Scorch

by Gina Damico

  “I can bench-press a camel,” Tut added.

  “And he can bench-press a camel,” said Cordy, nodding and patting his chiseled abs. “He lifted Lumpy. It was very impressive.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Lex said to Tut. “You came all the way across thousands of miles and millennia just to hang out with some random commoner girl you just met?”

  “Lex!” Cordy scolded her. “This is the first real shot I’ve ever had at a relationship. Just let me have this. Need I remind you again of the hotness?”

  Lex stifled a snicker as Tut swept a hand through his perfectly coifed hair. “No. I think I got it.”

  Cordy lovingly gazed at him for another minute or so, then turned to Lex. “So how are Mom and Dad?”

  Lex’s gaze fluttered to the ground. “I’m . . . sure they’re fine.”

  “What?” Cordy shouted. “Jesus, Lex, you haven’t talked to them? What kind of monster are you?”

  “I just—I didn’t think—” Lex sputtered, but she couldn’t come up with a decent answer. She should have called them by now, she knew that. But leaving them had been hard enough; she’d barely been able to look them in the eye. What more was there to say?

  She did miss them, though. It had been nearly three months since she’d last seen her mother and father, and while her usual out-of-sight, out-of-mind tactics had been working, deep down it felt as if a part of her had shriveled up like a dried flower.

  Cordy was still yelling. “I’d give up my favorite novelty pyramid-shaped hat to see them again for a single second, and you haven’t spoken a word to them since you left?”

  “I sent them an anniversary card,” Lex said weakly.

  Cordy looked ready to wring her neck. “You better call them tomorrow for Thanksgiving, Lex. I mean it.” She shook her head in disgust. “They lost both their daughters. You owe them at least a few minutes of your precious time.”

  “Fine! You’re right. I’ll call.”

  They stood in grumpy silence. Lex threw one last glance around the Afterlife, not finding her neutralizer, not even caring anymore. She’d look for it later. For now, she just wanted to get out of there.

  “I better go,” she said, heading for the vault door. “See you later.”

  Cordy just glared and remained silent. But Tut gave her a jaunty wave and another dashing smile.

  “Farewell, peasant!”

  13

  The next day Lex sank back onto Driggs’s bed and glanced out the window at the falling snow, admiring its beauty, its purity, the way it erased everything with a total disregard for all the woes of the world. She would have admired its silence as well, if Driggs weren’t blowing out her eardrums with a blistering drum solo.

  She yawned. She’d lain awake into the wee hours the night before, obsessing over Cordy and her guilt crusade, the neutralizer that she’d neglected to dig up, and Kloo’s weird memory lapse.

  But she resolved to shove all that to the back burner of her brain, at least for the next few hours. The other Juniors, Corpp, and Pandora were coming over for a feast Uncle Mort had insisted upon hosting, despite the fact that he’d never done such a thing before and that the entire enterprise was sure to fail in a most spectacular manner. Lex couldn’t wait.

  What was to happen after that was another story.

  “WHAT’S WRONG?” Driggs yelled over a cymbal crash upon catching Lex’s troubled face. “Sorry. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Lex fiddled with his pillow, visions of Cordy’s stern face pounding through her head. “My parents are going to strangle me over the phone today, that’s all.”

  Driggs gave her a sympathetic look. “They are not.”

  “Of course they are,” she said. “I haven’t called in forever. Plus there’s the whole skipping-town-after-my-sister-got-killed thing. Probably won’t be thrilled about that either.”

  “Cheer up, emo kid. Focus on the legendary deep-fried Turkeyzilla.”

  At the mention of Pandora’s promised entrée, Lex cracked a smile. “What is it about turkey that makes people lose their minds?” she asked. “One year Mom lost her engagement ring while stuffing it and forced us to keep eating until we found the damn thing.” She smiled at the memory of her laughing parents taking a picture of their daughters covered in giblets. “And breaking the wishbone—remember that?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” Driggs muttered.

