Zomburbia (8 page)

She paused, probably giving me a chance to defend myself. But all I could do was stand there and look at her. All my anger, so righteous just a minute ago, was completely gone. She nodded to herself.

“You never miss a chance to point out the AP classes you're in, or to correct us if we get something wrong—grammar or some stupid saying that doesn't mean anything.” She took another step toward me, closed the gap between us. “The only people at school who know about your little side business are us, a bunch of loser kids who aren't smart enough to screw it up for you and who envy all the cash it brings in.”

I finally found my voice. “I—I'm not doing it to make you feel small,” I said.

“No,” she said, and headed toward the door. “You're doing it so you have enough money to ditch us one day.”

“You're going to go to New York with me,” I said. My voice sounded hollow.

“You and I both know that's never going to happen, Courtney,” Sherri said. “You might get out some day, but I'm stuck here.”

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. She didn't look angry anymore. Contemptuous, maybe, not angry.

“Maybe you should go find your new friend,” she said, “and the two of you can enjoy his party together.” She opened the door and disappeared behind a wall of music and laughter. She closed the door behind her and left me alone in the sudden silence.

I just stood there for a minute. I tried to convince myself that she was a stupid bitch who didn't know what she was talking about. The moment I thought the word “bitch” I burst into tears. I wiped frantically at my face. There was no way I'd give Sherri the satisfaction of seeing me like this. I blew my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and walked out of the room. I needed to get out of there. If I couldn't get a ride home, I'd walk. The zombies could go screw themselves.

I made my way through all of the people in the hall and walked down the stairs. I got some glares and dirty looks since I was stepping on more toes than usual. I didn't care. I needed to get outside, get some air in my lungs, and get away from this constant noise before I went crazy, threw up, or started crying again.

I made it through the front door, pushed my way past the smokers on the porch and down the steps. Finally, I was relatively alone on the front yard. I took a deep shaky breath and closed my eyes, trying to soak in the feeling of being alone. That's when I heard Brandon's voice behind me.

“Courtney,” he said, “is everything okay?”

Son of a bitch.
I turned around and caught sight of his open, simpering face. I didn't need this right then.

“Just go away, Brandon,” I told him. “I just need to be by myself right now.”

“Yeah, but, I saw you and Sherri go into that room,” he pressed on, and I could hear the sincerity and concern dripping from his voice. “Then I saw her come out and you came out a minute later and it looked like you were crying.”

“Thanks for the recap, Brandon,” I spat back at him. “And what were you doing, spying on me? What kind of creep are you?”

“I wasn't spying,” he said. “I was just up there talking with Tori and Kyle and some others, and I saw you. I wasn't spying.”

“If you must know,” I said, “Sherri was mad because of how many people showed up to her party.”

He stopped and thought for a second and then a pained look spread across his face. “Did Sherri blame you for that? Because that is totally
my
fault. I'll go find her and tell her what's really going on.”

He turned to head back to the house. I'd had too much.

“Stop,” I shouted. “Just stop! What the hell, Brandon?”

“I don't know what you mean.” He looked so perfectly, puppy-dog-with-his-head-tilted-to-the-side confused that I would have thought it was hilarious if I wasn't furious with him.

“I mean what the hell is up with you?” I said. I noticed that people on the porch were looking at us. I didn't care. “Up until a week ago, you were content to ignore me—which was, actually, freakin' awesome. Then you come into the Bully Burger, you're there every time I turn around in the halls, you're saving seats for me in class. Now you're being Mr. Gallant. So, one last time, Brandon. What. The. Hell?”

“I just like you.”

The answer was so unexpected and his face so serious, I broke out laughing. It was either that or lose my F'ing mind. The pained look on Brandon's face that followed my little outburst just made me laugh harder.

“What?” I said when I'd regained some control. “You like me? When have I ever given you cause to like me, you spaz?”

Things on the porch started to quiet down as more people caught on to the drama playing out in the front yard. Brandon became aware of it and seemed to draw into himself a little. Let's see how much he liked me when he had to proclaim it in front of the whole party.

