Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  Raising my voice so that I can be heard above the rain pelting the other side of the wall and the printer, which is noisily grinding out photos, I report, “Still not a hurricane,” when I kneel down next to Zane on the floor by the outlet where he’s got his equipment plugged in. “But winds are up to sixty miles per hour.”

  “She’s a fierce one. Kind of wish I was outside taking pictures,” Z says wistfully.

  “Don’t even think about it. Way too dangerous.” I lift the printed pics out of the photo tray and start placing them on the floor. “I need to label these with the kids’ names. Got some Post-its and a pen?” I ask.

  “In the kitchen.” He goes to fetch them while I continue spreading out the pictures. Why do all these kids look alike? I can’t tell the Emmas from the Madisons!

  When Zane returns, I hold up a picture of a brown-haired tot wearing a yellow gown à la Belle in Beauty and the Beast and query, “Is this Chloe with a C or a K?”

  “Neither. That’s Coralynne. She was the one who proposed to me, remember?”

  “Ah, yes, how could I forget? The future Mrs. Harper. Hope she likes Cheetos,” I rib him, taking the pad of neon green Post-its he offers me, then scribbling Coralynne’s name on the top note and sticking it on her picture.

  “What about that one?” I point to a tiny blonde in a pink dress with a white collar like Sleeping Beauty’s. “I remember she sucked her thumb all afternoon, but I have no clue on her name.”

  “Yeah, I had to take like twenty pictures of her to get one without her thumb in her mouth. I wanna say her name was Bailey, Bethany, something along those lines.”

  Zane’s fumbling with her name jogs my memory. “Brylee!” I shout triumphantly before scrawling her name on a Post-it. “And this anemic-looking girl is Olivia, the one who had to be coated with SPF 100 every fifteen minutes because she’s allergic to the sun. I remember her name because it’s the same as the pasty heroine’s on iZombie.”

  “Maybe Olivia’s sun allergy is just a cover story and she’s really one of the walking dead,” Z theorizes.

  “Can you imagine being the parent of a zombie kid? ‘Do your homework, young lady!’ ‘I hate you! Leave me alone, or I’ll eat your brain!’” I make claw hands and lean into Zane, chomping my teeth.

  He’s laughing and pushing me away when there’s an ear-splitting crack of lightning and the room is plunged into darkness.

  “Shit,” we say in unison.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Stay here.” Zane gives my arms a reassuring squeeze. “I know this apartment like the back of my hand, so I won’t have any trouble navigating it in the dark, but you might and I don’t want you to get hurt, stumbling around. I’ve got matches in the kitchen and several candles scattered around the apartment.”

  I make a face that Zane can’t see because it’s pitch black. “Let me guess, these candles were given to you by the bad songwriter and they all smell like funky incense.”

  “Not all of them. The ylang ylang one is nice.”

  I groan.

  “Hey, it’s musky-scented candles, or we sit here in the dark until FPL restores the power.”

  “Fine,” I concede because I really don’t have any other options, “but since you’ll be in the kitchen anyway, can you make me a PB&J? I’m starving.”

  “One PB&J coming up.” He drops his hands to the floor and pushes himself up into a standing position.

  “And by ‘J,’ I mean straight up grape jelly, no jams, marmalades, or preserves, nothing with seeds, no weird flavors like apricot or red plu—”

  “Ow!” Zane yelps in pain right after I hear him bump into something.

  “I thought you knew how to get around this place in the dark.”

  “I do, but I was listening to your laundry list of things you don’t want on your sandwich instead of paying attention to where I was going. So, please do me a favor and zip it until I make it to the kitchen safely.”

  “Geez, are you always this cranky when the lights are off?”

  “No, but then I don’t normally have women telling me what to do in the dark,” he retorts as I hear him hopping toward the kitchen.

  “That’s because you’ve always dated women who were too wussy to assert themselves and tell you exactly what they wanted.”

  “Or maybe they didn’t have to tell me because I was sensitive enough to know.”

