by Beth Goobie
Of course, there was always that large drool spot hanging around on her pillowcase afterward. Sitting up, Sal flipped her pillow and patted the dry surface. There, there — another crisis averted, and she’d handled it on her own. No one else knew, no one needed to know. Just give her an hour a day alone in her bed, and she could be her own psychiatrist. It was cheap, effective, with a little private drooling on the side. Who could ask for less?
Grabbing the half-eaten bag of Doritos on her dresser, Sal headed for the backyard and stretched out under a poplar. Above her, restless leaves pattered like rain. The tree was deep in the throes of September yellow, and spinning leaves settled with small touches onto her throat, chest and ankles. Sal licked a Dorito, then sucked it to a pasty mess in her mouth. The poplar was giving off a thick scent that came at her in waves, almost as if the tree was breathing, or thinking. Did trees send out scent waves instead of brain waves?
Sal patted the poplar’s trunk. “You’re a genius, tree.”
The backyard, with its solid pine fence, patio swing and endlessly rustling trees, seemed far removed from scrolls, black ribbons, or any of your basic doom scenarios. Sucking on another Dorito, Sal worked it with her tongue until it caved and began to dissolve. Two blank pieces of paper tied with black ribbons — as far as she knew, Shadow Council delivered one scroll and one scroll only, and that scroll had fate spelled out in very clear English. Shadow Council had a reputation of getting straight to the point. She’d never heard of them jerking anyone around like this. No, the source of the blank scrolls had to be someone with a brain of the lowest reptilian order, which eliminated Brydan — and he wasn’t in her English class anyway.
Maybe Shadow Council had started sending out decoy scrolls to keep everyone guessing. The true lottery winner had probably already received the real message, and several others were being strung along for some psycho’s entertainment. Yeah, that made sense. Sal breathed in slowly, following the poplar’s dreamy scent deep into her lungs. There, she had her head on straight again. No more panic grenades or gagging down unsanitary black ribbons. Whatever had possessed her to swallow it anyway? Why hadn’t she shoved the ribbon into her pocket like an average normal sane person instead of being microwaved with fear, her brain dissolving into tiny white-hot waves?
Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. She couldn’t make a habit of losing her mind like that. But more importantly, what was the identity of the idiot who’d tied the ribbon onto that scroll? How long had it been since he’d washed his hands? Her brother never washed his hands. She would never, ever, consider getting into a handshake with him — he was always confusing his orifices. Not a pretty picture.
Chapter Two
“We’ll burn her,” hissed Kimmie Busatto, hunched foward on her knees. “I cut every one of her pictures out of the yearbook. We’re going to pass all her dark and evil molecules symbolically through the flame and watch her go up in smoke.”
“Too bad it’s just symbolic.” Sprawled on the floor, Sal took in the details of her best friend’s darkened bedroom — the closed curtains, the ravaged S.C. yearbook on the bed, the gleaming rectangle of tinfoil spread across the floor with the lit candle at its center. A terse phone call had summoned her partway through washing supper dishes with her mother, and she’d biked the four blocks to the Busatto’s house to find Kimmie kneeling beside her tiny carpet of tinfoil and staring into a candle flame, a pair of scissors in one hand and a pile of jagged-edged clippings at her knee.
“We’re not, uh, going to sic demons on her or anything like that, are we, Kimbo?” Sal asked carefully, studying her friend’s face. Kimmie’s makeup was smudged, her eyes puffy and heavy-lidded. “Summer’s over, what can she do to you now?”
Kimmie’s chubby face contorted. “She’s a vampire queen, she’s constantly sucking blood out of everyone. Maybe she had problems with toilet training when she was a kid. Heck, maybe she’s still having problems with toilets and that’s why she’s so vicious, but she went after me again today. I’m telling you, it’s this or physical violence.” Raising the scissors above the candle flame, she made a few ominous snaps.
“Okay, let’s get this burn on the road.” Dragging herself out of her sprawl, Sal mirrored her friend’s position facing the candle flame. “But we’ve got to make it quick — I have a driving lesson with Dusty at 7:30.”
“Fire’s quick,” Kimmie said grimly. “1,500° Celsius quick.” Pulling a pair of tweezers from her shirt pocket, she clamped the top clipping and held it dramatically over the flame.
