Marianne
Elizabeth Hammer
Contents
1. Goth Off!
2. Beauty & the Jackass
3. Fattractive Untruths
4. Discomfort Zone
5. Drawn and Quartered
6. Vengeance is Mine
7. Decease and Desist
8. Poetry is Averse to Me
9. Prophylactically Challenged
10. Telepathetic
11. Pwned in perpetuum
12. Pestiferous Date
13. Slime-Hearted
14. Primeval Train Wreck
15. First Loser
16. U-N-L-O-Q-U-A-C-I-O-U-S
17. Martyr
18. Bloody Mary
19. All Haloes' Eve
20. One of the Classic Blunders
21. Blue Screen of Death
22. Propaganda Machine
23. Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth
24. My-Newt Mishap
25. Class B Pyrotechnic Explosives? Check
26. Nothing But Reruns
27. The Tiniest Violin
28. Cringe Cauldron
29. If You Don’t Believe Me, You’re in De-Nile
30. Fattening the Calf
31. The Disinterment of Marianne York
32. Epilogue
Thank You
Copyright © 2021 Elizabeth Hammer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9798589460261
For Kevin, of course
1
Goth Off!
Disneyland’s New Orleans Square, Anaheim, California.
October 3rd, 2008
The external screen of Marianne’s Nokia 6102i flip-phone glowed blue with a new text message.
SOZ IL8. MEET HM SS. C U S.
If Dark Lord Alvin wanted to communicate actual thoughts to Marianne, or any other human, he should have used proper words instead of acronymic gibberish. And while he was at it, he should stop calling himself Dark Lord.
Sally stuck out her hand for the phone and wiggled her fingers. “Do you require my services?”
Marianne moved the phone out of reach. “No.” Hoping a bit of old school phonics might help, she stared at the offensive code for another minute, mouthing out the sounds. “Geez. Take it,” she said, handing the phone over to Sally. “And please edit this time.”
Marianne could handle the discomfort of having the Dark Lord as her first boyfriend—a couple of pity-dates with a weirdo didn’t officially count—but his texts were growing racier by the day. Though she didn’t want to offend him, she had boundaries, boundaries that did not include the term “TDTM,” whatever that meant. When you can’t translate a certain texting term on the internet because it trips your mom’s parental control program, you know you’ve got to take action. The reality of breaking up with him was giving Marianne a stomachache, but tonight was the night.
After giving the phone half a look, Sally dropped it into Marianne’s bag. “He asks that you meet him at the Haunted Mansion smoking section.”
Easy, as she was already there, less than a mile from home, though it felt like a million from where she sat. On a fake wooden bench near a fake nineteenth-century pier, staring out over Disneyland’s fake lake, surrounded by a clan of clove-smoking fake vampires. Correction: Goths. Sally insisted she call them Goths.
A Goth herself, Sally wore Victorian-style clothes, painted her face white on a daily basis, devoured poetry like fundamentalists devour the Bible, and was utterly devoted to the virtues of personal truth and recycling.
“Thanks for waiting with me,” said Marianne, reaching out and mussing up Sally’s orange, clown-like coif. “How did I get into this mess?” moaned Marianne, putting her head down onto her knees. “I feel like I’m gonna puke.”
Sally nodded. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”
“Seriously, how?” said Marianne, ignoring her. “How did I get here? What possessed me to agree to go out with Alvin in the first place?”
“It wasn’t for his looks, that’s for sure,” said Sally. “You once said he looks like a possum. A sick one.”
Wince. “I did not.” Well, maybe she had done that. But he kind of did look like a possum, and he had the personality to go with it, all anger and pathetic-ness. “I’m going to throw up. Really. I can’t... Is he going to be upset?” She looked up at Sally. “Or maybe he’ll get mad. What if he yells at me?”
“Punch him.”
Marianne rolled her eyes and put her head back in her lap. When she’d first met him, Marianne would catch Alvin watching her, his eyes flitting to the ground, feet shifting, fingers twitching. He was one of those kids who seemed like they were only Goth because they didn’t fit in anywhere else. How could anyone with a heart say no to him?
Get to know him, that’s how. Yes, childhood teasing had made Alvin vulnerable, but it had also made him into a complete and total tool. Maybe awkwardness incites name-calling, then name-calling causes bitterness. And bitterness turns humans into cockroaches. Call a kid a weenie enough times and he changes, starts to act like a loser instead of just look like one. The only difference between then and now is now he deserved it—he was rude, conceited, crude, and annoying. And Marianne was dating him.
“Wuzzup, Marianne?” said a slurring, girly voice.
No. Not now. Lifting her head, Marianne looked up into the alcohol-glazed face of Georgia Pike. Another tortured adolescent gone Goth, but of the female variety. She was more punk than Sally—long dyed-black hair, leather jacket, and black lipstick. From the way she was sloping to the right, it was obvious that she was on her third bottle of cranberry juice (not really cranberry juice), and that those elevator platform boots had been a terrible idea.
“Hey,” said Marianne. “Nice, um... safety pins.” They were everywhere, from her cuffs to her collar.
