Curse of Arachnaman

by Hayden Thorne

  I did miss hanging out with my friends, though, but since these tutorials were only to see me through the rest of the year, I was still set to return to the old high school environment afterward.

  When I got tired of writing, I fired up my computer and checked out the local news. “International Crime Ring the Masterminds Behind Stolen Computers!” I grinned. Way to go, Althea! One of the things that I started doing was checking online news for tidbits on what my friends were doing. It didn't matter how small it was: mugging, carjacking, whatever. I guess I was really going through some kind of maturing, enjoying those stories and taking pride in what they did, rather than sulking over what would've been, had I been born with superpowers like them. I still had to remind myself of what Peter told me: “You ground me, Eric. At the end of a crazy day, when the world seems to have gone to hell, I turn to you for a reality check."

  That had to be the best thing he'd ever said to me. Okay, it was actually second to “Your jeans are in the way."

  "I know these guys!” would always be at the tip of my tongue while reading or watching the news, but of course, I couldn't say that to just anyone. Mom knew about Peter as Calais, but neither Dad nor Liz did. Beyond Peter, my family didn't know anything about Althea and the others beside the fact that Trent was Peter's older brother, Wade was Peter's good friend from another school, and Freddie was some kid I met while under the Trill's influence. They knew about Brenda, Dr. Dibbs, and only a few hazy facts about their role in saving me, but they were still ignorant about the Sentries, and I didn't want them to know any more than that.

  So, no, even to my family, I couldn't admit to knowing the heroes. “I'm going steady with one of them!” always came a close second, but that was even more of a no-no.

  Maybe someday, I'd be able to brag like that. For now, I found myself deep inside a different closet, and it was kind of hard, not being able to come out.

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  Chapter 6

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  One of those cosmic laws defining my existence involved paper-thin slices of red onion finding their way into my burger, even though I specifically asked for none. I really shouldn't have thought badly of fellow human beings, especially if they worked at some crummy, dead-end job in a fast-food joint. I ignored the possibility that they either forgot my request or decided that something in the way I looked said that I deserved to spend my entire date night blowing sewer breath down my boyfriend's throat.

  Nope. I wasn't going to go there. Because I figured that I screwed up so much as the Trill's Worst-Sidekick-Ever and needed to balance my cosmic IOU with good deeds, I decided to believe that paper-thin slices of red onion slithered like gross, stinky, slithering things into my sandwich when the burger-making dude wasn't looking because red onions just sucked that way.

  Now would that make an awesome horror movie or what?

  The long and short of it was that I asked for no red onions on my turkey burger and got them, anyway. I spent the first five minutes of my date with Peter carefully taking my sandwich apart and lifting out drooping slices of those gross, stinky, slithering things with a plastic spork. Peter had to spend the first five minutes of his date with me watching the window beside our table, blinking and frowning. He tried a few times to take a bite out of his burger, but the distraction that came from the window pretty much kept him from progressing in his meal. In the end, he just set his sandwich down, sat on his hands, and looked all confused.

  I also knew exactly what was outside the window, but I totally ignored it and pretended that nothing was out there. “How's your cheeseburger?” I asked without looking at the window.

  I'd already gotten all the stupid onions out and raked them as far, far away from my sandwich as I possibly could. Much good that did. I took a bite of my turkey burger and had to ignore the residual onion taste in the lettuce.

  "Um...can't say for sure."

  "Try mayonnaise instead of catsup with your fries. Europeans do that all the time, and it's not as gross as it sounds."

  He wasn't listening and just answered me with a series of “Err...” or “Uh...Eric?” When I continued to chatter away and pretend like everything was all normal, he cut in, “There's a very pissed-off girl giving you a pretty nasty look just outside the window."

  I shrugged. “I don't know any pissed-off girl except for my sister, but she was born pissed off."

  Peter frowned at me now. I could see realization dawning. “What did you do, Eric?"

  "Nothing. Go on and eat. Your fries will get all soggy and stuff, and you know how cold French fries tend to taste.” I stuck my tongue out and made a face.

