Miscreated

by Dia Reeves

  “Only us. We happy few.”

  Bread pudding, but he didn’t want sweets. Mac and cheese, but he didn’t want savory.

  “Am I bloody?” Ophelia rubbed a paper towel over her neck. “I feel bloody.”

  “You look great.”

  “Are you sure?” Ophelia took off her romper, slipped right out of it.

  Maybe it wasn’t food he wanted.

  Ophelia held the romper over her body, hiding from him even as Jimi pulled her into his arms.

  “Come with me to the Revelry and be my plus one.”

  “You can’t order someone to go out with you. I’m the one with the car. You should be my plus one. Do I smell like a horse? I do don’t I? I feel like I’m—”

  Jimi kissed her. And then pulled away to see what her face was like. Okay, she was into it. He dove in again.

  “I’m glad you came back,” he said, when he stopped for air. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t be here. If I’m anything like my dad, you might wake up in bed one day, covered in gasoline. Ablaze.”

  Her skin was damp from her kitchen sink ablutions, mouth still intensely red but smeared. Jimi kissed her again, exacerbated the smear.

  “It might be worth it.”

  Ophelia uncrossed her arms; let the romper fall.

  “What do you mean might be?”

  Later, in Jimi’s room:

  “Definitely worth it.”

  He unraveled her hair, the way he wished he could unravel her. Held the covers out of the way so he could finally see her the way he’d been wanting. It had been her first time so there was blood everywhere. Dez had been a virgin too, but hadn’t bled nearly as much. He used the tissues from the night table to clean them both up as best he could without leaving the bed, leaving her. He wished he could take a picture. Ophelia’s expression was priceless, sort of shocked. Bedazzled. Awed. She couldn’t stop looking at him.

  He stretched next to her, smiling. “Are we friends now?”

  “Shut up.”

  Chapter 24

  César and Giselle came home later that evening, and Jimi was glad because they’d brought back pizza, and he was starving—bacon and tomato, Jimi’s favorite.

  Jimi became decidedly less glad when César remained in the doorway, making chitchat while ogling Ophelia, even after she’d buried herself beneath the sheets. Jimi had to get up, naked, and push his dad out of the room. Would have bolted the door, if there’d been a lock.

  “Don’t take it personally.” Jimi found his shorts and put them on. “You could have been fat old Mrs. Donner from next door, and he’d have still been all up in here, gawking. He’s a pervert. Always has been.” He sat on the bed and tore through the pizza.

  Ophelia unburied herself. “You mention it in your diary.”

  “Ma called Dad that so much, I used to think it was a pet name: sweetheart, darling, pervert.”

  “Do you still keep a diary?” Ophelia grabbed a slice of pizza.

  “Why? You wanna read it?”

  She looked tantalizing, hair clothing her ineffectually as she nibbled the pizza; cautiously, as if she had no idea what the hell it was. “I like the one you let me read, even though it’s sad. You were such a sad little boy.”

  “I’m still sad, just in newer, more interesting ways.”

  Jimi had to take a photo of her, so he did, expecting her to say something about not putting the pictures on the internet or not showing them to his friends. But she only posed for him, like she trusted him to do right by her. “I’m surprised you could read it.”

  “The trick was figuring out what the colors meant. Red ink meant you were excited. Orange meant confusion. Purple was bad.”

  “Purple was horrid.”

  He reached into his night table and retrieved his current diary. Gave it to Ophelia. She wiped her hands carefully before thumbing through it.

  “Fairy blue ink.”

  “Naturally.”

  She read a few pages. “I’m glad you’re more plain-spoken now, less paranoid. Do you write about me?”

  “All the time.”

  She didn’t seem to know how to take it. Or maybe she did know; she put the diary back in the night table drawer, and shut it emphatically.

  “Coward.”

  Ophelia ignored him, face brightening when a new track began to play on the stereo. “I know this song. It was on that CD you made for me.”

  “‘The old, old story of...love.” Jimi tossed the pizza box on the desk. “Einstein on the Beach is the truth.”

  “And truth is beauty. I had to look up the word osculation though.”

