.
Andy would be staying at either his place or the Independent, but while the Greenlake suburbs around his parents’ house were still relatively safe, Seattle’s downtown area had basically become one giant gang fight; Anita wasn’t about to walk there on her own. And so she’d spent the last three days staking out the ma-in-law, waiting for Andy to show up.
The last thing she’d expected was to run into Peter and Eliza. It seemed the karass would not be denied.
The waitress forced her way to them through the crowd. “Hey, Anita. Table for one?”
“Three, actually. I brought friends.”
“We’re pretty packed, but there’s room at Star Wars, if you don’t mind the sound effects.”
“That’ll be fine.”
“Star Wars?” Eliza whispered. “What does that even mean?”
What it meant was that their table was the slanted surface of a pinball machine. Every few seconds, it let out a little series of R2-D2 bleeps or a John Williams fanfare.
“This is where Andy and Bobo are?” Peter asked.
“No,” Anita said.
“Then what are we doing here?”
“Eating,” Eliza said. “I’m starving.”
“The place where Andy and Bobo are isn’t safe at night,” Anita explained.
“Where’s that?”
But Eliza interrupted before Anita could so much as open her mouth. “Don’t say a word. If you tell him, he’ll go, whether it’s safe or not.”
Peter glowered, but also looked a little pleased to be known so well. New love radiated off him and Eliza like quiet music. Anita had spent the last few days (and maybe even the last few weeks) resenting this girl, and now she couldn’t for the life of her remember why. Eliza, scruffy and unwashed, dressed in what were clearly Misery’s clothes, didn’t look like anybody’s archenemy. So when Peter excused himself to use the bathroom, Anita seized the moment. She hadn’t had any girl talk in forever.
“Eliza, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It’s kinda personal. Like, weirdly personal.”
“Go ahead.”
“How many people have you slept with?”
Eliza laughed. “I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”
“Really?”
“No! Who do you think I am?” She laughed even harder. “Twelve. My number’s twelve. Or wait! It’s actually thirteen now. Jeez. Does that seem like a lot?”
“I’m not sure,” Anita said, and she meant it. “I mean, I haven’t found one person I’d want to do it with, so it’s hard to imagine finding thirteen. On the other hand, there are seven billion people in the world. When you think about it that way, you’ve been pretty picky, actually.”
“Well, if it helps, I regret most of them.”
“So why do it?”
“Honestly?” Eliza looked toward the bathroom, to be sure that Peter wouldn’t overhear. “There’s this moment that comes when you’re hooking up with a guy. Maybe you know what I mean. You become his whole world. Or maybe it’s just sex that becomes his whole world, but that’s okay too. I think we have this idea that it’s bad, the way dudes are always thinking about sex. But to me, it’s always seemed really pure. Like a puppy wanting a treat. And it starts to seem like such a little thing to do to make somebody so happy.”
“So it’s charity?”
Eliza grimaced. “It sounds that way, doesn’t it? But don’t get me wrong. It feels good too. Only not that good. Most of the time, anyway. But sometimes, when I think I must be the shittiest person in the world, sex lets me make somebody sublimely happy for a few minutes, and that makes me feel better.”
Anita wondered exactly why she’d been so bitchy and judgmental about Eliza, who was just another girl struggling with the same stuff that every girl had to struggle with. “I realize it’s way too late for this to matter,” she said, “but I have to say it anyway. You are stupid cool. It’s actively annoying how cool you are. You don’t need to sleep with a guy to make him sublimely happy. I mean, you should’ve seen Andy after every time you hung out.”
“Only because he thought something might happen. It was still about sex. You were the one he really liked. The way he talked about your voice, and the stuff you were writing together—that was love. He’s just too much of a boy to notice.”
Anita knew it wasn’t true, but it was nice of Eliza to say it.
Peter came back from the bathroom, and then their food arrived, along with the bill. Then the waitress was rushing them out the door to make room at the pinball table for one more last-minute heart-to-heart.
The next day was Sunday, two days left before the end of the world. After spending the night at Peter’s house, the three of them got up bright and early and headed for the Independent. Though Peter was all about marching in and demanding to see his sister, Anita convinced him that it would be safer all around if they waited for her outside. There was no way Misery would spend one of her last days on Earth in some dark old apartment building.
