Forever Freaky

by Tom Upton

  “A shield?”

  “Yeah, sure, why not?”

  “Jack, I’m a lot of things, but I’m not the U.S.S. Enterprise,” I said. “As for practicing, it took me two weeks to learn how to twirl a pencil on my fingertip, and the only reason I learned that was to drive my mom crazy. There just isn’t enough time to learn to control what I have.”

  He sat there and thought about things. From his expression it was clear he didn’t like any of it. Who would?

  “And what do I do?” he asked.

  “You do nothing.”

  “You can’t expect me—”

  “Yeah, I can,” I said, raising my voice. “I expect you to listen to me. You made me like you, when I didn’t want to like you. You make me care, when I didn’t want to care about anybody or anything. A couple months ago, I couldn’t imagine ever talking to somebody the way I’m talking to you now. You even got me thinking stupid things, like maybe—ah, just forget it. That’s not important. But you are not to do anything. You’re not to be anywhere near to that place, you understand?”

  “Sure, I understand,” he said meekly. He looked at me. He didn’t seem to know what to say. I could see something welling up in him, begging to come out.

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, go ahead,” I said.

  He reached over and gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze and then rested his hand there. It didn’t feel bad. I couldn’t read his mind, and that still mystified me. He was like a cipher, but at this point in my life ciphers were good things. After the moment passed, I said, “Okay, okay, enough of that. No point in getting sappy.”

  He removed his hand.

  “So we have an agreement on this?” I asked him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Say it.”

  “I won’t go near the picnic.”

  “And?”

  “And I won’t ever involve you in weird stuff again.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Now that that is settled, I should go home.”

  “Already?” He looked disappointed.

  “Well, yeah. What?—you want me to hang out for a while?”

  “It would be nice,” he said.

  “Jack, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not very sociable. I don’t play video games. I don’t like watching movies. Honestly, I don’t I think I know how to hang out. It would be something I’d have to work at.”

  “Well, what did you do when you were at Amy’s house?”

  “Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure,” I said.

  “We could just talk,” he said.

  “Talk about what? The weather?” I asked. “You know it’s all going to come back to the weird, the bizarre and the insane. It always does. There’s no escaping that. Sometimes I think that’s all I’ll ever be about, and if you take that away, there wouldn’t be much left over. See what I mean about not having anything to offer?” It felt as though the walls of the room were closing in on me. I stood up from the sofa, and looked down at him. He seemed so glum. I managed to reach out and run a finger through his nightmare hair. “You really ought to do something about that. Maybe a buzzcut, huh? I really have to go,” I added, finding it hard to breathe.

  Jack stood and led me outside, where a chorus of one old woman cried witch after me as I left.

  ***************

  The following week at school was uneventful. Mostly I sat in hushed classrooms and took finals, listening to soft groans, muted coughs, and the scratching of number two pencils on test sheets as classmates struggled to remember answers. I always did fairly well on tests, despite, and maybe because of, the fact that I didn’t care how I did.

  I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t run into Amy. She wasn’t in any of my classes, and at lunch she was conspicuously absent. I knew she was in school, though; I could feel her presence. She was like a pot of water left heating up on the stove—eventually I had to do something with her.

  Jack, Melody and I had lunch each day as usual, although Jack grew quieter and glummer as the weekend neared. I suspected he was not dealing well with the promise I’d forced him to make; it was killing him that I didn’t want him with me in the woods when I confronted Amy. He didn’t want to be left out. I was sure he was thinking about breaking the promise. A couple times I reminded him that we had a deal, which confused Melody, who didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. She just stared at me and then at Jack. All that she could gather was that Jack and I were keeping secrets, and it was apparent that she didn’t like that one bit.

  On Friday, Jack didn’t say anything at all. He sat, he ate, and when he was finished, he got up and walked away without a word, leaving Melody and me alone.

