Welcome to the Dark House (6 page)

M
Y ROOM AT THE
D
ARK
H
OUSE
has no mirrors. It was the very first detail I checked. Instead, it’s decorated with
all-things Justin Blake: T-shirts, key chains, comic books, clapboards, the LEGO-constructed
version of Hotel 9, and a collection of Pez dispensers of some of his most notorious
characters.

The suit Justin Blake wore to the Oscars in 1999 hangs on a hook, opposite my bed.
I reach into one of the pockets and find an old gum wrapper. I sniff the silver packaging.
It smells like berries. I run the tip of my tongue over the paper, finally stuffing
the entire thing into my mouth. I chew the wrapper down, imagining the gum between
his teeth, flipping over his tongue.

I remove the jacket from the hook and slip it over my shoulders, picturing Justin
Blake on the red carpet, waving to his fans. I wave too, moving to stand in front
of a movie poster for
Night Terrors II
, imagining that I’m his date for the premiere.

The far wall, behind a spare bed, is wallpapered with maps and postcards from around
the world. I’m assuming there’s some Blake-flavored connection. There’s also a director’s
chair, a rack of men’s shoes (size eleven), and an assortment of hairbrushes and combs
(perhaps for Blake’s thick wavy hair), though I don’t spot any residual hair strands.

I check out the chair. It’s been signed by Blake. I run my finger over a spot where
the ink got smudged. I sit down, feeling overwhelmed and undeserving. Why does someone
like me get to be so lucky, when someone like Harris got such a raw deal?

I look toward the closet, wondering if there might be more clothing and collectibles
inside. I hurry over and slide open the closet door.

A full-length mirror stares back at me. It takes me a second to realize the reflection
on the glass is my own—that it isn’t some Nightmare Elf monster.

Was my reflection always this horrible? My face so long? My legs this short? My hands
so big? Could my skin be any more pasty?

Others have arrived. I can hear the sound of new voices, the clunking of suitcases,
the trampling of feet up and down the stairs.

I whip off the jacket, double-check the lock on the door to my room, and wedge a chair
beneath the knob. Sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed, I pull off my wig. There’s
an eight-strand wad of hair clenched between my fingertips. Who do I think I am to
be wearing Justin Blake’s jacket? Or chewing his gum wrapper? Sitting in his chair?
Thinking about trying on a pair of his shoes?

Even Taylor could tell that I didn’t belong here. “Are you going to be okay?” she
asked, on our hearse ride from the airport. She didn’t even know me. We’d sat on opposite
ends of the plane, had only exchanged a few words since we’d landed, but still she
could sense that something was off.

“I thought this was what I wanted.” I turned away, faced the window, drew a heart
on the glass in the steam from my breath. “No one knows I’m here.”

“Not even your parents?” she asked.

I could see her reflection in the window glass. Her dark blond hair was pulled back
from her face, accentuating her wide green eyes, her pinched nose, and her perfectly
pouted lips. Perfectly balanced features.

“I just left,” I told her. Packed my bags, called a cab, snatched some money out of
my mother’s stash in the oatmeal box, and bolted. My mother had told me to be ready
by three, that we were going to see a new therapist. I said I’d be waiting. And I
wasn’t lying: I
was
waiting. My heart pounding, I stood in my bedroom window, gazing out at the street,
anticipating who would arrive first—either her or the taxi I called. The winner would
dictate my destination. The taxi won, and off I went, on automatic pilot, to the airport,
through the check-in, and then onto the plane, shocked that I’d done it. Defied them.
Defied Harris. And in such a major way.

“Wow,” Taylor said.

I could tell from her tone that she didn’t know whether to be happy or sad for me.
I didn’t know either. This trip wasn’t like a secret tattoo that I could hide. There
was no turning back, no concealing what I’d done beneath layers of dark clothing.

“We’re here,” the driver announced as we pulled up in front of the Dark House. “You
two are the first to arrive.”

Taylor tried to hide her smile with a nibble of her lip. I hated that I was spoiling
her excitement. I wanted to be excited too.

Hours later, sitting on the floor, I wonder if Taylor has turned up; it seems she
wandered off. Earlier, Midge forced her way into my room to see if Taylor might be
hiding somewhere.

I rock back and forth, watching the room in anticipation, as if it might spring to
life at any moment—as if I’m in the audience, waiting for the movie of my life to
start. I yank the eight-strand wad of hair. The action feeds my blood, soothes my
nerves, slows the fleeting thoughts through my head.

My hair strands stick in the creases of my fingers. I sprinkle them over the rug,
imagining them like seeds that might one day grow into something healthy.

O
NCE THE PLANE LANDS
, the old guy sitting next to me spills his pill-meds all over the floor. I should
ignore it, but I help him out, exiting the plane a good ten minutes after everybody
else.

