“See,” I announce triumphantly, in between all the agony, “that’s how it’s done.”
“Enlightening,” Arthur remarks, laughing.
We sink into a nice silence for a few seconds, but that just gives way to instrumental Time Warps and some nearby person howling out “Holy shit!” after getting space-juiced. Instinctively, I find myself looking over to the far corner of the room, where Amber and I used to sit pretty much daily. “Does it seem, like, really weird to you that they’re serving alcohol in the high school cafeteria?”
“Tremendously.”
We sit down. Kristy and Cliff are caught up in conversation. It doesn’t sound like profound stuff; in fact, from what I can tell, he’s describing the sandwich he had for lunch. But they seem happy, and I feel like Artie and I don’t exactly have the right to pop their happy bubble.
“I feel like I should still be in here,” I say after a little while. “Like, sometimes I still feel like graduation never really happened. Like it was a mistake or a joke or something. And I should still just be … here. I don’t feel any older or whatever.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Yeah?” I kinda like the idea. He’s all grown up and together, but he’s still stuck here with me. We’re just a couple of mediocre tragedies, like, why choose life in the world when you can be stuck in the sorry-ass town you grew up in until the end of your days, right? A friggin’ match made in heaven if there ever was one. No wonder we’ve been driven to making out in the supply closet.
Not that I’m gonna hate on making out in the supply closet.
That just seems whiny.
“Yeah,” he agrees with a sigh. After a couple of seconds pass, he amends, “Well, the spirit of it, anyway. I usually had lunch in the music room.”
“Of course you did.” I wait a couple of seconds, then cough a “nerd!” into my fist.
“Charming.”
“I am,” I agree, cracking a grin. “I am one charming son of a bitch.”
“Oh,” he says, “utterly.”
His hand finds mine under the table, and I let him wrap my fingers up in his, I’m happy to do it. I’m still not quite used to it, having someone touch you because they want to touch you.
I am all for supporting Cora and everything, but all of a sudden, man, do I want to be somewhere that’s else. Somewhere where there’s him, and there’s me, and that’s it.
I drag my thumb slowly over the back of his palm, just liking the feel of my skin against his. He’s looking at me in a way that maybe wouldn’t pass for professional coworkerly admiration, but it’s dark in here and now Kristy’s telling Cliff about some really groundbreaking article she read in Teen Magazine and, wonder of mightiest wonders, he’s actually managing to look interested, so I figure it’s okay. Arthur can keep on looking. It’s a lot of things, the look: calm and relaxed and glad, with a hearty dash of ‘If we were anywhere else I’d be much less all the way over here.’ Which, word.
It’s a good moment.
And then I hear it: a voice, a girl’s voice. One that’s familiar, but distantly so. One that really fucking clinches the sense that I’ve never left this place, that I’m still seventeen, that for all eternity I will be that exact person, shitty skin and shitty flirting skills and shit, shit, shit, why.
I stop feeling Arthur’s fingers or liking his eyes on me, because everything that’s not her plummets into absolute insignificance. Goodbye surrounding chatter, goodbye Time Warp. It’s been real, it’s been swell, but now there’s nothing except the remembered scent of tequila-tinged vomit and perfume and a feeling that’s a whole lot like dying spreading from the middle of me to the rest of my body because she’s here, it’s her. It’s Heather Grimsby.
I mean, okay, it’s not like this is the first time our paths have crossed since that fateful prom night. In this town? Not gonna happen. I’ve even seen her a few times since I started working at Artie Kraft’s – being next-door business neighbors and all – but that was different. That was, like, pretending not to see each other as we were both walking to our cars. That’s not being trapped for hours on end in the same smoky, cramped cesspool, surrounded by booze and sex – which, frankly, are two things I never want to have to associate with Heather fucking Grimsby ever a-fucking-gain.
I watch her and feel sick, just sick. Even in the dark, her straight brown hair is shiny – this profound, supernatural kind of shiny. It swishes back and forth with her every movement, like she’s trained it to do that, like she knows it has weird, enthralling powers, and each strand is this tiny serpent that exists to beckon helpless unwitting men forward, drawing them into doom. She’s Medusa. The back of her head is just about the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
“Howie?” asks Arthur, who I only kind of remember at the moment. “Are you all right?”
