October Girls: Crystal & Bone

by L C Glazebrook

  “Not really. I’m wondering if we should cool it for a while.”

  The words didn’t sink in because a slimy leather boot protruded from the Orifice with a viscous plop. She reared back a little, hoping the goo didn’t spray onto her bed.

  “What’s that?” she said into the cell, as a blue-jean covered leg stepped into her room, the boot tapping around for purchase.

  “Slow down a little. See other people. You know.”

  The realization squirmed in her stomach like a dozen electrified salamanders. “Break it off?”

  “Nothing like that. But I can take a hint. You got enough pressure, and your Momma don’t like me, and—”

  “Who is she?”

  The leg hit solid ground, the Orifice as big as a trashcan lid now. The fingers of two hands appeared at the edges, gripping the cheap paneling.

  “What do you mean?” Pettigrew said on the phone.

  “You don’t say we should see other people unless you already got somebody lined up. That’s Break-Up Rule Number Six.”

  “Honey, it’s not like that—”

  She clicked the phone dead, serving the dual function of making Pettigrew mad and ending the conversation before Royce stepped fully into the room.

  Maybe we should see other people, hmm?

  “A star is born,” Royce said.

  “You got in my Momma’s stuff.”

  “Hey, if she does her thing, there’s no more limo ride to the land of the living. And that’s bad for all the cool cats and hot chicks out there who are about to discover Royce Dean.”

  Great. He’s referring to himself in the third person. That’s never a good sign.

  “Where’s Bone?” she said.

  Royce slicked his hair up into a doo-wop swoop, with Orifice oil serving as gel. He looked at his reflection in her computer screen, grinning in smug satisfaction. “Hanging out, being cool.”

  “What’s in it for Dempsey?”

  Royce looked confused, which was more or less his natural expression. “The director? I don’t know, I thought he was in it for the chicks.”

  “Look, don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a bright future ahead of you and all. But this B-movie stuff is a dead end. You’ll wind up hanging around horror conventions in your old age, signing autographs next to that kid from ‘The Munsters.’”

  “No way. My agent has it all worked out—”

  Agent? So her suspicions were correct. Dempsey was shrewd but too much into the creative buzz to pull off a major summoning spell. Royce was being fed his own ego until his head was so fat he probably wouldn’t fit back through the Orifice. And Bone would never intentionally put Crystal at risk.

  Would she?

  Sure, she was your best friend once, but time changes people. Burial changes people. And Darkmeet changes people.

  “Well, Royce, you can just slide right back through and get born again, because you can’t stay here.”

  “Who said I was stayin’?” He strutted to the door, blue jeans taut, arms lean and sinewy, and before she could react, he was out.

  Chapter 22

  Bone hefted the satchel of videotapes she’d taken from the Tan Banana & Movie Emporium.

  She’d popped into Fatback Bob’s, still invisible, and loaded up the satchel with pilfered product. Fatback Bob must have been back in his office, because the sound of science-fiction laser guns and bombastic dialogue was occasionally punctuated with rude bodily noises. Under normal paranormal circumstances, she would have passed right through the wall, but because of the videotapes, she had to waste one of her solids to get out the door.

  Since then, she’d dished out eleven copies of Dempsey’s secret messages, and no one had recognized her yet.

  The satchel was heavy, loaded with Dempsey’s cheesiest offerings. She felt like the Grinch on Christmas Day, having to return all the presents he’d stolen fair and square.

  And downtown Parson’s Ford was more of a Do-What-ville than a Whoville. Main Street was nearly empty except for half a dozen parked cars, and the awning light of the Hardware Store & Software Development Outlet blinked in a spasm of fluorescence.

  Two teenagers strolled by, probably heading to The Daily Grind & Fabric Outlet for an over-priced latte.

  “Psst,” she hissed.

  The nearest squinted into the shadows. Her black eyeliner clashed with her Orvis camouflage fishing cap. The other had a skateboard under his arm, a toboggan pulled down to his eyebrows, and a Sarah Palin “Drill, Baby, Drill” T-shirt on.

  Trailer-trash Goth. Only in Parson’s Ford.

