I wished Sherri had been around to talk to about this.
I let out a huge, world-ending sigh.
“I know,” Elsa said. “It really sucks. I have to admit that I was surprised when you asked me to come with you today.”
“I guess someone forgot to forward me the memo on my upgraded social status.”
She took another sip of her drink, careful to keep her nose out of it this time.
“Well, I’m glad you asked me along,” she said. “It proves you’re not a total bitch yet.”
“Not yet,” I said. It sounded hollow, and neither of us even smiled at that statement. We parted ways pretty quickly after that.
I still couldn’t go out other than work and school—and the odd shopping spree, apparently—but I talked to Brandon every day. My dad allowed me to use the phone as long as I had all of my homework done, which had never been a problem for me.
That night I called Brandon and told him about buying a dress for his party. I left out the part about me discovering the fact that I’d been canonized by his little circle. He was super-excited about the party and reported to me that my dad had called his dad and that all the dads were now in agreement about how the party would be conducted and supervised. Brandon thought it was a hoot that my dad was so concerned about all of this.
“Well, just look at it from his point of view,” I said. “As far as he’s concerned, his little girl is one toke away from becoming a crack whore.”
“And the truth is so much worse!”
What can only be described as a pregnant pause filled the space between us.
“I was just joking,” Brandon said. “Because, you know, you sell the drugs.”
“I got it.”
“Shit. I put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?”
“No,” I said. “No, every girl likes to hear that she’s worse than a crack whore.”
A big exhalation of breath came from the other end of the line. “Maybe we can pretend that I just had, like a stroke, or a sudden bout of retardation.”
Now he was making retarded jokes. Great. “That sounds fine to me,” I said.
“I’m really sorry; I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I guess I’m just sensitive,” I said. “But you’re forgiven as long as we drop it right now.”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of punishment?”
“Don’t push it.”
He stopped and told me about his preparations for the party instead. Many of this developments were “sick,” “diesel,” and “off the chain.” I did the telephonic equivalent of nodding along without paying too much attention. You know, I said, “uh-huh,” “wow,” and “great” at regular intervals. After a while, I told him I had to get off the phone so I could write up my journal entry for my meeting with Miss Bjorn the next day.
“What are you going to write?”
“I’m treating it like a creative writing assignment,” I said. “It’ll be a short story featuring a main character who happens to share my name. It’s like Paul Auster.” The silence on the other end told me Brandon didn’t know who that was. Since I wanted to get off the phone, I didn’t bust his balls about it.
I actually did write my assignment for the meeting. To avoid getting caught in a lie, I stuck to the truth as much as possible. But that still meant an awful lot of lying. I had to say that Sherri supplied the drugs, that I didn’t know where she got them—since I would never in a million years mention Buddha—and I had to leave Brandon out of it.
I’ll admit that by the time I was done, I was miserable. Was that Ms. Bjorn’s intention? To destroy me emotionally? Well, mission accomplished. I felt like I’d been doing a pretty good job of hiding myself from any emotions about Sherri, and about Willie, and dealing with the counselor made me face all of this garbage. But, really, what was the use? Being all weepy about it wasn’t going to bring either of them back. Confronting your emotions was pretty worthless in my opinion.
After I wrote my essay for Miss Bjorn, I felt like I should go to bed. I just lay there forever, staring at the ceiling. Writing that stupid thing for her had brought up all of these goddamned feelings even though it was half-lies. Jesus, why didn’t I just go ahead and write the truth? Oh, right, because I’d go to jail and Buddha would have me killed by some bull dyke while I was there. Still, I didn’t know what to do with all of this sadness.
I sat up in bed, my heart pounding, because for just a second—literally, just a second—I thought about all of the Z I had stashed in my room and the way it had made me forget everything that was going wrong in my life while I had been on it. I shook my head, trying to clear it. There was no way, with a capital “N,” I was going to take that crap again. The fact that I had even considered it freaked me out. Okay, I hadn’t considered it. I’d just thought about it. It had crossed my mind. Still.
I needed to put as much distance between me and the Z as I could right now. I got out of bed and I snuck down the hall and through the living room. I opened the front door and sat down on our little concrete stoop—it’s just two steps and a “porch” that’s like four feet square. The night wasn’t too hot and there was a nice breeze. It seemed to clear my head. I sat there a long time just looking at my neighborhood in the dim light. It was pretty. I was fairly sure that those were the only circumstances under which my ’hood could look nice. I wrapped my arms around my knees and lowered my head on top of them. I felt like I could go to sleep right there with all of that sweet air moving around me.
Then I heard the sound of breaking glass a long way off and a dog started barking. It sounded blocks and blocks away. It really bothered me. It was like a sound of the real world intruding on my little fantasy cocoon. The dog’s barking became more and more insistent. It made me think of that old lady we found after she got killed. I didn’t want to be thinking those thoughts right then. Or ever, really.
