Oh My Goth

by Gena Showalter

  “What is going on?” I demand. Even our dining room table is different. Before, it was round. Now it’s square.

  I want round!

  Dad looks at me over his shoulder and grins. “Good morning, sleepyhead. You look beautiful, as usual.” As he pushes a protein shake in my direction, his features carry a hint of wistfulness as well as an edge of sadness. “I wish your mom could see you. She’d be so proud.”

  Oookay. Does he have a fever? Food poisoning? A brain aneurysm?

  Do I? My dad rarely compliments me—I’m too much of a disappointment, I suppose—and he never talks about my mom.

  “I’m waiting for the punch line,” I say.

  His dark brows knit together, and he frowns. “I don’t understand, honey. The punch line to what?”

  “This.” I spread my arms to indicate the entire house. “Are you guys playing a joke on me?” Or is this weird act some sort of punishment? No, surely not. My dad would never resort to such extreme measures. “Where is our table? The round one.”

  “You know we sold that table last year.” He worries two fingers against the stubble on his jaw. “And a joke? About what?”

  “Answering one of my questions with a question of your own is a good tactic, but it won’t fly.” My hands fist. “What’s going on? Where’s Fiona? Where’s Giggles?”

  He regards me for a long, silent moment, his frown deepening. “You’re acting weird. I have no idea who Fiona is or what you’ve done with your giggles. Is that a new expression all the cool kids are saying?”

  “Eat your breakfast, babe.” Nadine slides a plate of pancakes across the counter before focusing on me—and smiling. She never smiles at me. “Is the protein shake the way you like it, freak?”

  The affection in her tone suggestions “freak” is a term of endearment. This. Is. Madness. “What’s she doing here, Dad?” Irritation and confusion continue to mount. I stomp my foot, feeling like the child I haven’t been since my mother’s death.

  “That’s no way to speak to your stepmother, Jade.” He wags a finger in my direction. “Apologize.”

  My what? “She isn’t my stepmother.” The words wheeze from me.

  Nadine grips the edge of the counter, her knuckles quickly bleaching of color. There’s a silver bud in her eyebrow, and it glints in the light. Oh, sweet goodness. Her eyebrow is now pierced.

  “I must have hurt your feelings,” she says, “but I don’t know how. Tell me and I’ll fix it.”

  “Someone tell me what’s going on before I flip out.” Mercedes rounds the corner, her blue eyes wild. “Mom. What are we doing here? And why are you dressed like that?”

  Both Nadine and Mercedes stayed the night here?

  Nadine closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath as if she’s praying for patience. “What’s wrong with you girls today?” She scans her daughter’s hot-pink sundress, the same one Mercedes wore last night. There are no grass stains to prove Bobby nearly killed us. “How many times do I have to tell you? You need to dress for the position you want, not the position you have. Go change your clothes. I’m sure Jade will let you borrow something appropriate.”

  “No way, no how.” Mercedes slashes her hand through the air, clearly agitated. “Answer my questions. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Girls,” my dad says on a sigh. “This isn’t the way to speak to each other. Let’s start the day with breakfast rather than attitude, all right?”

  “You, be quiet.” Mercedes turns her glare on me. “And you. You were supposed to tell him to stay away from my mother, not to get closer.”

  At least she—this—is normal, saving me from a total breakdown. But with a surge of relief comes a tide of fury. It burns inside me. Why is she the only one who understands that something strange is going on?

  Scowling, I take a step toward her. “You better watch how you speak to me.”

  “She’s right,” Nadine says, shocking Mercedes. And me! “Freakling, you need to apologize to your stepdad and sister. Now.”

  Freakling? In unison, Mercedes and I snap, “We aren’t sisters.”

  “I’m not apologizing to anyone,” she adds.

  A cell phone rings, and Nadine glances at the screen. With a curse, she snags the lab coat that is hanging on the hook beside the cabinets. “I’ve got to go. Don’t wait up, babe. I’m working late tonight.” She grabs her purse, saying, “Are you going to be able to handle our freaklings and this—whatever this is?”