  The smile slid off Lex’s face as she remembered who she was talking to: the poster child for abysmal childhoods. “Crap. I’m sorry.”

  He shot her a dry grin. “Relax, spaz. Lest you forget, I’m not a fragile little snowflake.”

  “I’m still sorry. Holidays sucked, I take it?”

  He shrugged. “I got a bike for Christmas once.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “I think it had been stolen.”

  “Ah.”

  He twirled a drumstick. “My parents didn’t have any money. Or seemingly any desire to see their kid happy. So I spent most Thanksgivings eating greasy KFC and most Christmases outside in the snow, building the presents I wished I had gotten.”

  Lex stared at him. “That is the saddest thing I have ever heard.”

  “And yet I get no six-figure book deals. Where’s the justice in this world?”

  Lex laughed and grabbed his hand. She traced her finger across his palm and wrist, up his arm, and across the chest that she knew was dotted with scars. Her focus jumped back and forth between his mismatched eyes. Now wasn’t really the time to ask—but really, would there ever be a good time?

  “What happened to them?” she said. “Your parents.”

  He looked down at his beat-up Chucks. “They’re dead.”

  Lex nodded. She’d been suspecting that for a long time. “How?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it and glanced out the window. “Not today, okay?”

  Lex felt a pang of something—hurt, maybe? That he didn’t trust her enough to tell her? But as she watched how he sank back into his drumming rhythm, pounding at each drum as if it had personally insulted him, she knew that wasn’t it. He just didn’t want to reopen those scars.

  Lex lay back down on his bed and watched him play for a while. The way his lean muscles bulged underneath his T-shirt, the furious blur of his hands, the tiny beads of sweat gathering on his brow and spiking his hair, the way his tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration—it was enough to make her forget all about her parents, his parents, Cordy, the neutralizer, everything but the fact that that tongue hadn’t yet graced the back of her throat today—

  Driggs stopped mid-beat, as if he could hear her thoughts. “Mort ran out to the grocery store, right?”

  “Yeah. To get biscuits.”

  “The lines are probably pretty long. He could be there for a while,” he said with sudden mischief in his eyes, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. He pulled out a key and dangled it in front of her face. “What say you?”

  Lex grinned. “Attic?”

  Early retirement had suited Uncle Mort well; when he wasn’t out on shifts, he spent most of his time in the basement, working, placing furtive phone calls, even making Sparks for all the Juniors. Such distractions had afforded Lex and Driggs the perfect opportunity to perform an exhaustive audit of his home surveillance system until one day they finally, gloriously, found a blind spot: the small staircase that led to the attic.

  Once safely up there, they immediately got down to their face-slobbering business, stopping only to sneeze or brush a cobweb away. “Just keep listening for his bike,” Lex said between snogs. “If we get caught, he might lock us up here forever.”

  “He didn’t take the bike,” Driggs said, going in for another.

  Lex pushed him back. “What?”

  Driggs just sat there with his tongue hanging out. He put it back in. “He took the car.”

  “Why? He only drives the car when he needs the space for passengers.” She looked out the small, dusty window. As if on
cue, the cheddar yellow Gremlin rounded onto Dead End, popping out against the whiteness of the snow like a misplaced taxicab. “Crap, there he is!”

  Driggs peered through the grime as the car stopped next to the Bank. “What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know. But someone’s yelling at him.” She squinted. “Is it Norwood?”

  “Of course it’s Norwood.” Driggs thought for a moment. “I have an idea. Come on.”

  Lex followed him back down the narrow staircase to a large gadget sticking out of the living room window. “How is a satellite dish going to help?” she asked as he aimed it at the car.

  “Not a satellite dish. A parabolic microphone.”

  “A what now?”

  He donned some headphones, then tossed her a pair. “Put these on.”

  The voices came through the earpieces as clearly as if they were in the next room. “Whoa. How—”

  “It’s a long-range listening device. Shh.”

  Lex closed her mouth and watched as Norwood leaned into the driver’s-side window.