“Huh?”
“You seem distracted.”
“No.” Damn it, I can’t look away from her hair. She’s sitting at the table right in front of ours with a couple of other girls from her high school posse. She’s there. She’s all chill. She’s the lady devil.
And then that head – that dreaded, shiny-haired head – turns.
And she’s looking at me.
I yank my hand out of Arthur’s so fast I think I scratch him. He twitches, startled, but that can’t exactly be my priority right now. My eyes are locked on the destroyer of my teenage life. Even Artie’s gotta take a back seat to that one.
She gives me that look, the look that hasn’t changed a single bit even though it’s not like she can still boast being the student council vice-president and the hottest cheerleader. (Not super-impressive; our cheerleaders weren’t all that hot, on the whole.) She does hair, for Christ’s sake. Who the hell’s that going to impress?
Heather Grimsby looks at me like someone appointed her queen of the world and we all just missed the memo. Like of course you’re not on the same level as her, but you might do something to amuse her with your hilarious uncoolness, so she’ll keep paying attention to you. For now.
There was a two-week period in my frenzied youth where I really dug that look – it felt like a challenge. Every time I could get her to laugh, or I stuck my tongue in her mouth successfully, it was a momentous victory. The look was momentarily vanquished. She might be all queenly, but guess who was king? Yeah, that’s right.
I dunno. I guess I did sort of like her for awhile (a girlfriend at last!), but I never even remember that part. I’m too busy being eaten up with horrible stomach-twisting soul-eating dread.
“Hey, Howie,” she says. She’s got this low, rolling voice, where all of her words are a little too slow. Like she doesn’t quite care enough to pay attention to what she’s saying.
My heart starts punching itself in its little heart face.
“Heather,” I answer. “’Sup.”
She does this not-quite-laugh thing, then turns back around. Swish swish swish goes the hair.
Heather. ‘Sup. Heather. ‘Sup.
I can feel myself deteriorating into self-loathing – and not your normal, run-of-the-mill self-loathing, either. Oh, hell no. This is acute, all-consuming self-loathing. I’d forgotten I could loathe myself to this degree, and she’s still just sitting there, all there and sitting, shouldn’t she get struck by a lightning bolt in some form of divine justice right now? I’m just saying, it’d be nice if you’d get on that, God—
“Howie, are you okay?” Now I’ve got Kristy’s attention.
“I’m great,” I say. “So very great.”
She doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to believe my madly obvious lie. I struggle to remember why I find her so nice. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
“That would be the space juice, little lady,” I say, the perfect excuse dawning on me. Bless you, sketchy against-the-rules alcohol-serving operation. “You didn’t taste it. You can’t even imagine. I think there might have been nail polish remover in there. Maybe some gasoline.”
&nb
sp; Kristy starts to look horrified, and Arthur hastens to assure her, “I don’t think there was gasoline.”
Me, I’m still stuck on the space juice. The space juice suddenly seems like juuuust what I need.
And then, like a here-ya-go-man from God, Mr. Space Juice walks right past our table. I would have preferred a lightning bolt striking Heather Grimsby down, down, down, but this’ll work too. At this moment in time, I ain’t picky.
As Mr. Space Juice comes to a stop near us with a creepyish eyebrow raise and a “More?”, Arthur waves a hand and starts, “No thank you—”
Not so fast, buddy.
“Absolutely,” I cut in. Arthur gives me a look that is decidedly wtf-esque in nature. I reach forward and snatch three shots off the tray. Three seems good. To start.
“Ooh,” the server says, his creepy eyebrows creepstering it up all over the place. “Go all crazy, why don’t you?”
Don’t mind if I do, Tights McGee. Don’t mind if I motherfuckin’ do.