  “I certainly hope so.” His fork clinks against his plate as he leans back in his seat and stretches out his legs. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  “You can tell me all about it when I get home.” Unlike Fiona, who likes to kiss my dad every time she passes him, Nadine marches off, her high heels click-clacking against the floor tiles.

  Hinges squeak as the front door opens and closes. A door closes. The roar of a car engine echoes from the walls.

  Mercedes tosses her arms up. “Well? Someone tell me. What the hell is happening?”

  “Dad,” I say, ignoring her. “Why are my things in boxes? Where are Mom’s journals? And why are you with that...that...harpy? Where’s Fiona? And don’t tell me you don’t know who she is. She’s your freaking wife.”

  He goes still and pale. “I honestly don’t know who this Fiona person is. And who told you about your mother’s journals?”

  “Here’s a better question,” Mercedes interjects. “Why is my mother with him?”

  I speak over her, saying, “Fiona is pregnant with your baby. My real sister. Ruby.”

  “Okay, enough.” My dad stands, the motion jerky. “You two need to stop this. You hate each other, and that’s fine, but it’s past time you accepted the fact that I’m with Nadine and we’re staying together. Also, I know you don’t want to move out of the district, but it’s happening. End of story.” He dumps what remains of his pancakes in the trash and washes his plate at the sink. “We haven’t gotten an offer on the house yet, but we will. Soon. I’m taking measures to—”

  “Move?” I screech. Out of the district? Away from Linnie and Kimberly and Robb? A muscle constricts in my throat. Away from Clarik?

  Planned to cut them out of my life, anyway. Why does this matter?

  Inhale, exhale.

  “No, no, no.” Mercedes shakes her head, locks of hair slapping at her cheeks. “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.”

  Ignore. “I’m seriously considering calling your supervisor and recommending drug testing, Dad.” I rub my thumb over the broken-heart tattoo on my wrist. “And what do you mean, how do I even know about Mom’s journals? You gave them to me on my sixteenth birthday.”

  “No, I didn’t. I gave you a car.” Features pinched, he says, “Grandma Beers has the journals, but I’m telling you, honey, you do not want to read them.”

  “I do.” I haven’t visited Grandma Beers in years. Or talked to her. She’s a sweetheart, but she’s old, and she’s going to die sooner rather than later, and I don’t like how tight my chest feels whenever we’re together. “I will.”

  The color in his cheeks deepens as he grabs a set of keys from the hook and tosses them at me. “Go. This conversation is officially over. Drive your sister to school.”

  “Excuse me?” I grate. “You know I don’t drive.”

  “Since when? And you’re going to school. Don’t even think about ditching again.”

  Again?

  “Hello. Where’s my car?” Mercedes demands.

  Dad shakes his head at her. “You know your mom won’t buy you a car until your grades improve.”

  She shrieks, “What? I’m making straight As. What more does she want?”

  “Since when did your Ds become As?” he asks.

  “Ds?” Her mouth opens and closes. She steps between us, looking from Dad to me, me to Dad, the wheels in her head clearly
turning. “You’re wrong. But then, it’s clear you’re missing a few screws.”

  “Go. Now. Don’t forget to buy your tickets to Fright Night.” He digs in his wallet and tosses us each a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Fright Night?” we screech in unison.

  “The costume party,” he says. “The fund-raiser for a new dissection lab. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  Mercedes laughs, and the sound borders on hysteria. She snatches up the twenty. “Fright Night? Nope. I would never plan an event like that.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You didn’t. Jade did.”

  What! What kind of bizarre upside-down world is this?

  “You know what?” Dad says, and I can tell his temper is rising. “I’ll go. All I wanted was a relaxing breakfast with my daughters before I had to spend eight hours under a sweltering sun. Instead, I’m actually looking forward to eight hours of peace.”

  Like Nadine, he stomps away. The door to his bedroom slams.

  I set the car keys on the counter with forced calm. I’m not driving anywhere.

