Ally nods, takes my hand, walks home without twirling once.
Dallas comes over on Saturday for Halloween fun at the Spartan. “I can stay till eleven! I told Dad we’re working on science.” He smiles with all his heart and dances with his arms above his head.
“How was the dance last night?” I ask.
“The dance? Oh my god, the dance. How was the dance?” He laughs, sighs, collapses on the couch.
“Yeah. How was it? Did you dance with anyone?”
“Think about it, Max. It was a dance full of zombies dressed in costumes. What do you think it was like?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He leans forward and clasps his hands together. “How can I describe it? It was like wading through a river of shit, Max. No, actually, it was like standing in a gymnasium of shit for three hours while people flicked elastics at my head and stuck thermometers up my ass and I asked for more. That’s exactly what it was like. That’s what you missed.” He leans back, smiles. “It was glorious. I can’t wait till the Christmas ball.”
“Whoa. Are you okay?”
He laughs. “Am I okay? Am I okay?”
“Seriously, Dallas. Take it easy.”
He spreads his legs and slouches into the couch cushions, lays his head back and stares at the ceiling. He mutters a string of senseless curses, laughs hysterically, then closes his eyes in a state of bliss. “Man, it’s so good to be here. You don’t know what it’s like.” He turns his head toward me, cracks an eye open. “For you it’s a job. You go to school, put in your time, come home and relax. For me…” He closes his eyes, shakes his head, breathes deeply. “It never ends, man. It’s every fucking second.”
Ally hops into the room. She’s been dressed like a rabbit since ten in the morning. Celeste painted her face and gave her whiskers. “Hi, Dallas! You said a bad word. Where’s your costume?”
He sits up and smiles, tweaks her bunny ears. “We’re going to make our costumes.” He turns to me excitedly. “Unless Celeste would do us. I’m not above begging.”
“I already asked. She’s at a party with some guy.”
“What are you going to make a costume with?” Ally asks.
Dallas smiles. “With my imagination!”
Ally takes a step back. “My teacher says imaginations get us into trouble.”
Dallas laughs so long that I just leave him there and make some lunch.
Twenty minutes later we’re eating fries at the kitchen table, swallowing the fact that we have no imaginations. “What should we make?” I ask for the tenth time.
He shrugs. I shrug. I look around the kitchen. He looks around the kitchen. I hum. He whistles. I pick up the salt and pepper shakers—boring silver and glass cylinders—and shake them to my tune. He snaps his fingers and says, “Excellent. But I’ll have to borrow something gray.”
We wear gray T-shirts, gray pants and gray ski caps with holes cut out of the crowns. “This is a waste of two good caps,” Dallas says. “No one is going to see the tops of our heads.”
“Speak for yourself. Half the building is taller than me.”
He paints a big S on his shirt and wears it with his white skin. I paint a big P on mine and wear it with my black skin. We show Mom. “Ta da!”
“That’s it?” she asks. “S and P? Is that a product?”
“We’re Salt and Pepper!” I whine. “God, Mom. We’re shakers.”
She laughs. “Salt and Pepper. That’s what your dad used to call us when we were first dating. He was so white.” She stares us up and down and shakes her head. “We were real salt and pepper. You two are more like cinnamon and garlic powder. Have you looked in a mirror?”
Dallas and I pose in the bathroom, trying to look cylindrical and spicy. “We look like recalls,” he says at last.
“It’s the hats.”
“We look way too old for trick-or-treating.”
“If we had masks, we could at least act like ourselves.”
“So we’re not just defective salt and pepper shakers, we’re defective zombie salt and pepper shakers.”
We slump out of the bathroom, ready to call off the whole adventure.
Ally hops away from the window and shouts, “Hey! Salt and Pepper! What a great costume!”
And we’re back on the scene, giant candy bags in hand.
We head down the hallway, knocking on doors. “Is Xavier trick-or-treating tonight?” I ask Mrs. Lavigne.
“No, he’s still not feeling well.”
“Still?” I let slip a note of concern. Dallas jabs me. “That’s a shame,” I say. “It’s important to feel well every day. If we don’t feel well we should see a medical practitioner.”