  Jimi lay back with her on the bed while she allowed him to really see her in this open way that he hadn’t gotten used to. “Show me what it means.”

  She did. Thoroughly. Ophelia hated being bossed around, but in bed, she let the chips fall where they may.

  They were still kissing when Alexis walked in.

  “Hello.”

  Jimi was too shocked to feel intruded upon. Alexis never visited here. She and César talked all the time, met for espresso or lunch, but never infiltrated each other’s homes; it was practically law. Yet here she was in a dark wool suit, her black diamonds stark against her ivory blouse.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Company manners on full display. “I’m Alexis Labonne.”

  Ophelia beneath the covers again, only her eyes showing. “Ophelia Jones.”

  “How literary.” Alexis stood there.

  “Wait outside,” Jimi said, teeth clenched. “Until we get dressed. Please? Thank you.”

  “Of course. Pardon me.”

  After the door closed behind Alexis, Jimi said, tugging on his clothes, “First thing tomorrow, that door gets triple locked.”

  “It’s okay.” Ophelia tossed the covers aside. “I have to go anyway.”

  She took all her wild hair and tamed it into an enormous bun. Put on her romper and coat. Kissed him. Let him drag her back into his arms when he realized he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. Was real patient while he squirreled away enough kisses to last until morning.

  Hopefully.

  By the time Ophelia was gone and Alexis had re-entered the room, Jimi was once again under control. Room neat, bed made, stereo off, hair combed, face blank. In full on Alexis-proof mode.

  Alexis had packed her company manners away, since it was just Jimi. She paced his floor, tracking blood, ivory heels stained red.

  “Is Paul dead?”

  She followed his gaze to the blood trail she’d created on the white carpet. “A cackler on the way here.” A dismissive wave. “Sorry about the floor.” She wasn’t though, since she kept pacing.

  “Your girl is incredibly mousy. Too mousy for someone as aggressive as you.”

  “She’s not mousy. She saved my life.” He told Alexis about their trip to Noble Isle Zoo, and their brush with death. “It was her idea to go to the Mayor in the first place, bold as you please. She’s not afraid of anything.”

  “Pity we can’t all be so blessed.” Jimi couldn’t tell if Alexis was being sarcastic.

  She paused at his desk. “César told me the Mayor invited you to the Revelry.” She was proud of him—that at least was clear; she even smiled. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  Alexis worked her long strand of black diamonds through her hands, as though they were a rosary.

  “After the holidays, we’re going to switch back to the way things were. Our old schedule with you here on the weekends and with me during the week.”

  Jimi didn’t speak.

  “I restored your old room. Here.” Jimi’s house key appeared in her palm. “You left it during my birthday party.”

  “On purpose. Put it back in your purse. Your presents are behind you on the desk, yours and Paul’s. Merry Christmas.”

  She straightened, recognizing a dismissal when she heard it.

  “Merry Christmas to you too.”

&n
bsp; She swapped the house key for a dove gray business card, velvet soft.

  “Walter Hill?”

  “I’ve already spoken to him about designing a mask for you. It’s last minute, but he owes me a favor. Walter’s work is exceptionally refined, full of exquisite detail. Visit his shop tomorrow and let him know what you want.”

  “I can make my own mask.”

  “Out of what? Paper mâché and Elmer’s glue?” Practically shouting; Alexis never shouted. She took a deep breath and began again. “You’re not my son, but you’ve lived with me a long time. People will have expectations.” She took the presents, gaudily wrapped in silver paper with green and red ribbon, into her arms. “I wish you’d reconsider.”

  “What would be the point?” He stared at the business card instead of Alexis. “I can’t be perfect for you. I won’t be hidden away. What’s left? I’m gross and weird. Sorry that makes you feel like a failure.”

  She stood in the doorway for a long time.

  “So am I.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  When Jimi left the shop, Hill was still griping, but Jimi had what he wanted so what else mattered? As he headed back toward Sixth Street, he noticed a huge crowd at Smiley’s. It wasn’t the right season for ceviche, but maybe chili cheese corndogs were back on the menu. Jimi juggled his parcels and tapped the shoulder of a person waiting in line at the pickup window.