I got up and went back into the house, making double-damn sure to lock the door and bolt. I went down the hall and into my room just long enough to grab my blanket and pillow. I carried them into the living room and lay down on the couch.
“Good night, Sherri,” I said to the darkness. “Good night, Willie. I hope you guys are happy wherever you are. Happier than you were here, anyway.” I felt sort of silly talking to them like that, even though it felt good, too. So I decided to cut myself some slack and just run with the good feelings. It’s not too often I can do that. Maybe I was making progress after all.
Friday passed by like a dream. The last day of school is always a pain in the ass and exciting all mixed together. I didn’t even have any tests that day. If it hadn’t been for my appointment with Miss Bjorn, I might just have skipped. As it was, we didn’t do anything in any of my classes. All the finals had already been graded, all the assignments and extra-credit turned in. We’d be mailed our final report cards over the summer. I’d already asked all of my teachers for my grades so I knew I’d aced them.
The meeting with Miss Bjorn went as I expected. She read over what I’d written and we spent the hour talking about it. Sometimes she gave me this look like she was skeptical. Since she couldn’t look into any it, she just let it slide.
When we were done, she told me that she hoped I’d consider seeing another therapist over the summer and that I’d keep seeing her once the school year got started again next fall.
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll think about it.” There was a snowball’s chance in hell I’d actually consider either of those things, though she didn’t need to know that. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I mean, I’m not a psychopath.
When I left Miss Bjorn’s office, I went right into the end-of-year rally. The rally is a ploy to get people not to skip the last day of classes. Mrs. Ibrahim comes out and gives a motivational speech, then coach Amara introduces the football team’s starting lineup for next season.
I became unreasonably excited when he said, “At quarterback, Brandon Ikaros!” and Brandon came running out in his letterm
an jacket and blinded everyone in the bleachers with his smile.
The team stood and waved at us all and absorbed our adoration for five minutes or so while the girls from the new cheer leading squad—Crystal was named captain!—danced around. It was very bread and circuses.
Once the representatives of the ruling elite—in whose numbers I could now count myself, apparently—walked back into the locker rooms, the lights dimmed and Mrs. Ibrahim walked to center court as a screen lowered from the ceiling. The crowd grew silent and I felt my heart thudding in my chest. We’d all been through enough of these rallies to know what was coming.
“I hate to end the school year on such a down note,” Mrs. Ibrahim said, “but we have to acknowledge the students we’ve lost over the year, including two whom we’ve lost very recently, Sherri Temple and William Luunder.”
Photos of those students who were either confirmed dead or just missing flashed on the screen while dramatic music played in the background. I think it was something from The Lion King. Sherri and Willie were last. On the left side of the screen was a photo of Sherri culled from her one appearance in the Quotidian. Her mouth was open, eyes half-closed, and she was in the process of shoving a piece of pizza in her maw. Under the photo was her name and the years she was alive. Next to that photo was Willie’s information. Where there should have been a photo of him was the text: No Image Found. They couldn’t find one photo of him? Why didn’t they come to me and ask for one—someone had to know we were friends. Goddamn these people. All of them! I was surrounded by people giving polite golf claps over a pair of dead kids they’d never cared about when they were breathing!
I gathered my stuff and stormed off the bleachers and into the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and concentrated on fighting back the tears. But that was a losing bet, so I just let go. I sat there on the toilet crying over my dead friends until the rally was over. Then I got up, washed my face, and went to find Brandon so he could take me to work.
As he drove me, he was stoked—his word. He kept yelling, “I’m stoked!” over and over again during our ride to the Bully Burger. Apparently he was in this state not just because summer was starting, but also because he was going to have the “sickest party ever” the next day. I tried to go along and ride the wave and be excited for him. After what happened in the gymnasium, I wasn’t really feeling it. But either I did a good job faking it or he was too wrapped up in how very awesome the situation was to notice my lack of enthusiasm.
When he dropped me off, he asked if I needed a ride home. I told him no, that Chacho would drive me. It was his job and all. That was fine since he had to go out to the cabin with Ken to finish getting it together. He’d see me the next night.
“I hope you’re ready to have your mind blown with happiness,” he told me just before he pulled away.
I was so ready for that.
Once I got inside and changed into my uniform, I went into the back and found Phil. He stood over the sink cleaning the dishes that had been dirtied during prep. His ears were covered with these big, bulky headphones, the cord to which snaked down his back and into his pocket. I said his name a couple of times. He didn’t hear me. I finally had to poke his shoulder.
He spun around like he’d been bitten. His eyes were wild there for a second until he saw it was me, and then he calmed down.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”
“Obviously. How are you?”
