Deathskull Bombshell (13 page)

Boring.

Nick wasn’t home. He left a note on the
kitchen table in his neat handwriting that said, “I’m at the
library. I’ll eat when I feel like it. Don’t worry.” Nick expected
her to worry about him, and she did sometimes, but for the most
part he had his shit together. He was smart. He’d be okay without
her.

She had to get out of Wisconsin.

Her life wasn’t over yet.

In the bathroom mirror, her reflection glared
at her, a skinny girl with baggy circles under her eyes and too
many freckles. Her hair was the exact color of a penny. Not the
sexy edgy black hair of Joan Jett or the glamorous platinum blonde
of Dolly Parton. Just a penny.

Worthless.

She grabbed her pocketknife and hacked at her
long hair, watching her reflection as if from outside her own self.
Her hair fell to the floor. She found her stash of bleach and green
hair dye underneath the sink. About an hour later, if anyone had
been watching (they hadn’t), they would have seen a skinny girl
with a botched dark-green shaggy bob haircut, gripping the
handlebars of her bicycle, riding fast and drunk with a backpack
over her flannel shirt. They would have noticed she never really
stopped her bike until two towns away. Maybe they would have seen
her protective hand, guarding her abdomen, or taken note of her
excessive order at the diner. But they probably wouldn’t have said
hi or asked too many questions. That was too much to ask for.

April 2004

Parker sighed. Prom night, no date.

Squinting at his reflection in the bathroom
mirror, he flexed his muscles. They weren’t really muscles but
pudge. When he was little he hoped maybe his baby fat would melt
off and he’d look like one of those guys from television, maybe
Wolverine, or a Native Brad Pitt. He was sixteen, though, and it
was time to face facts. He was just a fat guy with no prom
date.

He took his glasses off, and his reflection
blurred in the mirror. Well, that was an improvement. He wondered
what Nick saw looking at him, that he wanted to be his secret
boyfriend, but not his actual boyfriend.

He felt like Batman, in the story arcs where
he had that creepy thing with Catwoman, where she’d bat him around,
right, like so much yarn and then finally steal everything out from
under him.

Batman would just grit his teeth and deal,
despite the mindfuck of everything. It was worth it. Catwoman was
worth it. And anyway, Batman was tough. He never let shit bother
him.

So it was with Parker. He contented himself
with whatever paltry affection Nick threw his way, and he didn’t
push things to mean more than they meant.

Homecoming weekend, he tried to hold hands
with Nick when they were walking to the gas station. Pretty much
everyone was at the big game except for them. So they walked to the
gas station for greasy cheese nachos and candy bars and Combos.
Parker stretched out his hand, sort of, in a way that nobody would
have guessed at. Nick let him, and they held hands for a minute or
two. In the shadow of evening it was okay.

Nick had calloused hands. All that work at
Lardé’s Bistro did a number on him.

But then a Jeep truck full of guys from
school drove by, blasting rap music and hollering. “Go Spartans! Go
football! Yeah!” They honked the car horn a few times and then
drove away.

Nick dropped his hand like it was a crumpled
paper napkin. Napkin hands.

Parker put his glasses back on, then, and
lifted his chin up, adjusting his tie. Technically prom wasn’t a
black-tie affair, but his mom told him to look nice.

“You know, honey, even if you go alone, you
can always try and look decent,” she said when they were out
shopping for suits. She had a good sense of fashion about her, one
of those mom talents probably. She vetoed the dreamy plaid tie he
had his eye on. He wanted to stick it with safety pins. It was
perfect.

“You can buy that for one of your concerts,
but not prom,” she advised.

“Bassists don’t wear ties,” Parker
muttered.

And yet here he stood, straightening a black
tie for prom, where he was going stag, no boyfriend, not even a
fake girlfriend. He looked like old pictures. Like his grandfather,
back at the Catholic schools they made everyone go to all those
years ago.

It wasn’t like anyone was forcing him to wear
this stupid crap. He could just stay home and save his dignity. But
Elizabeth already knew he was going to prom, and she needed him to
be there (she said) since she didn’t really know anybody
anymore.

God, he felt like a Jane Austen novel.

