Zomburbia (7 page)

I considered just logging off and telling her in the morning that I hadn't seen her message. I hovered the mouse over the LOGOUT button for a few seconds before I decided to bite the bullet and answer.

My heart sank. Why the hell would Elsa be talking to Sherri? This could only be bad.

I stared at the screen, not sure how to respond. Not sure if I even wanted to respond.

She might have kept on typing, threatening me in all caps. I didn't see any of it, however. I closed the screen on the laptop, turned off my light, and crawled into bed.

I decided I needed to be optimistic. Tomorrow was another chance to not mess up my life too completely. I rolled over and went to sleep.

T
he next day was one episode of avoiding Brandon after another. Maybe he wanted to apologize or whatever. I was not interested. I swear that every time I turned around he was standing there scanning the halls for me. He was like the human equivalent of herpes—every time I thought I'd shaken him, he'd turn up again.

The worst was Journalism. I walked in only to see Brandon sitting there practically wagging his tail. He moved his bag off the chair next to him. He'd obviously been saving it. Ugh. A quick scan of the room revealed that the only other empty seat was next to Monty Rusk. Monty is the student managing editor of the paper, and he and soap are not really on speaking terms. On the plus side, I knew Monty wouldn't try to engage me in a discussion of our various emotions. My choice was clear.

Monty grunted a hello as I sat down and scooted my chair as far from him as possible as a way of saying “howdy” right back. I could feel—
feel—
Brandon staring at the back of my neck. I did my best to ignore him and concentrate on whatever was being discussed by the class.

I finally raised my hand and told Mrs. Johnson I'd like to be excused to the library to work on my story. People writing stories can often get away with this on Fridays, paste-up days. She eyed me skeptically and finally wrote out a pass. Some days I'd pull this stunt so I could leave campus, but today I planned to actually go to the library and work. Anything to get out of the same room as Brandon.

While I sat in the Brandon-free environs of the library, I realized I hadn't seen Sherri all day. We only have the one class together, and she has been known to skip, so it wouldn't be out of the question for us to not see each other. Though we almost always make a point to track each other down. I guess she wasn't interested in finding me today. I was starting to get wound up about it until I realized that I hadn't exactly mounted a mission to find her, either. Fine, we'd let the situation cool down today and see what happened tonight at the party. If she let me in, that is.

After school, Willie gave me a ride to Bully Burger. He seemed suitably appreciative of the road rash on my chin. Not wanting to be social at all, I'd texted him early that morning and told him I'd take the bus to school but that I'd appreciate a ride to work. When we got to the burger joint, I had more than an hour before I had to start my shift, so I bought us both Bully Meals and we sat there talking. It was sort of pathetic how much Willie seemed to appreciate the meal I bought him. Or maybe he appreciated the fact that we could talk without Sherri around.

We talked about his sister, avoided talking about his parents. Classes. Willie is in as many shop classes as the school would let him. I think he takes basic English, pre-Algebra, second-year Spanish (for the second year in a row), and four shop classes. But Willie is really good in shop. He can fix just about anything, and if he can't fix it, odds are he can build you something to replace it. His face lit up when he talked about his shop classes. Almost as much as when he talked about his sister. I liked seeing him all happy. I wasn't even tempted to call him a fag and spoil the mood.

And then, right in the middle of our little love-fest, Willie sprung his trap.

“You should come over to my place for dinner tomorrow,” he said.

“Oh, um . . .” I said. Damn me for lowering my ironic defensive shields. Tomorrow was Saturday, and while I didn't have anything planned, that is an important day to leave open when one is an eligible young lady. Or a young punk who might get invited somewhere to drink until you puke. I was searching for a reason to say no when I looked at Willie's big, stupid, hopeful face. I gave up on that idea.

“That'd be great, Willie,” I said. “Just let me check with my dad. I'm sure it'll be fine.”

And after that Willie just wouldn't stop smiling and laughing. I decided I liked Willie best when he was happy, and I vowed to do what I could to make him that way more often. As long as I didn't have to swap bodily fluids with him to do it.