Chapter Thirteen
You know what’s, like, really freakin’ wild when you’ve had many a shot of Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s space juice? The Rocky Horror motherfuckin’ Show, man. I can’t decide if it’s scary or awesome. Then, right around the time that Frankie reveals his hot hunky sex slave creation, who’s only wearing like this gold speedo, what, I realize – hey, hey, maybe scary and awesome are the same thing. You know what else is scary and awesome? Being like, ‘Hey, I think I might have a crush on a guy.’ Or, like, rollercoasters. Rollercoasters!! And, hey, that movie Labyrinth! Bowie – David fucking Bowie, there is one scary awesome motherfucker! Fuck, man, scary and awesome, they are the same thing, time and time again!
There should be a word. A whole new word for this.
“Aaaaeeeerrrrryyyy,” I attempt, but no, that ain’t gonna fly, no way, no how. Try it again. Try it again. “Scawesome.”
Scawesome.
Scawesome is scawesome.
“What?” Arthur whispers. I turn around to see him looking at me, his forehead crinkled. He’s been crinkling his forehead at me for like the past … I dunno, lots of minutes. I think I could watch him crinkle his forehead all day. He just has like the best fuckin’ face.
“Oh, nothin’,” I whisper back, leaning in so he can really hear me. My lips brush his ear a little bit. “Inventing some words. The Willster wasn’t the only one who could do it, you know. I mean, stop and think about it. We all can.”
“The Willster,” Arthur repeats, like he doesn’t get it. I love when he doesn’t get stuff. It’s so, like, watch and learn.
“El Shakespeare, young grasshopper,” I enlighten him. “Him and me, we’re tight. English major thing. It’s a priblidge.”
“Privilege,” Arthur tells me, like a bro who’s used to knowin’ it all. Can’t be right all the time, Krafty Kraft.
“Are you sure?” I ask gently, humoring the poor bastard. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Watch the play, Howie,” he orders, smiling, and knocks his knee against mine. Knee footsie! Kneezie.
I dunno, man, maybe I’m the next Shakespeare. I could write my own fuckin’ dictionary. Watch your back, Samuel Johnson. Check it, Boswell. Word to your mother.
But it’s not like that’s my main priority right now: my main priority is watching this play, this friggin’ crazy play. It all goes by in a bunch of bright colors and loud songs, and a couple times me and Artie get danced on a little bit because we’re closest to the actors when they groove through the audience. And Cora, she is awesome, man – no, she’s scawesome. Totally and completely scawesome. I wonder what friggin’ Heather Grimsby would think if she knew I was good buddies with the scawesome incestuous alien chick up there – deal with that, Heather fuckin’ Grimsby, I know way cooler chicks than you now! This ain’t high school, babydoll. This is life, and I’m livin’ it. Ohhh, am I livin’ it.
But me, I’m not thinkin’ about Heather Grimsby, and I’m not lookin’ at her shiny head. Me, I’m just havin’ a good time. A good, weird, drifty time, where I feel like my brain might not be in my skull all the way, but that’s cool! In fact, that’s better.
When it’s finally over and they take some bows, we head on up there to give Cora her flowers. Nobody else brought flowers, which seems kind of weird, like, isn’t that play etiquette? Someone throws a rubber chicken at the guy playing Frank N. Furter though, which, I’m sorry, but that’s fucking hilarious.
“Howie,” Kristy giggles, just because I happen to be enjoying myself, thank you very much, “you are so drunk.”
“Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Quincy?” I demand, which just makes her giggle harder. I turn to Arthur. He’ll back me up. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” he interrupts, resting his hand on my back. He looks all amused. “You truly, truly are.”
“Pfft,” I scoff. “You wish.”
“Why would I wish that?” Oh, smirk away, Artie.
“So you could get all up in this,” I reply, waving my hands around a little, doing some fancy pointing at myself. It’s harder than you’d think – and, hey, you know what else is hard? Standing. What is that??
Then I realize that Kristy and Cliff are both looking at us, all ‘Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Jenkins?’, and I realize that, oh, yeah, shit!, they don’t get to know about the me and Arthur thing! The me and Arthur thing, it is on the downlow. It’s dooown. Lowwwwww.
“We’re friends,” I explain. There we go. All covered up.