  Intriguing. Most of the men I’ve been with have needed some instruction in how to please me, in bed as well as out of it. I didn’t expect them to be mind readers and I didn’t have the patience to wait around for them to figure it out on their own. It was in both of our best interests for me to just say, “This is what I like. Now, do it.” And I’ve never had any complaints about my straightforward approach.

  A small circle of light appears on the wall of the kitchen. “Ooooo, you found a flashlight! Lead me to the kitchen with it.” Okay, so I’m being bossy again, but it just makes sense that I join him. Two pairs of hands are better than one and all that.

  He shines the flashlight in my general direction, and I’m able to follow it to the kitchen without incurring injury unlike my predecessor. Seeing a box of matches on the counter, I grab them and strike one against the side of the box. Z hands me a candle in a jar, which I light up. Barf! It smells like Topaz’s apartment did when Kai and all his stoner friends would camp out in her living room for days—unwashed bodies and marijuana, not my favorite combo.

  “Why don’t you stay here with this . . .,” I shove the stinky candle back at Z, “. . . and make us something to eat while I take the flashlight and hunt down some more candles.” Hopefully, ones that aren’t ass-scented.

  I round up five more candles of varying scents and sizes, set their wicks ablaze, then position them in a half-circle on the large area rug in Z’s living “room.” I sit cross-legged, facing the arc of flickering light, and arrange my flouncy skirt so that it covers all my bits and pieces.

  “We’ve never been on a picnic together before, have we?” Z asks as he takes a seat opposite me, his arms and hands full of food and drink.

  “No, and I don’t think this qualifies as one either since we’re not outdoors.” I accept the sandwich wrapped in a napkin he offers me.

  “Indoor picnics are a thing,” he asserts while setting down a quart of milk, a bunch of bananas, some Double Stuf Oreos, and a jar of dill pickles. One of those items clearly doesn’t belong, and I’m talking about the fruit, not the pickles which actually sound like the perfect accompaniment to a PB&J. You’ve got to have sour and salty with sweet, right?

  We scarf down our makeshift meal, passing the quart of milk back and forth and taking slugs straight from the bottle. As I twist apart my third Oreo so that I can eat its crème center, I muse aloud, “Wonder what time it is.”

  Zane shrugs. “The power went out when the six o’clock news was on, so I’d say it’s seven, maybe a little after.”

  “And what are we going to do the rest of the night without electricity?” I’m at a loss without Internet access or television to entertain me.

  “We could tell ghost stories.” Grabbing the flashlight, Z holds it under his chin and flicks it on, the beam casting spooky shadows on his face. “It’s a dark and stormy night and two friends are taking shelter in a shuttered up crap shack. They might be safe from the elements, but little do they know the true danger lies within the four walls that now confine them. Thirty years ago, a gruesome triple murder occurred on the very spot where this unsuspecting pair now sits and the tortured souls of those victims have returned, seeking veng—” Z’s story is interrupted by a loud thump on the front door, and I let out a girly shriek of terror.

  He chortles. “Relax, it’s just the wind blowing stuff around out there. Neither of my neighbors ever remember to bring in the junk from their porches when we have a storm, so it all goes flying.”

  “You should check.” I give him a little shove toward the door, which is directly behind him.

  “N
o way. I’ve seen this movie. The dude who goes to investigate the mysterious noise always gets whacked by the escaped mental patient-slash-serial killer.”

  “Better you than me,” I deadpan. “And your death won’t be in vain because I can make a run for it while the psycho’s chopping you up.”

  “You can try, but I doubt the ghosts will let you leave.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You made up that stuff about there being a triple murder here, right?” I have always thought there was something creepy about this place and not just because it’s old and rundown.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t really know where that dark stain on the tiles over by the couch came from. Could be red wine, could be blood.” He pops two Oreos in his mouth and smirks with his cheeks full of cookie.

  Even though I’m pretty sure he’s kidding, I snatch the flashlight out of his hand and crawl over to the couch, where I pull back the rug and do a thorough search of the terra cotta tile underneath it. I don’t find any dark stains, just cracks and a couple of mutant-sized cockroaches that are legs-up. “This place doesn’t need an exorcist; it needs an extermintor,” I determine.