  “What’s all the hubbub?”

  “Mystery Soup!”

  Jimi pushed through the crowd and elbowed his way into the diner.

  It was packed; it usually was, but not so much that people had to use the pickup window. Smiley’s was a local spot, an old diner straight out of the 1950s. The jukebox was playing the Beatles, or something that sounded like the Beatles. “All day and all of the night…” Which is how Jimi planned to eat Smiley’s Mystery Soup.

  Rishi was holding court in the good seats in the corner by the jukebox.

  Jimi went to the counter, the uncool ghetto where the freshmen sat, and placed his velvety gray parcels on the counter. “Freshman, make room.”

  The freshman stood. Reluctantly.

  “Jimi, why’re you sitting with the freshmen? Did you lose part of your brain, when you grew your wings, and have to get left back?”

  Everyone laughed, while Rishi smiled his approval.

  “Hey, Jimi.”

  “Hey, Sugar Lynn.” She was at the small round table behind him. Sitting with Casey, huh? Jimi hadn’t known the two of them had anything in common besides facial hardware. A wooden, intricately carved cane stretched across the table; Jimi had no doubt which one it belonged to.

  “Come join us,” she said. “There’s plenty of room and our table isn’t full of assholes.”

  Mercy socializing. Jimi stayed where he was.

  “I’m good. How’d you hurt yourself this time?”

  “I didn’t.” Sugar Lynn looked surprised, as if she wasn’t the most accident-prone person in the universe. “I saw the cane in a shop on Carmona and thought it looked badass.”

  “It’s not like she won’t put it to use one of these days,” Casey said, eyeing the parcels. “Christmas shopping?”

  “Hill did a last minute job for me. And three other people. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to convince someone to do four last-minute jobs for the price of one. Smiley! A bowl of your finest Mystery Soup.”

  The old man behind the counter wiped his hands on his stained apron. “Sure thing, Jimi.”

  “Don’t risk it, Jimi. The soup might make you grow hideous body parts! Oh, wait.”

  “What kind of last-minute jobs?” Sugar Lynn asked, over the laughter.

  “Masks. For the Revelry.”

  “You’re going?” Casey asked, incredulous. “To Revelry?”

  It was as though someone had flipped a switch and muted everything. Even the jukebox. But it was just changing records. As soon as “Red Rubber Ball” began to play, the diner erupted.

  “Lies!”

  “You expect us to believe that?”

  “The Mayor wouldn’t invite a monster to the Revelry. Would she?”

  Casey said, “You didn’t think he was such a monster at Cindy’s make out party last Fourth of July.”

  “Well, that was…” A reluctant smile. “Well.”

  “Where’s the invite?”

  “Yeah, if you got an invitation, prove it.”

  Amid the strident calls for proof, Smiley set Jimi’s soup on the counter, steaming hot, smell of spice already tearing his eyes.

  “I don’t get what’s so mysterious about it?” Dan was saying at the table near Sugar Lynn, in his own world, as always. He studied his heaping spoon. “Sausage, celery, onion. Midget jalapeño peppers?”

  “Walking peppers,” his friend corrected him. “They move around in the garden when you’re not looking. Real tricksy like.”

  “See?” said Dan. “Everybody knows the ingredients, so what’s the big mystery?”

  Milky soup shot out of the bowl. Adhered to Dan’s face. Sucked him down hungrily. After a few seconds, the ripples in the soup bowl were all that remained of Dan.

  More silence, except the jukebox was still playing.

  “Hoo boy,” Smiley said. “Here we go again.” He picked up a piece of red chalk and made a hash mark on a small blackboard near the cash register.

  Jimi had always figured Dan’s transy ass would be toast before the year was out. Still. He had come a long way. Started wearing black. Stopped traveling alone. Killed his first cackler—without vomiting.

  Only to be defeated by a bowl of soup.

  Jimi left the stool and went to Dan’s table. Stuck his arm into the soup to the elbow. The shoulder.

  Nothing.

  He took a deep breath and put his head in the bowl. Then his shoulders, shimmying to make them fit. The rest of his body slipped through.

