Zomburbia

by Adam Gallardo

  After many stepped-on toes and shoulder-checked bodies, I made it to the kitchen. More people. And a keg. Someone had brought a keg to Sherri’s party. I didn’t see any faces I recognized so I couldn’t ask after her whereabouts. I passed through the living room for a second time, and I felt my phone vibrating in my pants pocket. I fished it out and saw I’d received a message.

  LOOK UP.

  I looked up the stairs and there was Sherri, phone in hand, grimace plastered on her face. She was in her standard party garb: all black pocket-T, skirt, and leggings, and her knee-high Dr. Marten knockoffs. She raised her hand and wagged her finger for me to join her. I took a deep breath and did just that, winding my way up the stairs past knots of people.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, Sherri turned and stomped off down the hall toward her parents’ room. I followed, of course. We got inside and she slammed the door, then stalked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Do you know why we’re in my folks’ room?” she asked.

  “Because this is where you always stay when they’re out—” I started. She cut me off.

  “Because there are people humping in my room!” she shouted. “If anyone was going to hump in my room, it should be me.”

  I didn’t bother to point out that she had no boyfriend at the moment and that there was probably no one at the party that she liked, so really the humping issue was moot.

  “Do you know who’s to blame for all of this?” she asked. Her voice was very controlled, very even. I knew I had to be careful.

  “I guess that Brandon told everyone,” I said.

  “You, you stupid cow,” she said calmly. “I blame you.”

  “You blame me,” I said, and I felt my cheeks growing hot.

  “It’s because of your fat mouth that all of these losers are in my house right now,” she said, her voice growing shrill. She was losing her cool finally. Good, so was I.

  “I really need to apologize,” I said. “How horrible of me to make your party an actual, you know, party.” I felt my voice rising and I was talking faster and faster. “I know you wanted it to be what your parties always are—a bunch of lame-asses sitting around being miserable.”

  “Maybe that’s the way we like it!”

  “Well, guess what?” I asked. “If that’s what you want, you can still have it. Brandi and all the rest of our lame friends are sitting on the couch downstairs looking like they sucked on a turd. The fact that all these people are here makes it even easier for you to act alienated. Have a goddamned ball!”

  She stood up and I wondered if she was going to throw a punch at me. That might have been better, maybe.

  “Is this all because you think you’re better than me?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

  I took a step back from her, recoiled like she had slapped me.

  “What the hell—?”

  “Don’t pretend,” she said. “You know you think it. Sometimes I think you only hang out with us so you can feel superior.”

  She paused, probably giving me a chance to defend myself. But all I could do was stand there and look at her. All my anger, so righteous just a minute ago, was completely gone. She nodded to herself.

  “You never miss a chance to point out the AP classes you’re in, or to correct us if we get something wrong—grammar or some stupid saying that doesn’t mean anything.” She took another step toward me, closed the gap between us. “The only people at school who know about your little side business are us, a bunch of loser kids who aren’t smart enough to screw it up for you and who envy all the cash it brings in.”

  I finally found my voice. “I—I’m not doing it to make you feel small,” I said.

  “No,” she said, and headed toward the door. “You’re doing it so you have enough money to ditch us one day.”

  “You’re going to go to New York with me,” I said. My voice sounded hollow.

  “You and I both know that’s never going to happen, Courtney,” Sherri said. “You might get out some day, but I’m stuck here.”

  She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. She didn’t look angry anymore. Contemptuous, maybe, not angry.

  “Maybe you should go find your new friend,” she said, “and the two of you can enjoy his party together.” She opened the door and disappeared behind a wall of music and laughter. She closed the door behind her and left me alone in the sudden silence.

  I just stood there for a minute. I tried to convince myself that she was a stupid bitch who didn’t know what she was talking about. The moment I thought the word “bitch” I burst into tears. I wiped frantically at my face. There was no way I’d give Sherri the satisfaction of seeing me like this. I blew my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and walked out of the room. I needed to get out of there. If I couldn’t get a ride home, I’d walk. The zombies could go screw themselves.