  “Who’s there?” the Camou Goth said, taking an instinctive step toward the nearest streetlight.

  “Bonnie,” Bone replied, knowing the couple wouldn’t recognize her. She was old news, yesterday’s obit. Four teens had died in vehicular collisions since she’d eaten fender, and all the casualties blurred together after a while.

  “We don’t know no Bonnie,” said the skater redneck of the pair.

  “I’ve got something you might want.” She wasn’t fully solid, but she didn’t want to lurk in the shadows like some kind of pervert or drug dealer. She dragged the satchel into the cone of the streetlight.

  “What is this?” the Camou Goth said. “Trick or treat in reverse?”

  “No, I work for a movie company. We’re trying this grassroots marketing campaign.” She dug into the satchel and pulled out a videotape at random, thrusting it toward Camou Goth, who looked at it as if it were a live snake.

  “Free,” Bone said.

  Skater Redneck took it and tilted it to catch the light. “The Bloodening. That dude already gave us a copy.”

  Bone’s breath would have caught if her lungs still worked. “Dude?”

  Skater Redneck jerked his head down the street. “Dempsey. The guy who made them. He was passing them out in the coffee shop.”

  “Have you guys watched it yet?”

  “Royce,” they said in unison.

  That answers that. Now I don’t have to feel so bad about pimping for the Judge. These guys are already brain dead, and I’m just driving the nail in the coffin.

  “You going to the big Halloween party?” Bone asked.

  “Halloween,” they said.

  “Right. Okay, nothing to see here, folks.” She stepped back into the shadows and the misfit couple staggered down the street, Skater Redneck spinning his front wheel.

  In a way, Bone was depressed that she had been so forgettable, but it also made her job easier. The faster she unloaded these tapes, the faster she could—

  What? Go back to Darkmeet and play kick the can until Judgment Day? Watch from another dimension while Crystal and Pettigrew lived happily ever after? Nurse Tim through his everlasting terminal disease?

  She tossed the satchel onto the sidewalk by the drug store, straightened her blouse, and ran her fingers through her hair, and then headed for the coffee shop. Her sensations were muted—the night breeze was the same temperature as her skin, and she couldn’t smell the motor oil and rust of downtown—but walking down the familiar street made her feel almost alive. She wondered what deal she could cut with the Judge to get a few more years like this, and the notion stopped her cold.

  How many times can you sell your soul, after all?

  The storefronts were festooned with decorations, from the conservative “harvest festival” staples of pumpkins and cornstalk stacks to the obligatory paper ghosts and witches. Outside ArtSpot & Shoe Repair, a trendy junk shop full of handicrafts, a mannequin wore a rubber gorilla mask and polyester jacket, a plaid tie dangling in obvious mockery of bankers and lawyers everywhere. A pick-up truck belched and growled up the street, and Bone recognized the tow lift on the back.

  Pettigrew.

  He would see her for sure, but he was speeding and she didn’t have time to jump into the side alley or go invisible. But he wasn’t looking. As the truck roared by, she saw Cindy Summerhill in the passenger seat, laughing like she’d landed a cheerleader scholarsh
ip to State. Laughing like a girl—

  On a date.

  She wondered if Crystal knew. Sometimes the girl was the last to know, but Crystal was pretty sharp. And Pettigrew was the loyal sort. Bone had once tried to test that loyalty for herself…

  Well, that had ended in skid marks and screams.

  As the truck screeched to a halt in front of the coffee shop, Bone hurried toward it. A few weeknight stragglers flitted along the sidewalks like wingless moths, all of the businesses shut down for the night. In the square, a weak fountain arced water around the statue of Confederate Col. Hardison Jackson, giant oak trees stretching gnarled arms toward the courthouse.

  The coffee shop was abuzz with caffeinated kids, a syncopated reggae bass riff already audible. It was the center of life in Parson’s Ford, the spout from which all vitality flowed, and Bone was on the outside looking in.

  Easing up to the window, she could see the tables were full of kids playing with chess pieces, laptops, and handheld videogames. Two or three were wearing masks and make-up, though Halloween was still a day away. A few creepy old guys, trying to look cool but coming off as tragically hip, sat reading magazines and peeking over the pages to see if they recognized anyone. Wilt Drumbowski, the plumber’s kid, was writing in a note pad, bopping to the rhythm of his own earphones. He’d been the star of the school paper when Bone was still in school, and it looked like he’d amped up his writing ambition to poetry or something equally useless.