Around noon, they spotted Bobo and Andy leaving the building, skateboards in hand. They climbed into Andy’s station wagon.
“Why isn
’t Misery with them?” Peter asked.
“Don’t know. She could be inside, or somewhere else.”
“They must be going to get her,” Eliza said. “We should follow them.”
Andy went north on I-5 and got off at the exit for Northgate Mall, gunning it so hard down the long ramp that there was no sign of him by the time Peter got to the bottom himself. He pulled the Jeep into the mall parking lot and they all got out.
It was the prettiest day Seattle had produced in months, totally cloudless, the sun a perfect white circle cut out of the blue. It made for a dramatic juxtaposition with the mall itself: Here was a burned-out McDonald’s, there a blackened shell of a Red Robin, here a trashed Payless ShoeSource that, up close, didn’t actually look all that much worse than a regular Payless ShoeSource. The whole complex had been torched—and recently, too. A charred odor lingered on the air.
“What’s that sound?” Eliza asked.
From somewhere close by came a familiar clatter.
“Skateboards,” Peter said.
In the back parking lot, Andy and Bobo were taking runs at a ramp built out of old phone books and a huge orange construction sign. Andy had just begun his approach when Anita called out, “Don’t choke!” He turned his head at just the wrong moment and went down on his ass halfway up the ramp. Bobo already had his deck in his hands, swinging it back behind his head, ready to decapitate somebody.
“Anita!” Andy scrambled to his feet and ran to her. She’d prepared herself for any amount of awkwardness or anger, but not for a hug that was probably the longest she’d ever received from a boy, one of those hugs that made it clear how much the person hugging you was in need of a hug, or believed you to be in need of a hug. “It’s so fucking good to see you,” he said.
“Yeah.”
A last tight squeeze before he let her go. He turned to Peter next. “Dude, I owe you an apology.”
Peter seemed taken aback. “It’s cool, man.”
“It’s really not. I was super drunk. And . . . there was a lot going on.”
“Yeah, I know.”
They shook hands, and then Eliza rushed forward and took all three of them up in one big hug.
“The karass,” she said. “Together at last.”
“What are you all doing here?” Bobo asked sharply, concluding the reconciliation.
“We followed you,” Peter said. “We’re looking for my sister.”
“Oh yeah?” Bobo dropped his deck, then kicked it back up into his hand. His eyes studied the ground, as if he were looking for something he’d lost down there. “I think she’s out with some friends or something.”
“Which friends?”
“Who knows? I’m not her dad. That’s you, far as I can see. And I don’t like being followed.”
“Too bad.”
Violence still crackled around the edges of their words. Anita tried to defuse the tension. “So why’d you come all the way up to Northgate just to skate?” she asked.
“Because, up here, we can also set shit on fire,” Andy said, grinning. “You wanna try it?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Bobo said. “These are the good guys right here. I’m sure they don’t go in for arson.”
Technically true, but Anita had found Ardor to be a pretty good incitement to uncharacteristic behavior. And honestly, what did it matter if a few more crappy stores burned down? The world hadn’t needed this eyesore of a mall in the first place. “I could be convinced. Assuming you two left anything around here standing.”
“Anita, are you serious?” Peter said.
“Why not?”
Bobo scanned the horizon. “I got a target in mind,” he said, pointing. A Target store, just across the street.
“I always wanted to burn one of those down,” Anita said.
Like just about everything else in this perishable world, the windows of the Target had been shattered weeks ago, and everything of significant value carted away. But they were still able to cobble together a halfway decent lunch of crackers and popcorn and potato chips—all the food that would not only survive the coming apocalypse, but probably still be crispy and delicious when the next phase of evolution emerged from the ooze.
“So how do we do this?” Anita asked.
“Well,” Andy said, “thanks to the fine folks who run this state, Target is now licensed to sell hard liquor. And that shit burns. Of course, people jacked all the stuff on the floor, but Bobo and I found more in the back.”
A set of double doors behind the linens department opened on a labyrinth of ceiling-high shelves stacked with boxes. They dragged a whole case of Goret vodka (priced to move at $3.99 a bottle) back out to the store.
