Zomburbia (18 page)

I rode in the front seat of the land boat, Willie beside me at the wheel. He looked good, maybe better than he ever had when he was alive. So, call it a win-lose situation. The moon and stars hid under a blanket of clouds and the boat's headlights seemed barely able to penetrate the darkness. I could only see a few feet ahead of us as we barreled along.

He took his hands off the wheel to light a cigarette. The car seemed to drive itself around a sharp bend in the road. I found this sort of comforting.

Willie blew a stream of smoke out the window that was rolled down about halfway.

“You need to stop worrying about that jock asshole.” He placed his hands back on the wheel and jerked hard to make us swerve into something I hadn't seen was there. There was a huge thump and it flew over the car and was gone. That was a zombie, right?

“You need to worry about yourself.”

“Worry about what?” I asked. When had Willie started smoking? Was that something you did after you died to kill time?

“You know what's coming, girl.” A voice from the backseat. Professor Keller rode behind me. Normally, I'd have lowered the sun visor and looked at the person in the backseat through the vanity mirror. This time I knew that I didn't want to see what was back there.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What's coming?”

“Zombie-ism in popular culture has been used to represent any number of social ills.” I guess I wasn't going to get a straight answer from the prof. “Fear of disease, the rise of the military-industrial complex, rampant consumerism.”

“Do you know what I need to worry about, Willie?” I shrugged forward, lifting my back away from the seat. I felt sure that at any moment the professor's hand was going to creep over and grab my shoulder.

“In almost every iteration, however,” the guy in the backseat went on, “zombies are used to represent a loss of individual identity and an envelopment by the mind of the mob.” Now it sounded like he was talking around a mouth-full of something. I'd started to smell something, too. Like rotten meat.

I turned to talk to Willie, to beg him to answer me, please. I could barely see across the seat to where he sat. He was one indistinct shadow amid even more darkness. I couldn't even make out the glow of his cigarette. As soon as I turned my eyes from the road, we hit something else, the car shuddering with the force of it.

I turned back to the road and I tried to squeeze my eyes shut; I knew there was no way in hell I wanted to see what we hit next. But I couldn't. I couldn't shut my eyes, I couldn't turn my head. I had to watch the road.

“Please,” I shouted, “would someone tell me what the hell is about to happen?”

“You know what's about to happen, Courtney.” A new voice came from the backseat, a girl's voice. One that I knew but couldn't place. Who was it? “Things are about to get pretty hairy for you.”

That smell was getting worse. Now, in addition to that, there were these
sounds
coming from the backseat. Smacking, tearing, like someone was eating a really sloppy meal. Meat, I kept thinking of meat.

Suddenly I could see farther down the road than I'd been able to. Someone stood there in the middle of it and refused to move. I couldn't tell who it was and I wanted to wake up before I figured it out.

“Oh, look,” said the girl in the backseat as we rushed at the lone figure in our path, “there's the last member of our little group. You should scoot over and make room, Courtney.”

I started to scream because Willie wouldn't slow down and, as she laughed, I knew who the girl in the backseat was.

 

The clock readjust a little after 1 a.m. Oh, my God, I'd only been asleep for an hour. I lay there in the dark trying to catch my breath, trying to convince myself that I wasn't still in the dream. Still, I pulled my feet away from the edge of the bed and tucked the blanket under them. I imagined that would be protection against anything on the floor that might want to reach up and grab me.

The dream scared the crap out of me for no reason I could pinpoint. Earlier that night I'd faced real live zombies. So why would a conversation scare me so much? Why was my brain so weird?

I was positive I'd never get back to sleep that night, but I finally drifted off as the sky started to lighten outside my window.

I
woke up feeling hungover. Which really sucked because, you know, I didn't drink the night before. I tried to rub gunk out of my eyes and stopped when pain shot up both my arms. It felt like I'd spent the last day doing chin-ups or something. My back wasn't much better.

I sat up as gingerly as I could. I suddenly felt like that guy Sam Jackson played in
Unbreakable
—the one with glass bones. Oh, man, this sucked. Maybe Dad had some pain pills I could bum off him. I'd tell him I hurt from the fall I took—which might be partially true.

Unfortunately Dad was nowhere to be found—no note or anything, either. What was he doing being gone so early in the morning? Then I saw the clock in the kitchen. It was almost noon. I'd slept for like twelve hours! He was probably out with Bev. Or maybe he was at his office—he sometimes had office hours on the weekend so students would have an easier time speaking with him. I could have called him, but it just didn't seem like that big a deal. Maybe I'd call if I couldn't find any painkillers anywhere.

There were none in the hall bathroom cabinet. Even though I didn't think there would be any, I still looked just in case. Dad had his own bathroom so I figured I'd go there next.

It felt weird going into Dad's room without asking. We have a rule about always knocking and respecting each other's privacy. But he wasn't around to ask, so I figured I didn't really have a choice.

Dad's room was as neat as mine was messy. No clothes on the floor, bed made, books stacked neatly. It's kind of gross. He had the curtains wide open and the sunlight flooded in. I went into the bathroom and opened his medicine cabinet. All I found was shaving cream, toothpaste, and various powders and creams that made me question if I ever wanted to accept a hug from him again. No prescription drugs that would help with my back, though. Unless lowering my blood pressure was the ticket.