“Want to chant something?” Sal asked. “Deep and spectral?”
“Just watch,” Kimmie said. “Enjoy.”
The edge of the clipping blackened and curled, whispering under a hot rush of flame. “Yessss,” Kimmie crooned as she picked up another clipping and extended it toward the candle.
“Too bad it’s too dark to see her face,” Sal mused.
“We know what she looks like,” muttered Kimmie as the second clipping flared. “Everyone knows Linda Paboni’s malicious face. She’s crawled deep into my psyche. I feel like she watches me from the inside out. This is a soul-cleansing ritual for me. My soul feels dark and heavy-laden.”
“Linda Paboni, bitch supreme,” Sal murmured sympathetically. Never having experienced a direct encounter with the vampire queen, she knew her only as one of the elite, popular, senior, S.C. students. Very popular — Linda Paboni had sucked the blood out of so many student clubs and social groups that her face appeared on every other page of last year’s yearbook. The pile of clippings beside Kimmie’s left knee was a sizable, if extremely vulnerable, monument to success.
“Why did I have to work with her this summer?” Kimmie rubbed soot across her face, giving herself a black eye. “Why would Sunshine Happy Day Camp hire someone like her?”
Kimmie had just completed a two-month job working as a counselor at a Saskatoon day camp where Linda Paboni had been the assistant supervisor. This meant Sal had put in the same two months listening to her best friend’s hissed and tearful stories about Linda’s split personality. By now, she had as much invested in a soul-cleansing ritual as Kimmie.
“Remember when Linda made me clean up Frankie Penner’s vomit on the bus,” Kimmie muttered through clenched teeth, “even though I had to clean up Rita Yahyahkeekoot’s vomit the day before?”
“I remember,” Sal said in her best supportive voice.
“Remember when she invited me to that Brad Pitt movie, then sent dweebie Ron Josephson to meet me instead of coming herself? I would never go out with Ron Josephson! He’s got velcro hands. I can still feel them stuck to my boobs.” Kimmie’s chest heaved.
“We’ll burn him too,” Sal murmured comfortingly.
“And remember that song she taught the kids? There was a verse about each counselor.” Kimmie warbled, choking out the words. “We’re from happy Camp Sunshine, we love all our counselors, Kimmie Bufatso, we’ll eat her for supper.”
“How did she ever get away with it?” Sal said wonderingly, repeating the question she’d asked the first time Kimmie had told this story.
“Oh, it’s just a mispronunciation.” Kimmie pitched her voice high, mimicking Linda’s mocking voice. “That’s what she’d say if anyone asked, but she taught it to the kids that way. She’d grin at me every time they sang it, and those little buggers loved to sing it. This afternoon I passed her in the hall at school, and she sang the whole verse to me. Real loud — everyone heard it.”
Kimmie’s lips tightened, and she gazed stonily into the candle flame. A quick anger grabbed Sal’s throat. Kimmie was always on some kind of diet and looking for a pair of jeans that would make her look thinner. She’d try on four or five outfits every morning before she left for school, moaning her way through each one. She wasn’t that chubby, but nothing Sal said made any difference. Kimmie believed she looked like the Michelin Tire Man, and the slightest comment about her figure sent her into a funk for days.
“Allow m
e,” said Sal, reaching for one of the Linda Paboni cutouts.
“No,” said Kimmie, chewing fiercely on her ponytail. “It’s my karma, I want to do it.”
“Why don’t you burn the whole pile at once?” suggested Sal, sinking back into her sprawl. “Blow her sky-high.”
“Genius thinking, Sal.” Clamping the pile of clippings with her tweezers, Kimmie fed them to the flame, and an entire school year of Linda Paboni’s acid comments and dirty tricks went up in a brilliant whoosh. Lying on her back, Sal watched the airborne embers with a kind of awe. Fragments of Linda Paboni’s demise swirled above the candle on aimless demon wings.
“That felt so good,” sighed Kimmie, rubbing more soot into her tear-smudged makeup. “If she sings that damn song again, can I borrow your yearbook for another burn?”
“My yearbook is your yearbook,” promised Sal. “But I think we should write a Sunshine Happy Day camper verse about her and sing it the next time we pass her in the hall.”
“Can’t,” said Kimmie immediately. “It’d be instant death. She made Shadow this year, didn’t you know?”