  “My landlord keeps saying he’s going to send one out, but he never does. Hey, there’s a pack of cards in the drawer of that side table. Bring ‘em over and we can play War.”

  And that’s how we spend the next few hours. One round of War (I win!), then Z bests me in a game of Crazy Eights and I crush him in Bullshit (no surprise there since he’s a terrible liar). I try to teach him canasta, but he keeps getting confused over the concept of a meld. Finally, we give up on that game and regress to our childhoods to play several hands of another.

  “Do you have any fours?” I ask.

  “Nope. Go fish.”

  “Ugh!” I groan, tossing down my cards. “I am so bored, and it is so hot in here.” Several hours with no air-conditioning has turned Z’s small, closed-up apartment into a veritable sauna. Looking for some relief from the suffocatingly humid air, I lift my long hair off my neck and start fanning my face with my hand.

  “I’m going to go change into something a little cooler if you don’t mind.”

  He’s wearing jeans, which can’t be pleasant in this heat. So, I say, “Fine,” wishing I was at home where I could get out of this too tight dress that feels like it’s becoming one with my perspiration-covered skin.

  While Z’s gone, I polish off the rest of my warm beer (so gross, but at least it’s somewhat thirst-quenching). Even though I can’t strip naked and rub ice cubes all over my body (that’s what I’d be doing if I was at home), I decide I can still make myself a little more comfortable by removing the outer layer of my dress (the chiffon-y wrap part), which leaves me in the spaghetti strapped-slip dress underneath. I, then, twist my hair up and tie it into a knot on top of my head. Phew. That’s better.

  Z returns, wearing some cargo shorts with lots of pockets and zippers. He has also removed a layer of clothing as he’s only got that white wife beater covering his torso now. Um, have I mentioned that I think wife beaters are super sexy? I love the way those snug-fitting tank tops show off a man’s shoulders and arms while clinging oh-so-attractively to their pecs and abs. Zane’s got a lankier build than the stockier, buffed up guys I generally go for, but I can’t help but notice his shoulders are deliciously broad and his arms are corded with muscles from his boxing workouts. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that he looks kind of lickable.

  “A cold washcloth.” He hands me the absorbent piece of cotton he must have run under the faucet in the bathroom sink.

  “Thanks. Oooo, this feels good,” I say after placing the cloth on my neck and chest. I, then, slide the straps of my dress off my shoulders so that I can lay the cloth on my bare skin there. My eyelids drift shut and my head lolls back as I enjoy the sensation of cold and wet on my skin. When I lift my head and open my eyes a few seconds later, I see Zane staring at me with a transfixed expression on his face, which I can tell is flushed, even in the candlelight. The heat must be getting to him, too.

  “You know what we should do to take our minds off how hot, sweaty, and disgusting we feel?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, I prompt him with a snap of my fingers in his face, which seems to shake him out of his heat-induced stupor.

  “Huh? What? I don’t know. You want to braid each other’s hair or something? I don’t really think mine is long enough.” He lifts one of the dark chunks of hair flopping down in his face and eyes it appraisingly.

  “No, you goof.” I smack his hand, making him drop the hair. “I want to play a fun game like Truth or Dare!”

  He looks less than thrilled by this suggestion. “Yeah, I don’t think so. That game never goes well for me. Remember last time we played, you dared me to let Nacho put guyliner on me, then I had to go out to a bar with all that gunk on my eyes.”

  “And girls were mistaking you for Jared Leto all night because of that guyliner, so I’d say my dare worked out awesomely for you.”

  He emits a put-upon sigh. “All right. We can play your little game, but I’m telling you right now I’m choosing truth whenever it’s my turn.”

  “Bwak, bwak, bwak.” I do my best chicken impression while flapping my arms like wings.

  He rolls his eyes. “Very mature. Are you going to give me a question, or not?”

  “Okay, truth . . .” Might as well start off with an easy one. “Have you ever stolen anything?”

  “I never shoplifted if that’s what you’re asking, but I did take something that wasn’t mine.”