“You're interesting,” he said, and I stopped chuckling. I wanted to gauge the reactions of the folks on the porch. They were all backlit and I couldn't see their faces. “You're really smart—smarter than me,” he went on, “and you're funny. When you don't feel like you have to be the toughest girl on the playground, you're really nice, too.

“Listen,” he went on, and took a step closer to me. “When I say ‘like' I mean that, I don't mean ‘love' or ‘lust' or anything else. I mean that I like you and I'd like to get to know you better. That's what I mean.'

I backed up and bumped up against a tree in the yard. I tried to make it look like I meant to do that and leaned against the tree for support.

The crowd on the porch was frozen. Still life with red party cups. Though none of them was actually looking in our direction.

“And how long has this been going on?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don't know. Most of the year, I guess. Since we've been in Journalism together.”

I tried to think back and examine my behavior over the past year. What had I done that would have encouraged this boy to like me? I thought I'd done a pretty good job of being uniformly rotten. Obviously, I should have stepped up my game.

“I think you're talking about the wrong girl.”

He shook his head and looked a little angry maybe. “No,” he said, “that's what you want me to think—what you want everyone to think. I don't think that's true. That's not who you are.”

“Thank you so much for telling me who I am and am not,” I said, tired of arguing, tired of talking, tired of being. “Listen. Give me a ride home, will you? I don't think I can stand being here tonight.”

“I'm sorry all of these people are here and they spoiled Sherri's thing. I swear I only told a few people.” He paused and frowned. “I guess they told a few others.”

“Among the growing list of things I can't stand,” I said, “is you apologizing.”

He opened his mouth—I'm sure to say “sorry”—but then closed it again.

I pressed on, maybe looking for him to tell me to go screw myself.

“And I'll only let you drive me home if you promise not to talk to me along the way. Okay?”

“Can I ask one thing before my restraining order goes into effect?” he asked.

“What?”

“What happened to your face?” He touched my chin, and I felt an electric thrill go through me and settle in a place that young ladies don't talk about.

“I crashed my bike this morning,” I lied. “Now can we begin our silent voyage home?”

He nodded, didn't speak. Good boy.

He led me to the ridiculous truck I'd seen parked in front of his house. He helped me up into the cab. While he walked around to the driver's side, I checked out the shotguns in the gun rack in the window. The one on top was a Browning Citori over and under double barrel. It was pretty but not exactly practical when it comes to fending off hordes of shufflers. But the other one was the real deal. A Benelli M4 twelve gauge with a pistol grip. It's gas powered and it's the same model that the Marines use in combat. It's a pretty serious piece of weaponry. I was impressed.

Brandon climbed behind the wheel and keyed the truck to life. It rumbled softly beneath me. I got that same feeling of restrained power I got from the rig Chacho drove. It was comforting. As we drove, Brandon leaned over and turned on the stereo. I was prepared to jump out of the truck if Big Star came out of the speakers. Thankfully I could keep my seat belt on. A girl sang about being held captive by a guy and loathing him and wanting him to touch her hand all at the same time. I could relate.

“Who's this?” I asked.

Brandon checked to see if he had permission to speak. I nodded.

“Her name is Jenny Owen Youngs,” he said. “She's out of New Jersey, I think.”

“I didn't have you pegged as a fan of girl-power-singer-songwriters.”

“Within me I contain multitudes, you know?” he said, “I'm not just one thing.”

“I said no conversation,” I said, and turned toward the window. I know I asked him a question, but I had to let him know I was in charge. Also, what was up with the Whitman quote? The real question, of course, was whether Brandon knew who he was quoting, or if he was just spouting something he'd read in a quote-a-day calendar. I'd have to investigate further some other time. For now I was enjoying riding along listening to Brandon's mix tape. After the Youngs girl, a semi-local band from Portland came on: The Thermals. They were really cool until the lead singer Hutch or Hitch something got turned into a zombie during an attack during a show. They had just signed with a big label, and I remember hearing at the time that the label suits tried to figure out a way to still get him to perform. The other band members wouldn't have anything to do with their zombified pal, though, and the band broke up.

We pulled up in front of my house, actually right up in front. Brandon jumped the curb and stopped so I had literally two steps to the gate into my yard. I climbed down and was about to swing the door shut when Brandon called out to me.