The silver lining? I’m picked up by a Cadillac hearse. The platinum lining? There’s
a hot girl sitting inside it.

“Hey,” I say, joining her in the backseat.

There’s a huge-ass smile on her face, like we’re long lost friends and she’s been
waiting to see me all day. “Hey back at you.”

She’s cute—
really
cute with insanely bright golden-brown eyes; they’re framed behind a pair of square
black glasses.

“I’m Shayla,” she says, sticking her hand out for a shake. “Shay, for short.”

“Frankie,” I say, shaking her hand. “No shortening required.”

“Too funny.” She laughs, despite the lameness of the joke. “Were you on the flight
from JFK, because I totally didn’t see you? Where are you from…and cool bracelet,
by the way. Is that a Celtic knot?”

“Yes. Just south of Richmond. And the symbol for infinity, actually.”

“As in Justin Blake forever?” She giggles.

“Something like that.” I smile. She’s so unbelievably perky.

We ride to the place where we’re staying, with Shayla chattering on the whole way
about art, politics, books she’s read, places she’s traveled. I try to listen to most
of it, but I’m so busy anticipating what it’ll be like to meet Justin Blake—how I
should act and what I should say—that it’s hard to keep up.

Finally we pull up in front of the Dark House B and B. Some lady dressed up as Midge
Sarko greets us in the entryway.

“It is
so
nice to meet you,” Shayla says, jumping in front of me to shake the woman’s hand.
“What an incredible opportunity this is.”

Other winners are already here. A guy comes forward to shake our hands. “Hey,” he
says. “I’m Parker.”

I introduce myself and Shayla—not that Shayla needs any introduction. She’s already
pumping Parker for info, asking him where he’s from and when he got here, tossing
me to the side. “This weekend is going to be
so
super fun,” she tells him.

A guy layered in dark clothes and silver jewelry is sitting on a couch. He looks up
from his sketchpad as I approach. “Hey, man,” he says. “I’m Garth Vader.”

“As in Luke Skywalker’s father?”

“Garth with a
G
,” he says, correcting me, as if the distinction is even worth it. “My dad’s a huge
Star Wars fan.”

“I’m Frankie,” I say, extending my hand for a shake. “Where are you from…besides the
dark side, that is?”

“Delaware,” he says, immune to the joke. He sniffs his fingers after shaking my hand.
“O-positive, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a gift…my ability to sniff out blood type. You’re O-positive, aren’t you?”

“Cool trick,” I say, unfazed to find someone like him here—someone who wears his inner
freak on his sleeve. Still, as psycho as he seems, he’s right about my blood type.

I peek at his sketchpad. Is it any wonder that he’s doing a color sketch of a two-headed
ghoul? A mixture of blood and puke spews out of the double mouths, pouring down like
rain. The guy may be a walking cliché, but he’s actually pretty talented.

“Hey, there,” Shayla says, making a beeline in Garth’s direction. Clearly this girl
has a social agenda. She plops down beside him. “So, let’s hear it: What’s your story?
Who are you and what was your worst-ever nightmare? Holy yum fest,” she says, before
he can answer anything. The girl is a complete spaz. There’s a plateful of Nightmare
Elf cookies on the table in front of them. “No wonder it smells like a bakery in here.”
She takes one, proceeding to tell Garth that she’s from the West Village and that
the bakery near her apartment is “out-of-this-world fabu-licious.”

My gaze travels to a girl in the corner, talking on the phone. She reminds the person
on the other end to take their medicine and brush their teeth.

“That’s Ivy,” Parker says, standing at my side now. “I’m not sure if you noticed it
yet, but we don’t get cell phone reception here, so if you want to make a call, you
have to use the landline.”

“No calls for me,” I say with a smile. The last thing I want is to listen to my dad
whine about how I deserted him with two engine rebuilds and three front axle replacements.
“It’s nice to have a couple of days off.”

“Especially when those days involve a major movie legend, right?”

“
Totally.” I love that he gets it too.

“Shayla? Frankie?” Midge is standing at the kitchen island, mixing up some sort of
green punch drink. “Would you like to see your rooms?”

“Hold on,” Shayla says, looking around. “Is everybody here? Are we all the winners?”

“Everybody’s arrived,” Midge says, dropping a handful of fake black spiders into the
punch. “But not everybody’s in this room. Taylor, Ivy’s roommate, went for a walk
and should be returning shortly. And, Shayla,
your
roommate is already upstairs.”

“And I haven’t even met her yet?”
Shayla springs up from the couch—this is obviously a national emergency. If she were
only half as cute, her eternally perky demeanor might be annoying.