“No,” Sal faltered, a sudden ooze opening in her brain. “I didn’t.”
“She made Shadow, so she’s untouchable.” Scooping Linda Paboni’s ashes into a neat pile, Kimmie scattered them again with a vengeful breath. “But I feel better. I thought about doing this alone, but I wanted you to be here. Just because ... well, y’know.”
“Don’t worry.” Sal traced her fingers through the ashes, sketching the meaningless pattern of her thoughts. “She’s toast now, and your psyche has been completely reborn.”
“Maybe.” Leaning forward, Kimmie blew out the candle with a sharp hard gust.
Dusty was at the wheel, the cassette deck blasting AC/ DC, while his best friend Lizard hung out the passenger window, giving a running commentary on what he called the “sidewalk scenery.” Sandwiched between them, Sal braced her knees against the dash in a vain attempt to avoid anything remotely resembling a hairy, jitterbugging, male leg. It was 7:45, the evening yet young, all three of them sucking down Slurpees as Dusty tooled along Broadway Avenue, headed for the suburbs and slower-moving life forms. Sal’s birthday was in the spring, but Dusty had decided she needed a lot of practice well ahead of her driver’s exam to work up her confidence. Although this also had their mother’s overwhelming approval, Sal figured her confidence was already well-worked. She intended to ace that exam mid-afternoon on the day of her birth. Sweet sixteen and she’d be sweet behind the wheel, cruising every available millimeter of asphalt — she’d know Saskatoon like the back of her hand.
Suddenly curious, Sal held up the back of her hand and squinted at it. She could see nothing of interest, just a plethora of small blond hairs, another plethora of small brown freckles, and three or four bumpy blue veins. It was actually quite a dumb saying — no one ever bothered to look at the back of their hand. Now, if she was going to invent a cliché, she’d come up with one that made sense, something like “She knew Saskatoon like the tip of her nose.” Everyone carried around a detailed soul-destroying map of the nose-zone blackheads and zits they’d groaned over that morning in the mirror.
Noting Sal’s intense interest in her hand, Lizard grabbed her wrist and mashed his face into her palm. “Yup,” he proclaimed loudly. “Definitely not human. Definitely the body part of an alien.”
“Dusty!” Sal shrieked. Lizard was busily rubbing his oily greasy nose into her palm, infecting her with several deadly viruses. Talk about aliens — the guy acted as if he came from the planet of reverse social functions, where “please” and “thank you” were swear words.
Dusty whooped and turned down a side street. “Re-lease the alien, Liz,” he ordered. “She’s about to take us into deep space.”
Sticking out his meaty tongue, Lizard swiped it all over Sal’s hand before leaning back with a satisfied smirk. Horrified, she stared at the gob glimmering on her skin. Talk about germ warfare. She hated it when her brother’s friends treated her like a fifteen-year-old doormat, somebody’s pet.
“Hey, Sal!” Dusty was standing outside the car, holding the driver’s door open. “Earth to Sal.”
Climbing out, she grabbed the front of his t-shirt and used it to wipe all foreign body fluids from her hand. “Where do you get your friends?” she hissed. “The mirror?”
Dusty parked his butt in the middle of the front seat and drained the last of his Slurpee. “Okay, this is major clutch time, got it? We’re gonna let Sal lurch and jerk and whiplash our brains until she’s slipping gears like a well-oiled machine.”
The car was at least a decade older than Sal, an ancient Volvo with an insane muffler their mother was always ordering Dusty to get fixed. Dusty liked noise. With the kind of parties he attended, he said no one would hear him coming unless he ran a sonic boom off his muffler that could be heard at least a kilometer in advance of his arrival. Winters, he stored his hockey equipment in the back seat. Summers, it was basketballs, soccer balls, frisbees, and all the laundry he hadn’t gotten around to “doing something about’’ yet. The car was an armpit. Sal wouldn’t go near it unless he opened all the windows and drove up and down the block first, airing it out. Or unless she needed a driving lesson.