“I’ll pop this cherry,” Bobo said. He pulled out the first bottle and swallowed a mouthful, then began to tear across the linoleum, streaming 120-proof alcohol behind him like a trail of bread crumbs. Anita had never been one for wanton destruction, but damn if that didn’t look like fun. She unscrewed the caps of two bottles, flipped them over, and ran as fast as she could up and down the wide aisles. When they were empty, she chucked them at a display case full of hair dye. An explosion of glass and a tinkling aftermath. She hadn’t realized how much she needed this—a chance to literally burn off all the anger she’d felt when she saw Andy and Eliza together, all the disappointment of getting run out of her own house by her shitty parents, all the frustration of a wasted life. She screamed an incoherent warrior scream and heard it echoed by the others, all across the store. Only Peter chose not to partake, standing stone-faced by the checkout line, waiting for the rest of them to finish.
Within a few minutes, they’d run slippery lines of vodka all across the store. They met up at the registers, where Andy produced a book of matches.
“You wanna do the honors?” he said, offering it to Anita.
“What a gentleman.” She scratched a match hard against the strip. It hissed into life, white to blue to red. In the flame, she could see the store transformed into one enormous conflagration—the toys and the books and the CDs and the towels and the build-it-yourself furniture. It was the fate waiting for all of them, most likely, less than forty-eight hours from now. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And even if this was all just a bunch of junk, Anita couldn’t help but think it probably didn’t want to burn any more than she did. They had so little time left. Did they really want to spend it impersonating Ardor? Was humanity’s only legacy going to be wrack and ruin?
She blew out the match.
Bobo snickered. “I knew it. I knew she’d pussy out.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to enjoy my last few hours on Earth with the death of a Target on my hands.” Anita looked to Andy. “Is that okay?”
He took the book of matches and put it back in his pocket. “Totally.”
They’d gone only a few steps when Anita heard the flick of a lighter behind her. Bobo took a drag from a cigarette, then touched the orange tip to the floor. And there it went—the streaking arrow of destruction. The aisles lit up one by one, like lines of dominoes falling over. “Check that shit!” Bobo said. “That’s like the Fourth of July right there!”
Anita walked out of the store, the heat already palpable on the back of her neck. She didn’t know why she was so angry—it was just a Target, after all—but she couldn’t help it. Why did boys always have to destroy things to feel alive?
“I’m sorry about him,” Andy said, following her out. Peter and Eliza had retreated across the parking lot to lean against a savaged old Hyundai and watch the Target burn.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s really not. That’s not me, Anita. I don’t want you to think that’s me. And that didn’t used to be him either.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m serious. Bobo’s changed. And it’s starting to freak me out.”
“What do you
mean?”
He gestured for her to follow him farther away from the store, so they wouldn’t be overheard. Even then, he whispered. “I think something’s gone seriously wrong with him.”
“You’re saying that like it’s a recent development.”
“This is different. He says that Miz is staying with him at the Independent, but I’m staying there too and I haven’t seen her once. And he hasn’t let me inside his apartment in days. It’s like he’s hiding something.”
“What are you saying? Is Misery back there right now?”
“I’m saying I don’t know where she is.”
Bobo, momentarily framed in flames, emerged from the Target and made straight for the passenger-side door of Andy’s station wagon. “Come on, Mary!” he called out across the parking lot.
“One sec!”
“So what are you going to do?” Anita asked.
“I have to figure out what’s going on. I owe that to Peter.”
Anita smiled. “You did tase him.”
“I know. I can’t believe he hasn’t kicked my ass yet.”
“Me either.”
“Let’s go!” Bobo shouted.
Andy took hold of her hand. “I’m gonna bring Miz home, okay? Just in time for our party.”
“Okay.”
Our party. Anita was so focused on the warm feeling these words gave her that she barely paid attention to Peter and Eliza’s conversation in the car as they drove home.
“I don’t trust him,” Peter said.
“You mean Bobo?” Eliza said. “Who does?”
“We should keep following them.”
“Your sister is a big girl, Peter. She can take care of herself.”
“Maybe.”
Anita reached between the seats and flicked on the radio, but there was nothing but a windswept desert of static now, all the way across the dial. And maybe she should have sensed something brewing in Peter’s stoic stillness, in the resolve of that clenched jaw. But she was halfway to the front door of his house before she realized that he’d never left the car. Then Eliza was running back down the brick path, toward the driveway, screaming bloody murder at the back of the Jeep as it pulled out onto the street and sped off toward downtown.
We All Looked Up Page 25