“Hey, Courtney,” he said, “I assume since we're not driving anymore that I can talk to you.” I didn't say anything, and he took that for agreement. “I want to call you sometime and hang out. You know, to see if I really like you or not.”

I thought about it for a minute. As they say all the time in one of my favorite movies,
The Wild Bunch,
why not?

“You already have my number,” I said. “I can't stop you from calling me.” I closed the door before he had a chance to say anything else.

I guess I got home late enough that my dad was already in bed. That was good. I didn't have it in me to have one more conversation about my feelings or whatever.

I crept into my room and stowed the cash from my second job. I wanted to read ahead in my AP English class, so I took Camus's
The Stranger
to bed with me.

I was asleep in about thirty seconds.

I
gained consciousness knowing I wanted to murder someone. I had just closed my eyes and now my cell phone chirped away somewhere. I pulled the pillow off my head and squeezed my eyes shut against the light pouring in through my window—that couldn't be right, could it? Groping blindly on my bedside table, I finally found the phone and brought it to my ear.

“What?” I demanded. My voice sounded thick, like it belonged to someone who wasn't me. Someone who'd been smoking nonstop for the last twenty years.

“Did I wake you up? Were you still asleep?” A boy's voice. Who? It sounded familiar.

“What time is it?”

“Just past eleven,” the voice said. Awareness started to leak in past the wall of sleep in my brain. The voice was cheerful. Who did I know that was (a) a boy and (b) cheerful in the morning?

“Brandon?” I asked.

“Good morning!” he said. He'd passed cheerful and gone right on to chipper. “Are you surprised I'm calling so soon?”

“Well,” I said, my wits finally coming back to me, “I don't think calling a girl the day after she tells you to is really the cool guy thing to do.”

“Or maybe it's
exactly
what the cool guy would do.”

“I'll take that under advisement,” I said. “What's up, Brandon?”

“Me and some friends are going to hang out today,” he said. “Do you want to come along?”

I was wide awake. I sat up and pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it suspiciously. Maybe it was on the fritz and it was somehow misinterpreting what Brandon was saying.

“You want me to hang out with you and your friends.”

“Me, Ken Leung, Crystal Beals,” he said, rattling off the names of kids in the school's upper echelons. “Maybe a few others—it depends.”

“I see,” I said. There was a silence as I tried to figure out what to do next. My first instinct was to hang up and run. Then I discovered, with no small feeling of horror, that there was a part of me that wanted to take him up on his invitation. If nothing else, it would be an interesting sociological outing.

“Do you have plans today?” he asked, and I could hear, for the first time in the conversation, a note of doubt creep into his voice.

“Um, no, no plans today,” I said. Then I swallowed hard and said, “Sure, let's hang out. When and where?”

I could hear his grin beaming down into my phone from a miles-high satellite. “That's diesel! I'll pick you up about two, if that's okay.”

“Two'll be great,” I said. “See you then.”

He promised he'd see me then, and he rang off. I flipped my phone closed and looked at it again. What the hell was I doing? Hanging out with Brandon and the high-five crowd? Was I getting in over my head? I wished I could call Sherri and talk to her about this. Unfortunately, I had a feeling that she probably still wouldn't want to know I was alive.

I showered and got dressed. Cutoff jeans, black tights, my black-and-white chucks, a flannel shirt over white T. I put on even more makeup than usual—black eye liner, eyelash stuff, red lipstick, concealer on the road rash on my chin. It felt like a protective mask.

As I put on the finishing touches, I smelled bacon cooking. Interesting. I finished up what I was doing and looked out into the hallway. The unmistakable smell of bacon was accompanied by a sizzling sound. Someone out there was definitely cooking breakfast. At noon. I say “someone” because it couldn't be my dad; the most he did at breakfast was microwave instant oatmeal. Most mornings it was cold cereal or—horror—untoasted bagels.

I came down the hall and into the kitchen, and I thought I was having a full-blown aneurysm. Not only was my dad cooking breakfast, he was doing it in his boxers and T-shirt. I wondered for a second why he wasn't wearing his robe. I guess the strange blonde woman sitting at the kitchen table needed to wear something, right? Piles of probably-not-natural blond hair framed her heart-shaped face. She was a bigger woman—what you might call “thick”—and my dad's robe barely wrapped around her. I had to admit that the look worked for her if she was going for slightly older, cougar/sex kitten. I marveled that she was in my kitchen looking at my father in a suspiciously satisfied way.