He blinked at me and then quickly looked around the room. Maybe he thought our conversation was the preamble to something bad. A trap, a prank, something. Once he decided that nothing awful was too likely to happen, he relaxed. He reached down and switched off his mp3 player.
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you for that drawing of Sherri you gave me. It was pretty kickass.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it turned out well.”
I didn’t really know what else to say, so I smiled and started to turn to get back to the front of the store.
“Hey,” he said, and I turned back. “I heard you’re going to Brandon Ikaros’s party out at the reservoir.”
“Yeah,” I said. Was he going to try to wrangle an invitation? It hadn’t been that nice a drawing.
“Is that a good idea?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you already got attacked out there once.” He shrugged.
“No, the sheriff cleared it out after that. They said they’d make extra patrols. You know?”
“Sure,” he said. “As long as you feel safe.” He reached down and clicked on his mp3 player and turned around to keep washing dishes.
I stood there for a second before I figured out that I’d pretty much been dismissed. I turned and walked out of the back and over to the register. What the hell was he thinking, treating me like that? Apparently he didn’t get the memo about my hierarchical upgrade, either.
I put it out of my head as best I could. I checked to make sure my apron pocket was full of baggies of Z, and it was empty. Shit, I’d forgotten to stock up my supply before I came to work. I remembered holding the bag full of Z this morning, but I guess I put it back without getting any out. If I kept this up, I’d never get out of this burg.
I sighed, put on my headset, and gritted my teeth. Then I welcomed my first customer of the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Classic Horror Movie Setup
I felt like sort of a tool because when it came time to get ready for the party on Saturday, I had to actually go on YouTube and look up videos that explained how to apply makeup. Pretty girl makeup, not the type I usually do. I thought about calling someone for help and I couldn’t come up with anyone. Elsa was out for obvious reasons. Ditto every other girl I knew. I didn’t know any popular girls well enough yet to call and ask for help. Especially because they’d probably think I was special if I needed assistance with something like my freaking makeup. For the time being I was on my own.
I searched a long time to find a video featuring someone who didn’t look like a total skank, and then even longer to find someone who didn’t make me want to murder her because she was so F’ing stupid. The world of makeup tutorial videos is apparently a serious business. You can learn how to apply cosmetics for any number of social situations and ethnic profiles. It was sort of fascinating. I thought that maybe next year when I was in my college prep Psychology class, I might delve into this whole phenomenon. For the moment, however, I chose “elegant makeup” by a chick who called herself MissFactor99 and got to work.
MissFactor99 made everything seem so easy and never once implied that at some point I would want to kill myself with the goddamned mascara applicator. Two hours and innumerable face scrubbings later, however, that’s where I was. I was about to give up and go au natural when it just sort of fell together. One minute I was Miley Cyrus after a bender, the next I was Audrey Hepburn. Okay, not Audrey Hepburn, but I looked damned good. I sat back and admired myself for a few minutes and then it struck me that I hadn’t built in time to do anything with my hair. I refused to cry as it would ruin all of the work I’d just put into my face. I finally just sort of threw my hair up into a bun-like thing and called it good. I hoped that my face would distract from the rest of my head area.
Compared to the rest of the preparations, getting dressed was a snap. I mean, I’ve worn clothes before, and everything was fairly intuitive. After I was dressed, I stood and looked at myself in the full-length mirror that hangs on the back side of my door. I had a hard time believing it was me. I’d never looked anything like this. For God’s sake, the dress gave me cleavage. I opened the door and called down the hall for my dad.
I heard him coming and he made some joke about how long I’d been locked in my room and sending a rescue party. Typical dad “humor.”
Just as he was about to enter my room, I called out, “Okay, close your eyes.” He stopped walking and did as he was told. “I want your h
onest opinion of how I look, okay?”
“Of course.”
“No, you have to be honest. I don’t have the capacity to gauge how I look, so you have to be totally, brutally honest. Even if I look like shit.”
“Courtney, your language.”
“Promise!”
“I promise I’ll tell you you look like crap,” he said.
“Funny. Right. Open your eyes.”
He did and he looked at me for a moment and then he sort of slumped against the door frame. His mouth opened once or twice and nothing came out.
“Is it bad?”
“Pumpkin, it’s . . . No. You look great.”
“Really?” I asked. Skepticism seemed the most prudent course.
He straightened up and took a couple of steps into the room. He made a twirl motion with his finger and I spun around for him. He smiled a little and shook his head.
“I just never expected to see you looking like this. It’s a long way from jeans and a flannel.”
“It is. But it’s okay?”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked at me. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
He nodded his head and collected his thoughts. He looked like he was really choosing his words. “You look so different than your normal self. Are you happy with how you look?”
“I think I look pretty good, I guess. So, yeah.”
“Hmm. Maybe what I should have asked is, ‘Are you happy with why you’ve made such a drastic change?’ ”
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