  “Is this your idea of payback?” Mercedes demands. “Because you’ve gone too far.”

  “I’ve gone too far? Me?”

  “Yes,” she hisses. “You.”

  “Why don’t you think before you speak? Or maybe your food-deprived brain no longer functions correctly. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t had time. And even if I had acted against you, neither of our parents would have played along.” What’s more, there’s no way I could have painted all these walls so swiftly. They don’t even smell of fresh paint.

  “Whatever.” She swipes up the keys, saying, “I’m leaving in five minutes, and I’m going to find out what’s going on. You can come with, or you can stay here. For once, I’m the one who doesn’t care.”

  We head to our bedrooms, and I realize she has the one next to mine. Ruby’s nursery.

  Pang.

  Bury. Lock. In case Mercedes decides to leave without me, I hurriedly brush my teeth and pull on a pair of shoes. At least my headache is waning.

  With three minutes to spare, I’m pacing in the living room, back and forth, back and forth, searching for calm but failing to find it. What am I going to do? How am I going to fix this, whatever this is?

  Mercedes doesn’t show up for another ten minutes, and she’s still wearing the pink dress in protest.

  Silent, we march outside. The morning air is fresh and warm, but my blood is chilled.

  A car honks. A hearse—an actual, honest-to-goodness hearse—slows in front of my house. The passenger window rolls down, and I spy two girls from school. I’ve seen both girls around the halls, but neither has ever deigned to speak to me.

  One girl has a black choker around her neck, faux fur draped over her shoulders and a black-and-white mesh top. The other girl looks like a 1950s pinup, rock-and-roll edition, with a sleeveless black-and-white polka-dot dress that reveals arms sleeved in colorful tattoos.

  Have Linnie, Robb and Kimberly changed? What about Clarik?

  One of the girls whistles. The other shouts, “Hey, Jade.”

  “Karly? McKayla?” Mercedes hurries toward them.

  The girls peer at each other before bursting out laughing. The pinup says, “Aw. Look at the preppy, pretending she knows us.” After blowing me a kiss, they speed away.

  Oookay. This is new, too.

  Mercedes’s eyes are wide. “What just happened?”

  “I have no idea,” I reply softly.

  We climb into the black Mustang parked in my driveway, Mercedes behind the wheel.

  On the drive to school, three other cars honk at us. Two girls and one boy belt out friendly hellos to me. Only to me. Mercedes is flipped off, and it’s...odd. Surreal.

  When Mercedes parks in the school’s lot, she scans the area, stunned. Every student...every teacher...is some type of Goth. And there are many, many types. Traditional, cyber, glam, baby doll, Victorian and more. Almost everyone is scowling, as if unhappy in their skin.

  A common misconception: if you are part of the Goth subculture, you are always miserable.

  “Hey, Jade!” someone calls. “I’m having a séance later. Will you come?”

  This bizarro world must play to the stereotypes. Another common misconception is that all Goths are into black magic.

  “No,” I say, and moans of disappointment break out.

  Look at the world around you. See how it has become a cold shell of itself. Without heart, it is twisted and wrong.

  My mother’s words drift through my mind, and icy foreboding chills the blood in my veins all over again. This is twisted and wrong.

  If you do not appreciate and value the good things you have, you lose them.

  It’s time. Everything is about to change.

  I want you happy.

  Did my mother somehow cause this to happen?

  A thousand denials rush through my head. Impossible! And ridiculous! But...

  Maybe?

  “I can’t... I don’t...” Mercedes struggles to find the right words. “Be honest with me, please. Are you paying these people to dress and act like this?”

  “Are you?” I snap.

  “No. Are you?” she asks again.

  The vengeance side of me likes seeing her so confused and angry. “You would deserve it.” This and more.

  “Because if you are—”

  “I’m not, okay. I’m not. Paying people to pretend to like me and hate you isn’t my style. Especially when I planned to ditch my friends today and do the whole solitary thing. So trust me when I say this is my worst nightmare come to life.”