  I made my way through all of the people in the hall and walked down the stairs. I got some glares and dirty looks since I was stepping on more toes than usual. I didn’t care. I needed to get outside, get some air in my lungs, and get away from this constant noise before I went crazy, threw up, or started crying again.

  I made it through the front door, pushed my way past the smokers on the porch and down the steps. Finally, I was relatively alone on the front yard. I took a deep shaky breath and closed my eyes, trying to soak in the feeling of being alone. That’s when I heard Brandon’s voice behind me.

  “Courtney,” he said, “is everything okay?”

  Son of a bitch. I turned around and caught sight of his open, simpering face. I didn’t need this right then.

  “Just go away, Brandon,” I told him. “I just need to be by myself right now.”

  “Yeah, but, I saw you and Sherri go into that room,” he pressed on, and I could hear the sincerity and concern dripping from his voice. “Then I saw her come out and you came out a minute later and it looked like you were crying.”

  “Thanks for the recap, Brandon,” I spat back at him. “And what were you doing, spying on me? What kind of creep are you?”

  “I wasn’t spying,” he said. “I was just up there talking with Tori and Kyle and some others, and I saw you. I wasn’t spying.”

  “If you must know,” I said, “Sherri was mad because of how many people showed up to her party.”

  He stopped and thought for a second and then a pained look spread across his face. “Did Sherri blame you for that? Because that is totally my fault. I’ll go find her and tell her what’s really going on.”

  He turned to head back to the house. I’d had too much.

  “Stop,” I shouted. “Just stop! What the hell, Brandon?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He looked so perfectly, puppy-dog-with-his-head-tilted-to-the-side confused that I would have thought it was hilarious if I wasn’t furious with him.

  “I mean what the hell is up with you?” I said. I noticed that people on the porch were looking at us. I didn’t care. “Up until a week ago, you were content to ignore me—which was, actually, freakin’ awesome. Then you come into the Bully Burger, you’re there every time I turn around in the halls, you’re saving seats for me in class. Now you’re being Mr. Gallant. So, one last time, Brandon. What. The. Hell?”

  “I just like you.”

  The answer was so unexpected and his face so serious, I broke out laughing. It was either that or lose my F’ing mind. The pained look on Brandon’s face that followed my little outburst just made me laugh harder.

  “What?” I said when I’d regained some control. “You like me? When have I ever given you cause to like me, you spaz?”

  Things on the porch started to quiet down as more people caught on to the drama playing out in the front yard. Brandon became aware of it and seemed to draw into himself a little. Let’s see how much he liked me when he had to proclaim it in front of the whole party.

  “You’re interesting,” he said, and I stopped chuckling. I wanted to gauge the reactions of the folks on the porch. The
y were all backlit and I couldn’t see their faces. “You’re really smart—smarter than me,” he went on, “and you’re funny. When you don’t feel like you have to be the toughest girl on the playground, you’re really nice, too.

  “Listen,” he went on, and took a step closer to me. “When I say ‘like’ I mean that, I don’t mean ‘love’ or ‘lust’ or anything else. I mean that I like you and I’d like to get to know you better. That’s what I mean.’

  I backed up and bumped up against a tree in the yard. I tried to make it look like I meant to do that and leaned against the tree for support.

  The crowd on the porch was frozen. Still life with red party cups. Though none of them was actually looking in our direction.

  “And how long has this been going on?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Most of the year, I guess. Since we’ve been in Journalism together.”

  I tried to think back and examine my behavior over the past year. What had I done that would have encouraged this boy to like me? I thought I’d done a pretty good job of being uniformly rotten. Obviously, I should have stepped up my game.

  “I think you’re talking about the wrong girl.”

