Zomburbia (25 page)

“Okay,” he said. He looked like a puppy that I'd smacked on the nose. Seeing him act so weak and vulnerable triggered something in me. It made me want to be cruel to him, to hurt him and drive him away. I gritted my teeth.

“I'd better get out of here.”

“Sure. I'll see you tomorrow,” Brandon said.

I didn't answer him. It didn't seem like something that needed an answer right then. I retreated inside where there was no one for me to be mean to but myself. I immediately went into the bathroom and washed my face. I was just going to splash it with cold water, then I saw what that did to my eye makeup, so I decided to go whole hog and scrub it. When I was done, I stood looking in the mirror for a long time. My face was all scrubbed and new pink. I felt like I didn't recognize myself. Then I wondered where all of this Sylvia Plath angst was coming from.

I wished that Sherri were there to talk to. She'd have whipped me into shape. She'd have said something funny and just this side of devastating. She'd have said it with a smile so it would have been okay. It would have been cool if Willie were there, too. Even if he'd have been stealing glances at my ass. Hell, as far as I know, he's the only boy who ever looked at my butt with anything like longing before Brandon came along. I missed his dumb jokes and his sweetness. I missed my friends. It was that simple, I guess. Without them, I didn't really feel like me. I felt like I was going to become someone else without them around to help guide me, and I didn't know if I'd end up liking the person I'd become.

I did homework until Dad got home. Mostly I reviewed notes for all my classes since we had finals at the beginning of next week. Even with all the shit that had been going on in my life, there was no way I was going to allow myself to flunk any of these tests.

Dad got home and brought a pizza and salad with him. It struck me every once in a while how few meals I ate that had been cooked in my house. I think normal families ate home-cooked meals. At least, that's what I'd read in a magazine once. Probably
The Watchtower . . .
So maybe that meant my family wasn't normal. Not a big revelation there, I suppose.

Dad grilled me about my day. I didn't mention the drawing of Sherri that Phil had given me, knowing how he felt about her. He told me about his day and an awkward run-in with Bev. Apparently all the security guards there were acting like snots toward my dad since the two of them broke up. Dad didn't take it seriously, though it made me really mad.

While we were cleaning up our few dishes, I cleared my throat and said, “So, Brandon is having a party next week to celebrate the end of the school year and he asked if I wanted to come.” Dad didn't say anything for a long time, so I rushed to fill in the silence. “I told him I was grounded and probably couldn't come, so it's not a big deal if you say no.”

“Brandon?” Dad asked. He scratched his chin. “I don't see why not, as long as you keep to the conditions of your grounding until then.”

What. The. Hell? It was okay for me to blow off my punishment because it was Brandon throwing the party? It wasn't computing somehow. What, exactly, had Brandon said to my dad as they waited for me in the hospital?

“I'll want to talk to his folks first,” Dad went on. “Make sure there will be supervision and all. Okay?”

“Um, sure,” I said. “Okay.” Even though it didn't feel okay. It felt like when I was waiting for Brandon or Sherri to back out of smoking the Vitamin Z at Buddha's place. I had wanted Dad to say I couldn't go so I could tell Brandon sorry without feeling like a bitch. Once again my dad's ability to be reasonable had let me down. But when my dad turned to look at me, I forced a smile that must have looked natural.

Later that night, I was reading some comics in bed, trying to get to sleep, when Brandon called. I considered letting it go to voice mail. I decided to bite the bullet and answer it.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I'm okay,” I said.

“That's good. You seemed sort of, I don't know,
down
earlier.”

I think he meant to say I seemed like a grade A snatch. “Being back at school was hard. I'm sorry I took it out on you,” I told him.

“You didn't. Don't worry about it.”

“Sure,” I said.

“I was just calling to ask, you know, how you're doing,” he said. “But I also wanted to see if you'd talked to your dad about the party.”

I told him that I had, in fact, talked to my dad, and that, miracle of miracles, Dad had said
yes,
but he'd made it clear that I had to be on my best behavior between now and then or else the deal was off.

“That won't be a problem for you,” Brandon said, “you're always on your best behavior.”

I let that lie hang in the air for a while, then I mentioned that my dad wanted to talk to his dad so he could be sure of some stuff. Brandon said that would be no problem and he gave me his dad's personal cell phone number. That's how he said it, “My dad's personal cell phone number.” Like as opposed to the number for his dad's cell phone caddy.

“Great,” I said, “my dad will call your dad, there will be many reassuring statements made, and then I'll see you at your little soirée.”

“Hey, do you own a cocktail dress?” The question came so seemingly free of context that it took me a moment to recognize that Brandon had actually spoken English to me and that he was awaiting a coherent answer.

“A cocktail dress?” I paused as if I had to really think about this. My closet had
so many
delicious treasures hidden within it. Was a cocktail dress one of them? “No,” I said.