  “What was that all about?” she asked, almost demanded.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “What going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, and there was venom in her words. I never thought that she was capable of such an attitude. It just didn’t fit her; she reminded me of a seething bunny rabbit. She kept looking at me as though it was painful to see me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re screwing him, aren’t you?”

  “Huh?” Honestly, it was the last thing I expected to hear—also, the last thing I needed at the moment. “No.”

  “Oh, whatever,” she spat out.

  “It’s not like that,” I said. “You know me. That kind of thing just isn’t meant to happen.” I watched her for a moment; she seemed totally devastated. I was not good at being nurturing, but I tried. “I regret that he doesn’t like you,” I said, which came out sounding stiff and insincere.

  She pursed her lips. “I just don’t see the attraction. You’re so wrong for him.”

  “I’m wrong for anybody,” I said.

  “You know, I saw him first,” she complained. This wasn’t true, but I didn’t correct her.

  “I wish he did like you.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, it would make my life easier,” I said.

  She studied me a few seconds. “Yeah, I suppose it would. I just don’t understand why he doesn’t like me. I’m likable, right?”

  “Infinitely,” I lied.

  “Then why? Maybe I’m not weird enough, huh?” she asked. “Is there any way I can be weirder?”

  “Believe me, you’re getting there. Wanting to be weird is the first step to becoming weird.”

  Melody grabbed her lunch tray and stood.

  “It’s doesn’t matter. Really, who cares, anyway?” she asked, before she walked away.

  As I sat alone, I looked across the crowded lunchroom and caught sight of Eloise Parker, who was also sitting alone. I guessed we had something in common, some natural repellent that drove people away. Maybe that was a good thing.

  Saturday morning was sunny and warm, and it was hard to believe that dark deeds would be done soon.

  My mom was at work, tending to the sick and dying. Better them than me, I figured.

  My dad was home, though, up early and getting things done. He mowed the lawn, way too early to suit some of our neighbors, who probably rose sleepy-eyed from their bed at the buzzing racket of a lawn mower, whining, Doesn’t somebody know it’s Saturday?… But my dad was so used to a 24/7 schedule he never seemed aware of the time. He wasn’t rude; he was just a fireman.

  After he had finished the lawn, he tried to involve me in domestic chores. That was always a big mistake. I just wasn’t the domestic type.

  “You wanna take a try at weeding the garden?” he asked, standing in the kitchen as I choked down my breakfast. He was already dirty and sweaty and living proof that yard work couldn’t possibly be a good thing.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, definitely a future condo owner.

  “It’ll do you some good,” he said. “Get out in the sun. Soak in some vitamin D. Maybe get a little tan. You always look so—pasty.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know anything about planting and stuff lik
e that.”

  “I’m talking about weeding. It’s simple. You just pull the weeds.”

  “Wouldn’t that be de-weeding?” I asked.

  He stared at me. A shadow seemed to fall across his face. Maybe the shadow was the realization he was not talking to somebody normal, somebody who understood and cared about normal things like how their lawn and garden looked.

  “Well…uh… never mind,” he said, his disappointment seeping into his words. “I suppose you’ll be spending the day in your room, staring at the walls or something.”

  “Actually, I was going to a barbecue,” I said.

  “A barbecue?”

  “It’s the end-of-school thing they have ever year,” I explained.

  At first he seemed puzzled. A barbecue? That was normal, right? Dead meat sizzling on a grill. People gathering together to talk and drink and eat dead meat. Sure, that was normal—really normal. He looked almost joyous at this development, as though he were about to run out of the house and shout so all the neighbors could hear: My weirdo daughter is finally doing something normal!… What would he think if he knew the real reason I was going?

  “No, that’s cool,” he said. “A barbecue, huh? Well, sure, why not?” He actually sounded proud. He turned and left the kitchen, heading back out to the yard.

  About a minute later, he returned and poked his head though the doorway. “There going to be boys at this barbecue?” he asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, just don’t get pregnant,” he warned, and then vanished again.