  She bangs her head against the steering wheel once, twice. “Okay. All right. Let’s assume this Freaky Friday situation is real. In movies and books, the people who switched have to learn something. Let’s figure out what we have to learn and report back to each other after school.”

  “Let me save you the trouble of digging. You need to learn a little something called compassion.”

  “And you need to learn how to live—love—like a real girl,” she counters sharply.

  We glare at each other as we emerge. I try to draw my numbness around me like a coat... And once again, I fail.

  When Kimberly parks her Bronco a few spots down, I experience a wave of relief and decide I’m not going to ditch her or the others. Not now. I don’t think I can do this on my own.

  Kimberly emerges and I gawk. What the crap? She’s wearing buttercup yellow, not a tattoo or piece of metal in sight.

  Even still, I approach her. Her clothes do not matter, just the girl underneath them. “You won’t believe—”

  “Shut up, clone.” She flips me off before shouldering past me to get to Mercedes. “Hey, lovely,” she says to her sworn enemy. “I went by your house so you wouldn’t have to ride with the stephorror, but you’d already gone.” Her sandy-brown hair is combed away from her face and clipped with a glittery barrette in the shape of a flower. “Come on.”

  Mercedes looks just as flummoxed as I feel as Kimberly leads her away.

  Don’t appreciate...lose...

  I pinch my arm, hard. Nope, I’m not dreaming. A blue sky and an ever-brightening sun still hang overhead. Cracked cement still acts as a foundation at my feet. Almost everyone at school is still Goth.

  Mercedes was right about one thing. We need to assume this is real. Somehow, we’ve entered a creepy alternate universe, and we’re trapped.

  I blame Mom. Like the ghost of Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol, she warned me what was to come. But she also said I’d have an ally. Mercedes is the only person who knows the whole world is messed up, but she is not an ally. Not even close.

  Honk, honk, hoooonk. “I love you, Jade Leighton,” a boy shouts, leaning out the passenger window of a passing sedan. “Will you go to homecomi
ng dance with me? Please. With a cherry on top of me.”

  “This is not happening,” I mutter. “Nope. Not happening.”

  I don’t spare him a glance. If his feelings get hurt, so what? When I go back to the real world—I will go back to the real world—he won’t remember this.

  Heart tripping inside my chest, I sprint the rest of the way to school, determined to find Linnie, Robb and Clarik. They’ll be the same as before. They’ll like me. They must. Even if I don’t like myself at the moment.

  Have I ever?

  Chapter 7

  Fear is the enemy.

  But how do you fight an enemy you can’t see?

  —Miranda Leighton

  The tardy bell goes silent as I pass through the front doors. Front doors and a metal detector. An alarm blasts, but I ignore it, storming down a hall now cleared of students.

  The security guard calls my name, which is odd. We’ve never met. He’s a stranger to me.

  If I continue walking away, I’m pretty sure he’ll just chase me down. I’d rather not be singled out today of all days, so I backtrack, my stomach churning. At some point today, I’m going to barf. This is too much weird, too quickly.

  He waves a scanner over me, and like the alarm, it goes off.

  “It’s the brow piercings,” he finally says. His eyes—framed by thick black eyeliner—crinkle at the corners as he smiles and waves me on. “Sorry to keep you, but I had to check. You know the rules. I know a freakling like you wouldn’t be packing heat. Go on. Get to class.”

  A freakling like me?

  I remind myself to breathe. In and out, in and out. “Um, thank you. I guess.” I rush down the empty hallways. Forget the office. I’m going to Mr. Parton’s class. That’s where two of my four—I hope—remaining friends will be. Linnie and Clarik.

  Walls, posters and banners whiz past me. When I come to one with Robb’s picture, I skid to a stop.

  Forever Missed.

  Missed? What, did he move in this reality?

  From the picture, his sad, dark eyes stare at me, beseeching me to help him. A look I’ve seen a thousand times before. But his hair is cut military short, and he’s wearing a white button-down shirt, the wrinkles ironed out.