Willie left when it was time for my shift to start. The franchise owner, Mr. Washington, was working that night, which meant everyone had to be on their best behavior. Ted wasn't in the back office playing five-knuckle shuffle, and I had my uniform shirt buttoned and my hair tucked under my hat. Phil worked the fry station, a kid named Jamal was at the grill, and two sisters, twins named Mary Kate and Ashley—for real—worked the cash registers at the front. A thirty-year-old, ex-con-looking dude named Barry was a floater/greeter/whatever. Barry was on the schedule for the drive-thru window, but he knows about my side business and lets me do it as long as I give him a discount on Vitamin Z. Chacho was out in the parking lot in his full armor.

Phil barely made eye contact with me, which I thought was weird. On the other hand, I found going out at night in camouflage and killing zombies to be weird, too. I wanted to thank him again, but decided not to if he was going to have a stick up his butt for some unknown reason.

It was a pretty good night, both for Bully Burger and me. Although, to be honest, I'm sure I made a lot more than the drive-thru did. I actually sold everything I was holding. I'd have to go back to Buddha, my source, and get more.

After our shifts were over, anyone without a car could get a ride home from Chacho. It's part of his duties as a security guy. I'm sure I could have gotten a ride with anyone else that night. The problem was, I wanted to go to the party and I didn't want to invite along yet more people on Sherri's list of undesirables. I'm pretty sure Chacho wouldn't want to come party with us, and if he did, I think I'd have scored some points with Sherri because of it.

I was the only one riding with Chacho that night. We climbed into the big SUV that the company provided him for just this reason, and it rumbled to life with the push of a button. I usually hate these oversized hunks of crap as a rule, though I had to admit that I liked the feeling of contained power as Chacho stepped on the gas and I was pressed back into my seat. He fiddled with what looked like a TV remote with just one button, and the gate opened for us. We turned left out of the lot and he hit the same button. The gate closed behind us.

“You're north of Madrona, aren't you?” Chacho asked me absently as he got the radio and air going. Something with lots of drums and guitars started coming out of the speakers.

“Who's this?” I asked.

“Big Star,” he said like I should have already known. “You know, Alex Chilton . . .” he tried again.

“Are they new?” I asked. “They sound new.”

He laughed. “New?” he asked. “No. They broke up when I was, like, two or something.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh,” I said, “so they're ancient. Why would I know them?”

Chacho shrugged. “You just seem like you'd know them, is all. You seem like you know more than the other kids at The Bully.”

“Oh,” I said, and I turned toward the window and smiled to myself. I didn't think Chacho had ever thought anything about me, let alone that I might know this old band he thought was cool. Note to self: Look into Big Star.

“So, up past Madrona, right?” Chacho asked.

I turned back from the window and gave him a sheepish smile. “Well,” I said, “that
is
where I live, but I was wondering if you'd take me to Sherri's place instead.”

“Nope,” he said. “Company rules are I can only take you home. You know what kind of liability I'd be exposed to if I took you over there and something happened to you?”

“If something happens,” I said, “which it won't, just tell them you took me home and you have no idea what I did after that.”

“Okay, forget the liability,” Chacho said. “What about how lousy I'd feel?”

“And how lousy would you feel if something happened to me while I rode my bike over to Sherri's because you wouldn't give me a ride?” I knew I was being unfair. I just really
did not
want to ride my bike in the dark again. I knew that once I got to the party I'd be able to beg a ride home from someone.

Chacho mumbled under his breath. Something in Spanish, probably a curse.

“This one time, Courtney,” he said, “one time. I don't like being put on the spot.”

“Totally,” I agreed. “I'm sorry, Chacho, I didn't think it'd be a big deal. It won't happen again.”

I think I did a lousy job concealing my joy because Chacho glared at me and muttered in Spanish some more. I tried to get him to talk. He just wasn't interested. So we just sat there and listened to Big Star and didn't talk until we got to Sherri's place.

Toward the end of the trip, I gave him directions to Sherri's, but as we pulled up in front, I wondered if we'd made a wrong turn. Past experience with Sherri's parties led me to expect three or four cars on the street and a somber group of sad sacks gathered in the living room listening to music and bitching.

