My Best Friend's Exorcism

by Grady Hendrix

  Christian squeezed the fruits to dripping pulp with his bare hands. The show was moving into a final frenzy.

  “These are the demons that haunt this world, destroyed through the faith and power that sustain me!”

  “Wow,” Dereck White muttered, sitting behind Abby. “If any rogue citrus attacks, he’s got it covered.”

  The kids in the Environmental Awareness Club sitting on either side of him giggled. Onstage, Jonah picked up a stack of CDs.

  “What do you think we’re going to do with these?” he called, striding to the lip of the stage. “You want us to throw them out to you guys? We’ve got some Slayer, some Megadeth, some Anthrax. Does anyone want some Anthrax?”

  Ironic cheering rose up around the auditorium, and Jonah stacked the CDs and squeezed them like an accordion. His massive chest muscles bounced as the stack exploded into shards of plastic.

  “That’s what we think of explicit lyrics!” he shouted. “That’s what we think of backward masking!”

  Behind him, Micah was bringing out a cinderblock and placing it in front of Christian.

  “See what the Lord has given me!” Christian cried, shredding his mesh tank top and exposing his gleaming muscles.

  “Take it off!” someone shouted.

  “I do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” Christian said.

  His four brothers bowed their heads around the stage and began to pray, hands clasped and pressed to their foreheads, lips moving.

  “I see this demon-haunted world,” Christian said, flexing his enormous muscles behind the cinderblock. “I see shapes and shadows moving through it. The demon of anger, the demon of sloth, the demon of not respecting your parents, the demon of heavy-

  metal music, the demon of not keeping your promises.”

  He scanned the rows dramatically as if he were seeing the demons out there right now, shading his eyes, playing to the crowd.

  “I challenge anyone who is in league with Satan,” Christian called. “Any of his representatives, any of his emissaries here on earth, any of them, to get up on this stage right now and you pray to your God and I’ll pray to mine and we’ll see who’s more powerful.”

  More ironic cheering, and then Christian stopped. He kept staring into the audience, and Abby realized he was looking right at Gretchen. He stared for a long minute, and everyone started to get uncomfortable. The happy buzz in the auditorium quieted. When he finally spoke again, the room was silent.

  “I see your demon, young lady,” he said, taking the microphone from his brother. “I see the demon holding you down. I see it making you hurt the ones you love. I challenge it. You think you’re strong, Demon? You think you’re strong? Say it with me. You think you’re strong, but my God is stronger. Demon, begone! You think you’re tough, well my God is tougher! Demon, begone!”

  With that, he drew back a fist and drove it into the cinderblock. It didn’t crack—it exploded. A shower of gray sand bloomed and Christian shoved his arms into the air in a V for victory, his right hand bright red.

  Everyone erupted into frenzied applause and ecstatic mayhem.

  It was the craziest, weirdest, lamest, funniest assembly ever. As students gossiped on the way out about whether the Lemon Brothers had part-time jobs as Chippendale strippers, Abby made her way around the auditorium to the back, where the Lemon Brothers’ van was parked in the dirt patch next to the side door.

  The van’s rear doors were open, and Christian was sitting on the bumper while Jonah rubbed Icy Hot on his red forearms and swollen hand. The other three brothers were packing their props into the van, carrying milk crates out of the auditorium, hauling out trash bags stuffed with the plastic dropcloth wrapped around the cinderblock fragments and watermelon pulp.

  “Excuse me?” Abby said.

  Jonah and Christian looked up. Jonah smiled big beneath his blond mustache.

  “Are you here to dedicate your life to Christ?” he asked. “Or do you want an autograph? We’ve got a mailing list.”

  “Um,” Abby said. “I wanted to talk to him?”

  She pointed at Christian.

  “I don’t think I can sign anything,” Christian apologized, holding out his right hand. His fist looked raw. “That last cinderblock did a number on me.”

  “No, I wanted to ask about what you said. About the girl with the demon? She’s my best friend. I wanted to know what you saw.”