I considered backing out of the kitchen quietly and hiding in my room until all of this resolved itself. My dad looked up just then, and a huge smile broke out across his face.

“Hey, Pumpkin,” he said. “Come on in here. There's someone I want you to meet.”
Pumpkin? Really?

I took a tentative step into the kitchen and pretended to see her for the first time.
Oh, my, is there someone else in here with you?
The smile on my face hurt the corners of my mouth.

“This is Bev,” my dad said. “Beverly.”

She stood up and rearranged the robe around herself. She barely got that thing around her rack and her hips. The wave of sexual energy coming off of this woman nearly knocked me back. She was a five-and-a-half-foot sexual dynamo, and she had obviously spent the night with my dad. What little sense there had been in my world quickly drained away.

“You must be Courtney,” she said in a deep voice. She smiled again, and it dazzled me for a moment. I smiled and nodded. “Your father has told me so much about you.”
Really, when?

“Come in here and sit down,” she said. Being invited to sit at my own kitchen table felt odd. She sat down, too. She sat there looking at me for a long time. It made me nervous as hell, and I was about to say the first thing that came into my head just to break the tension when she finally did it for me.

“You know, you sure are a pretty girl,” she said, “but you'd be a whole lot prettier without all that eye makeup.”

I felt my cheeks grow hot. I'm sure she couldn't see me blush through all that makeup. My dad just chuckled and flipped over some bacon. Obviously I'd get no support from him.

“I tell her the same thing all the time,” he said.

“Well,” I said, louder than I'd meant, but not as loud as the scream that had been welling up inside of me, “how did you two meet?”

Dad chuckled again. I really wished he'd stop. “Now that's sort of a funny story.”

“We met at the college,” Bev said.
Community college,
I corrected her in my head.

“So you teach out there, too?” I asked.

“No, no,” my dad said, “Bev is a security guard out there.”

I looked at her again. I tried to picture her body encased in one of the pseudo-police uniforms the guards out at the community college wear. I could totally see why my dad was acting like a goofy kid. My mind flashed on the handcuffs the guards wear, and I shuddered.

“Well, last night after I was done correcting some papers, I walked out to my car,” my dad said as he dished up plates of eggs and bacon. “I was parked in the South lot.”

“It's so dark back there,” Bev broke in. She said it for me, even if she never took her eyes off Dad.

“Right,” he agreed, “it's really dark. Anyway, I'm trying to juggle my papers and my bag and get my car keys out of my pocket.”

“But that's not important,” Bev said, and I flashed her a narrow-eyed glare. Which she didn't see.

Dad sat down, and I thought for a terrifying second that he was going to sit in Bev's lap. Trauma was averted, however, and he just sat
very
close to her.

“I'm just trying to set the mood, honey.”
Honey?
“I drop my keys and while I'm bending down to pick them up, I notice someone walking toward me. Now, I thought it was one of my students who wanted to talk to me.”

“They must be all over you, Fred.” Bev stroked his arm as she said this. All I could do was smile and nod. Most of Dad's students can barely make it through his lectures. None of them is going to seek him out after hours to have him expound even more on the brilliance of the Skinner box. I could already guess who, or what, had been walking up to him.

“My God, Dad,” I said, “are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” he said, and waved his hand like he was swatting a bug, like my concern for him didn't matter. “But that's only because of Bev here.” And he beamed at her.

He turned away and started serving up the breakfast.

She turned toward me for the first time since this conversation started, and her eyes were wide with excitement. Her teeth flashed as she talked, and I feared I'd become hypnotized.

“It was the luckiest thing,” she said, her husky voice even more breathless than usual. “I was driving the cart to the physical plant, and I thought I heard someone screaming.” Dad blushed, though he still looked adoringly at Lady Serpico.

“It was pretty damned scary,” he confided in me.

“Well,” Bev went on, “I wheeled that sucker around, shot up the path to the South lot, and there's your dad, running away from that danged bloodsucker.”