She closes the door in my face.
On the second floor, we run into Lucas. He’s alone, dressed like a box of cereal. Dallas eyes his costume and mutters, “We could have done that.”
“Hello, Maxwell. Hello, Alexandra,” Lucas says. “I like your costumes.” He stares from me to Dallas like he’s trying to figure it out.
“Thank you,” Ally says. “I like yours too. I’m going to trick-or-treat at your house.”
“It’s that one.” Lucas points to the apartment directly under ours. There’s a wreath on the door made of dried vines and pine cones. “I’m going upstairs. Good night.” He doesn’t ask to join us. He’s perfectly happy to walk the halls in a cardboard box without a friend in the world.
After we tap every door in the Spartan, Ally looks in her candy bag and says, “I have enough. It’s heavy.”
We drop her at home, where she dumps a feeble collection of chocolate and candies on the kitchen table.
“Let’s visit the rich houses,” I say.
“Better goodies,” Dallas agrees.
We head outside into the most disturbing Halloween of my life. All the young kids walk in orderly fashion, alone or with parents. They wait their turn to knock on doors. They say, “Thank you,” after every treat. And they never—not once—look inside their bags to see what they got. They are clear and present zombies.
The older teens yell and laugh and push each other around. Six boys dressed as mutilated bodies shout, “Boo!” as they pass us. “What the hell are you two supposed to be?” one asks. “P and S? What’s that?”
“Salt and Pepper,” Dallas mutters.
“What, unit?”
“Salt and Pepper,” Dallas repeats.
“Salt and Pepper?” the kid says. “What have salt and pepper got to do with Halloween?”
They mock us and walk on. They yell “Boo!” at a ten-year-old girl dressed as a giraffe. She pouts and says, “With every year, we should grow more responsible toward ourselves and those around us.”
They roar with laughter and call her names. Feeb. Defect.
Recall. I want to join in.
Dallas sadly surveys their costumes. “We could have done that,” he mutters.
Two teenagers spray-paint a billboard on the corner, covering a pharmacy ad with sloppy tags. I ache to join them, but Dallas holds me back. “They’d spray-paint your face, Pepper.”
The name stabs my heart. I don’t want to be reminded of Pepper. Yet here I am dressed in a pepper costume. The subconscious is cruel.
“I saw Pepper dancing this week,” Dallas says. “She didn’t seem like a zombie.”
I turn on him. “Was she at the dance last night?”
“No. I saw her at lunchtime with her group.”
“Why would you go looking for Pepper?”
“I wasn’t looking for her. I just saw her.”
“And?”
“And she didn’t dance like a zombie.”
“I thought her ankle was busted.”
He shrugs and says, “Could be, but I wasn’t watching her ankle.”
“She doesn’t even like tall guys, you know.”
He smiles his dazzling ultimate smile. “She thinks I’m the best-looking guy in school, remember?”
I sn
ort. I have nothing to say to this friend who’s trying to get his tall white mitts on my brown zombie girl.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Max, look! It’s Tyler. What is he wearing?”
Tyler Wilkins is twenty feet away from us and closing fast.
He’s alone and dressed like a caterpillar. He wears stretchy polyester pants striped black and green, with a skin-tight green T-shirt that shows off his nipples, and a black ski cap that sprouts long spiral antennae. His hair is tucked under his hat so his bony face is blindingly bare. The tip of his nose is painted black like a pup’s.
I crack up. I can’t help it. I double over and pretend to be coughing. I can barely breathe, I’m laughing so hard.
Dallas steps in front of me to block Tyler’s view.
“Hello, Dallas. How are you?” Tyler asks. His antennae wobble when he speaks.
Dallas starts to lose it. “I’m well, Tyler. How are you?”
“My doctor says I should be fine, thank you. Is that Maxwell behind you?”
“Yes, it is,” Dallas squeaks.
I straighten up a little and wave.
“Salt and Pepper,” Tyler says. “Very clever.” He nods twice. His antennae sway back and forth. “Happy Halloween.”
