by Lish McBride
Ramon clapped him on the shoulder. “You think it’s not?”
“I’m taking a shower,” I said, standing up before Frank got his second wind. That’s all I wanted, to wash today off me. Actually, there was a long list of other things that I wished for, but I’d settle for a shower. Ramon was antsy to talk about earlier, I could tell, but it would have to wait.
The quiet of my bathroom was comforting. It was nice to have a moment to myself, to let everything catch up. Unfortunately, since my bathroom was more like a glorified closet, thinking was about the only thing I could do easily. The beige sink was only an arm’s length from the toilet, and I had to close the door to get into the shower. Sometimes it was good to be scrawny. A fatter Sam wouldn’t have been able to fit in my bathroom.
I examined my face in the mirror and was surprised that Mrs. Winalski hadn’t called the cops anyway. Bruises were already surfacing on my face, and a wicked-looking patch of scratches covered my cheekbone. Grease from the asphalt covered my shirt. What wasn’t greasy looked shredded, and my name tag was ripped clean off.
I tried to remove my shirt. Blood made it stick to my back, though, so I pulled it off with a quick jerk that I regretted instantly. I twisted a little so I could see my back in the mirror. Long, bloody furrows went from my shoulder to the bottom of my rib cage, like I’d been pawed by a giant cat. I’m sure all the blood, dirt, and bruises made it look worse than it actually was. Or, at least, that’s what I was hoping.
I threw my shirt into the trash and crawled into the shower, letting the water run until it went cold. But getting clean didn’t help much. Before the shower, I was scared, tired, and confused. Afterward, I was all those things plus cold and wet.
I pulled on a clean pair of boxers and jeans and went out to rejoin the others. Frank was huddled over my computer in the corner, one hand on my skateboard, and Ramon was idly flipping through his biology textbook and taking sips out of the flask I’d gotten him on his last birthday. All the curtains were drawn, and they’d pushed my easy chair against the door. Welcome to a night at Casa Sam, where our parties are legendary. I cleared my throat.
“Um, one of you is going to have to bandage this for me,” I said, though the choice was simple. Ramon might have some idea as to what he was doing, since he had gotten an A in biology. Besides, he had patched me up after the many, many times I’d wrecked my board. Frank was…Frank. I wasn’t not quite sure what that qualified him to do.
Ramon went to the cupboard for my first aid kit while I took a seat at the kitchen table. Most guys my age didn’t have first aid kits at all, much less one like mine. No Neosporin, aspirin, or rubbing alcohol. My mom wasn’t against Western medicine per se, but it wasn’t her first choice. Ramon had been around my family enough that he knew what the various jars and powders were. Frank, however, had not. He left the computer for a few moments to come watch, proving that even he felt the basic red-blooded male’s attraction to gore and violence.
“That smells good,” Frank said, picking up a jar Ramon had pulled out. “What is it?”
“Tea tree oil, cloves, whatever. They’re natural antiseptics. Sam’s mom’s a hippie.”
“She’s an herbalist,” I said. “She’s made the same bottles for you and your family.” And a bunch of other people. My mom had a small shop where she sold natural herb mixtures. She also had a Web site. You could buy the stuff Ramon was cleaning my back with for $12.99 over the Internet at HerbaceousPlanet.com.
“Yeah, that just means she’s good at it. No patchouli stink and half-baked Frisbee days for her.” Ramon finished cleaning my back and handed me the jar so I could get the scrapes on my front while he set about the bandaging.
“I’m a little worried about these scratches, Sam,” he said. He’d been calling me Sammy since we were little, and he tended to drop the y only when he was being serious, which was rare.
I wasn’t worried. We’d cleaned them well, and I didn’t think they would become infected. I’d just have to keep an eye on them. I was more worried about how I got them.
Ramon seemed to follow my train of thought. “Did either of you see a knife or anything?”
I set the bottle of salve down on the table harder than I meant to. “No.” I took a deep breath, trying to release some of my tension. “I was too busy getting my ass kicked.” My voice shook a little, so I cleared my throat. “How about you guys?”
