Know Not Why: A Novel (18 page)

“Tremendously.”

We sit down. Kristy and Cliff are caught up in
conversation. It doesn’t sound like profound stuff; in fact, from
what I can tell, he’s describing the sandwich he had for lunch. But
they seem happy, and I feel like Artie and I don’t exactly have the
right to pop their happy bubble.

“I feel like I should still be in here,” I say
after a little while. “Like, sometimes I still feel like graduation
never really happened. Like it was a mistake or a joke or
something. And I should still just be … here. I don’t feel any
older or whatever.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yeah?” I kinda like the idea. He’s all grown up
and together, but he’s still stuck here with me. We’re just a
couple of mediocre tragedies, like, why choose life in the world
when you can be stuck in the sorry-ass town you grew up in until
the end of your days, right? A friggin’ match made in heaven if
there ever was one. No wonder we’ve been driven to making out in
the supply closet.

Not that I’m gonna hate on making out in the
supply closet.

That just seems whiny.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a sigh. After a couple of
seconds pass, he amends, “Well, the spirit of it, anyway. I usually
had lunch in the music room.”

“Of course you did.” I wait a couple of seconds,
then cough a “nerd!” into my fist.

“Charming.”

“I am,” I agree, cracking a grin. “I am one
charming son of a bitch.”

“Oh,” he says, “utterly.”

His hand finds mine under the table, and I let
him wrap my fingers up in his, I’m happy to do it. I’m still not
quite used to it, having someone touch you because they want to
touch you.

I am all for supporting Cora and everything, but
all of a sudden, man, do I want to be somewhere that’s else.
Somewhere where there’s him, and there’s me, and that’s it.

I drag my thumb slowly over the back of his
palm, just liking the feel of my skin against his. He’s looking at
me in a way that maybe wouldn’t pass for professional coworkerly
admiration, but it’s dark in here and now Kristy’s telling Cliff
about some really groundbreaking article she read in Teen Magazine
and, wonder of mightiest wonders, he’s actually managing to look
interested, so I figure it’s okay. Arthur can keep on looking. It’s
a lot of things, the look: calm and relaxed and glad, with a hearty
dash of ‘If we were anywhere else I’d be much less all the way over
here.’ Which, word.

It’s a good moment.

And then I hear it: a voice, a girl’s voice. One
that’s familiar, but distantly so. One that really fucking clinches
the sense that I’ve never left this place, that I’m still
seventeen, that for all eternity I will be that exact person,
shitty skin and shitty flirting skills and shit, shit, shit,
why
.

I stop feeling Arthur’s fingers or liking his
eyes on me, because everything that’s not her plummets into
absolute insignificance. Goodbye surrounding chatter, goodbye Time
Warp. It’s been real, it’s been swell, but now there’s nothing
except the remembered scent of tequila-tinged vomit and perfume and
a feeling that’s a whole lot like dying spreading from the middle
of me to the rest of my body because she’s
here,
it’s her.
It’s Heather Grimsby.

I mean, okay, it’s not like this is the first
time our paths have crossed since that fateful prom night. In this
town? Not gonna happen. I’ve even seen her a few times since I
started working at Artie Kraft’s – being next-door business
neighbors and all – but that was different. That was, like,
pretending not to see each other as we were both walking to our
cars. That’s not being trapped for hours on end in the same smoky,
cramped cesspool, surrounded by booze and sex – which, frankly, are
two things I never want to have to associate with Heather fucking
Grimsby ever a-fucking-gain.

I watch her and feel sick, just sick. Even in
the dark, her straight brown hair is shiny – this profound,
supernatural kind of shiny. It swishes back and forth with her
every movement, like she’s trained it to do that, like she knows it
has weird, enthralling powers, and each strand is this tiny serpent
that exists to beckon helpless unwitting men forward, drawing them
into doom. She’s Medusa. The back of her head is just about the
worst thing I’ve ever seen.

“Howie?” asks Arthur, who I only kind of
remember at the moment. “Are you all right?”

“Huh?”

“You seem distracted.”

“No.” Damn it, I can’t look away from her hair.
She’s sitting at the table right in front of ours with a couple of
other girls from her high school posse. She’s there. She’s all
chill. She’s the
lady devil
.