I knew that Dad had some Percocet somewhere. About six months before, he'd had his last two wisdom teeth pulled and the dental surgeon gave him a prescription. He barely took any because he's Mr. Stoic. I was positive he'd have kept them around. He can't get rid of anything that might be useful later on.

I knew from some earlier, possibly illicit, snooping that Dad has a drawer where he keeps things he doesn't want me to know about. Mostly it's a collection of the tamest porn I have ever seen. Seriously, it's nothing you wouldn't see in a Victoria's Secret catalog. That's also where he keeps files on his students-slash-clients if he has to bring work home. If he had prescription-strength painkillers in the house, that's where I'd find 'em.

Little twinges of guilt pricked at me as I knelt down on the floor and opened up the bottom drawer to his dresser. It squeaked loudly. I stopped what I was doing and listened for my dad, my heart pounding fast. Stupid, I was being stupid. I knew for a fact that my dad wasn't even home. I could fling the whole dresser to the ground and he'd never know.

I pulled the drawer open and it groaned in protest.

A single layer of underwear lay on the top of the drawer. Grimacing while I did it, I moved those aside and exposed a small stack of 80s-era
Playboys
. I tried not to judge how well-thumbed the magazines were. Taking those out, I uncovered a small tin box. The pills had to be in there. Before I went digging for them any further, I stopped and wondered how smart a move this was. Would Dad know how many had been in the bottle? And if he did, would he wonder how one or two, or more, managed to make their way out? I decided that if he noticed, he'd be too embarrassed to ask me about it, so I went for it.

I took the top off the box and there was the bottle of pain pills. Right next to a baggie of weed. I laughed out loud and took the baggie out of the tin. The thought of my dad sparking up just would not compute. There was a small glass pipe in the baggie, too, and, somehow, it was easier to see Dad with a pipe than to imagine him rolling a joint. Maybe he and Bev got high before they did it. I started laughing all over again.

But my laughter choked up when I saw what was underneath the bag of weed. A small, two-ounce Ziploc full of black powder lay in the bottom of the tin. My mouth dried up and I felt an icy throbbing in my stomach as I set the bag of weed down and picked up the smaller baggie. I turned it over and over, squeezed it with my fingers through the plastic. There was no way this was happening. Why did my dad have a bag of Vitamin Z in his goddamned drawer of naughty pleasures?

But I knew why he had it. He had it for the same reason that everyone I ever sold this stuff to had it. My body couldn't decide if it wanted to puke or cry. I hoped it wouldn't decide to do both at once. Vitamin Z was for hop-heads like the losers I sold to every night at the Bully Burger. People who had nothing in their lives. Stupid losers who couldn't feel anything unless they were stoned out of their minds.

Tears fell down my cheeks and into the box. I swiped at my face with my sleeve and then started wiping out the box with the tail of my shirt. I put everything back just the way I found it—I didn't even take any pills. There was no way in hell I wanted my dad to know that I'd been in here and seen this. Anyway, the pain in my arms and back didn't seem to bother me anymore.

As I slid the drawer closed, the doorbell rang and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I wasn't expecting anyone to come over. No one just dropped by. When you might run into a pack of zombies every time you turned a corner, you tended to make sure the person you wanted to see was home before you got in your car.

I closed the door to Dad's room and ran down the hall to open the front door. Brandon stood there with his arms crossed. He looked huffy, put out. Not a good look for him; it did weird things to his forehead.

“Are you ready to tell me what's up?” he said, and then he really looked at me. I probably looked like shit. Tears and snot streaming down my face. I was obviously in the middle of crying. Brandon looked confused; his arms dropped from across his chest and he just generally softened. A crying girl is like kryptonite to any boy who's still a virgin.

“Hey,” he said, “what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, um, I just wanted to come and . . . talk to you? You know?” He was so concerned for me, it made me angry, made me want to punch him in the face. I swallowed that down and opened the door for him to come in.

“Grab a soda out of the fridge,” I told him. I turned away and walked toward the bathroom. “I'll be right back.”

I washed my face, scrubbed it really hard with some of my dad's apricot facial goop. Did you know that they put ground-up walnut shell in it? It's really good if you want to wash your face and punish yourself all at the same time. Multitasking.

As I put the towel back on the holder, I grabbed my makeup bag. I decided to make Brandon wait for a while before I came out. He'd either be gone or totally mad when I got out. Either of those was fine with me.

A layer of foundation, blush, lipstick. I applied mascara, super-thick and clumpy. Last, I put on a thick-ass amount of eyeliner. The more I put on, the more it looked like some superhero's domino mask. I liked that—the mask. I made it even thicker. When I was done, I stood and looked at myself. I didn't look like myself—a stranger stood in front of me. I smiled and the person across from me did, too. She had bright red lipstick smeared across her teeth. Perfect.

I stopped one last time before I left the bathroom. Why was I doing this? Brandon was out there, and he was confused about what was going on and that made him angry. Why was I trying so hard to push his buttons? Maybe because I could. I wanted to be in control of the situation—any situation—for once. And if things got out of hand with Brandon out there, I think I'd be okay with where it led.