  I shook my head. No wonder I was such a freak.

  ***************

  Home-made advertisements for the barbecue had circulated around school for about a week. They were printed on pink copy paper. The writing was in big bold letters.

  Party

  Saturday 1pm until ?????

  You know where

  (and if you don’t know, you’re a douchebag and nobody wants you there anyway)

  I arrived at the forest preserve at about noon. I parked in the lot, which was empty except for a few cars. I sat behind the wheel and checked out the recreational area. It was a large kidney-shaped grassy area cut into woods. The area was completely surrounded by the woods except for the parking lot, which was visible from the main road. There were picnic tables here and there, along with wooden shelters under which you could plant a grill and barbecue your heart out. There was plenty of open area for running and tossing around softballs and Frisbees. I saw big problems with the place. Tactically it was a nightmare; everybody within the area would be open to attack from anywhere along the tree line, and there were hundreds of yards of tree line and acres of woods in which Amy could hide. How could I possibly find her, in the dark woods, in time to stop her? It seemed impossible. It would take a horde of freaks like me, each one positioned at intervals just inside the woods so that one or another of them could get to her quickly. And even then actually stopping her would be a huge problem. I seriously considered just going home. What was the point? What business was it of mine, anyway? Did I even know these people who would get hurt? Did I owe them anything? But some nagging little voice in my mind told me I must try. Maybe it was the shadow of a conscience, or maybe it was a small, demented entity, remnant of a past or future schizophrenia, that refused to accept my true nature. Whatever it was, I listened to it more and more lately, no matter how foolish I ended up feeling. So, yeah, I would try—I would try, I would fail, and I would wonder why I had even bothered.

  I got out of the car. I walked toward the tree line and entered the woods. To me, who never communed well with nature, it was a totally alien environment. The air here was cool and damp. There was the skittering of invisible tiny creatures moving on the ground over dead leaves and twigs and tree roots that had broken through the clammy earth. There was the rustling of birds hopping from branch to branch overhead, and the incessant chirping of uncertain songs.

  I walked parallel to the tree line, about fifty to sixty feet within the woods, so that I could look left and see bits and pieces of the grassy area past straight and slanting tree trunks. It was insanity. There was no path here. The ground was uneven. The ground was slimy. I had to step over large rocks and deadfall. I had to push past doomed saplings that couldn’t grow much in the shadows of towering trees. I should have brought a machete. I should be wearing hiking boots and a long-sleeved shirt. I was pathetic, truly pathetic. What had I been thinking? After a half an hour, I had covered about five hundred feet. My lungs burned and I could barely breathe. My knees and elbows hurt from the times I’d slipped and fallen. My ankles hurt from the times I’d slipped and almost fallen. And I was fairly certain that I had trudged through a sizable patch of poison ivy, and now I was waiting for something to start itching.

  I found a thick tree and sat on the ground and leaned back against its trunk. It took a while for me to catch my breath. I felt feverish, as though I needed to sweat but my body couldn’t spare the water. I never realized I was so physically unfit.

  I sat there for a long time. An occasional shout from the clearing told me that people were starting to arrive. They were setting up grills. They were carrying coolers filled with ice, cans of soda and beer, and hunks of dead meat. This was ridiculous. How could I protect them? I wasn’t even sure I could protect myself.

  Then I heard a rustling sound nearby. Something large was moving among the trees deeper in the woods, slowly coming up behind me. That bastard Jack, I thought at first. I knew it—I knew he wouldn’t stay away. What was I going to do with this guy? He just didn’t listen. Although I was irritated, I was relieved, too, that I didn’t have to be alone.

  But it wasn’t Jack. A moment later, coming up from the side of the tree on which I rested, a deer wandered out toward the clearing. I watched it walk past me, venturing closer to the edge of the clearing. Its tail was white and white smudgy spots dappled its tawny sides. It must have smelled humans, heard their strange catcalls, and got curious. It stood there staring through the trees, and then, its curiosity satisfied, it turned round to go back. That was when it spotted me. It stopped dead in its tracks and stared at me with big brown eyes. It didn’t seem at all startled.

