Zomburbia (26 page)

Then I heard the sound of breaking glass a long way off and a dog started barking. It sounded blocks and blocks away. It really bothered me. It was like a sound of the real world intruding on my little fantasy cocoon. The dog's barking became more and more insistent. It made me think of that old lady we found after she got killed. I didn't want to be thinking those thoughts right then. Or ever, really.

I got up and went back into the house, making double-damn sure to lock the door and bolt. I went down the hall and into my room just long enough to grab my blanket and pillow. I carried them into the living room and lay down on the couch.

“Good night, Sherri,” I said to the darkness. “Good night, Willie. I hope you guys are happy wherever you are. Happier than you were
here,
anyway.” I felt sort of silly talking to them like that, even though it felt good, too. So I decided to cut myself some slack and just run with the good feelings. It's not too often I can do that. Maybe I was making progress after all.

 

Friday passed by like a dream. The last day of school is always a pain in the ass and exciting all mixed together. I didn't even have any tests that day. If it hadn't been for my appointment with Miss Bjorn, I might just have skipped. As it was, we didn't do anything in any of my classes. All the finals had already been graded, all the assignments and extra-credit turned in. We'd be mailed our final report cards over the summer. I'd already asked all of my teachers for my grades so I knew I'd aced them.

The meeting with Miss Bjorn went as I expected. She read over what I'd written and we spent the hour talking about it. Sometimes she gave me this look like she was skeptical. Since she couldn't look into any it, she just let it slide.

When we were done, she told me that she hoped I'd consider seeing another therapist over the summer and that I'd keep seeing her once the school year got started again next fall.

“Sure,” I said, “I'll think about it.” There was a snowball's chance in hell I'd actually consider either of those things, though she didn't need to know that. I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I mean, I'm not a
psychopath
.

When I left Miss Bjorn's office, I went right into the end-of-year rally. The rally is a ploy to get people not to skip the last day of classes. Mrs. Ibrahim comes out and gives a motivational speech, then coach Amara introduces the football team's starting lineup for next season.

I became unreasonably excited when he said, “At quarterback, Brandon Ikaros!” and Brandon came running out in his letterman jacket and blinded everyone in the bleachers with his smile.

The team stood and waved at us all and absorbed our adoration for five minutes or so while the girls from the new cheer leading squad—Crystal was named captain!—danced around. It was very bread and circuses.

Once the representatives of the ruling elite—in whose numbers I could now count myself, apparently—walked back into the locker rooms, the lights dimmed and Mrs. Ibrahim walked to center court as a screen lowered from the ceiling. The crowd grew silent and I felt my heart thudding in my chest. We'd all been through enough of these rallies to know what was coming.

“I hate to end the school year on such a down note,” Mrs. Ibrahim said, “but we have to acknowledge the students we've lost over the year, including two whom we've lost very recently, Sherri Temple and William Luunder.”

Photos of those students who were either confirmed dead or just missing flashed on the screen while dramatic music played in the background. I think it was something from
The Lion King
. Sherri and Willie were last. On the left side of the screen was a photo of Sherri culled from her one appearance in the
Quotidian.
Her mouth was open, eyes half-closed, and she was in the process of shoving a piece of pizza in her maw. Under the photo was her name and the years she was alive. Next to that photo was Willie's information. Where there should have been a photo of him was the text:
No Image Found.
They couldn't find one photo of him? Why didn't they come to me and ask for one—someone had to know we were friends. Goddamn these people. All of them! I was surrounded by people giving polite golf claps over a pair of dead kids they'd never cared about when they were breathing!

I gathered my stuff and stormed off the bleachers and into the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and concentrated on fighting back the tears. But that was a losing bet, so I just let go. I sat there on the toilet crying over my dead friends until the rally was over. Then I got up, washed my face, and went to find Brandon so he could take me to work.

As he drove me, he was
stoked
—his word. He kept yelling, “I'm stoked!” over and over again during our ride to the Bully Burger. Apparently he was in this state not just because summer was starting, but also because he was going to have the “sickest party ever” the next day. I tried to go along and ride the wave and be excited for him. After what happened in the gymnasium, I wasn't really feeling it. But either I did a good job faking it or he was too wrapped up in how very awesome the situation was to notice my lack of enthusiasm.

When he dropped me off, he asked if I needed a ride home. I told him no, that Chacho would drive me. It was his job and all. That was fine since he had to go out to the cabin with Ken to finish getting it together. He'd see me the next night.

“I hope you're ready to have your mind blown with happiness,” he told me just before he pulled away.