“Psh,” said Georgia, sloshing her bottle and tossing her thick hair. “Yeah, they totally gave me hell in the security line.”
Marianne nodded. “How ridiculous of them.”
“I mean, do I look like some al-Qaeda bastard?” Georgia spread her arms. “Why don’t they start worrying about the real terrorists and stop oppressing people because of how they look?”
Marianne squinted, trying to follow the logic, but decided against arguing. “Yeah,” she said. “Fascists.”
Georgia lit a clove cigarette with a black plastic lighter while she studied Marianne. “Bet they didn’t bother you any. That t-shirt goes great with your, um, blonde highlights.”
Georgia couldn’t make it through one single conversation without a passive-aggressive remark about Marianne’s lack of Gothiness. Apparently, the black nail polish and Weezer shirt weren’t “anti-” enough to appease the undead fashion police. It seemed that a major tenant of Goth subculture was nonconformity, but from what Marianne could see, these Goths were as hypocritical as any other group. You’re a sellout if you accept any man-made expectation of proper attire, but your clothing had better have an edgy, death-laced quality to it, or you’re bourgeois sleaze. Marianne smiled. “Nope, they didn’t bother me. It’s one of the benefits of conforming to mainstream standards.”
Sally groaned, and Marianne gave her an apologetic smile. She’d promised not to bring up “standards” in front of Georgia anymore. Turns out, no one except Marianne enjoyed listening to Georgia’s absurd pontifications on the subject.
Georgia took a deep breath, about to begin a recitation of her stock lecture on capitalist exploitation, existential crises, and the inseparability of joy and sorrow, when Sally suddenly stood up, pointing. “Oh, hey...”
Georgia whipped her head around to look. “What?”
“I think Todd is calling you.”
“Ugh,” sighed Georgia dramatically. “He proba
bly wants me to carry all his junk in my bag again.”
“That’s likely,” said Sally.
“I’m gonna sneak off the other way,” said Georgia. “Don’t tell him where I went.” And she was gone.
After watching Georgia scurry away, Sally sat down by Marianne. “What is wrong with you?”
Marianne shrugged. “I was being chatty like you wanted.”
Sally took out a cheap cherry cigar, her flavor of the month, and pulled off the wrapper. “Learn to behave or I won’t bring you here anymore.”
“Relax.” Marianne glanced up at the night sky, the clouds turning a murky purple as they reflected the city lights. “After I do the deed tonight, I’m never stepping foot in this loathsome place again, anyway.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“You are so full of it,” said Sally, ashing onto the bush behind them. “Two days of that cave troll existence you call a life, and you’ll be begging me to take you out again. Besides, the Dark Lord is just going to give you that pitiful face again, and you’ll take him back. I have no faith in you.”
Sally was probably right, but there was no need for Marianne to admit it out loud. “That almost sounds like a compliment coming from you,” said Marianne. “Isn’t faith a dirty word in your book?”
Sally moved in close to Marianne and made kissing noises with her blood-red lips.
“Stop it.” Marianne shoved her. “You’re going to smear your death face all over me.”
Sitting back, Sally took another puff off her cigar, surrounding them both in a thick cloud. “I warned you from the beginning it was a bad idea to date him.”
“No way!” said Marianne. “I must not have been listening to you every second of every day for the last two weeks.”
“I believe these were my exact words...” Eyes unfocused, Sally waved her hand slowly through space in front of her. “Lying is a sin against love. The universe will reject that kind of abominable—”
Marianne raised her voice. “Do you want to know why people in class make fun of you?”
Sally kept blabbing. “—universe abhors a vacuum. Lying about love creates a black hole rift in the psychic energy around you—”
“What the…” said Marianne. “You need a remedial course in physics. And definitely a theology course.”
Sally dropped her cigar on the ground and stomped on it. “Are you listening to me?”
“No.” Marianne picked up Sally’s litter and threw it in the ashtray. “I’m too distracted by this ludicrous chimera religion you’ve created.”
Sally tilted her head to the side. “Chimera?”
“You know, like a liger.”
“Ah yes,” Grinning, Sally nodded. “Those things are sweet.”
“Hardly.” After kicking off her shoes, Marianne crossed her legs Indian style on the bench. “They’re sterile and sickly. Aren’t you supposed to be an environmentalist or something?”
“Certainly. But ligers are sweet; you can’t change that.”
“They’re grotesque,” said Marianne. “Just like that grotesque imaginary religion you cling—”
“Time’s up, girl.” Sally pointed behind Marianne. The Dark Lord must have appeared.
“Nooo...” whined Marianne, closing her eyes. Slipping her shoes back on, Marianne stood up with her bag and turned around to face the poor little scumbag she was pretending to like. Just on the other side of the fence, Dark Lord Alvin was standing with Georgia and too busy talking to notice he was being watched. Marianne had the privilege of catching the tail end of their conversation.
“Yeah, I go to that club all the time,” said Alvin with a smarmy grin, “I know the owner, Jannie.”
“No way!” said Georgia. “Sick.”