“Bloodsucker?” I asked. “Aren't those vampires?”

She went on like she didn't hear. “Your dad is lucky that it was me and not someone like Karl Maynard shooting at that thing. They'd have like to blown his head off before they ever got to the zombie.” They shared a laugh over that and, excuse me, I couldn't see the humor in my dad potentially dying.

“I took your dad back to the office to calm down a little,” Bev went on, “and we got to talking.”

“Talking led to dinner . . .” Dad said, “and dinner led here.” He looked at me sheepishly as he set a plate in front of me. For drama's sake, I wish I could have refused to eat. The truth was I was hungry as hell, so I started to eat the eggs and bacon. I'm not sure why Dad was acting all shy around me. I'd been telling him for a couple of years to go out and find a woman. Now that he'd done it, he should take that at face value—even if I was having a hard time doing the same thing.

I wolfed down my food as fast as I could and told them I had homework to do. I got up, rinsed off my plate, and hurried out of the kitchen. Not before I saw my dad and Bev kissing, though. Ugh.

Both Elsa and Brandon had e-mailed me their pieces of the fence article, so I worked on that for a while. Afterward, I tackled some pretty atrocious Organic Chemistry. There was a knock on my bedroom door. Dad poked his head in.

“Hey, Courtney, mind if I come in?”

“Sure?” I said. It came out a question.

He took his time and looked around the room as he walked over to sit on the bed. He told me more than once that he only came in when I was there and had given him permission. The way he gawked at everything like a tourist made me believe him. The bed creaked underneath him. I swiveled my chair around. After a second, he leaned forward with his hands on his knees. He had on his serious dad face.

“I, um, just wanted to come in and check with you about Bev,” he said. “To see if you're okay with her being here.”

“Well, it's a little late to ask me now, isn't it?” I asked, and I hated myself for saying it. It just freaked me out to find Ilsa of the SS in my kitchen first thing in the morning.

“Oh, I see,” Dad said, and he sat back on the bed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I'm sorry it upset you.”

“How would you feel if you walked into the kitchen first thing in the morning and there was a boy sitting there in nothing but my robe?”

“First, eleven isn't first thing in the morning,” he said, and when I opened my mouth to say that wasn't the point, he raised his hand to stop me. “But I get what you're saying. There are differences, of course. I'm an adult and can have . . .”
Please don't say lovers, please don't say lovers!
“. . . partners if I want.

“However, you live here with me and I need to respect that. I should have told you I was going to have a guest over last night,” he said.

“A
guest
?” I asked. “Is that what it's called these days?”

“Please stop being snarky, Courtney,” he said. “I know you're upset, but walling yourself off with sarcasm isn't the answer.”

I just looked at him. He knows I hate it when he starts using his jargon mumbo jumbo on me. He sighed and hung his head for a second and then looked up at me.

“Listen,” he said, “I'd really like you to give Beverly a chance. We're going in to town to catch a movie, maybe some gelato. You should come with us.”

“Sorry,” I said in a voice calculated to let him know I wasn't. “I already made plans with some friends today.”

His frown deepened. It did really unattractive things to the lines on either side of his mouth. That made me happy.

“It's not Sherri and Willie,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, brighter, “who is it?”

“You don't know him,” I said. Then, before he could ask, I said, “His name is Brandon Ikaros. He's in my Journalism class. Crystal Beals and some others will be there, too.”

“I remember Crystal,” he said. “I haven't seen her around here in a while.”

Not since sixth grade when she figured out how uncool I was.

“And what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Hanging out was mentioned.”

Dad stood up and thrust his hands in his pockets. Having me admit to hanging out with anyone other than the reprobate twins was tantamount to a victory, and he needed to get out before anything happened to mess it up.

“Okay, please don't be too late,” he told me. “And I want you to think about getting to know Beverly. I really do think you'd like her.” He headed toward the door.

“I'll think about it,” I said. “'Bye.”

“I love you,” Dad said as he closed the door.

“'Bye,” I yelled after him. He could be so needy sometimes. I thought that having a new sex toy running around the house would mean I could escape any displays of emotion whatsoever.