Frank shook his head. Ramon ripped off a piece of tape and handed the roll to Frank. “I didn’t see anything, but he was moving fast. Real fast.” He placed the tape on my back, wrapping it around toward the front. “But if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were attacked by an animal,” he said.
“They look like claw marks, don’t they?” I said. The quaver came back into my voice. I needed to snap out of it. Going into shock wouldn’t do me any good.
“We should call the cops,” Frank said. Ramon and I both turned and stared at him. Frank shifted his weight from foot to foot, seemingly uncomfortable with our full attention.
“No,” I said, shaking my head and wincing. You never fully appreciate how many muscles are attached to your back until you injure them. “No cops. Ramon is right. It looks like I was attacked by an animal.” I slowly moved out of the chair. “I don’t feel like getting laughed out of a police station. And I really don’t feel like pissing these people off any more than I somehow have.”
Frank blinked at me. “This was a warning,” I told him. “I’d hate to see what they do when they’re actually mad.”
Frank looked a little crestfallen. “Oh.”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I know you’re trying to help.”
“And you did,” Ramon said. “That was some mean getaway driving.”
Frank smiled.
Ramon collapsed into one of the chairs. “You sure you’ve never seen either of those guys before?”
“Nope.” I grabbed a few beers out of my fridge and tossed two to Ramon and Frank. I leaned my side against the counter and popped the top on mine.
“I mean,” Ramon said, taking a sip, “I’ve seen you piss people off, but usually you have to open your big mouth first.”
“I know. It’s a conundrum.” I drank most of my beer in silence, racking my brain. I didn’t recall seeing those guys before, and I think I would have remembered them. People who drag you around by the neck tend to stick in your memory. I also couldn’t remember saying anything to warrant any of their behavior.
My brain stalled. I was too tired to think anymore, and my body ached with every movement. What I needed was sleep. The rest of the mess I’d sort out in the morning. And if something attacked me again that night, well, then I guessed I wouldn’t have to worry about anything else. But I was still going to sleep with my skateboard.
“You guys do whatever,” I said, “but I’m going to bed.” I checked the deadbolt on the front door and made sure the easy chair fit snugly against it. It didn’t make me feel much better, but any little bit helped. Frank crashed here a lot, and Ramon lived on my couch, most of his stuff either staying in the linen closet or in boxes in his mom’s garage. He couldn’t quite afford his own place—Ramon gave a good chunk of his paycheck to his mom—but he could afford my couch. Ramon I understood, but Frank? Sometimes I wondered if his parents ever noticed he wasn’t coming home most nights.
I went to my room and shut the door. My room isn’t what I’d call a haven. Right now it’s more like ghosts of Sams past. Random textbooks from my first—and only—year of college gathered dust in the corner. I’d tried different classes in school, but nothing ever really grabbed me. Most people felt lost after high school. Sometimes I felt like I’d never really been found in the first place. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of the textbooks, though I wasn’t quite sure what to do with Chemistry 101, English Literature: 1800s–1900s, or anything else I had in that pile. I guess if someone attacked in the night, I could wing the books at them.
The textbooks sat nex
t to several milk crates full of old vinyl. Some were purchased from thrift stores, but the bulk of my collection came from my father, Haden, when he died. He had a fascination with the Rolling Stones that I’d never really understood, going so far as to have “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” played at his funeral. Every time I hear the song now, my eyes blur and I feel like I’m back in the cemetery, my little sister’s clammy hand in mine. I smell the wet earth, see the Astroturf flung over it, trying to hide the reality. I can even see the flowers in my mom’s hand, her white knuckles gripped around the stems, crushing them. And each time, the pain is fresh.
Careful of my back, I grabbed a shirt off my floor and swiped dust off the tops of my records. I couldn’t see any, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. Then I tossed the shirt onto my growing pile of dirty clothes.