  “Yeah, I’m here, stupid,” I said.

  The deer kept staring at me.

  “Get! Skat! Shoo!” I yelled, but it held its ground. I was puzzled. Do deer act this way? Aren’t they supposed to run away and hide? “You know what I am?” I asked it. “I’m a freak. I can concentrate and blow your brains out thought your ears. Your eyes will pop out of their sockets and roll on the ground like a couple marbles. What’s the matter with you, thing?”

  The deer didn’t move. Now it looked at me with sadness in its eyes. Apparently I was so lame I couldn’t even scare wild prey. Finally, when it was good and ready, it wandered away, going deeper into the woods.

  I sat there for a long time, maybe three hours, waiting, listening as more people arrived into the clearing. I decided to get up and check it out. I felt sore and stiff when I straightened up and crept closer to the party. I peered round a tree truck to see that there were about 150 people, some gathered round the shelters, some sitting at picnic tables, some sitting on the short prairie grass. The air was filled with the odor of lighter fluid and charcoal briquettes. Somebody had brought a boom box, which was spewing out some techno junk. This was so no good. I was sure that as evening approached there would be about three times as many people, all herded into a confined space, all coming to a barbecue and not realizing they were the ones that would end up on a grill. Some dark part of my mind made me giggle at that thought. Stop it, Jules, I had to tell myself. It’s not funny.

  I studied the layout of the area. Where would Amy hide? Where would she attack from? I wasn’t sure. I had no flashes of the future to help me, either; paranormal abilities can be so unreliable. I had to take my best guess and hope that it was good enough. I noticed that the entrance to the clearing formed a bottleneck. That was where I would h
ide: in the woods on one or the other side of the bottleneck. That way she could cut off the escape of people fleeing to the safety of their cars.

  I started to work my way back toward the parking lot. I found another tree against which I could sit and wait. It was a fifty-fifty guess; of course, Amy could choose the opposite side of the bottleneck. It was better, really, because it was nearer the road, to where she could easily escape and pretend that she didn’t have anything to do with what happened in the clearing. But where I was felt right. The woods were deep behind me, and at night Amy would feel safe in the darkness in the woods as she savored the distance screams of her burning victims.

  I would wait here. She would come. And what would happen, would happen.

  Somewhere along the line I fell asleep. My sleeping habits were so strange. At home, in a comfortable bed, I barely slept two hours a night. I would stare at the dark ceiling until four o’clock in the morning. Or I would fall asleep earlier and then waken every fifteen to twenty minutes until dawn. But in unfamiliar places I slept more soundly. Here, in the woods, sitting at the base of a tree, my arms wrapped around my bent legs, my head resting on my knees, I found a peaceful slumber somehow.

  When I woke, I saw that it was night. Where I was in the woods wasn’t completely dark; moonlight filtered through the canopy of tree branches above, and cast an eerie pale light on everything around me. I panicked, wondering if, maybe, I was too late. Then I heard the voices issuing from the clearing, the happy buzz of small talk. I got up and ventured to the tree line. I saw how the crowds had swollen. They were shadows crawling among shadows. More people had arrived with grills and coolers. Some were clumped together round the picnic tables, and others round the barbecue grills. A few couples had separated to lonely spots in the clearing where they could lie on their backs on blankets and stare up at the stars that were sprinkled across the inky sky. Columns of gray smoke rose from the grills above the trees, filling the air with the cloying aroma of sizzling meat. There was a mishmash of music coming from a half dozen boom boxes—country stumbling over techno, pop plowed under by punk, and somewhere in the middle of it all Vivaldi played like the only voice of reason in a mental ward that had been overrun with un-medicated inmates.