  “He didn’t see anything,” Elijah said, passing in front of her with two sledgehammers, one in each hand.

  “I have the gift of discernment,” Christian huffed.

  “You couldn’t discern your hand in front of your face,” Elijah said, throwing the sledgehammers into the back of the van with loud bangs.

  “He’s just jealous,” Christian said, turning back to Abby. “I saw a demon haunting your friend. A demon in the shape of a great owl, with his dark shadow obscuring her face.”

  “Show’s over,” Jonah said, stepping in front of Christian. “We’ve got to get out of here. They’re not paying us to pack up. Here, have one of our pamphlets, and tell all your friends about the Lemon Brothers Faith and Fitness Show.”

  Abby took the Xeroxed flier and backed away, keeping her eyes on Christian for as long as possible.

  I see the demon holding you down. I see it making you hurt the ones you love.

  She wasn’t alone anymore.

  Dancing in the Dark

  “Fifteen celery sticks,” Margaret said, writing 15 Ce in her spiral notebook. “Twelve carrot sticks,” 12 Ca. “Eight slices of apple,” 8 A Sl. “Twenty-five grapes,” 25 Gr. “Two milkshakes,” 2 MS.

  Gretchen’s German milkshakes had melted Margaret to a molten core of hotness. A knife had wicked away her soft curves and now she had dramatic cheekbones. Her hair was thicker, her eyes brighter.

  “Wallace can’t keep his hands off of me,” she bragged, sitting Indian-style in the October sunshine on the Lawn.

  Winter was late, and the grass was packed. Circles of girls ate their yogurts and the boys in Juggling Club flashed pins over their heads, making them squeal. Hacky sacks bounced between boys. Bocce players stood with their hands in their pockets, watching one another’s bowls. Some seniors were down at the far end playing touch football in their T-shirts.

  Sunglasses were on, sweaters were off, shirts were unbuttoned. Everyone was basking in the sun, growing tan and juicy. Humors were good, tolerance was high, laughter was easy, and Margaret was beautiful. Now she could pull off a black dress at winter semiformal, something only a few of the skinniest senior girls would ever dare. In Charleston, you wore solid colors or prints; black was considered too urban. If you were going to wear black, you really had to own it. Margaret could, and she owed it all to Gretchen.

  “Seriously,” Margaret said, closing her food notebook and stretching her legs in front of her, sunglasses aimed at the sky. “If he keeps dogging me, I’m going to be preggo by January.”

  “We’ll all be so proud,” Glee said.

  “One day you’ll grow up, too,” Margaret said. “And then you’ll experience the mature pleasures of boning.”

  “That reminds me,” Gretchen said, sitting up.

  She’d been lying on her back, Wordly Wise held in the air as she raced through the lessons. Their English class was on Chapter Four. Gretchen was doing the crossword puzzle at the end of Chapter Twenty-One. Her bookbag was shoved under her head as a pillow, the end unzipped, and when she raised herself on her elbows her books spilled out, the paisley daybook sliding to the edge of the jumble. Abby couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  “Here,” Gretchen said, and she handed a folded piece of paper to Glee. “It’s from Father Morgan. About vestry.”

  “Oo,” Margaret said. “Bone note.”

  Glee ignored her and slipped it into her books.

  “Do you have any mo
re of that milkshake I could try?” Glee asked Gretchen.

  Gretchen wrinkled her nose underneath her sunglasses.

  “My dad got ticked my mom wasn’t drinking them,” she said. “He threw out the box.”

  “Is there—” Glee started.

  “Mine,” Margaret said. “Whatever’s left is mine.”

  In Biology class, Abby raised her hand and asked to use the bathroom. She didn’t have to go; she just needed to smell fresh air for a minute. They were dissecting fetal pigs, and the vinegar fumes made her queasy.

  Voices droned behind each closed door as she passed them in the dim hall. The door to Madame Millicent’s French classroom was open and she could hear chalk tapping the board as Madame explained something to students who didn’t care. Abby didn’t know where she was going until she stopped at Gretchen’s locker.