“I know you are,” Kristy replies super-sweetly. I don’t think she believes me. Whatever. She should believe me! She’s such a crazy chick.
“We’re friends,” I reiterate, a little quieter, to Artie himself.
“Maybe not after this,” he replies, smiling at me. “You’re very embarrassing.”
Whateverrrr.
“Oh my God, you guys are losers, what is this, a middle school choir concert?” Cora exclaims when she finally pays attention to us, but she takes the flowers and smells them and she’s smiling a lot, so I’m pretty sure she’s just bitching in her special Cora way. What she really means is that she loves us. She loves us, and we love her, and is that awesome, or is that awesome? That’s awesome, man! Heather Grimsby can’t ruin a thing like that! Cora looks at me, and I grin at her, because, man, we are just buddies.
“Jenkins,” she says, grinning broadly, “you’re shitfaced.”
“Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Caldwell?”
“Yeah,” Kristy reports. “He had like six of those space shot thingiemajigs. It’s adorable.”
“I’m not adorable,” I protest, making a face at her. “I’m totally cool right now.”
I notice all of a sudden that Heather Grimsby is walking out the door. Just walkin’, walkin’, walkin’ away. Good riddance, Bitchy McBitcherson. Don’t barf on anyone on your way out.
“Bitch got ooowned,” I mutter, sneering at her shiny hair, watching her disappear. Later, hater.
“What?” Cora asks.
“You heard nothing,” I tell her, real serious. It’s serious business. Serious business all over the place.
“Drunk Howie’s kinda sexy,” Cora declares, latching her arm through mine and leaning up against me.
“Hey hey hey.” I try to shake her off. Enough’s enough. “Not again. My ear just healed.”
“Cocktease,” Cora accuses, smirking.
WELL, JEEZ, CORA. Tell the whole flippin’ world, why dontcha?
“Nuh uh,” I force out. “I don’t … do … that.”
She just laughs and kisses me on the cheek and doesn’t say anything else about cocks. God, she’s nice. God, I love Cora.
Kristy and Cliff wind up taking off (Cliff’s cat misses her, or so she says – can cats really miss people? I hope so, man, because that, that’s so beautiful, right??), and that means it’s just me and Artie. You know I’m down with that. I love me some Artie.
The parking lot ain’t so easy to get across, on account of the fact that there’
s ice motherflippin’ everywhere and walking is sort of like woOoOoooOoo. Arthur finally winds up just linking his arm through mine, real tight, and we walk really slow. There are other people around, but I don’t think it really matters. Dudes used to walk around arm in arm all the time. That just meant they were classy. Classy like Lassie. It’s like, we just so happen to be fellows of style and refinement. We are gentlemen.
“We,” I tell Arthur, “are so gentlemanly.”
“Is that right?” he asks, smiling at me.
“Fo’ schizzle, mah nizzle.”
“Spoken like a true gentleman.”
“You know what I like? Top hats.”
“Top hats are nice.” We’re at the car all of a sudden, and Arthur opens the passenger’s seat door for me. “All right, into the car, gentleman friend.”
I let him usher me in, then keep talking while he walks around the car to the other side. Dude, I got things to say.
“Bowler hats,” I declare. “Hats are cool. How come nobody ever wears hats anymore? Except, like, ‘I’m cold’ hats. People used to wear hats because they looked cool. How come nobody ever looks cool anymore? It’s so fucking sad, that’s what it is. How come nobody cares about anything anymore at all, like, at all?”
“I care about things,” Arthur replies.
“Me too!” I notice I’m talking sort of loud, but whatever, man, that’s it, that is it exactly, I love this guy. “See, that’s why we’re good together, man. That’s why we work. I think we work. Do you think we work?”
“I—”
“Hey hey hey hey hey,” I interject, because he’s got the key in the ignition and he’s about to turn it. “Don’t go yet.”
He stops obediently. “Why not?”
“’Cause,” I say, and then I lean over and kiss him. I sort of miss his mouth and wind up on his cheek instead. He starts laughing, and his face rocks a little against mine as he laughs and dude, God, he is just so fuckin’ great.
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