  I could also feel Althea's death glare. I didn't need to look at her to know how she stood outside, pinning me with her eyes and brain waves. I did mess around with the mental image of her being pressed so tight against the window so that she looked like one of those stupid Garfield plush car window hangings, arms and legs splayed out against the glass, eyes bulging out of their sockets, pupils small and frozen in that crazy-ass stare. I made a mental note to mention that to her once she'd calmed down—and then run like hell.

  Anyway, even with the thick, industrial-strength glass that the little burger joint used for its windows, she was pissed enough to send all those “I'm gonna whoop your skinny ass till your sphincter fuses shut, gay boy!” heat waves through the window and right at me. Seriously, if I'd needed to get a tan, and trust me, my family would've killed to see that, all I would've had to do was sit there, naked, and get blasted by Althea's Death Glare Waves. Maybe rotating a quarter of a turn every five seconds or something.

  I guess Peter tried to ignore her and even made another valiant attempt at taking a bite of his burger. No could do. He set his food down again and sat back. “Eric, I can't. She's really creeping me out."

  "I can have her arrested for disturbing the peace,” I offered, but he wouldn't have any of it. Sometimes Peter was a little too rational for his own good. Unless he was horny. Or pissed at me.

  One of the employees appeared off to our side, wet towel in one hand and a growing stack of grimy plastic trays in another. As she walked past our booth, she stopped and gaped at the window, tickling my nostrils with that familiar scent of Eau de Grease that was the curse of fast food workers all over the globe. I wondered how many super-scented fabric softeners she went through to exorcise her uniform of its grill demons.

  "Excuse me,” she said. “I think you forgot your friend. She looks a little, um, upset. I mean—I'd be, too, if my buddies dumped me and had, like, burgers and stuff on their own."

  I waved a hand and fished out a couple of French fries, dipping them in the blob of mayonnaise that I squirted onto my plate. “No worries. She's always upset. She was born on the rag, you know.” Liz would have to forgive me for applying my favorite description of her to my best girl buddy.

  "Really?"

  Peter cut in before I could even manage a squeak. “Ignore him,” he said, jerking his head in my direction. “He was born with an alien twin whose suckers were glued to his skull."

  "You suck, Peter."

  "No, your alien twin did. I should weigh your brain while you're asleep and see how much was vacuumed out of you before your mom gave birth."

  Okay, we were so going to break up after this.

  The fast-food girl, whose name was Sasha, according to her tag, shook her head and slowly crept away. Peter sighed and leaned forward, eyes flashing. Have I ever mentioned how hot he looked when he glared at me? Have I? Okay, my boyfriend was hot. Especially when I pissed him off, which was pretty often. “You have ten seconds to tell me what's going on,” he said.

  "It's stupid,” I retorted. “I don't want to talk about it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't want to. And it's stupid. Did I just hear an echo?"

  "Your best friend's out there, staring at you, screwing up our date, and freaking out the staff. Tell me."

  "No."

  "I brought
a clean towel."

  I smirked while gnawing away like an anemic cow that just stuffed its face with a bucket of plump, juicy, organic grass. “Big deal. You bring clean towels all the time."

  Peter didn't miss a beat. He didn't even blink, the shameless bastard. “It's a beach towel."

  "She's making me go with her to her grandmother's bingo night, and I told her no after I said yes! There! Happy? And that towel had better be shredded by the time we're done this evening!” I paused and then backpedaled. “Condoms? Did you say that you brought condoms, too?"

  "You wish,” he said. “Sorry, no condoms. I believe in waiting for the right moment because I'm old-fashioned that way.” Yeah, right. He slid down his seat and stumbled to his feet. “And I'm hauling Althea's pissy ass in here because I'm starving, and I can't stand another second of being put off my dinner because of some stupid promise about bingo night."

  I sat there, watching Peter saunter off. “You tricked me again? I hate it when you play dirty!” I snarled, but by the time the words came, he'd already stepped outside.