  Out of curiosity, she tried the combination. It had always been Abby’s birthday, the same way Abby’s locker combination had always been Gretchen’s birthday. She spun the combination to 12-01-72 and lifted the latch. It didn’t budge. Hurt, Abby decided she was

  going to make this work. Gretchen couldn’t keep secrets from her.

  She thought for a second, then spun the combination to 05-12-73, Gretchen’s birthday. The latch lifted with a clack, the door swung open, and the first thing she saw was Gretchen’s daybook sitting on top of her textbooks. Before she could reconsider, Abby grabbed it and ran for the parking lot.

  Gretchen would guess her combination in a flash, so Abby’s only hope was the Dust Bunny. She avoided classroom windows, reached her car in two minutes flat, and hid the book under the driver’s seat. Then she raced back to class, caught her breath outside the door, and went back inside. Teachers never commented on how long girls stayed in the bathroom, especially when they took their purses.

  “It’s like the Beverly Hills Diet,” Gretchen said to Margaret. “Only all fruits and veggies. Combined with the milkshakes, you’re going to lose ten pounds before the semiformal. Easy.”

  Gretchen and Margaret sat next to each other at the picnic table on the Lawn, elbows propped on the silver sun-warmed wood, going over Margaret’s food diary. Gretchen’s German textbook lay forgotten in front of her. Abby noticed that Gretchen was already on the second-to-last chapter.

  Glee sat across from them, facing the auditorium, looking for something. Abby was perched at the far end of the table, trying to stay on top of her biology homework, listening to the conversation, wondering why Gretchen was so concerned with Margaret’s diet.

  Margaret looked like those skinny, pale girls in the Robert Palmer videos—complete with high forehead, sharp jawline, and dramatic cheekbones. She was buying new clothes every week as her old outfits got baggy and loose. Her mom was prouder of Margaret for losing weight than she’d ever been about anything in her daughter’s life. She bragged that Margaret was finally having a second growth spurt and “filling out.” Her friends agreed. Margaret was turning into a real beauty, they said. Mr. Middleton didn’t notice because he hadn’t gotten his credit card bills yet.

  “I’m barely even hungry anymore,” Margaret said.

  “You don’t have a butt anymore,” Glee said.

  “I’ll borrow some of yours,” Margaret said.

  Frisbees and seagulls floated through the air. Teachers were holding grass class out on the Lawn, and all the classroom windows were open.

  “Oh, by the way,” Gretchen said, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a sealed envelope. “Father Morgan is using me as his delivery service again. I’m going to start charging.”

  Glee hesitated then took the envelope, stacked her books, and marched off in the direction of the auditorium, taking the turn around the bell tower that led to chapel. Abby was surprised that Margaret wasn’t saying anything. What kind of note was a teacher sending a student that had to be sealed in an envelope?

  “You know she’s doing vestry all the time,” Gretchen said, watching Glee go. “I feel bad for getting her involved. I think she’s spreading herself too thin.”

  “You can never be too thin,” Margaret said, then pointed to something in her food diary. “Look, see last Monday? 20 Ce. I’m already cutting it in half. I hate all this water weight.”

  Abby sat on her bed and opened Gretchen’s daybook. The first page was devoted to Andy’s phone number, written in bubbly blue digits, each letter in his name outlined in yellow highlighter: Andy Solomon. Abby turned the page. For a few pages it was Gretchen’s homework assignments written in different colored pens, back when they’d still had some of the same classes:

  Intro to Program – basic shapes

  English – poss. test

  US History – think of topic for research paper

  Ethics – do questions for Thurs news articles

  German – read vocab

  Biology – graph for friday

  Geometry – pg 28, 32 #1–8 (I understand it!! Sort of?)

  Bright splashes of color marked birthdays, school letting out early, volleyball games. Then the schedule stopped, the colors disappeared, and the next page was packed with cramped handwriting from top to bottom, curling back up the side, a tiny crazy monologue. The same with the next page, and the next. Abby tried to read it, but it was either nonsense about angels and demons or chains of random words.