I was so ready for that.

Once I got inside and changed into my uniform, I went into the back and found Phil. He stood over the sink cleaning the dishes that had been dirtied during prep. His ears were covered with these big, bulky headphones, the cord to which snaked down his back and into his pocket. I said his name a couple of times. He didn't hear me. I finally had to poke his shoulder.

He spun around like he'd been bitten. His eyes were wild there for a second until he saw it was me, and then he calmed down.

“Hey,” he said. “I didn't see you.”

“Obviously. How are you?”

He blinked at me and then quickly looked around the room. Maybe he thought our conversation was the preamble to something bad. A trap, a prank, something. Once he decided that nothing awful was too likely to happen, he relaxed. He reached down and switched off his mp3 player.

“I'm okay. How are you?”

“I'm good,” I said. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you for that drawing of Sherri you gave me. It was pretty kickass.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it turned out well.”

I didn't really know what else to say, so I smiled and started to turn to get back to the front of the store.

“Hey,” he said, and I turned back. “I heard you're going to Brandon Ikaros's party out at the reservoir.”

“Yeah,” I said. Was he going to try to wrangle an invitation? It hadn't been that nice a drawing.

“Is that a good idea?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you already got attacked out there once.” He shrugged.

“No, the sheriff cleared it out after that. They said they'd make extra patrols. You know?”

“Sure,” he said. “As long as you feel safe.” He reached down and clicked on his mp3 player and turned around to keep washing dishes.

I stood there for a second before I figured out that I'd pretty much been dismissed. I turned and walked out of the back and over to the register. What the hell was he thinking, treating me like that? Apparently he didn't get the memo about my hierarchical upgrade, either.

I put it out of my head as best I could. I checked to make sure my apron pocket was full of baggies of Z, and it was empty. Shit, I'd forgotten to stock up my supply before I came to work. I remembered holding the bag full of Z this morning, but I guess I put it back without getting any out. If I kept this up, I'd never get out of this burg.

I sighed, put on my headset, and gritted my teeth. Then I welcomed my first customer of the night.

I
felt like sort of a tool because when it came time to get ready for the party on Saturday, I had to actually go on YouTube and look up videos that explained how to apply makeup. Pretty girl makeup, not the type I usually do. I thought about calling someone for help and I couldn't come up with anyone. Elsa was out for obvious reasons. Ditto every other girl I knew. I didn't know any popular girls well enough yet to call and ask for help. Especially because they'd probably think I was special if I needed assistance with something like my freaking makeup. For the time being I was on my own.

I searched a long time to find a video featuring someone who didn't look like a total skank, and then even longer to find someone who didn't make me want to murder her because she was so F'ing stupid. The world of makeup tutorial videos is apparently a serious business. You can learn how to apply cosmetics for any number of social situations and ethnic profiles. It was sort of fascinating. I thought that maybe next year when I was in my college prep Psychology class, I might delve into this whole phenomenon. For the moment, however, I chose “elegant makeup” by a chick who called herself MissFactor99 and got to work.

MissFactor99 made everything seem so easy and never once implied that at some point I would want to kill myself with the goddamned mascara applicator. Two hours and innumerable face scrubbings later, however, that's where I was. I was about to give up and go au natural when it just sort of fell together. One minute I was Miley Cyrus after a bender, the next I was Audrey Hepburn. Okay, not Audrey Hepburn, but I looked damned good. I sat back and admired myself for a few minutes and then it struck me that I hadn't built in time to do anything with my hair. I refused to cry as it would ruin all of the work I'd just put into my face. I finally just sort of threw my hair up into a bun-like thing and called it good. I hoped that my face would distract from the rest of my head area.

Compared to the rest of the preparations, getting dressed was a snap. I mean, I've worn clothes before, and everything was fairly intuitive. After I was dressed, I stood and looked at myself in the full-length mirror that hangs on the back side of my door. I had a hard time believing it was me. I'd never looked anything like this. For God's sake, the dress gave me
cleavage
. I opened the door and called down the hall for my dad.

I heard him coming and he made some joke about how long I'd been locked in my room and sending a rescue party. Typical dad “humor.”

Just as he was about to enter my room, I called out, “Okay, close your eyes.” He stopped walking and did as he was told. “I want your honest opinion of how I look, okay?”

“Of course.”

“No, you have to be honest. I don't have the capacity to gauge how I look, so you have to be totally, brutally honest. Even if I look like shit.”

“Courtney, your language.”

“Promise!”