  I suppose the only comfort I had then was his mention of a beach towel. Not a bath towel, mind you, but a beach towel. You know, like Aladdin's flying carpet. Okay, so it wasn't exactly as awesome as airborne Arabian rugs, but my point is that beach towels, by their very nature, promise any horny sixteen-year-old the moon and the stars and an infinity of amazing cosmic supernovas between him and his boyfriend. I turned the idea over and over in my mind, barely noticing the two figures shambling past the doors and making their way to our booth.

  "Watch out,” Althea's voice cut through my thoughts. “I know that look. Eric's up to something again."

  "Whatever it is you're planning, forget it,” Peter said as he slid back on his seat, Althea taking her place beside him.

  "If you check under the table,” she said, “I'm sure you'll find that it's got something to do with you."

  I coughed, nearly blowing soda through my nose. “Shut up, Horace."

  "Nice to see you, too, Mister Senator.” Althea glanced at Peter. “He's starting out pretty young, you know, breaking promises left and right."

  I rolled my eyes. “If I promised you something, Althea, it's because I was coerced. Yeah, you heard me. Coerced. So I'm taking my promise back."

  "I didn't coerce you!"

  "Uh, should I remind you about the—” Here I raised both hands and made the quotation marks sign with my fingers. “—accidentally-moving cables that got me in my own bedroom and held me up like a human burrito for a gazillion seconds till I had to scream ‘I promise I'll go with you'? Seriously, all this time I was under the impression that Peter's the dirtiest player on the planet. He's got nothing to you and your criminal mind.” I turned to Peter. “Did she tell you what happened? How she cheated me in a game of Hangman and then made my computer puke out cyber cables or something that attacked me? You know, I've heard about tentacle sex online, and what Althea pulled with her crazy cyber cables came pretty close to that."

  Peter shook his head slowly. He looked like he wanted to go home and pretend that this evening never happened.

  "Well, it happened exactly the way I described it. She cheated, and then she turned cyber terrorist. Before I knew it, I was wrapped up in her creepy tentacle cable thingies, pissing myself, while she made me promise to go to bingo night. It was total abuse of power! I should file a complaint with the city!"

  "Okay, my bad.” Althea sighed. “I shouldn't have held you up that way. I'll truss you up like a Thanksgiving turkey next time."

  "There! I was terrorized into a promise! And she's still terrorizing me! Case closed! Now can we have our date night back? Our dinner's already ruined, time's ticking away, and we haven't even had sex yet,” I said, throwing my hands up.

  It was Peter's turn to choke on his soda.

  "You're definitely not going to get any tonight, Plath,” Althea said, reaching for a couple of now-soggy-and-semi-cold French fries. “Look what you just did."

  "And whose fault was that?” I retorted.

  Althea sighed. She actually looked beaten and tired. “Okay, okay, I'm sorry I forced you into promising to come with me to Grandma's bingo night. But you gotta understand, Eric, if you make me go alone, I'll totally go nuts. You know how much of a brain suck bingo night is for anyone under forty. And I don't want to go postal and mow down a bunch of seniors in the church's community hall.” She leaned over the table and gave me that deer-in-the-headlights look. “I swear I'm gonna lose it if you don't come with me."

  I scowled at her. “You lost it a long time ago, girlfriend. Try again."

  "Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease? I promise I'll treat you to ginormous pizza slices for a month. Please?"

  "Talk to the hand.” I actually raised a hand when I said that. I surprised myself with these slips into corniness sometimes.

  "Will good karma be motivation enough? Think about it. In your next life, you'll be married to the hottest, sweetest, richest gay man around—"

  I sniffed. “I could come back as sewer sludge in my next life."

  "Well, that's only because you're not helping a good friend out."

  "Ha. Try again.” I pointed at my watch. “You've got three seconds to make me change my mind. Tick, tock, tick, tock...oops. That's four."

  Althea glanced at hers and turned to Peter, who was still coughing. “I gotta go and pick up some stuff from the grocery store for Mom. Peter, talk to him, okay? Please? I already told you the details."

  "Most likely blown out of proportion,” I cut in, biting into my turkey burger. “Time's up, girlie. Buh-bye."