  And at a corner table sat Cindy, Pettigrew, and Dempsey, chatting like old friends.

  She wondered if they were saying “Royce.”

  She was half tempted to storm in and make a scene, demand an explanation from Pettigrew, tell Dempsey that his movies sucked, and slap Cindy with a cold trout. Yes, being a ghost gave her some shock value, but she’d need more than that if she wanted answers.

  Only one thing to do. Go invisible.

  For some reason that probably would have blown the mind of Mr. Schroeder, physics teacher at Pickett High, her clothes went invisible along with her, allowing them to also pass through the brick wall of the coffee shop. Not that it mattered. She could have gone naked and no one would have noticed. That would be cool in a creepy sort of way, but she didn’t want to leave Crystal’s clothes lying around on the sidewalk.

  Inside, Bob Dylan was nasally whining about rolling stones, and the chatter and electronic chirps sounded like a flock of birds at dawn. Invisibility muted her senses even further, as if she were underwater. It took more energy to move, too, and she wondered what would happen if her metaphysical battery gave out while she was stuck in the coffee shop.

  But she made it to the table where Pettigrew, Dempsey, and Cindy were busy slamming mocha lattes. A stack of paper lay on the table, bound by brass brads. On the cover page, typed in all caps, were the words “THE HALLOWEENING.”

  She couldn’t resist standing behind Pettigrew and sniffing that man-smell at the back of his neck. He shuddered and glanced around.

  “She doesn’t know,” Cindy said. Her chair was uncomfortably close to Pettigrew’s and their knees were nearly touching.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Pettigrew said. “She’s got her ways of finding stuff out.”

  “You’re just paranoid.”

  Bone wanted to claw out the diva’s ice-blue eyes. Nobody’s allowed to steal my best friend’s guy. Except maybe me.

  “You guys in or out?” Dempsey said. He waved his arm around the coffee shop. “Anybody in here would die to be in your shoes.”

  “We’re in,” Cindy said, grabbing Pettigrew’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

  “I can’t just go into this thing like a hog rooting for an acorn,’ Pettigrew said. “I got a job and a girlfriend—ooof.”

  Cindy gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs that was buffered by that winning smile she probably practiced in the mirror every morning. Bone wanted to dump mocha all over that Ivory skin and wash the smugness away.

  “Look, this thing is solid,” Dempsey said to Pettigrew. “I mean, it’s not only set, it’s set set. We’ve got it from my agent.”

  Dempsey leaned forward with his mouth open and eyes wide, expecting his enthusiasm to be infectious. Though Cindy squirmed in her seat, Pettigrew was unfazed.

  “Agent,” Dempsey said, repeating the magic word. “Dude, it’s golden.”

  “Why me, then?” Pettigrew said. “If it’s such a big deal, why can’t you get Shia LeBeouf or that Pattinson guy?”

  Good question, Bone thought, wondering if she could stow away in Pettigrew’s luggage and head for Hollywood with him.

  Dempsey frowned. “Because the agent said it had to be you. He thinks you’ve got this Billy Bob Thornton élan that’s going to be the next big thing. Cindy here is a no-brainer—”

  In more ways than one. But she possesses all the other assets, right, Demps? So just skip it, okay?

  As if heeding her unspoken words, Dempsey sat back and tapped his coffee mug. “The agent said it had to be you two or there was no deal.”

  “What about my tow truck?” Pettigrew said, still dubious.

  Cindy and Dempsey both rolled their eyes as if they’d been watching too many Jim Carrey movies. “You can buy a whole fleet of trucks,” Dempsey said. “And you can afford imports.”

  Pettigrew’s jaw tensed. “Don’t be talking like that. I love my country.”

  Dempsey held up his hands. “Sure, sure. But this is more than just money. It’s art.”

  “Yeah,” Cindy said, still clinging to his hand. “You want to stick around this Hicksville town forever?”

  “It ain’t so bad here.”