“Well, I was thinking that the party should be formal—it keeps everyone from getting too out of control when they're all dressed up.”

There was a pause as I wondered exactly how I was supposed to respond.

“Uh-huh,” I said finally.

“I was wondering if you'd let me buy you one.”

“Buy me one? A dress?”

“A cocktail dress.”

“Right,” I said, “a cocktail dress. I think that might be a little weird, Brandon.”

“Would it?”

“Yes,” I said, “it would. It really would.”

“Why?”

“I don't think we're at a place where I'd be comfortable with you buying me something like that,” I said. Then quickly followed up with, “Or
anything
! We shouldn't be buying each other anything just yet.”

He accepted that, and I convinced him that I'd be able to buy my own dress. I thought of the drawer-full of ill-gotten money I had stashed. I could spare some of that for a dress for a party, right? It wasn't like I was going to be using it to travel to, say,
New York,
any time soon. I convinced him that I'd buy my own dress, and that I needed to get off the phone and go to sleep.

Before I hung up, he asked if he could give me rides to and from school since I didn't have one otherwise. I thought of the awkward ride with my dad earlier and I let myself be convinced pretty easily. He was unreasonably happy about the prospect of driving back and forth to my house for the next week and a half. I certainly wasn't going to burst his bubble.

“Okay,” he said, “I guess I'll let you go to sleep. Good night.”

“You, too. Good night.”

I was about to hang up, when I put the phone back to my mouth and said, “Brandon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“For what, exactly?”

“Being nice? Not an ass? I'm not sure, just thanks.”

He laughed. “Yeah, okay. You're welcome.”

We said good night for real and I was about to turn off the lamp beside my bed, but I got up instead.

There was something that'd been nagging at me for a while. I went to my desk and fired up my laptop. After it came to life, I opened Gmail and started a new message.

I went on to tell him about the speedy zombies I'd encountered and how they seemed to coordinate attacks. As quick as possible, I mentioned the episode at the beach and out behind the Bully Burger. I finished by saying I hoped he's get better soon and that news of his attack had really upset me.

I started to close out the window when a chime told me I'd received a new e-mail. My heart thudded in my chest when I saw that it had come from Professor Keller. But then I felt deflated when it turned out to be an out-of-office reply.

I crawled into bed and tried to swallow my disappointment. At least I'd reached out to the guy. I drifted off imagining scenarios where Keller regained consciousness, immediately checked his e-mail, then wrote me back. We got together and figured out a way to stop zombie-ism forever. And I got to move to New York. I knew it was a fantasy, but it made me happy.

I slept better that night than I had in a long time.

W
ithout Sherri and Willie in my life, the days took on a sort of sameness they never had before. Wake up, go to school, deal with the shit you found there, go home or go to the job. Over and over. Hardly any laughs or surprises. Even if some of those surprises had been vicious verbal attacks, it was better than the boring-ass routine I found myself locked into. Now all I had to look forward to was the occasional shuffler encounter.

That Friday night at work I told all the people who wanted Z that I was out and would get to my supplier—
supplier,
not
dealer
—soon. There was a lot of grumbling, but no one yelled at me. No way could I sell any black powder then, not so soon after Sherri OD'd. But I knew that my get-out-of-town stash would need to be fed before too long and I'd have to start selling again soon.

A few things stood out the next week—I mean on top of the general excitement everyone felt about the end of the year being so close. As summer approaches, it starts to feel a lot like the end of
The Lord of the Flies.
Minus the pig's head on a stake. So far, anyway. On Monday I had my first of two meetings with the school's counselor, Miss Bjorn. You know, I get that she has a thankless job, trying to get a bunch of hormonal teenagers to open up about all the crap in their lives. But, seriously, no, thank you. Opening up about my emotions runs counter to every lesson I'd ever learned in my career as a teenage girl.

Ms. Bjorn's office was small, even by teachers' standards, and crammed with papers and books everywhere. I thought she might have a couch in there. That would have been a physical impossibility. She had to clear off a chair for me to sit in. Then she completely scuttled any chance I would tell her the truth by telling me that if I related any illegal activities to her as part of our discussions, she was obligated to report those matters to the authorities. Read: If I mentioned the fact that I sold drugs, I would be arrested so fast I'd be knocked out of my Dr. Martens. So that meant I delivered a highly sanitized version of the truth. I lied.

Since The Man already knew I'd smoked Vitamin Z, I let that into the narrative. When she asked where I got it, I swallowed my guilt and said that Sherri had it. I knew the police would look for her, find out that she had been turned into a zombie and then killed, and they wouldn't be able to look any further. Miss Bjorn took this in and then spent the rest of the hour asking why I'd felt compelled to take such a dangerous drug. How do you answer a question like that, even when you're trying to be honest?
Well, on one hand there's the peer pressure, and on the other, I'm almost terminally bored in this stupid town.
I mumbled something about feeling stifled by society's expectations, et cetera.