What greeted me were cars lining both sides of the street. People flowed out of the house and into the yard, and music pounded out so loud I could hear it through the windows of the SUV. Every light in the house shone out into the night. Man, it was like they were doing everything they could to attract a zombie horde, short of hanging a banner on top of the house that read A
LL
-Y
OU
-C
AN
-E
AT
B
UFFET
.

“I thought you told me once that you guys's parties were pretty tame.” Chacho said as he peered out at the scene.

“I think the term I used was ‘lame,' ” I said, “not tame. And I'm not really sure what's going on here.” Except that I did have an idea what it was.

I thanked Chacho and climbed out of the SUV. I approached the house and was struck by the surreal nature of all of these faces hanging out at Sherri's place. Jocks, cheerleaders, popular kids. It was like seeing British royalty hanging around in front of a strip club. Not that I would be making that analogy to Sherri.

I said hi to a few people as I walked into the house. I didn't linger and talk to anyone. I needed to find our lovely hostess. I maneuvered through the crowd, doing my best to not have any drinks spilled on me.

I spotted Brandi Edwards and Carol Langworthy sitting on the couch staring sullenly at everything going on around them. They projected such an aura of contempt that no one else tried to sit on the empty cushions.

“Hey,” I shouted above the din of the music and got a frown in response. “Either of you seen Sherri?”

Brandi shouted something that I couldn't hear. I shook my head and pointed to my ears. Finally she just pointed toward the kitchen. I gave her a thumbs-up and set about moving through the thirty feet of space that lay between where I was and where I wanted to be. Thirty feet otherwise occupied by hormonally unbalanced teenagers.

After many stepped-on toes and shoulder-checked bodies, I made it to the kitchen. More people. And a keg. Someone had brought a keg to Sherri's party. I didn't see any faces I recognized so I couldn't ask after her whereabouts. I passed through the living room for a second time, and I felt my phone vibrating in my pants pocket. I fished it out and saw I'd received a message.

 

LOOK UP.

 

I looked up the stairs and there was Sherri, phone in hand, grimace plastered on her face. She was in her standard party garb: all black pocket-T, skirt, and leggings, and her knee-high Dr. Marten knockoffs. She raised her hand and wagged her finger for me to join her. I took a deep breath and did just that, winding my way up the stairs past knots of people.

When I reached the top of the stairs, Sherri turned and stomped off down the hall toward her parents' room. I followed, of course. We got inside and she slammed the door, then stalked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Do you know why we're in my folks' room?” she asked.

“Because this is where you always stay when they're out—” I started. She cut me off.

“Because there are people humping in
my
room!” she shouted. “If anyone was going to hump in my room, it should be me.”

I didn't bother to point out that she had no boyfriend at the moment and that there was probably no one at the party that she liked, so really the humping issue was moot.

“Do you know who's to blame for all of this?” she asked. Her voice was very controlled, very even. I knew I had to be careful.

“I guess that Brandon told everyone,” I said.

“You, you stupid cow,” she said calmly. “I blame you.”

“You blame me,” I said, and I felt my cheeks growing hot.

“It's because of your fat mouth that all of these losers are in my house right now,” she said, her voice growing shrill. She was losing her cool finally. Good, so was I.

“I really need to apologize,” I said. “How horrible of me to make your party an actual, you know, party.” I felt my voice rising and I was talking faster and faster. “I know you wanted it to be what your parties always are—a bunch of lame-asses sitting around being miserable.”

“Maybe that's the way we like it!”

“Well, guess what?” I asked. “If that's what you want, you can still have it. Brandi and all the rest of our lame friends are sitting on the couch downstairs looking like they sucked on a turd. The fact that all these people are here makes it even easier for you to act alienated. Have a goddamned ball!”

She stood up and I wondered if she was going to throw a punch at me. That might have been better, maybe.

“Is this all because you think you're better than me?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

I took a step back from her, recoiled like she had slapped me.

“What the hell—?”

“Don't pretend,” she said. “You know you think it. Sometimes I think you only hang out with us so you can feel superior.”