“I promise I'll tell you you look like crap,” he said.

“Funny. Right. Open your eyes.”

He did and he looked at me for a moment and then he sort of slumped against the door frame. His mouth opened once or twice and nothing came out.

“Is it bad?”

“Pumpkin, it's . . . No. You look great.”

“Really?” I asked. Skepticism seemed the most prudent course.

He straightened up and took a couple of steps into the room. He made a twirl motion with his finger and I spun around for him. He smiled a little and shook his head.

“I just never expected to see you looking like this. It's a long way from jeans and a flannel.”

“It is. But it's okay?”

He didn't say anything for a minute, just looked at me. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

He nodded his head and collected his thoughts. He looked like he was really choosing his words. “You look
so
different than your normal self. Are you happy with how you look?”

“I think I look pretty good, I guess. So, yeah.”

“Hmm. Maybe what I should have asked is, ‘Are you happy with
why
you've made such a drastic change?' ”

I had a weird fluttering feeling in my stomach. What was this? Why wasn't my dad happy about this. I would have guessed he'd always wanted a daughter who looked like, well, a
girl
.

“I don't think I know what you mean,” I said.

“You're doing this because of Brandon, right?” he asked.

“I thought you liked Brandon,” I said.

“I like him fine,” he answered. “That's not the point. Are you happy making such a big change for
any
boy?”

“It's just one night, Dad. Just one party.”

He nodded again. “Of course. I just . . . If you were going to make changes in your life, I'd hoped you make them because
you
want to, and not because of anyone else.”

“He's not Professor Higgins, Dad, and I'm not Eliza Doolittle.”

He laughed at that. “You certainly aren't,” he said. “I just love the hell out of you, Courtney, and I want you to be happy.”

I wasn't sure where this emotional stuff was coming from.

“I love you, too, Dad. And I'm reasonably happy.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes that's all you can ask.” He kissed the top of my head.

A car honked outside and we both looked toward the street.

“That'll be Crystal,” I said. “She's giving me a ride since Brandon and Ken are busy out at the cabin getting stuff ready.”

“Have your phone?” Dad asked. I nodded. “Emergency cash?”

“Check.”

“Your, you know.” He cocked his finger and thumb in the shape of a pistol.

“Yep.”

“Condoms?”

“Dad!” He just gave me a look. “I can say with ninety-nine percent certainty that I will not be needing condoms tonight.”

“It's that one percent of uncertainty that worries me.”

“I won't need them,” I said. “And if I do, I'll make him get some. Or them. I hear the whole football team will be there, so . . .”

“How was I blessed with such a funny daughter?”

We walked down the hall and into the living room. I grabbed my wrap off the back of the couch and opened the door to leave. Before I did, I turned and kissed my dad on the cheek—smeared lipstick be damned!

“Have fun,” he said.

“I'll try. Thanks.”

He smiled at me and I hurried across the yard, through the gate and into Crystal's waiting VW Rabbit. She smiled and told me I looked great as I climbed in. I told her the same thing, which was the absolute truth. She looked like a model in an orange dress that was so tight I wondered how she moved her legs enough to work the car's pedals. I noticed that the dress also had long sleeves. She made a
pfft
noise and waved away my compliment. We both waved at my dad as we pulled away onto the street and headed out to the cabin.

 

Crystal and I ran out of conversation long before we got to the cabin. Mostly we just stared straight ahead and listened to music. Every once in a while, one of us would say that we liked a band that came on the radio. This sparked a conversation lasting about half a minute or so—did the other one agree? Had we ever seen them in concert? Were all the band members still alive? Then we'd fall back into a really uncomfortable silence. It reminded me of the last time I saw my mom, minus the preamble of screaming and reproachful tears.

As we rode along in silence, I started to feel—I don't know—a presence. I kept hearing Sherri's voice ring through my head. “I hope you have fun at your party, Courtney. I mean, I'm having a blast being worm food. Except, maybe, I think they cremate zombies, right? Flames are cool, too.” I actually looked over my shoulder at the backseat a couple of times, but of course there was nothing there. Crystal finally asked me if everything was okay.

“I'm great,” I said. Crystal was nice enough to let it slide.

So much for telling my dad I was happy earlier. For the rest of the ride, I resisted looking behind me and tried to ignore Sherri's voice.

My sense of relief at seeing the cabin was Bible-sized. We parked in back, right next to Brandon's truck. I admired his Benelli shotgun again for a second before heading inside.