And then that head – that dreaded, shiny-haired
head – turns.

And she’s looking at me.

I yank my hand out of Arthur’s so fast I think I
scratch him. He twitches, startled, but that can’t exactly be my
priority right now. My eyes are locked on the destroyer of my
teenage life. Even Artie’s gotta take a back seat to that one.

She gives me that
look
, the look that
hasn’t changed a single bit even though it’s not like she can still
boast being the student council vice-president and the hottest
cheerleader. (Not super-impressive; our cheerleaders weren’t all
that hot, on the whole.) She does
hair
, for Christ’s sake.
Who the hell’s that going to impress?

Heather Grimsby looks at me like someone
appointed her queen of the world and we all just missed the memo.
Like of course you’re not on the same level as her, but you might
do something to amuse her with your hilarious uncoolness, so she’ll
keep paying attention to you. For now.

There was a two-week period in my frenzied youth
where I really dug that look – it felt like a challenge. Every time
I could get her to laugh, or I stuck my tongue in her mouth
successfully, it was a momentous victory. The look was momentarily
vanquished. She might be all queenly, but guess who was king? Yeah,
that’s right.

I dunno. I guess I did sort of like her for
awhile (
a girlfriend at last!
), but I never even remember
that part. I’m too busy being eaten up with horrible
stomach-twisting soul-eating dread.

“Hey, Howie,” she says. She’s got this low,
rolling voice, where all of her words are a little too slow. Like
she doesn’t quite care enough to pay attention to what she’s
saying.

My heart starts punching itself in its little
heart face.

“Heather,” I answer. “’Sup.”

She does this not-quite-laugh thing, then turns
back around.
Swish swish swish
goes the hair.

Heather. ‘Sup. Heather. ‘Sup.

I can feel myself deteriorating into
self-loathing – and not your normal, run-of-the-mill self-loathing,
either. Oh, hell no. This is acute, all-consuming self-loathing.
I’d forgotten I could loathe myself to
this
degree, and
she’s still just
sitting
there, all
there
and
sitting
, shouldn’t she get struck by a lightning bolt in
some form of divine justice right now? I’m just saying, it’d be
nice if you’d get on that,
God
—

“Howie, are you okay?” Now I’ve got Kristy’s
attention.

“I’m great,” I say. “So very great.”

She doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to
believe my madly obvious lie. I struggle to remember why I find her
so nice. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“That would be the space juice, little lady,” I
say, the perfect excuse dawning on me. Bless you, sketchy
against-the-rules alcohol-serving operation. “
You
didn’t
taste it. You can’t even imagine. I think there might have been
nail polish remover in there. Maybe some gasoline.”

Kristy starts to look horrified, and Arthur
hastens to assure her, “I don’t think there was gasoline.”

Me, I’m still stuck on the space juice. The
space juice suddenly seems like juuuust what I need.

And then, like a here-ya-go-man from God, Mr.
Space Juice walks right past our table. I would have preferred a
lightning bolt striking Heather Grimsby down, down, down, but
this’ll work too. At this moment in time, I ain’t picky.

As Mr. Space Juice comes to a stop near us with
a creepyish eyebrow raise and a “More?”, Arthur waves a hand and
starts, “No thank you—”

Not so fast, buddy.

“Absolutely,” I cut in. Arthur gives me a look
that is decidedly wtf-esque in nature. I reach forward and snatch
three shots off the tray. Three seems good. To start.

“Ooh,” the server says, his creepy eyebrows
creepstering it up all over the place. “Go all crazy, why don’t
you?”

Don’t mind if I do, Tights McGee. Don’t mind if
I motherfuckin’ do.

Chapter Thirteen

You know what’s, like,
really freakin’
wild
when you’ve had many a shot of Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s space
juice? The Rocky Horror motherfuckin’ Show, man. I can’t decide if
it’s scary or awesome. Then, right around the time that Frankie
reveals his hot hunky sex slave creation, who’s only wearing like
this gold speedo,
what
, I realize – hey,
hey
, maybe
scary and awesome are
the same thing
. You know what else is
scary
and
awesome? Being like, ‘Hey, I think I might have a
crush on a
guy
.’ Or, like, rollercoasters.
Rollercoasters
!! And, hey, that movie Labyrinth! Bowie –
David fucking Bowie, there is one
scary awesome
motherfucker! Fuck, man, scary and awesome, they
are
the
same thing, time and time again!