  Then the drawings began. At first they were between the words, but then they grew until they pushed the words off the page, were written on top of them, red scrawls of marker forming spirals and bars, pictures of crying sad faces, flowers dripping tears, funnels inside mouths, crude insects, bugs, worms, cockroaches, spiders.

  Near the back, Abby found the pages that would get Gretchen a one-way ticket to Southern Pines if anyone ever saw them. The pages that read: Kill them all. I want to die. Kill me. Make it stop make it stop make it stop. Reading them made Abby’s breath come fast and shallow and high in her chest. It made her feel lightheaded. White scratches dotted her vision.

  The next morning, she woke up to find her forehead almost solid with scabs, and the zits around her nose had filled with yellow pus. Abby used two Q-tips to squeeze them dry before she pancaked and powdered her face into uneven, lumpy order and went to school. The first thing she did when she got there was find Gretchen. It was time they had a talk.

  Gretchen’s hand raced down the pages of her spiral notebook, answering the end-of-chapter German questions.

  “I can help you,” Abby said, planting herself directly in front of Gretchen’s desk.

  They were in Mrs. Erskine’s English room before the first bell. People were slowly drifting in, finding desks or frantically finishing the previous night’s homework, racing through the assigned reading.

  Gretchen looked up, blinking. She glanced around to see who else was in the room.

  “You’re not in this class,” she said. “Did you transfer?”

  “No,” Abby said, relieved that Gretchen was at least talking to her. “I can help you with whatever is going on.”

  Abby had been stressing all night over how to say this, but now it was going better than she thought.

  Gretchen gave her a vague smile.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, bemused and confused.

  “I know you’re not happy,” Abby said, sitting down backward at the desk in front of Gretchen, arms on the back, being earnest. “Just talk to me. Tell me what happened. We’re still friends.”

  Gretchen bent back over her German book.

  “Of course we’re still friends,” she said. “Why else do you think I let you sit with us at lunch? I know Margaret’s being a giant pill, but that’s Margaret. Maybe when she loses some weight, she’ll be happier.”

  Abby put a hand flat on Gretchen’s notebook, blocking her pen.

  “Why are you doing that with Margaret?” she asked.

  This time, Gretche
n looked at her seriously.

  “The same reason I got Glee into vestry,” she said. “Because it makes her happy. You’re so negative lately. I don’t know what happened between y’all, and I know it’s stressful, but it’ll work out, Abby. Actually, the person I worry about most is you. I want all my friends to be happy, and something’s definitely wrong with you. I didn’t want to say anything, but your skin is acting up again.”

  Something nudged the side of Abby’s hand and she looked down to see that Gretchen’s right hand was still moving on the page, frantically scrawling jagged print across her notebook.

  Abby looked up quickly.

  Gretchen was still staring at her, totally unaware of what her right hand was doing, a sweet expression of concern on her face.

  “What’s bothering you, Abby?” she asked. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Gretchen’s hand stopped moving, and Abby couldn’t help herself: she looked down. Rushed letters were written upside down so that the words faced her.

  not me not me help me not me

  Abby looked away, but not fast enough. Suddenly Gretchen tore the page from the notebook, her face filled with fury. She crumpled it up and was about to say something when Wallace Stoney appeared beside them.

  “How’s it hanging, G-meister?” he asked.

  She beamed up at him.

  “Hey, Wallace,” she said. “Is everyone still going to Med Deli after?”

  “Only if you figure out my Deutsch,” he said. “I should never have signed up for Nazi.”

  “It’s easy,” Gretchen said. “Give it here.”

  He started to sit in Abby’s chair, as if she were invisible. Abby flinched and got up, careful not to touch him.

  “See you later, Abby,” Gretchen said. “Think about what I said.”

  Then she and Wallace bent their heads over his German book. As Abby left, she could hear Gretchen explaining to Wallace Stoney just how easy everything was.