Alvin clucked his tongue and hitched up the collar of his trench coat. “Yeah… I know her really well, if you get what I mean.”
Marianne didn’t want to vomit in Disney’s carefully manicured bushes, so she turned and walked up the steps toward the Haunted Mansion. Or maybe she was just buying more time before she had to face him. Finding a secluded spot in the shadows to hide, she pulled out her cell, flipped it open, and called home. “Dad? I wanted you to know that I’m going to be home a few minutes late.”
Dad was silent for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said, but he sounded as if he was trying not to laugh.
“What?” said Marianne.
“Nothing, baby,” he said in a strained voice. “Thank you for letting me know.”
Marianne glared at the phone for a moment before putting it to her ear again. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“You know exactly why I’m laughing at you.”
“You said I should call if I would be home after curfew!”
“What curfew?”
Marianne rolled her eyes.
Probably sensing her reaction, he didn’t wait for her to speak. “You’re eighteen. I asked you to call if you were going to be unreasonably late. A few minutes past ten hardly sounds unreasonable.”
“Fine,” said Marianne. “So sorry for bothering you.”
“I forgive you,” he said, snickering.
“You know what?” said Marianne. And she hung up on him.
Unbelievable. Here she is, trying to be responsible, and he makes fun of her. She should think up some rebellious thing to do just to teach him gratitude. Maybe she could borrow some of Georgia’s cranberry juice, douse herself in it, and pretend to stumble into the house...
Dark Lord Alvin’s voice suddenly drifted to her through the noise of the crowd. “Raven?”
Marianne flinched.
He materialized like a bat out of the shadows to her left, moving toward her in his typical graceless slouch. “Raven, where did you go?”
“Over here, obviously,” she said, just barely keeping her objection to the nickname “Raven” in check. He’d thought it would be cute to christen her with her very own Goth name. “I was just checking in with my dad.”
“They keep you on a tight leash, huh?”
Hmm, truth or expediency? “Yeah, they do. I have to get home soon.” Alvin smiled and took her hand in his. And there was that stomach ache again. “Or, well... maybe I don’t.”
“What?”
Marianne looked down at his hand and patted it awkwardly. “Alvin, I need to talk to you about something.”
“Sup?” said Alvin, adjusting his trench coat collar again.
Sucking in a deep breath, Marianne squeezed his hand again. “Alvin, I don’t think I can see you anymore.”
Alvin tossed his head, moving a few limp strands of hair off his face. He blinked. “What?”
“Um...” Marianne stepped back, biting her lip. “I know this is sudden, but I think we need to,” she cleared her throat, “break up.”
He shook his head a little. “What?” He blinked again and gave her the face she’d been dreading. The creased eyebrows, the tremble of his lips as he struggled to regain his bravado. The disappointment.
Sally had been right; that look almost broke her. Marianne had half a mind to just plug her nose and kiss him. She cleared her throat and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Seemingly lost for words, Alvin kept blinking. “Why?” he finally managed.
Marianne swallowed. Because he’d said “I love you” two days after they met, right before telling her that his AOL instant messenger screen name was crunkgoth189. Because he liked to quote poetry about death and anguish at wildly inappropriate moments. Because his Myspace page contained some very disturbing school-shooter sympathies. And the sexting, of course. She racked her brain for some reason, any reason, that didn’t have to do with him personally. Before she even said it, she winced, “I need some time to find myself. Existential crisis and all that...”
She expected him to look angry, or shocked, or disbelieving. She didn’t expect him to smile. Slightly creeped out, Marianne drew back.
The Dark Lord leaned in. “I knew it,” he whispere
d. “You have been cheating on me.”
“Excuse me?”
“All those times you had to stay home and wash your hair...” He shook his head. “You were with someone else.”
Marianne bit her lip. Perhaps that excuse wasn’t as believable as Mom had promised it would be. “There’s no one else,” she said. “I promise.” She looked down because it was hard to look at him, all skin and bones and unattractiveness under that big jacket. He might be an jerk, but he was a wee one. Vulnerable. Would he ever get another half-sane girl to go out with him? Would it really be so bad to hold on a little longer? He could be sweet sometimes, and it wasn’t as if there was a line of guys waiting to date her. Or even talk to her, for that matter. Friday nights watching game shows with Dad were getting a bit unbearable. She’d just made up her mind to relent when Alvin broke into her thoughts.
“Is this about that thing with Georgia?” He sounded annoyed.
Looking up, Marianne raised her eyebrows.
Alvin laughed off to the side. “Who told you? Georgia? Todd?”
She froze in place. This could not be happening. “Are you... Did you... You cheated on me?”
Alvin looked as if he pitied her. “Come on, don’t be upset. It didn’t mean anything. It never does with Georgia, everyone knows that.”
Marianne wondered if Georgia was one of those who knew that. “I can’t believe this.” Marianne laughed once and started to walk away.
“Wait.” He grabbed her arm.
“Stop it,” she said, pulling away. For some reason she couldn’t understand, she was about to cry. “Don’t touch me.”
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