Dallas and I flee down the street and break into laughter that feels like it’s never going to end.
TEN
Dallas invents history and communications projects that require extensive teamwork. He comes over almost every night, giddier each time. The stress of living as a zombie under constant surveillance is wearing him down.
On Friday he helps me set up my art tent in the living room. It’s like a small canvas building, ten by ten and six feet high. It has no floor—it’s last-century war surplus—so we put it over the couch. It’s stiffer and heavier and more complicated than I’d expected. We’re swearing our asses off by the time we straighten it out.
“This is a huge tent,” he says. “You haven’t got much living room left. Are you sure your mom won’t mind?”
“Nah. She never sits in here. I’ll lay down sheets before I paint.”
We tie back the flaps and sit inside. It smells like a moldy basement. The stained plastic windows barely let in any light. “Ally will love it once it airs out,” Dallas says, bouncing on the couch. “It’s every kid’s dream.”
Freakshow is down to the final three contestants. Zipperhead was in the lead, but they did a Saturday special on Squid and his dead parents, which earned him a boost in support.
“Dorsal’s got to go,” I say. Dorsal is crippled by a bulbous curved spine and a lumpy skull, but her brain is normal. She takes virtual college courses in library sciences. They did a show on her a few weeks back, stressing how hard she worked to go that extra mile like Mom always talks about. Not that Dorsal could even sit in a car, let alone drive an extra mile.
“Zipperhead always looks sad,” Dallas says. “It makes the show depressing.”
Celeste knocks at the door. She’s blue, literally and metaphorically, wearing alien makeup and a frown. She’s not withstanding so well these days.
“Hey, come on in,” I say. “Want to sit in our tent?”
“No, thank you.” She smiles like everybody has a military staff tent in their apartment. “I have a favor to ask you, Max.”
“Anything.”
“Will you walk to school with Xavier tomorrow? It’s his first day back since he got sick, and he’s still having dizzy spells.”
Dallas peers through the tent window and shouts, “Come camping with us, Celeste! Wow, this window makes you look completely blue!”
“I guess Dennis isn’t doing so well either,” she whispers. “Poor thing.”
Xavier barely speaks when I arrive at his door the next morning. He doesn’t smell right. His fruitiness has fermented. He hunches inside his gray suit and his hair hangs stringy. He has a Christ-on-the-cross sort of beauty that dazzles me. I want to offer him a cup of water, sling him over my shoulder, carry him somewhere safe.
“Take care of him,” Mrs. Lavigne says, her face tight, resigned to whatever’s coming next.
Xavier leans backward as he walks, like he’s being blown by a fierce wind. He cracks his eyes half open and nods lazily when I ask if he’s okay. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was either stoned out of his skull or the most premium kid on the planet.
“There’s the jail,” he mutters when we pass the little zombies lined up in rows.
“That’s the elementary school,” I say. “Ally’s old school. Remember Ally?”
He gives four slight nods while glancing at me sideways. “Fruits and vegetables,” he says. Then he squints like he’s in pain.
I pat his back. “Whatever you say, man.”
“I say I love you, Max.”
Christ, he kills me. He sounds just like my dad.
When we reach the high school, Dallas marches over and says, “Zombies eat brains.”
“I bet they taste good,” I answer.
“It’s nice to see you back at school, Xavier.”
Xavier squints and nods. “You can’t see me.”
“Is he one of us?” Dallas whispers.
“Nah,” I say. “He’s just nuts.”
Xavier hangs his head as if someone switched him off.
Dallas twists around to look into his face. “You okay, man? You’re drooling.” We walk him to a picnic table and sit him down. He looks at the sky and smiles, then closes his eyes in ecstasy.
“What is he on?” Dallas asks.
I shrug. “Whatever he used to be on plus whatever they gave him.”
“It doesn’t seem so bad.”
“Whispered words are never healthy,” Pepper says.
I jolt and shudder. She’s behind the bench, staring from me to Dallas with a look of absolute nothing on her face.
“That’s why we never whisper,” I say.