  “—out of your mind?” he was shouting. “What is wrong with you, Mort?”

  “Lighten up, Grinch,” said Uncle Mort. “It’s the holidays.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the goddamn Apocalypse! No visitors allowed! And for Chrissakes, them?”

  “If you have a problem, take it up with Necropolis. The president is well aware of the situation.”

  “The—what? You went over my head?”

  “It wasn’t easy, I assure you,” said Uncle Mort, shifting the car into gear. “That thing gets bigger every day.”

  He stepped on the gas and sped off down the road, leaving Norwood in a cloud of exhaust and fussiness.

  Lex and Driggs tore off the headphones and stared at each other. “Okay, wait,” Lex said. “Who’s coming over for dinner that we know of?”

  Driggs counted on his fingers. “Corpp and Pandora, all the Juniors, Wicket—”

  “No, Wicket’s not coming,” Lex said. “Norwood would get suspicious.”

  “Right.” Driggs frowned. “Then that’s it. I don’t know who else it could be.”

  They kept watching as the car wound its way up the hill and came to a stop in the driveway. Uncle Mort got out and stretched, then opened the door to the back seat.

  A familiar pair of boots crunched down onto the snow-covered driveway. The hand that grabbed Uncle Mort’s wore a distinctive ring, a ring that had once been lost in the stuffing of a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “Oh my God,” Lex rasped. “Mom.”

  ***

  Thirty minutes later Lex, her parents, Uncle Mort, Corpp, Pandora, and the rest of the Juniors all sat in folding chairs around the kitchen table that Uncle Mort had elongated by adding a couple of plywood boards from the garage. A plastic tablecloth featuring spritely Pilgrims spanned its surface.

  The menu: legendary deep-fried Turkeyzilla, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and green beans.

  The theme: dysfunction.

  “So,” Elysia said to Lex’s parents with her ever-friendly grin, “how are you?”

  “How do you think they are?” Ferbus whispered.

  She kicked him under the table. “I mean—um—what do you do? For a living?”

  Lex’s mother, who hadn’t said much, continued to stare down the table at the sea of black hoodies while picking at her potatoes.

  Lex’s father cleared his throat. “I’m a contractor,” he said. “And she’s a teacher.”

  “Omigod! I wanted to be a teacher!” Elysia turned to Mrs. Bartleby. “Do you love it?”

  “Hmm?” She snapped back to attention and smiled vacantly at Elysia. “Oh, yes. I do. The kids are a nice distraction.”

  “From what?” Pip asked.

  Bang smacked her forehead. Lex squeezed Driggs’s hand even tighter, causing him to choke on his stuffing. He coughed and hacked until the offending morsel flew out of his mouth, landing in Sofi’s glass of water.

  “Ewww!” she squealed.

  “Drink around it,” Pandora scolded. “So! I hear New York City is lovely this time of year.”

  “Well, it looks nice, I guess,” Mr. Bartleby said. “But shoveling out the driveway is a pain in the neck. The girls used to help, but now . . .”

  Sensing the impending awkwardness, Corpp jumped in. “Well, Lex has been a wonderful addition to our community. She’s smart, friendly, a joy to be around—”

  “And don’t you worry about the boyfriend,” Ferbus said, pointing to Driggs. “I keep him in line.”

  Mrs. Bartleby’s eyes widened, looking at Lex and then Driggs. “You have a—” she sputtered. “He’s your—”

  Ferbus went white. “They didn’t know?”

  “Oops!” said Uncle Mort in a theatrical voice, getting up from the table. “Almost forgot the biscuits!”

  “Let me help you with those,” Lex said through clenched teeth, following him to the counter. A series of pained hugs and greetings had ensued when her parents arrived—but the rest of the guests showed up so soon thereafter that Lex hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to them, much to her relief. Still, she hadn’t stopped seething. “What were you thinking?”