There should be a word. A whole new word for
this.

“Aaaaeeeerrrrryyyy,” I attempt, but no, that
ain’t gonna fly, no way, no how. Try it again. Try it again.
“Scawesome.”

Scawesome
.

Scawesome is
scawesome
.

“What?” Arthur whispers. I turn around to see
him looking at me, his forehead crinkled. He’s been crinkling his
forehead at me for like the past … I dunno, lots of minutes. I
think I could watch him crinkle his forehead all day. He just has
like the best fuckin’ face.

“Oh, nothin’,” I whisper back, leaning in so he
can really hear me. My lips brush his ear a little bit. “Inventing
some words. The Willster wasn’t the only one who could do it, you
know. I mean, stop and think about it. We
all can
.”

“The Willster,” Arthur repeats, like he doesn’t
get it. I
love
when he doesn’t get stuff. It’s so, like,
watch and learn
.

“El Shakespeare, young grasshopper,” I enlighten
him. “Him and me, we’re tight. English major thing. It’s a
priblidge.”

“Privilege,” Arthur tells me, like a bro who’s
used to knowin’ it all. Can’t be right all the time, Krafty
Kraft.

“Are you sure?” I ask gently, humoring the poor
bastard. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Watch the play, Howie,” he orders, smiling, and
knocks his knee against mine. Knee footsie!
Kneezie.

I dunno, man, maybe I’m the next Shakespeare. I
could write my own fuckin’ dictionary. Watch your back, Samuel
Johnson. Check it, Boswell. Word to your mother.

But it’s not like that’s my main priority right
now: my main priority is watching this
play
, this friggin’
crazy
play
. It all goes by in a bunch of bright colors and
loud songs, and a couple times me and Artie get danced on a little
bit because we’re closest to the actors when they groove through
the audience. And Cora, she is awesome, man – no, she’s scawesome.
Totally and completely scawesome. I wonder what friggin’ Heather
Grimsby would think if she knew I was good buddies with the
scawesome incestuous alien chick up there – deal with
that
,
Heather fuckin’ Grimsby, I know way cooler chicks than you now!
This ain’t high school, babydoll. This is
life
, and I’m
livin’ it. Ohhh, am I livin’ it.

But me, I’m not thinkin’ about Heather Grimsby,
and I’m not lookin’ at her shiny head. Me, I’m just havin’ a good
time. A good, weird, drifty time, where I feel like my brain might
not be in my skull all the way, but that’s cool! In fact, that’s
better
.

When it’s finally over and they take some bows,
we head on up there to give Cora her flowers. Nobody else brought
flowers, which seems kind of weird, like, isn’t that play
etiquette? Someone throws a rubber chicken at the guy playing Frank
N. Furter though, which, I’m sorry, but that’s fucking
hilarious
.

“Howie,” Kristy giggles, just because I happen
to be
enjoying
myself, thank you very much, “you are
so
drunk.”

“Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Quincy?” I demand,
which just makes her giggle harder. I turn to Arthur. He’ll back me
up. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” he interrupts, resting his hand
on my back. He looks all amused. “You truly, truly are.”

“Pfft,” I scoff. “You wish.”

“Why would I wish that?” Oh, smirk away,
Artie.

“So you could get
all up in this
,” I
reply, waving my hands around a little, doing some fancy pointing
at myself. It’s harder than you’d think – and, hey, you know what
else is hard? Standing. What
is
that??

Then I realize that Kristy and Cliff are both
looking at us, all ‘Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Jenkins?’, and I
realize that, oh, yeah, shit!, they don’t get to know about the me
and Arthur thing! The me and Arthur thing, it is on the downlow.
It’s dooown. Lowwwwww.

“We’re friends,” I explain. There we go. All
covered up.

“I know you are,” Kristy replies super-sweetly.
I don’t think she believes me. Whatever. She
should
believe
me! She’s such a crazy chick.

“We’re friends,” I reiterate, a little quieter,
to Artie himself.

“Maybe not after this,” he replies, smiling at
me. “You’re very embarrassing.”