Zomburbia (11 page)

“Thanks, Dad,” I said.

“We should have dinner tonight,” he said. “Just the two of us.”

I said that would be nice and he left. I heard him and Bev talking in the hallway. She asked if I was okay and sounded really concerned. Ugh. I guess I was going to be nice to her from now on. Nicer. Not completely nice, just nicer.

I actually pried my ass out of the bed and showered. It felt good to no longer smell myself. I decided I'd call Sherri before I got dressed. I figured that if she chewed me out or refused to talk to me, then there was no point in getting dressed since I'd just spend the day in bed thinking about how sorry everyone would be if I got run over by a truck. I hunted down my phone from where I'd thrown it and pressed the 1 key to speed-dial Sherri.

She picked up on the first ring, like she'd been waiting for my call.

“Oh, my God,” she said too loud and too excited, “is this South's Queen of the Jocks calling little ol' Sherri Temple?”

“Can we not do this, Sherri?” I asked. “I'm calling to grovel and apologize.”

She must have heard something in my voice because she dialed it down. “I'm not sure how nice I want to be to you right now,” she said. “You were a royal dick the other night.”

“That is true,” I said, “so let me make it up to you.”

There was a long pause. “Well, now that you mention it, I still haven't cleaned up around here and my folks get home tonight.”

I groaned and she pounced. “Hey, if that's too much to do to, you know, earn my forgiveness . . .”

“No,” I said, “I'll be right over. Let me just get dressed.”

“Bring something to eat,” she said by way of good-bye.

I rolled my eyes. There was nowhere to get food between my house and hers, and I was on my bike. It was so typical of her to make demands that were impossible to follow through on. I smiled because it was evidence she wasn't really mad at me anymore.

I threw on some black jeans with ripped-out knees, black T, and my Dr. Martens boots. A black hoodie went into my backpack in case it got cold later, then I was on my bike and headed toward Sherri's place.

I felt like I was on high-alert since being attacked yesterday in full daylight. Also, there was that old lady who got attacked a couple of days ago. That sort of stuff never used to happen—attacks in the daytime. I checked out every shadow, rode around every object behind which a zombie could be lurking. I didn't see anything. I was still pretty jumpy by the time I got to Sherri's.

She was waiting on the front step, dressed almost identical to me, and she smiled a sort of evil smile at me when I got off my bike and said hi. I asked her what was going on and in response she just got up and opened the door to the house.

Using the word “trashed” would do a disservice to the house and the pain it had gone through. It looked like a prison riot had taken place. It reeked of spilled beer and there was a slight hint of vomit. Nearly empty bottles were everywhere, furniture had been overturned. Food had been spilled and then ground into the carpet as people walked over it all night long.

“And you decided to wait until today to start cleaning, why?” I asked.

“Well, I was pretty hungover all day yesterday,” Sherri said, “and I was pretty sure you'd call groveling and offering to help me clean up.”

“Well played,” I said.

“I already started in the kitchen. You get to start in the bathroom.” She pointed down the hall. “Cleaning stuff is already in there. Good luck.”

I imagine there are cleaner bathrooms in Bangkok strip clubs. I saw that Sherri left me rubber gloves to wear. What I really wanted was one of those full-body containment suits that I'd seen CDC types wear when they care for people who may have been bitten by a zombie. I put on the gloves, took a deep breath, and got to work.

The only real break we took was to sit on the porch and drink the last beers in the fridge, and eat the chips and salsa I'd bought at the 7-Eleven that's
six blocks
out of the way. I told Sherri about what happened the day before. Meeting up with Brandon, going to the reservoir, getting attacked. I hesitated and then told her about Willie, too—ditching him and then breaking his big, stupid heart.

She eyed me for a minute and then drew on her beer.

“That's kind of a dick move, Courtney,” she said. “You killed Willie's dreams the same way you offed those zombies. Sort of a hat trick of death.”

“I came to you with this because I knew you'd be so understanding,” I said.

“Did you want me to pat your hand and say, ‘There, there, you're all forgiven'? Because that's not really my style.”

“I do feel like a bitch,” I said, “but I thought I was doing the right thing by telling Willie the truth. He had to know that I'm not into him.”

She nodded and took another swig of beer. “While I agree that his crush for you had to nipped in the bud, I also think you could have found a less harsh way to do it. Despite his size, I think his ego is smaller than a walnut. Minus the shell.”

I just drank my beer. Which tasted bitter now. More bitter. Why was I drinking this?

“But, yeah,” she went on, “ultimately you did what you had to.”

“Then why do I feel so awful?” I asked.

“Because it's an awful thing, even if it had to be done. God, I'm just glad he didn't have a crush on
me
.”

I killed off my beer and set the bottle beside me on the porch. “I can just picture his big round face,” I said, “all teary and sad. Oh,
God
.”

“Yeah, it's rough,” Sherri said, and she killed her beer. She slapped my knee hard enough that I heard a sharp firecracker retort. “Let's get inside and keep cleaning before this conversation turns any more gay.”

She stood up and walked back into the house.

 

After about four hours, we sat at Sherri's kitchen table and ate a frozen pizza she'd thrown in the oven, and we drank some off-brand cola. I was totally exhausted. I felt good, too. Happy to have helped clean up the mess I was responsible for. A couple of times throughout I apologized for all of the people who ended up coming over to the party. She waved it away. Like it didn't matter anymore or something. She took a sick interest in the fact that my dad had a girlfriend.

“Have you walked in on them doing it?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “as evidenced by the fact that I have not clawed the eyes out of my head.”

“I would totally try to walk in on them,” she said. I shuddered. Scraping a big pile of vomit off the linoleum in the bathroom hadn't made me sick. The thought of seeing my dad's pasty naked butt going up and down while he gave Bev the business, however, made me queasy.