Maybe he could borrow Stevie’s blow-up doll,
the one he got from the Dumpster last summer, take a blow-up doll
to prom and slow-dance with it. Or maybe he could borrow Stevie.
Stevie was nice, and he didn’t mind dressing up. Obviously military
school allowed vacations for important things like prom. Maybe he
should call the military up and ask them about it.

Yeah, right.

He grimaced at the mirror. Well, no turning
back now. He opened the bathroom door, where Margot and Kylie
waited to assess him.

“Dang,” Margot said. “Where’d you put my
brother?”

“Shut up,” Parker said.

Kylie tugged on the sleeve of his blazer.

“I was joking, you bulb,” Margot said. “You
look okay. If it wasn’t for your face I’d almost say you resembled
a non-ugly person.”

Kylie tugged on his sleeve again. “Parker,”
she whined.

“Gee, thanks, sis,” Parker said. He shook
Kylie off. “You look just like me, though, you know. So if I’m
ugly, you’re ugly too. And so’s Mom.” He narrowed his eyes, trying
to look menacing despite the pinstripes that threatened to eat his
entire body. “I might just go over and tell her you think she’s an
ugly dog. Then you won’t get any supper tonight.”

“I’m going to medical school,” Margot said.
“Medical students don’t need to eat. We feed on science and…
discovery.”

“You’re eleven,” Parker said.

Tard.

“Parker!” Kylie stomped her foot, trying to
get his attention. “There’s a girl at the door!”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Parker said.
God damn it. Probably Elizabeth.

He dashed over to the kitchen, where his mom
stood talking with Emmalee Thunder from study hall.

Oh, crap.

She looked the same as always, mousy and
annoyed, but instead of her standard baggy hoodie and jeans combo,
she’d switched to something floor-length and taffeta, with long
white gloves. Her hair was pulled back, making her glasses and
pointy nose stand out more than usual. She kind of looked like a
rabbit wearing a tablecloth.

Still, he was glad to see her.

Until she saw him, anyway.

Her face lit up, and she ran over to him,
tripping over her strappy one-inch heels. One of them fell off, and
she crashed into his stomach. “Hi!” she said into his dress
shirt.

He looked down at her. “Hello,” he said,
never feeling more homosexual in his life.

She looked up at him, flushed. “I need a prom
date.”

“I figured.”

She coughed, and backed up a few paces. She
tucked a strand of curly brown hair behind her ear, and itched at
her nose, forgetting about her gloves. “Well, are you going with
anybody? Dave got sick at the last minute.”

Sick of being away from his Transformers kit,
Parker thought to himself. Everyone who knew Dave knew his feelings
for Optimus Prime eclipsed any notions of romance.

He looked at Emmalee, all hopeful in her
taffeta dress thing, and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I’ll
go with you,” he said.

She beamed at him and grabbed his hand.
“Cool.”

It was so easy with girls, Parker thought.
That hand thing again.

His mom snapped a few pictures. Parker wasn’t
very good with posing for pictures, but Emmalee seemed happy
enough, so whatever. She didn’t have a car, and neither did he, so
they ended up walking to Spartan High.

He didn’t have a bouquet.

They passed by someone’s garden on the way to
school, and he pulled at a few of the plants until they broke,
flinging thick dark soil everywhere.

She blinked at him, and he thrust the bouquet
at her. It was mostly tulips and a few plain stems with no flowers
attached, but it was a bouquet.

“Oh, um, thanks,” she said. She looked at the
flowers. “You know, these don’t really match my dress.”

“Well, then, throw ‘em back,” Parker
said.

Emmalee looked at the house. The lights were
on in the kitchen, a bad sign. She clutched the flowers with her
gloved hands, and cleared her throat. “It’s okay.”

They walked on.

The prom planning committee, a group of
football players’ girlfriends, picked the theme. “Under The Sea.” A
giant papier-mâché mermaid greeted them when they walked in. The
paint job was uneven, and her hair was made of papier-mâché. It
didn’t even resemble real hair. Someone glued glitter on the
mermaid’s papier-mâché bikini. A bold move. There’d been a few
vandalism incidents recently. Someone had drawn nipples on all of
the motivational D.A.R.E. posters, so the prom planning committee
was warned to be careful with anything slightly woman-shaped.