I took a deep breath.

Brandon started talking as soon as I opened the door to the bathroom. “What were you doing in there? You've been in there for, like, half an hour!”

He shut up as soon as he saw me and shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the kitchen table. He looked confused. I sat across from him and smiled, showing him my teeth. I reached over and grabbed his soda, brushing his hand as I did it. He recoiled away from me and looked down at his hand like it was dirty now or something. I took a sip of the soda and replaced it. A big ring of red lipstick stood out on the can.

It felt like I was working some kind of magic spell. If I could sap Brandon's anger and focus, I could bolster my own confidence. I didn't think it was going to work.

“What did you want to talk to me about, Brandon?”

He swallowed hard. He kept his gaze right on my eyes.

“I want to know what Sherri was talking about the other day,” he said. “Why did she think you might be arrested?”

He didn't sound angry anymore. He also didn't sound confused or disoriented, either. I was screwed.

“Who the hell knows what Sherri was thinking,” I said. “I know she's my friend, but she can be pretty out there sometimes.”

He narrowed his gaze at me and lowered his head a little. He actually blushed. “You're lying,” he said softly.

I clenched my jaw. I hated being called a liar. Even when I was lying.

“I don't know what Sherri was talking about,” I said. “I don't know what else to tell you.”

“You could have told me this last night,” he said, his voice soft. “There was no reason to put me off until today.”

“We're not supposed to talk to friends when we're on the clock,” I said quickly. Probably too quickly. Shit. It seemed like last night I had decided to tell him, I just hadn't decided how to do it. Why was I lying now? I was getting angry. At myself for the lies I was slinging, and at him for making it necessary.

He just sat there shaking his head back and forth.

“Listen, Brandon . . .”

“I was really starting to like you.”

“What does that mean?” I leaned forward and looked right in his face. He avoided my eye. He just looked down into his lap. His hands played idly with the soda can. I realized he hadn't taken a drink since I'd given it back to him.

“Brandon?”

“I don't care how terrible you think it is,” he said, quiet. “I just thought we were starting to like each other. Trust each other.” He looked up at me. I'd expected tears. Instead he looked calm and defiant. “I can't like you or trust you if you're going to keep lying to me.”

I swallowed hard. This was it. This was when I needed to man up and tell him the truth.

“There's nothing to tell,” I said. “If Sherri was here, she'd tell you the same thing.”

He lowered his head again. I was about to start trying to convince him again when the doorbell cut through the silence.

“Who the hell . . . ?” I whispered as I got up and went to the door.

Big as shit, Sherri stood out on my front step. Didn't people call before coming over anymore? What happened to common courtesy? She started laughing as soon as she caught sight of me.

“Holy crap,” she said. “Excuse me, Taylor Momsen, is Courtney home?”

“What are you doing here?” It would be fair to say that I screeched at her.

“I thought we said we were gonna hang out together,” she said, and made air quotes. “And stow the attitude, okay? It's out of character and not very believable.”

I leaned in and whispered. “Can you please just go?” I asked. “Like right now?”

“Hi, Sherri.” Brandon was right behind me.

I slumped against the door. “Why don't you come inside?” I said to Sherri. Then, as she was walking past me, I whispered right in her ear, “You inconvenient skank.”

She just sashayed into the house and smiled brightly. If Sherri was a comic book character, she'd be Loki. She really took a lot of joy in spreading chaos wherever she went.

She sat down at the kitchen table, patted the seat next to her, and smiled up at Brandon. Looking huffy, he did as she wanted. I just stood there with my arms crossed and my bottom lip protruding about a mile.

“So what were you two talking about?” God, I hated her right then.

Brandon looked up at me and waited for me to say something. They both
just sat there
and stared at me. Those jerks.

“I sell drugs.”

My mouth fell open. Had I said that? It must have been me—neither of them had opened their mouths. Was that possible?

Sherri did a double take, completely taken by surprise. That felt good, I have to admit. At least this afternoon wouldn't be a complete loss. But it was Brandon's reaction that concerned me. He sat there for another moment, studying me. He looked away. Oh, God, could he not even look at me now?

“Is that all?” he said.

I decided I needed to sit down. Sherri looked confused with a chance of angry. She glared at me for a second like I'd done this somehow.

“That's all you have to say?” she demanded.

Brandon shook his head and then took a sip of his soda. He didn't seem to care about the lipstick marks anymore.

“You know that, like, half the kids I know sell pot, right?” he asked. “Ken Leung has been selling pot and speed since junior high! Hell,
I've
sold pot before.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “if this doesn't faze you, then what did you think I'd done?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Since you weren't talking to me, I guess my brain leaped to the worst-case, you know, situation.”

“Scenario,” I said.

“Selling drugs isn't the worst-case?” Sherri said. She still sounded like she couldn't get her bearings.

“No, I guess I thought maybe she, you know, had something to do with her friend's death. Your friend, too, I guess.”

I felt suddenly queasy. There's no way he could know I felt partly responsible for Willie's suicide. I don't know what my face did, but Brandon got really serious really fast.