  While Jimi was vanishing into the bowl, Sugar Lynn stood and faced Rishi.

  “Why’d you let Jimi go after him? That kinda thing’s supposed to be your job now, isn’t it?”

  “Dan’s just a transy.”

  A girl in the back shot to her feet. “I wasn’t just a transy when you came around begging me to sign that petition.”

  “Me too.”

  “You signed,” said Rishi, over the shouting, “because y’all don’t like weirdos any more than I do.”

  “We’re eating soup that can snatch us out of the world,” Sugar Lynn said. “How are we defining weird?”

  “Hey.” Smiley scowled. “Leave my soup out of it.”

  “Jimi was at least brave.”

  “Yeah, Jimi at least cared about us.”

  “Even transies.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” said Rishi. “He’s gone. They both are.”

  “It does matter. Since they’re gone because of you.”

  “Sitting there while Jimi does all the work.”

  “Sitting and not eating. You wanna be president, but you won’t even eat Smiley’s Mystery Soup. Have you ever?”

  “Coward.”

  “I’m not a coward!” Rishi spread his arms helplessly. “I just don’t like celery.”

  Sugar Lynn cried, “Poor Jimi. First he lost his girl, and now he lost his life. For a transy, of all things, and here you sit—all of you!—judging him for not being human. Making fun of him. I mean, we’ve all got something, don’t we?”

  Her classmates’ guilty, furtive expressions were the only answer.

  Dan’s bowl suddenly flipped off the table, splattering soup everywhere. Soup and two bodies: Jimi, with Dan in a half-nelson, slipped across the tiled floor and smacked into the counter stools. Jimi released Dan and stood, shirt gone, along with his new Fred Perrys. He’d have to write a quick letter to Santa for another pair.

  Dan still had his shoes, but his pants were gone—that soupy current had been a bitch to navigate.

  Dan wiped his eyes clear and coughed. Grabbed his empty bowl from the floor.

 
; “Hey Smiley, can I get a refill?”

  The spontaneous cheer shocked the hell out of Dan. Then made him blush.

  Smiley slapped his shoulder. “You bet you can. On the house. We’ll make a Porterene outta you yet, boy.” He erased the hash marks from the board.

  Jimi fluttered his wings to fan the soup off them. They’d helped propel him after he’d caught hold of Dan, and now after his vigorous fanning, they were the only part of him not soggy and peppered with tangy bits of sausage. Jimi had no doubt he would be licking himself like a dog when he got home.

  Damn Smiley and his Mystery Soup.

  A mob of people. Crowding him. Yelling. Wouldn’t even let him catch his breath before they started in on him. Because his wings were out? Because they hated him?

  “I want to eat my soup in peace, not play twenty questions about my wings or be ridiculed or mocked or hung from a tree or any of that pitchfork and torch bullshit I been hearing all semester.”

  “Why you wanna be like that, Jimi? All ornery and hurtful?”

  “Me? Y’all’re the ones who want me to lie down and die because something happened to me that I had no control over. Maybe I felt that way too at first. Maybe I haven’t been the best leader. Constantly questioning myself and coming up with zero answers. Second guessing myself. Letting everything slide. Who am I to speak out against them when I’m not even human? But you’re not human either! You just sit there and let Dan die in a bowl of deliciousness? Is that what humans do? Fuck humans! I,” Jimi looked around the diner, “am me. And that’s the only justification I need. If you need more, then fuck you too.”

  Silence. Except for “Sunshine Superman” on the jukebox.

  “Or,” Jimi stepped forward into the shaft of light streaming in from the transom window and let it fall on him, divinely, “we can pretend like this impeachment thing never happened.”

  He eyed the freshman next to his bowl of soup. “Y’all didn’t touch that, did you?”

  “We wouldn’t do that to you, Prez.”

  “Is it still hot?” asked Smiley, as Jimi sat at the counter. “I can get you another bowl.”

  “No, this is great.” It was. Worth every risk. “Just what I need.”

  “We had already changed our minds. About the impeachment.”

  “We like having you as a president.”