  "If worse comes to worst, threaten celibacy for the rest of your teenage years.” She turned to glare at me. This time around, I was ready for the heat waves and made like I was fanning myself with my napkin while looking bored. “That oughta learn him."

  I rolled my eyes again. “Whatever, dude. Now scram. We have a date to finish."

  Althea slid off the seat, fixed her shirt and jacket, slung her messenger bag across her torso, and said, “I won't be using cyber cables next time, Plath."

  "Your powers should be revoked—or something. Terrorist."

  I watched her march off in a huff, while Peter heaved a sigh of, what, relief? Exhaustion? I figured it was the latter because he raked his fingers through his hair and gnawed on his lower lip till it swelled up, making my jeans tighten. Again. Then he slumped in his seat and leveled me with that extremely-patient-but-gently-disapproving-boyfriend sort of look.

  "Eric..."

  "Oh, come on, Peter,” I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I really hate bingo night. I've already been to one of those with my dad, and they seriously suck. And I'm not lying when I say that Althea bullied me into saying yes."

  "Yeah, I know she bullied you. That's really the only way to get you to listen. She knows you too well. Anyway, it's only once, you know, and it's her grandmother's special monthly thing."

  "That sounds menstrual."

  Peter raised a brow. “Are you forcing me to make you celibate for the rest of your teenage years?"

  I considered it while taking another bite of my turkey burger. “Can we have wild monkey sex on your beach towel first and then discuss that afterward?"

  "No."

  I set my food down and leaned forward, holding Peter's gaze because I was desperate. “Have you ever been to one of those movable potties in public parks? Do you know that they're actually, like, rifts in space that take you directly to Satan's lair? They're seriously inter-dimensional portals...well, the toilet seats and whatever's boiling under them, are. Bingo night's the less disgusting version of those. I'm not kidding, Peter. It's like purgatory on earth. And they serve rubbery hot dogs."

  "I like rubbery hot dogs."

  I sighed, feeling the hot, sweat-slicked hold of promised not-quite-full-on-sex—i.e., we'd never gone all the way yet—slipping away. I could never win in stupid moral arguments like this. It was so unfair.

 
"Peter, I don't want to go!"

  "You'd do it for your grandmother."

  I figured as much.

  "Look, Althea screwed you over. I know that. But what about Grandma Horace? Remember all those little treats she used to make you when you and Althea were in grade school? And don't forget Mrs. Horace and her special jam..."

  I threw my hands up. “Okay, okay, fine! Fine! I'll go! God!"

  Peter broke into a broad, sparkly grin. “Atta boy. I knew you'd come around. Don't do it for Althea. Do it for her grandmother. Just think of it that way, all right?” He reached across the table and took my hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze.

  I sulked. “I'll have to sneak in some Jack Daniels or something. You know, I've got a feeling that you're really a closet Catholic, the way you work that guilt trip on me all the time."

  Peter merely laughed, gave my hand one more squeeze, and then prattled on about...well, whatever. His mood had improved, he seemed proud of me, and he dove into his now cold burger and fries with an appetite that would make Mom adopt him on the spot.

  By the way, we didn't shred the beach towel later that evening, but it sure was soaked. The location was perfect, too, with us tangling at our favorite little beach hideaway in full view of a clear night sky and a crescent moon.

  For all that, though, we still returned home virgins. Yay, restraint. Backward slash, end sarcasm. Someday, down the road, maybe I'd look back on this and laugh. How's that for optimism?

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 7

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  In spite of my previous wibbling over my journal—how bored I was, and how it was pointless to own a stupid blank book with stupid pens and a stupid oil lamp—I gradually fell into a nice pattern of scribbling almost every night. It was kind of nice, really, being able to unload like that, now that I really didn't have my friends to chat up the way I'd used to. I was still mulling over the online blog thing, though. I mean, come on. Earning money from people clicking on links? It was a brilliant idea! Besides, being online was the way to meet new people, and maybe I could create a new network of friends via my blog. But I guessed, if I'd spent Mom's money on my stuff, I might as well put everything to good use.