In the cafeteria, the lunch tables were set
up with tablecloths and glitter and seashells. Someone had put
placemats at a few of the lunch table spots, but it they’d run out
of placemats before tables. Some of the tables had no placemats
whatsoever. A big punch bowl with dark red punch announced itself
in the middle of the cafeteria, and one of the cheerleaders carried
around a big platter with appetizers, smiling at everybody. Parker
was able to steal a glance at it before she carried it over to her
group of friends. Ritz crackers, salami, cheese, and pickles.

“Well, I think this is nice,” Emmalee said.
Parker didn’t say anything, and she elbowed him in the side. “Don’t
you think this is nice?”

He looked over at the dance floor, where the
deejay played an Evanescence song. A few of the stoners were
giggling and head-banging, and a few couples attempted to
slow-dance to Amy Lee’s chart-topping alternative-goth-pop
vocalisms. “Yeah, I guess.”

“We should dance,” Emmalee said.

“I need a drink,” Parker said, and before
Emmalee could say anything, he made a beeline for the cafeteria.
The cheerleader with the platter chatted with her cheerleader
friends on the side of one the tables. Parker walked up to
them.

He gestured with his thumb to the center of
the room. “What’s in the punch bowl?”

The cheerleaders exchanged glances.

One of the seniors spoke up first. “Punch,”
she said. She adjusted her updo. “Why, what’d you think it
was?”

“Punch,” Parker said.

He walked away from them, then, over to the
punch bowl. He ladled some drink into his cup, and tipped it back.
A hint of vodka glittered at him, and he smiled. Nice.

A few cups later, he met up with Emmalee
again. “Let’s do this,” he said.

“I’m not dancing to ‘Magic Stick’,” Emmalee
said. She crossed her arms.

“Why, you afraid everyone will think you’re a
whore? Half these girls are wearing strapless dresses,” Parker
said. He grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“I don’t like this song,” Emmalee said.

Parker sighed. They waited a few more songs,
not speaking.

Parker shoved his hands into the pockets of
his pinstripe slacks. Well, so far prom was definitely stupid. No
wonder Nick skipped it.

Parker wondered what his ruthless boyfriend
was up to tonight. Probably reading
Siddhartha
again. Nick
had a real boner for philosophy lately. Probably had something to
do with the end of his senior year. It figured Nick would time his
existential crisis so perfectly. He was more predictable than a
Ramones song.

A Nelly song roared from the dance floor, and
Emmalee grabbed Parker’s hand again. “Okay, let’s dance,” she said,
dragging him with her.

By then, he could feel the vodka-spiked punch
in his feet. Everything was funny. All these girls trying to be
sexy to a Nelly song. And Stevie gone to military school. He would
have died laughing.

The dance floor swam with zitty guys in
rented tuxedos and girls in dresses. There were so many types of
dresses in the world. It seemed sad that most of the ones on the
dance floor were the same strapless coral as all the other dresses.
A few girls opted for trucker caps and neckties, trying to be Avril
Lavigne.

“Man, you can’t dance for crap,” Emmalee
complained.

“I happen to be a great dancer,” Parker
said.

Emmalee itched her nose again. She really had
no business wearing gloves like that.

They danced more, not saying anything. She
wasn’t the type to play nice; he liked that about her. Her crush on
him was a bit overwhelming, to say the least, but Emmalee was the
sort of girl who hated everybody she found attractive. There was
probably some diagnosis for it.

A few of Emmalee’s friends from Science Club
came up to them after some time, and Parker decided to duck out for
some fresh air. He was getting sick of the Black Eyed Peas,
anyway.

In a long blue dress, Elizabeth nibbled on
cheese slices on the side of the dance floor. She’d assembled all
her accessories by hand, stuff she’d bought at antique stores,
buttons, pearls, beads, chains. Her earrings were made from safety
pins and pearls welded together. It bugged him sometimes how
everyone treated her, like a stupid girl. Girl things weren’t as
appreciated in this life.

Catwoman would have understood.

Parker wandered over to Elizabeth and tapped
her on the shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be working, Grandma?”
he asked. She had a job at the gas station.

“Oh, excuse you,” she said, and grinned at
him. “Just because I’m old.” She was a Spartan High alumni,
practically a dinosaur.