  Especially compared to Darkmeet and the Graveyard of Second Chances.

  Dempsey stood up as the music shifted over to twitchy Talking Heads. “Think about it. But the agent needs an answer, like, yesterday.”

  As he strutted past with his chains jingling, Bone stuck out her leg to trip him. He passed right through her but his body heat sent shivers up her body. She took it as a hopeful sign.

  Wilt Drumbowski glanced in their direction, and Bone wondered if he were one of those weird kids who could see ghosts. But apparently he was more interested in Dempsey. Maybe Wilt was working on a screenplay like every other writer in America.

  Cindy made her move on Pettigrew, like a cat toying with a paralyzed mouse. “He’s got an agent,” she said.

  Pettigrew pulled his hand free of her claw-like grasp. “Great, then why don’t you go play kissyface with him?”

  Cindy purred a chuckle. “He’s obviously gay. I mean, leather and chains? In Parson’s Ford?”

  Pettigrew’s brow furrowed as if he didn’t understand the concept. “See what happens when you get Hollywood fever?”

  Bone moved closer to him, again digging the man-smell, which mingled with the scorched Sumatra and the artificial vanilla that wafted through the coffee shop. The sensations intensified, and she wondered if her prolonged exposure to the real world was reviving her.

  Maybe if I hang around long enough, I can be a real girl again. And this time, I’ll do it right.

  “Pet,” she whispered in his ear, not sure how well her voice would carry.

  He jerked upright, spilling his Java Junkie blend on the stack of paper. Cindy snatched the papers off the table, shrieking. “You big doofus! That’s the script. That’s my ticket to Sunset Boulevard.”

  She wiped at it, but the brown stain had spread through the inner pages and left a splotch in the shape of Shrek’s head around THE HALLOWEENING. Pettigrew was a little dazed, as if the caffeine had kicked in all at once. Bone smiled to herself, though her cold lips felt like hibernating reptiles.

  Still got the old spark, kid. Even dead, you can still make them jump.

  “I gotta go,” Pettigrew said.

  “Crystal’s got you on a short leash, huh?” Cindy said, clutching the script to her generous bosom and making sure he looked there. “But I can take you places she never even dreamed existed.”
r />   “She’s okay,” Pettigrew said. “A little weird, but she got a good heart.”

  Cindy leaned close, too close, making sure every kid in the coffee shop would be gossiping tomorrow about how Pettigrew was stepping out on Crystal Aldridge. “See how far ‘good’ gets you,” she whispered, giving his earlobe a tiny flick with her tongue.

  Damn. That even made ME shiver, and I’m dead.

  Bone, despite her jealousy, observed that Cindy was actually a pretty decent actress. She’d been practicing her entire life, fleshing out the role of Cindy Summerhill. She’d been chewing them up and spitting them out since kindergarten, and keeping all eyes on her at all times. Hollywood would be a cakewalk.

  “See you on Halloween, Billy Bob,” she said, sashaying toward the door with a little extra motion in the ocean.

  “Royce,” Pettigrew said.

  Uh-oh. As much as I’d love to stay and play with Pettigrew, I guess I’d better warn Crystal.

  On her way out the door, Bone stopped and pilfered some of the mocha-coated coffee beans. Most of the customers had turned their attention back to their videogames or had gathered heads to tell Cindy Summerhill fables. She could have sworn she heard a couple of them say “Royce.”

  Only Wilt Drumbowski saw the collection of little brown dots floating out the door. His mouth fell open, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he shook his head and kept writing.

  Good boy. There’s a copy of The Bloodening in your future.

  Chapter 23

  “Psst. Wake up.”

  Crystal shook her head. Roscoe. Had to be.

  The bed squeaked as someone moved next to her, then the covers were yanked from her body. Eyes still closed, she reached for them, and her fingers closed on soft fabric.

  But the fabric gave way and she clawed at it, shivering and trying to find purchase on the cool thread.

  “Umm. That’s my face,” Bone said.

  Crystal sat up, blinking. The only light was from the Stonehenge screensaver on her computer. In its bluish glow, Bone looked even deader than usual.

  “Whu—what time is it?”

  “Tomorrow.”