  Uncle Mort gave her a reproachful look. “I was thinking that your parents were probably going to feel more lonely and depressed this Thanksgiving than they’ve ever felt in their lives, and that maybe we could help alleviate some of that by hosting a dinner featuring the one and only daughter they have left.”

  “A dinner of horrors? You know my track record with family gatherings!”

  He ignored her. “Here we are!” he said, turning back to the table with a giant platter. “Biscuits aplenty!”

  Lex grunted and took her seat. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” she whispered to Driggs.

  “Me neither,” he replied. “I think my hand is broken in three places.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And your dad seems to be shooting me some sort of a death stare.”

  Lex glanced at her father. “That’s bad.”

  “Think he brought the shotgun?”

  “It’s entirely possible.”

  “All I’m saying,” Ferbus went on, trying to redeem himself and failing, “is that we all look out for one another here.” Mr. Bartleby looked at him. Ferbus began to sweat. “Because, you know. We all need somebody. Uh, to lean on.”

  “Stop talking,” Bang signed.

  Elysia gave Lex’s parents a sympathetic grin. “I think what my idiot partner is trying to say—through the magic of corny song lyrics, for some reason—is that you don’t need to worry about Lex. She’s like a sister to me.” She realized her poor choice of words as a pained look came to Mrs. Bartleby’s face. “Or an especially close cousin.” She shut her mouth and stared at her potatoes. “Frig.”

  Lex was now crushing Driggs’s hand into a fine paste. Other than the folding chairs creaking and Pip obliviously scraping the last bits of food off his plate, the table was silent.

  “Good beans!” Pip threw in.

  ***

  After dinner Uncle Mort made a big deal out of getting everyone to help bring the plywood boards back to the garage—everyone except Lex and her parents, whom he forced to stay put and relax. So there they sat in the living room, Lex sandwiched between them on her uncle’s ratty sofa, cursing him to the deepest circles of hell for trapping her like this. Yet again.

  “Interesting crowd you’re running with,” her father said.

  Lex so wanted to scream that he was the one who sent her here, but instead she bit her tongue and picked at the couch cushion.

  Her mother took a shaky breath. “Perhaps we should have thought things through a little more carefully,” she said. “If we’d known how you would turn out, if we’d known how much you’d change . . .” She looked out the window. “We thought we were doing the right thing.”

  Lex softened. “You were, Mom,” she said. “I’m happy here. I finally have friends, and t
hey’re really important to me.”

  Her mother let out an uncharacteristic snort. “More important than your own family?” she shot back with an edge in her voice. “All this time we thought we were providing a good life for you, when in reality all you’ve ever wanted was to run away at the first chance you got. And no wonder, with this—this boyfriend of yours—”

  “It’s not like that, Mom.”

  “Then what is it like?” Her mother pursed her lips. “You’re still a child, Lex. You’re still our responsibility. You can’t just cut us out of your life!”

  “I’m not!” Lex felt a lump in her throat. “I thought this was what you wanted, for me to knock off all that delinquent stuff and grow up!”

  “Oh, you’ve grown up all right. Too fast, if you ask me. Dropping out of school, bolting right back up here to do God knows what.”

  “I had to come back—”

  “Dammit, Lex! Don’t lie to me!”

  Lex gaped at her. This was a woman who’d kept a swear jar in the kitchen for as long as Lex could remember, so strong was her distaste for vile language. Lex had never heard her swear, not once in her whole life.

  Tears were forming in her mother’s eyes. “Had to come back—to find your sister’s killer, right?” she said in a sarcastic voice. “How dare you use that as an excuse?”

  Mr. Bartleby gently squeezed his wife’s arm. “Hon—”

  “How could you abandon us like that?” she went on. “Leaving us to pick up the pieces, to try to figure out how to get out of bed every morning with the knowledge that one daughter is dead and the other doesn’t love you anymore!”

  Lex could feel her face crumpling. “Mom—that’s not—”

  “And all along, you’re having a grand old time up here with your friends, acting like you never even had a sister, like you don’t even have parents, like you don’t even care!”