I got out of there with an assignment to journal about how all of these events made me feel. “Write a letter to the you you want to be in ten years and relate this episode to that self.” I've always
hated
referring to things that happen in life that way.
Episodes
. Like, my life may be crappy, but it is not as crappy as some reality TV show. For one thing, it generally has better dialogue. My next meeting with her was going to be Friday of that same week, so I could mostly forget about it for the next three days, and then I'd be free of her for the whole summer.

After that, I got on my game face and tackled my finals—yes, I can make sports analogies. Actually, I sleepwalked through everything but AP Chemistry. That one had me sweating a little, but I was pretty sure I nailed it. Yay, me.

The last thing that stuck out of the sameness of the week was that Dad gave me permission to go looking for a dress with the closest thing I had to a friend nowadays, Elsa Roberts. I tried to suppress the feeling that I was shopping for a new best friend to replace Sherri at the same time I was hunting for a dress.

Dad actually tried to force me to take some money for the dress. I was able to convince him that I'd saved enough from working at the Bully Burger to afford it on my own.

Elsa and I went to a shop in downtown Salem called Cherry Redd. I'd considered some of the usual suspects like Macy's and whatnot, and dismissed them. Those places just seemed so square. Cherry Redd was a place where you could buy formal wear with some flavor. Elsa wrinkled her nose as soon as we walked into the store. The shopping experience consisted mostly of me trying on various things and Elsa sitting outside the changing rooms shaking her head slightly saying, “I don't know, Courtney.” Basically, it was all left up to me. I chose what the shop called a “Heartbreaker sweetie satin dress,” in red, and a crinoline to go underneath it. Black pumps and a little clutch purse brought the total up to just under $300. Elsa's eyes went big when I pulled out a wad of bills and peeled off a bunch of twenties. I gave her a meek smile and hoped she wouldn't ask how I'd earned so much working at a fast-food joint.

Afterward, Elsa wanted to go and get a coffee or something. She was ready to see this stereotypical girls' outing through to its bitter conclusion, apparently. I wanted to go to one of the cool, local coffee shops that dot downtown. She didn't like any of those places so we ended up at Starbucks. The zombie invasion disrupted whole ways of life and killed millions, but it couldn't shut down crappy, corporate coffee. I doubt even a nuclear strike from orbit could do that.

Elsa ordered some dessert-y monstrosity with syrups and cream and whipped topping. It must have had coffee in it because she ordered it decaf. When it was my turn, I ordered a large black coffee and the guy behind the counter got all superior and looked down his nose at me. But he didn't give me any backtalk with my java.

We sat out on the sidewalk and watched the traffic pass by. The occasional National Guard Humvee with a roof-mounted turret gun drove by. I didn't know why they still patrolled downtown; it had been years since any shufflers had made it that far into the town.

“So, you're going to Brandon's party on Saturday?” Elsa asked me.

“I am; that's why I needed the dress and stuff. What are you wearing?”

“I'm not wearing anything.”

“
That
is a bold choice,” I said.

“I mean, I'm not wearing anything
to the party
.” She paused and took a sip of her drink. She came away with a glob of whipped cream on the tip of her nose. “I wasn't invited.”

It took a moment for that to register. “What do you mean, you're not invited?”

“I didn't make the cut, Courtney. It's no big deal.”

I reached out and dabbed at the cream on her nose. She withdrew and got it herself.

Didn't make the cut? That made no sense. Brandon seemed really friendly with her the other week when we were working on that news story together. I told her that.

“The party is just for him and his friends. He may have been nice to me when we were working together, but that's just called ‘manners.' It doesn't make us best friends. Or friends at all.”

“Well, I think that's stupid.” I said it loud enough for some people walking past to stare at us. “Want me to tell him to invite you?”

She said, no, that was okay. She was going to a party at Carol Langworthy's which would be low-key and, somehow, fun.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “Carol is having a party? Why didn't I know about it?”

“Because everyone knew you had been invited to Brandon's. Why would they bother once you'd already got asked by the prince to the ball, you know? You should probably get used to it. No one can live in both worlds.”

I sat there and thought about that for a while. I liked it less the more I thought about it. So, just because I started to become friendly with Brandon—and I wouldn't even say that I was part of his world yet, it wasn't like all his friends had welcomed me with open arms—that meant that I had to give up being friends with all of my old crew? What utter bull. Then I realized that I had done it myself before. Like with Crystal. Once she got on the cheer leading squad, we stopped asking her to do stuff. It wasn't out of spite or anything. I remember reasoning that if she had a choice between hanging out with the cool kids and hanging out with
me,
well, I know who I'd have chosen. Only I didn't want to make that choice now that I had to.

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.