“Change of subject,” I said.

“Okay,” Sherri said. “Brandon What's-his-name: What in the hell?”

I put down the piece of pizza I'd been eating; this new topic killed off whatever bit of appetite the last one had left standing.

“What?” I said.

“I'm sorry we have to have this Kotex-commercial-moment conversation,” Sherri said, “but really, what's going on with you, re: him.”

I thought about it for a minute before saying anything.

“He's nice,” I said.

Sherri sat back and groaned. “Nice? Nice is what you say about a puppy or, or a freaking . . . I don't know. Something really bland. ‘This is a very nice dish of bland vanilla ice cream.' ”

I felt my cheeks getting hot. “I guess I should stick with boys from our social circle who think it's the height of hilarity to fart at each other.”

“Courtney,” Sherri said very patiently, like she was my therapist. “Think: Why would a guy outside our”—here she raised her hands and made air quotes—“ ‘social circle' want to date someone like you?” She caught the look in my eye. “Or
me
? He's got to have an interior motive, right?”

Ulterior, you stupid sow,
I thought. I sat back and leaned the chair away, trying to get as far from her as possible. I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Maybe you didn't hear me mentioning that Brandon is nice. Maybe he doesn't have an ‘interior motive.' ” I picked up my glass to take a swig of soda.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I'm sure he's just awestruck by your sparkling personality.”

I nearly did a spit take. Soda sloshed out of the glass as I slammed it on the table.

“And is that so beyond the realm of imagination, Sherri?” I asked. She sat back, a little wide-eyed. I think she knew she'd crossed a line.

“I'm just saying, Courtney, that I don't trust anyone from his circle,” she said, not looking me in the eye. “I don't want to generalize, but I've never met a jock worth a shit.”

“That's probably because you never met a jock,” I said. “You just sit back and silently judge them.”

“And they're not doing the same thing to me?”

“Right,” I said, “and instead of trying to be the bigger person, it should be a race to the bottom of the tolerance barrel.”

“Hey,” she nearly shouted, “I'm the suppressed minority in this situation, and I'm an acknowledged pain in the ass! I don't think anyone can really expect me to be all Nelson Mandela here.”

Sherri was starting to get het up now, too. I knew I had to nip this little chat in the bud if we were going to finish out the day on speaking terms.

“I think we're going to have to agree to disagree about Brandon's motives,” I said, “and you have to accept that I like him. I do reserve the right to hate him if he screws me over, though.”

“If he does, I get to say ‘I told you so,' but I'll also help you get revenge.”

“Great,” I said, “now let's change the subject.”

Sherri sat forward, her elbows on the table. She picked up her glass and swirled her ice.

“Okay,” she said, “new subject. I don't know how much you'll like this one, either.”

I braced myself for what was coming next.

“Are you going to tell Brandon you're a drug dealer?”

I leaned forward so fast that the chair slammed onto the linoleum—a muted gunshot sound.

“Jesus Christ, Sherri,” I said, “I
am not
a drug dealer.”

She didn't say anything in return. She stared at me. Silent. Judging.

“Saying I'm a drug dealer makes me sound like freaking Omar from
The Wire
or something,” I said. “I sell drugs sometimes because I'm trying to get money for college.” I winced because it sounded like a piss-poor excuse even to me.

“Right,” said Sherri. “So, when are you going to tell Brandon that you
sell drugs
?
Sometimes
.”

“I don't see why I
should
tell him.”

“Because you like him,” Sherri said, “and you don't want to start a relationship based on filthy lies, and because he'll start to ask questions eventually—I'm assuming he's not stupid if you like him.”

I started to say something and she cut me off.

“Also, if you don't tell him, I will.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. “Why would you do that?”

She leaned back in her chair and smiled at me.

“Because I hate that you do it,” she said, “and I'll do whatever I have to to make you stop. Short of telling the cops and getting you thrown in jail.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“You're welcome.”

“You realize I hate you right now, right?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I sat there seething. What right did she have to screw with my life like that? I stared straight ahead. That meant looking at her and her smug, smiling face. I scooted back and got up from the table. I walked away through the house and out onto the front steps. I sat down and decided to have a nice, long pout.

After a few minutes, Sherri came out, too. She sat down and handed me a refilled glass of cheap-ass soda.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Courtney,” she said, “I like you. I like you enough to risk being sincere with you. What you're doing is wrong, really, really wrong.

“You're selling a drug made out of zombie brains. It's a drug that makes people
act
like zombies. Jesus, some people think that using it too much can
turn you into
a zombie. How are you okay with that?”

“I just never think about it,” I said. I looked off down the street. I couldn't stand to look at her right now. There's no way I could admit to her that I think about it a lot. I hate the thought of helping people throw their lives away. If I didn't want to improve my own life so badly, I'd never even consider it. “I never sell to people we know.”

“So, you're not selling to people we know,” Sherri said. “You're still messing up somebody's life.”

I looked at her then, and I tried to hold back the tears I could feel welling up in my eyes.

“I just want to get out of this place so damned bad,” I said. “Sometimes I think there isn't anything I wouldn't do to get out.”

Sherri nodded. “I get that. I do. And I get that you have this weird quest to clean up your mom's past mistakes. Whatever. If you're so willing to get out of Dodge, then you must be willing to work at something legit to earn the money.”

I didn't say anything. It felt like there was nothing to say.

“I'll stop trying to convince you,” Sherri said, “but what I said about telling Brandon still stands.”

When I didn't answer, she stood and held her hand out to me.

“C'mon,” she said, “I have about a million dollars in empties to take back to the store. I'll let you do the glass bottles. I know how much you like the sound of them breaking.”

I took her hand and let her pull me up. It meant a lot to me that she was trying to make me feel a little better. Even if she was being a jerk otherwise.