  He shook his head and looked a little angry maybe. “No,” he said, “that’s what you want me to think—what you want everyone to think. I don’t think that’s true. That’s not who you are.”

  “Thank you so much for telling me who I am and am not,” I said, tired of arguing, tired of talking, tired of being. “Listen. Give me a ride home, will you? I don’t think I can stand being here tonight.”

  “I’m sorry all of these people are here and they spoiled Sherri’s thing. I swear I only told a few people.” He paused and frowned. “I guess they told a few others.”

  “Among the growing list of things I can’t stand,” I said, “is you apologizing.”

  He opened his mouth—I’m sure to say “sorry”—but then closed it again.

  I pressed on, maybe looking for him to tell me to go screw myself.

  “And I’ll only let you drive me home if you promise not to talk to me along the way. Okay?”

  “Can I ask one thing before my restraining order goes into effect?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “What happened to your face?” He touched my chin, and I felt an electric thrill go through me and settle in a place that young ladies don’t talk about.

  “I crashed my bike this morning,” I lied. “Now can we begin our silent voyage home?”

  He nodded, didn’t speak. Good boy.

  He led me to the ridiculous truck I’d seen parked in front of his house. He helped me up into the cab. While he walked around to the driver’s side, I checked out the shotguns in the gun rack in the window. The one on top was a Browning Citori over and under double barrel. It was pretty but not exactly practical when it comes to fending off hordes of shufflers. But the other one was the real deal. A Benelli M4 twelve gauge with a pistol grip. It’s gas powered and it’s the same model that the Marines use in combat. It’s a pretty serious piece of weaponry. I was impressed.

  Brandon climbed behind the wheel and keyed the truck to life. It rumbled softly beneath me. I got that same feeling of restrained power I got from the rig Chacho drove. It was comforting. As we drove, Brandon leaned over and turned on the stereo. I was prepared to jump out of the truck if Big Star came out of the speakers. Thankfully I could keep my seat belt on. A girl sang about being held captive by a guy and loathing him and wanting him to touch her hand all at the same time. I could relate.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  Brandon checked to see if he had permission to speak. I nodded.

  “Her name is Jenny Owen Youngs,” he said. “She’s out of New Jersey, I think.”

  “I didn’t have you pegged as a fan of girl-power-singer-songwriters.”

  “Within me I contain multitudes, you know?” he said, “I’m not just one thing.”

  “I said no conversation,” I said, and turned toward the window. I know I asked him a question, but I had to let him know I was in charge. Also, what was up with the Whitman quote? The real question, of course, was whether Brandon knew who he was quoting, or if he was just spouting something he’d read in a quote-a-day calendar. I’d have to investigate further some other time. For now I was enjoying riding along listening to Brandon’s mix tape. After the Youngs girl, a semi-local band from Portland came on: The Thermals. They were really cool until the lead singer Hutch or Hitch something got turned into a zombie during an attack during a show. They had just signed with a big label, and I remember hearing at the time that the label suits tried to figure out a way to still get him to perform. The other band members wouldn’t have anything to do with their zombified pal, though, and the band broke up.

  We pulled up in front of my house, actually right up in front. Brandon jumped the curb and stopped so I had literally two steps to the gate into my yard. I climbed down and was about to swing the door shut when Brandon called out to me.

  “Hey, Courtney,” he said, “I assume since we’re not driving anymore that I can talk to you.” I didn’t say anything, and he took that for agreement. “I want to call you sometime and hang out. You know, to see if I really like you or not.”

  I thought about it for a minute. As they say all the time in one of my favorite movies, The Wild Bunch, why not?

  “You already have my number,” I said. “I can’t stop you from calling me.” I closed the door before he had a chance to say anything else.

  I guess I got home late enough that my dad was already in bed. That was good. I didn’t have it in me to have one more conversation about my feelings or whatever.

  I crept into my room and stowed the cash from my second job. I wanted to read ahead in my AP English class, so I took Camus’s The Stranger to bed with me.