She squints. “You were whispering. I heard you.”
“If you could hear us, then we obviously weren’t whispering,” Dallas says.
“You were in a movie I saw,” Xavier mutters.
“It’s nice to see you back at school, Xavier,” Pepper says.
“Like all children, Xavier is lucky to go to school,” I say.
I jerk my head around like a robot. “Look at all these lucky children.”
Dallas bends his arms robotically and says, “We are lucky…to be training…for our futures.”
Pepper frowns. We might have gone too far.
“Xavier needs help getting to class,” I say. “Dallas and I recognize the needs of all our classmates. Goodbye, Pepper.”
We heave Xavier to his feet and steer him toward the door. He nods and mutters, “There will be consequences.” I’m sure it’s random but the timing scares me.
Xavier gets worse as the day goes on. Half the tenth graders are in one class now, over a hundred students, sitting at tiny desks shoved close together. It unsettles Xavier when students squeeze by him. He likes everyone in their place. He trembles and buzzes over each absence, staring at the vacant chairs in alarm. A few kids who were on psychotropics are off sick now. I haven’t seen Tyler Wilkins since Halloween. “Maybe he turned into a butterfly,” Dallas says.
Werewolf fills in for Mr. Reese in history. I hate him more than ever now that I can’t express it. He doesn’t seem to like us any better either. He tells us Montgomery is in the hospital having convulsions. “Shame,” he says like he scuffed his shoe. “He was one of the better students.”
Xavier gets up and sits in Montgomery’s chair. Werewolf tells him to go back to his own seat. “There’s another potential here,” Xavier says.
Werewolf snorts. “Just get back in your seat.”
Xavier docks his RIG into the desk port as if he didn’t hear.
“Back in your seat!” Werewolf booms.
Xavier holds his head and moans.
Werewolf gets off his hairy ass. He leans in front of Xavier, lays both palms on the desk, a
nd repeats, “Back. In. Your. Seat.” He spits when he talks. It glistens on Xavier’s face. I feel my blood start to boil.
Xavier mutters something incomprehensible.
Werewolf grabs his arm and tries to haul him up. “Get out of this chair, you idiot!” he shouts.
Xavier snaps to attention. He never liked to be touched.
He grabs Werewolf’s middle finger and snaps it back. Crack. The sound of breaking bone echoes off the walls and pierces the surveillance camera. Werewolf emits a childish sobbing scream and holds his hand in the air like it’s a foreign object.
A look of fury comes over Xavier, a look I’ve never seen him wear before. He stands up and roars—a shocking primal sound that spills into the hallway. He plows Werewolf in the face.
Werewolf ’s head swings over his shoulder and he staggers backward into Brennan’s desk. His nose gushes blood, hot and red, spewing onto his beard and his clean white shirt, down to the floor tiles. Xavier steps through the splatter and punches Werewolf in the gut, breathing so hard he’s almost smoking.
Brennan pushes his chair back into the desk behind him. Other students shake their heads, glance at the camera, chant the rules prohibiting violence.
Xavier strikes again with an uppercut. Werewolf lands on Brennan’s desktop with his hairy neck exposed like a chicken on a chopping block. Xavier looks prepared to sever the head with his own bloody hands while the class looks on in annoyance. I almost want him to do it. I sit there and wait for it, but Brennan stands up between them.
Xavier turns his fury onto Brennan, who’s ready for it. Brennan blocks a punch and knees Xavier in the groin, then gets him on the floor and pins his arm behind his back. “Easy, easy,” he whispers.
Xavier curls up on the tiles and closes his eyes. He scratches his head like he’s trying to claw something out of it and starts to sob, raw heaving cries of torment. His hair falls across his face like a veil streaked with blood. I can’t take this. I’m on my feet. I don’t know what I’m doing.
Werewolf sops his nose with a blue mitten stained purple.
“Don’t let go of his arms!” he shouts. He looks prepared to kick Xavier in the kidneys.
I intend to take him down, but Dallas blocks me and shouts, “Help! You don’t belong here!”
All Good Children Page 13