I’d never looked forward to sleep so much in my life. I turned off my light and crawled under the blankets. Before I closed my eyes, I reached over and turned on the record player by my bed, a gift from my mom and sister. The last one had crapped out, so my sister, Haley, had found this fancy new one—it could handle records, CDs, you name it. Most people have moved on to digital. But I couldn’t afford it. Besides, there was something about the hiss and pop of old records. I took last night’s Paul Simon record off and replaced it with a Get Up Kids album. I didn’t like to stick to one thing too long. When it came to music, I was omnivorous.
Sleep didn’t come as instantaneously as I’d hoped. The evening kept playing out in my head. I kept hearing the man’s voice, his implied warnings and threats. They scared me a whole hell of a lot more than the guy who wiped the floor with me. Bullies are easy to understand and outthink. I’d dealt with bullies aplenty in school. But the other guy? He was full of unknowns.
I reached over and turned the bedside lamp on before sitting up and swinging my legs to the side. I swallowed a few Tylenol tablets. My mom may not have been a big fan of Western medicine, but I sure as hell was, especially when it came to things like painkillers.
I dug around in the pockets of the dirty jeans that I’d left on the floor. My fingers found worn leather, and I pulled my pouch out. I ran my thumb over the stitched silhouette of a crow, a single shiny black bead for his eye. My mom usually left her medicine bags plain unless she really thought someone needed a little something extra. I was used to seeing the crow. My mom had long ago decided it was my totem animal, whatever that meant.
I opened my nightstand drawer and dug around. There, under a gaming magazine and next to a slightly dusty pack of condoms, was a spare piece of cotton string. It would have to do until my mom could fix it. I tied the string to the broken bits of hemp cord, slipping it over my head when it was done. If I was ever going to sleep, it was time to bring out the big guns, and my protection bag was a big gun.
My mom had made it for me when I was really little and kept having nightmares. I had been convinced that there were spirits in the house. Instead of dismissing my ideas like most parents would have, she had gone into her workshop and come out with this small pouch. She’d tied it around my neck, telling me never to open it because that would let all the magic out.
“What’s it for?” I asked.
She smiled and smoothed my hair back. “For protection,” she said. “You leave that thing on, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
“It’ll keep the bad dreams away?”
“Yes.” She hesitated, her brow knitting in thought. “It’s the herbs. Remember when I explained aromatherapy to you?”
I nodded.
“It’s like that, sweetheart. When you breathe, the fragrance of the herbs goes up into your sinuses and into the deep centers of the brain. Your brain responds by releasing chemicals, which correct the problem. Understand?” I didn’t, not really, but her word that it would work was enough for me.
She put me back into bed, tucking the blankets around me, her long strawberry blond braid slipping over her shoulder. I gave her braid a little tug, like I always did.
She’d told the truth, too. The bad dreams did go away. When I got older, I tried leaving it off, sure the nightmares were gone for good. I’d convinced myself that I’d made them go away, not the pouch. They came back, though, stronger than before. One night Mom found me screaming and crying, my sheets wet with sweat. She’d put her arms around me, and I’d clung to her, a shaking and whimpering mess. I kept my eyes shut as she rocked me and told the bad dreams to go away. I echoed her softly, mumbling “go away” over and over until I felt my mom slip the cord of my pouch back over my head.
“Promise to never take it off again,” she said. “It’s medicine against the dreams.”
I promised, but wouldn’t let her go. Finally she’d helped me into dry pajamas and bundled me into bed with my sister. Then I’d slept like a baby. After that, the pouch stayed on, every day, every night.
I flicked off the light and rolled back into bed.
I woke up to a sharp knocking noise. I jerked and fell out of bed. Quite a present for my aching body. I lay there taking deep gulps of air, trying to breathe the pain away. I crawled slowly to my nightstand and swallowed a few more Tylenol. There were no windows in my bedroom, so I had to sit up and read my clock to figure out how angry I should be at my visitor. Eight a.m. I hated whoever woke me up. Had they come an hour earlier, I would have also hated their families and any household pets. The sharp knock came again, so I hauled my ass off the floor and went to answer it.