Sliding behind the wheel, she slurped the last of her drink and tossed the empty container onto the floor beside Lizard’s feet. Technically, she and Dusty were family — they had the same last name, blood type, narrow face and brown hair, even a similar style of gold-rimmed glasses. Everyone seeing them together for the first time commented on how much they looked alike, but still Dusty could be counted on to side with his rat-fink friends every time. She’d just have to deal with this one herself. Cautiously, Sal slid Lizard a sideways glance. Brush cut, baseball cap on backwards, smug grin all over his broad tanned face. Hmm. White t-shirt, three-quarters of a Slurpee to go. The world was his oyster. Sal looked around quickly, but no traffic could be seen coming down this side of Taylor Street. Unsuspecting, Lizard lifted the 7-Eleven cup to his lips.
Grinding into first, Sal stalled with a mighty lurch, and Lizard was snorting Pepsi ice crystals, spilling them all over his snow-white shirt.
“Sal!” Dusty howled. “I do NOT like that sound.”
Sal collapsed against the driver’s door, convulsed with helpless giggles.
“Get her!” Lizard choked, lunging toward her. His face streamed Pepsi rivulets. Ice crystals decorated his hair.
“Don’t be such a nit, Liz.” Leaning forward, Dusty effectively blocked Lizard’s access to Sal’s throat. “You know Sal and first gear. It was an accident.”
“Ah!” cried Lizard, lifting both hands in a gesture of defeat. “An accident. Of course.” He slumped against the seat, tugging disgustedly at his soaked t-shirt. Sal’s giggles accelerated into the hyperventilation stage.
“Not too subtle, sis,” Dusty hissed, then turned down AC/DC and announced loudly, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road. How ‘bout you turn in there, Sal?”
Crunching into first gear, Sal turned into the indicated parking lot and surveyed the possibilities. It was the teachers’ parking area at Walter Murray Collegiate, which meant she was on enemy turf. Year after year, Walter Murray wiped their feet on S.C. in sports events. Maybe she could take out the parking lot barrier fence, or leave a skid mark as her signature. She’d watched Dusty spin enough donuts — all it took was a quick turn of the wheel. And Lizard still had a third of his Slurpee to go ...
Dusty’s firm hand came down on the wheel. “Whoa, Sal. Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, you can stop thinking about doing it right now!”
Sal put on a very docile look. So, it was to be yet another boring driving lesson. Moping visibly, she drove back and forth across the asphalt as per Dusty’s instructions, approximately one hundred kilometers per second behind her imagination.
“That’s good,” purred Dusty, locking his hands behind his head and stretching. “Now, shift second into third. So goo
d, Sal, soooo good. Now, slow it down. Beeeautiful. Put it in reverse. Gooood. I like that sound, Sal, I like it just fine. Now, first to second ...”
“So, S.C. found out who this year’s lottery winner is yet?”
They were driving back across the city, Dusty at the wheel, AC/DC once again ruling the ionosphere. Lizard had asked the question. Trapped in his lap, Sal was wrapped tightly in his arms. When she and Dusty had switched places, Lizard had come in for the kill, pouring the rest of his Slurpee down the front of her t-shirt and pressing his own soaked t-shirt to her back. Obviously, he’d missed the point — his t-shirt was white, hers was black — but she didn’t bother explaining. Or struggling. Lizard loved a victim.
“No,” Sal replied, ignoring a sudden scattering of heartbeats.
“Shadow’s late this year,” Lizard commented.
“They still pulling that crap?” asked Dusty.
Sal shot him a glance. His mouth had tightened, two lines pulling down the right corner. She knew the signs — this one was the prelude to a gigantic mood switch.
“Hey, it’s a tradition,” Lizard said shortly. “Goes back over thirty years, to the early 70s.”
“So do the Bee Gees,” scoffed Dusty. “Garbage can of history, man.”
“The lotto winner gets perks.” Lizard’s left knee started jiggling.
“Kiss-my-ass perks.” Dusty’s fingers slapped erratically against the steering wheel. Abruptly, he leaned over and turned up the volume on the cassette deck. Lizard said nothing, his left knee manic. The sudden tension in the car made AC/DC sound like an understatement. Lizard’s profile was fixed in a rigid glare out the side window, every part of his face mirroring Dusty’s frowning stare out the front. Why would a casual reference to the lottery winner set them off like this? Sal gave a tentative wriggle to see if the change in mood meant she’d escaped Lizard’s reptilian consciousness, but his arms tightened immediately. If he didn’t forgive her soon, their clothes would dry, pasting them together for life.