We follow Midge upstairs, but the door to Shayla’s room is locked. “Natalie?” Midge
raps lightly on the door.

Meanwhile, Shayla continues to chatter on, saying how pumped she is to meet her roommate,
like this is the most exciting thing on earth. And I suppose it is. I mean, I’m pretty
stoked too. And it’s sort of cool to be with people who share that same vibe, rather
than at the garage where everything is always a downer, where doom and gloom are as
encouraged as cash payments.

“Do you need some help?” I ask, watching as Midge struggles with the key.

“The lock already turned,” Midge says, “so I’m pretty sure the key works.”

“In other words, the door is stuck?” Shayla asks.

“Natalie?” Midge calls again. “Can you open up? Your roommate is here and she’d really
like to meet you.”

“Maybe she’s sleeping,” Shayla says.

Midge frowns, like someone just stole from her collection of severed fingers.

“Let me try,” I say.

Midge steps to the side, and I grab the knob, forcing my weight against the door.
It doesn’t budge. “There must be something propped up beneath the knob, on the inside.”
I take a step back to gain momentum and then lunge at the door. At the same moment,
the door opens and I go flying inside, barely catching myself from falling on my ass.

A girl stands there. Black hair, dark clothing. Way too Goth for my taste, but you
can tell that she’d be totally hot with her full lips and slanted blue eyes—that is
if she’d stop shopping at Freaks “R” Us.

“Sorry,” Natalie says. She tries to smile, even though it looks like she’s been crying.
Her skin is blotchy and her eyes are red.

This is way too much drama for me, so I ask Midge to point me in the direction of
my room. She nods to an open door, across the hall—room number nine.

There are two beds inside. I’m assuming mine’s the one without all the crap—the heap
of clothes and art supplies, not to mention the bloody skeleton poster hanging above
the headboard. I recognize the skeleton. It’s from the album cover of a heavy metal
band from the ’80s. The lead guitarist plays a Gibson Explorer.

I move to my half of the room, noticing six guitars set up on the far wall. There’s
a signature Eric Clapton Fender Stratocaster, signed by the man himself. There’s also
a Telecaster signed by Jim Root from Slipknot. “Holy shit,” I say, under my breath.
These must be worth a fortune.

Still keeping my eye on the Clapton, I venture to touch a ’70s Black Beauty Les Paul
Custom—the same model that Peter Frampton made famous with his album
Frampton Comes Alive.
The thing is an absolute stunner with its sleek black body and mother-of-pearl block
inlays.

I reach for a Gretsch, beyond stoked to see that it’s signed by Jack White from the
White Stripes. Seriously, do I need to pinch myself?

“What color is your blood?”

I turn to find Garth there. This is his room too. “Man, you scared the crap out of
me.”

“What color is your blood?” he repeats.

“I’m pretty sure it’s red, the last time I checked. Hey, are these your guitars, or
do you know where they came from?”

“
Do
you check?” he persists. There’s a screwed-up smile on his face, like he just ate
his family for lunch. “Do you cut your skin open and watch the blood leak out?”

“Not lately.”

“You do know that blood is actually blue, right? When it’s inside the body, running
through the veins. It isn’t until you cut yourself open and the blood hits the air
that it turns that red color.”

“Except I’m pretty sure that’s a myth,” I say, thanks to Ms. Matthews, my science
teacher back in middle school. This whole conversation feels pretty middle school,
but I play along, trying to keep the peace. “The blue color you see in your veins,
under the skin, is really just a darker red,” I tell him.

“What do you say we put that theory to the test?” He wields his mighty pinky ring;
there’s an arrow point at the very end—one that could probably do some damage.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot what appears to be an animal skeleton of some
sort on the drafting table by the window.

“Like it?” he asks, following my gaze. His eerie smile grows wider.

I look away, unwilling to let his bullshit get the best of me, and resume checking
out the guitars.

“It belongs to a squirrel that pissed me off,” he continues. “Now, it’s a source of
artistic inspiration. My good luck charm. Would you believe that I got stopped in
the airport for carrying it? Security questioned me for over an hour. They went through
all my bags and asked me if I’ve ever had thoughts of hurting others. I missed my
connecting flight because of them. I was supposed to have traveled with Natalie and
Taylor…both of whom I’ve yet to meet, by the way.”

“And I should give a shit about any of this, because…” I turn to look at him again.
He may be super tall, but I can tell that I’m at least twice his size—that beneath
all those layers of gray, there’s the body of a scrawny seven-year-old kid.

A second later, there’s a knock at the open door, interrupting
us.

Parker’s there. “Hey, you guys want to come check something out?”

“Absolutely,” I say, returning the Gretsch to the rack, more than eager to ditch this
freak.