Brandon and some of his pack had strung up white Christmas lights everywhere inside. I could tell it was going to be really pretty once it got dark enough to justify turning them on. The kitchen table groaned under the weight of about a million bottles of liquor. Crystal took one look at the bottles and shook her head.

When we walked into the living room, the boys who were hanging the last of the lights all stopped and shouted out their hellos to Crystal. For me they just kind of glowered and gave me slow-motion bro nods. You know, the kind you do just with your chin. Great. Either they all hated me, or they couldn't remember my name.

Brandon came out from the back of the cabin carrying an empty box. He still wore jeans and a T-shirt. He spotted Crystal and jerked his head back at the rooms behind him.

“Hey, Ken is in my room.”

She walked past him and he took a step into the living room and then stopped. He smiled when he saw me.

“Jesus, Courtney, you look great!”

“You should try to sound less surprised when you say that.”

“You've got to know it's a big change,” he said.

I couldn't think of any way to argue that, so I changed the subject. “What's in the box?”

“Nothing yet,” he said. “I'm going to fill it with anything too breakable or steal-able and then stow it away. You know what these parties can be like. I don't want my dad freaking out afterward.”

“Say, speaking of your dad, he's okay with the frat boy shrine in there?” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of the booze in the kitchen.

“Well, it's not like he knows about it.”

I thought about that for a second while he went around the room picking up trinkets and putting them in the box.

“Wait,” I said after I'd finally processed it. “Isn't your dad gonna, you know,
see
all the booze?”

All of the boys stopped what they were doing again, looked at one another, and laughed. What was the joke? I didn't like that it seemed to be me.

After they all calmed down, Brandon said, “Of course he's not going to be here. Like he doesn't have anything else better to do than watch after all of us.”

“But he told my dad . . .”

“That's what he tells uptight parents who call him. But he doesn't show up here. He trusts me.”

So Brandon's dad lied to my dad about chaperoning the party. He doesn't really come to these things because he trusts Brandon. Brandon exercises that trust by buying up all the booze in the state for his little shindig to serve to his underage friends. That was all just
sweet
.

“Was he lying about the extra police patrols tonight?”

“Are you still worried about that?” he asked. He had the gall to look incredulous.

“
Yes,
Brandon. Yes, I am still very worried about that.”

Brandon shot a look at one of his friends. It must have taken all of his strength not to roll his eyes.

“Okay. Sorry,” he said, and I could tell he wasn't really. “Yes, there will be extra sheriff's patrols tonight. Okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” All I could do was wonder if he was really telling the truth. Oh, God, I felt like a pain in my own ass. I just needed to let it go and trust him.

He hefted the box. “I'm going to take this in the back. Then I'm going to get dressed, okay?” Then, to the group of guys still milling around the living room he said, “We'd better all get ready. People will be here soon.

“I'll be right back, okay? Make yourself a drink,” he said to me, then turned and disappeared into the back of the house and all of his friends did the same. That left me all alone and unsure what to do with myself. So, of course, I did like he said and got a drink.

I was on the couch sipping a Red Bull and vodka and leafing through a copy of
Architectural Freaking Digest
when Brandon finally emerged from the back. I had to admit that he cleaned up nice. He wore a navy, single-breasted suit with a skinny black tie. He looked like the youngest cast member of
Mad Men
. I threw the magazine on the coffee table and whistled a wolf call at him. He stopped in his tracks and looked down at himself.

“Really?” he asked. “I look okay?”

I tried to figure out if he was serious. Did he really not know that he was good looking? I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he was a boy. “Yeah,” I said, “you look good.”

He smiled and looked at himself again. “Thanks. I had to step it up a notch so I looked okay next to you.”

Again I could detect no trace of sarcasm in that statement. I stood and walked over to him, grabbed his hands, got up on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek.

“Thanks,” I said.

“If that's the reaction they get, I'm going to be slinging compliments left and right.”

“It only works when they're sincere,” I said.

“You think I'd compliment you and not mean it?”

“We should get you a drink,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “Yeah, before everyone else shows up.”

“Too late, Romeo.” One of his friends had come from the back of the house and stood in front of the picture window in the living room. He finished tying his tie as he spoke. “It looks like the first group is here, man.”

Brandon went to the window.

“We're on,” he said. Then he winked at me. “Showtime!”

 

It felt like I was attending two parties simultaneously. Throughout the night, any time Brandon was nearby, his friends were bright and funny and they acknowledged the fact that I was a living organism sharing the space with them. When he wasn't there, not so much. It took me a little while to clue in to that fact, though, because I am apparently developmentally challenged where social situations are concerned.