Ramon had slept on my couch while Frank had camped out on my somewhat questionable carpet. Their heads popped out of their blankets, but neither made a move toward the knocking. I checked the peephole, but no one was there. Was that good or bad? Ramon helped me move the chair, and I peeked out the door. Still no one. I looked down. A square package about the size of a soccer ball sat on my front mat. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. There was no postmark or markings that I could see. Maybe it was a bomb. Not a good start to my morning. I picked up the package and went inside, gesturing for Frank to shut the door and move the chair back.
I placed the package on the table, taking the seat in front of it. While I examined it, Ramon abused my coffeemaker in his morning hunt for caffeine. Technically, it was Ramon’s coffeemaker. He’d bought it and set it up on my counter so he wouldn’t have to walk to the nearest place every morning. Not that it was a far walk. You can pick any spot in Seattle, close your eyes, spin around, and odds are pretty good you’ll be pointing at some sort of coffee shop, hut, or shack when you stop. Some stereo types are true.
I stared at the package. The only clue I had was the brown paper and the string. Who wraps things like that anymore? And my extensive knowledge of bombs told me that since the package didn’t tick theatrically, I could rule that out.
Ramon sat on the floor, back against the wall, waiting for his coffee to brew. I untied the string, pulled the paper away, and stopped. The package felt cold, and I don’t mean refrigerator-frosty. This box gave me the same chilly electric feeling as the man from Plumpy’s. Not good.
“What’s wrong?” Even half asleep, Ramon had noticed my pause. I shook my head at him.
“Nothing. Just paranoid, I think.”
I opened the box, then quickly dropped it and scrambled up onto the counter, making very dignified shrieking noises. Ramon stared. Frank came into the kitchen just in time to see the box bounce onto its side and its contents roll lazily out. Ramon tried to back up, but he was already against the wall. Frank managed a quick hop back as Brooke’s head rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor. It had been severed cleanly at the neck, making her ponytail appear longer as it trailed behind like the tail on a grotesque comet. I couldn’t see any blood. In fact, the wound looked cauterized, which didn’t make it any more pleasant.
Nobody said a word.
Nobody except Brooke.
“Ow, cut it out, you guys!” Her blue eyes popped open and swung around until they found me. “Ugh, so not cool. Really, Sam. You
don’t just drop somebody’s head. Especially a friend’s. Like being stuffed into a box and bounced around for an hour wasn’t bad enough.”
I screamed and grabbed a butter knife off the counter. I’m not sure what I planned to do with it, but in the meantime I held it in front of me just in case Brooke suddenly grew her body back and attacked. I mean, if she could talk, what was stopping her from leaping up and gnawing piranha-style on my ankles? Once a severed head talks, life’s possibilities seem endless.
Frank ran and hid in, I think, the bathroom. I heard some crashing noises that sounded like stuff being knocked around in my shower, anyway. Ramon slid behind the easy chair and hugged it, keeping his eyes on the head at all times. I think he’d stopped breathing. I crouched there, unmoving except for the shaking of my brandished butter knife, and stared at the head of a cute girl resting in the middle of the dirty linoleum of my kitchen floor. For some reason, I had the irrational thought of asking Mrs. Winalski whether or not this counted as having a girl in my apartment.
“Hey guys, show some chivalry here,” Brooke said. “This floor is cold and ugly, and it could seriously use an introduction to a broom. Or a mop.”
I closed my eyes. Had to be my imagination. There was no severed head on my floor. I opened my eyes. Brooke was still there, only now she looked disgusted with all of us. Frank ran in from the bathroom and started throwing assorted toiletries at her. Ramon continued to hug the easy chair.
“Frank.” A small bottle of mouthwash bounced off her forehead. Brooke didn’t yell, but she used that sharp tone some moms get when they mean business. “Cut it out.”
Frank responded to the tone immediately, clutching the remaining shampoo bottle to his chest but not throwing it. He breathed heavily instead, nostrils flaring and eyes a little wild.
“Stop it before you pass out,” she said.
Frank stopped but didn’t let go of the shampoo bottle. Brooke turned her gaze back on me. “What are you going to do with that, perform snippets of West Side Story?”