  “Do tell.” I lean forward with interest.

  “Sophomore year, my friend, Bobby, bet me that I couldn’t sneak into the girls’ locker room during cheerleader practice and steal Courtney Miller’s bra. I didn’t really care about the bra because I’d already seen it—”

  “You dirty dog!” I interject. “Wait, had you already seen this girl’s bra because you got to second base with her, or because you lived across the street and had a telescope trained on her bedroom window?”

  “The former, thank you. I was not a teenage Peeping Tom.”

  “Just checking. Continue.”

  “So, I took the bet because Bobby was really egging me on, saying there was no way I could pull it off and I was going to get caught and screw up my perfect record at school.”

  “I figured you were a goody two-shoes back in the day.”

  He frowns at me. “I just told you I felt up a cheerleader when I was fifteen, plus I snuck into the girls’ locker room, broke into one of the lockers, stole a piece of lingerie, and got away with it. I wasn’t a goody two-shoes; I was a bad ass,” he asserts with pride.

  “It’s cute that you think so,” I pat him on the cheek, “but if that little escapade was the highlight of your criminal career, I stand by my original assessment. Okay, my turn! Since I am not a lily-livered fowl,” I direct a pointed look at him, “I will do a dare. Bring it!” I hold out my hands, palms up, and make a beckoning gesture.

  Z picks up one of the bananas, places it in my outstretched hand, and says, “I dare you to peel this . . . with your feet.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “You think I can’t do that? I will have you know that my toes are unusually dexterous and capable of many great feats. Watch and learn.”

  Uncrossing my legs, I take the curved piece of fruit and wedge it between my big toe and the one next to it on my left foot. I then stretch my legs out to their full length and grasp the stem of the banana between the same two toes on my other foot. I twist the stem this way and that until it finally splits open the rind, then I peel down strips of it, exposing the fruit. “Ha!” I exclaim in triumph as I swing my foot around to drop the peeled banana in Zane’s lap.

  “I don’t know how far that particular talent will get you in life, but it’s impressive nonetheless,” he admits, picking up the banana by its unpeeled bottom and moving it to the pile of balled up napkins we used during dinner.

  “I guess we’re all tied up now. Wh
at’s it gonna be, muchacho? Another truth, or are you going to man up and ask for a dare?”

  “Well, I guess when you put it like that I have no choice but to say . . . truth!” His lips twitch as he tries to repress a smile.

  I blow a very indelicate raspberry to let him know what I think of his wimpiness.

  He chuckles. “All right, all right. Give me a dare.”

  Cackling with evil delight, I rub my hands together while I ponder all the different ways I could torture him right now. Unfortunately, I’m a bit limited since we’re stuck inside. I can’t dare him to hug the first person he sees on the street, or give an outdoor concert on his air guitar, or walk around with his fly open for an entire day. So, what can I dare him to do that won’t involve another person and will push him outside his comfort zone . . . I got it!

  “I dare you to twerk . . . for a full minute.”

  He groans in protest. “You can’t be serious! You know I can’t dance.”

  It’s true. Zane is so rhythmically-challenged he can’t even do the white boy shuffle. (I’ve seen him try, and it isn’t pretty!) When we go to clubs, he stays as far away from the dance floor as he can until some overly enthusiastic girl drags him out there, then he just stands in place, bopping his head, while she boogies around him.

  “I do know, which is why I’m sure this will be very entertaining for me. Go on.” I gesture at him to stand up.

  “Twerking requires music.” He makes one last, desperate attempt to get out of busting a move.

  “Well, it’s a good thing I have iTunes on my phone then.” I scuttle over to the front door, where my purse is still sitting and extract the device. Turning it on, I ignore the notifications that I have new texts and voicemails and check a few of my favorite playlists instead. After giving it some careful thought, I decide that my girl, RiRi, is the way to go and a few seconds later, the opening strains of “Pour It Up” emanate from the phone.

  “Oh, man.” Zane shakes his head when he realizes he’s going to have to dance to lyrics about strip clubs and dollar bills.