  I was asleep in about thirty seconds.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ilsa of the SS

  I gained consciousness knowing I wanted to murder someone. I had just closed my eyes and now my cell phone chirped away somewhere. I pulled the pillow off my head and squeezed my eyes shut against the light pouring in through my window—that couldn’t be right, could it? Groping blindly on my bedside table, I finally found the phone and brought it to my ear.

  “What?” I demanded. My voice sounded thick, like it belonged to someone who wasn’t me. Someone who’d been smoking nonstop for the last twenty years.

  “Did I wake you up? Were you still asleep?” A boy’s voice. Who? It sounded familiar.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just past eleven,” the voice said. Awareness started to leak in past the wall of sleep in my brain. The voice was cheerful. Who did I know that was (a) a boy and (b) cheerful in the morning?

  “Brandon?” I asked.

  “Good morning!” he said. He’d passed cheerful and gone right on to chipper. “Are you surprised I’m calling so soon?”

  “Well,” I said, my wits finally coming back to me, “I don’t think calling a girl the day after she tells you to is really the cool guy thing to do.”

  “Or maybe it’s exactly what the cool guy would do.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” I said. “What’s up, Brandon?”

  “Me and some friends are going to hang out today,” he said. “Do you want to come along?”

  I was wide awake. I sat up and pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it suspiciously. Maybe it was on the fritz and it was somehow misinterpreting what Brandon was saying.

  “You want me to hang out with you and your friends.”

  “Me, Ken Leung, Crystal Beals,” he said, rattling off the names of kids in the school’s upper echelons. “Maybe a few others—it depends.”

  “I see,” I said. There was a silence as I tried to figure out what to do next. My first instinct was to hang up and run. Then I discovered, with no small feeling of horror, that there was a part of me that wanted to take him up on his invitation. If nothing
else, it would be an interesting sociological outing.

  “Do you have plans today?” he asked, and I could hear, for the first time in the conversation, a note of doubt creep into his voice.

  “Um, no, no plans today,” I said. Then I swallowed hard and said, “Sure, let’s hang out. When and where?”

  I could hear his grin beaming down into my phone from a miles-high satellite. “That’s diesel! I’ll pick you up about two, if that’s okay.”

  “Two’ll be great,” I said. “See you then.”

  He promised he’d see me then, and he rang off. I flipped my phone closed and looked at it again. What the hell was I doing? Hanging out with Brandon and the high-five crowd? Was I getting in over my head? I wished I could call Sherri and talk to her about this. Unfortunately, I had a feeling that she probably still wouldn’t want to know I was alive.

  I showered and got dressed. Cutoff jeans, black tights, my black-and-white chucks, a flannel shirt over white T. I put on even more makeup than usual—black eye liner, eyelash stuff, red lipstick, concealer on the road rash on my chin. It felt like a protective mask.

  As I put on the finishing touches, I smelled bacon cooking. Interesting. I finished up what I was doing and looked out into the hallway. The unmistakable smell of bacon was accompanied by a sizzling sound. Someone out there was definitely cooking breakfast. At noon. I say “someone” because it couldn’t be my dad; the most he did at breakfast was microwave instant oatmeal. Most mornings it was cold cereal or—horror—untoasted bagels.

  I came down the hall and into the kitchen, and I thought I was having a full-blown aneurysm. Not only was my dad cooking breakfast, he was doing it in his boxers and T-shirt. I wondered for a second why he wasn’t wearing his robe. I guess the strange blonde woman sitting at the kitchen table needed to wear something, right? Piles of probably-not-natural blond hair framed her heart-shaped face. She was a bigger woman—what you might call “thick”—and my dad’s robe barely wrapped around her. I had to admit that the look worked for her if she was going for slightly older, cougar/sex kitten. I marveled that she was in my kitchen looking at my father in a suspiciously satisfied way.