Georgia stood up and went to the edge of the smoking area to meet Dark Lord Alvin, who was just walking up. He bent down and kissed her before glancing toward Marianne to make sure she’d seen. Marianne waved, but didn’t smile too big—might as well let the kid think he was having his moment of triumph.
“Ready to go?” asked Sally.
“Yup,” said Marianne, standing shakily again. It was worse this time, and now her mouth was watering like crazy. She was going to have to puke when she got home. Just as she and Sally were passing by Alvin and waving to Georgia, Alvin stepped toward them.
“When are you going to give my CD back?” he asked Marianne.
Ooh. Ooh! He might be Georgia’s boyfriend now, but that was just too rude. Marianne couldn’t stand it. “What?” she said, acting confused. “Didn’t you pick it up that day you broke into my house and trashed my bedroom?”
He leaned toward her. “Sorry, no,” he said. “I kinda forgot after your other boyfriend shoved me up against the wall.”
Marianne rolled her eyes. “He didn’t shove you anywhere.”
Alvin looked quite self-satisfied at that moment. “Oh, so he lied to you, then. I guess what goes around comes around.”
WTF? How did he know that Marianne lied to Patrick all the time? She stepped back a little. “What did you say?”
“He’s lying to you just like you lied to me,” said the Dark Lord. “Serves you right.”
Oh, right. Duh. Stupid alcohol. Now she was able to laugh at what he was saying. “Lying to me? What? Do you think we talk about you all the time, then? I don’t think he’d even remember you if I brought you up.” Nice one, Marianne. That was good and mean.
Alvin’s eyes got unfocused, and he smiled. “Oh, I think he’ll remember me.”
Marianne lifted her eyebrow. “Oh, that’s right—you egged his truck,” she said. “How evil of you,” she said, waving spooky hands.
“He’ll remember,” Alvin repeated, probably trying to reassure himself.
She exhaled and turned to leave. “Whatever you...” Oh, crap. Almost before she knew what was happening, Marianne lurched over and puked right in the planter. She must have puked at least six times with all of them just standing there watching. Not her finest exit, to be sure, but that’s okay. She deserved it.
She made it back to Danielle’s that night somehow or other and kept puking all night, and all through the next day. At first, she’d panicked because she thought she had alcohol poisoning, but then she realized that since she also had a fever and sore throat, she must have caught Patrick’s sickness from the week before. She stayed home from school the rest of the week, just shivering and watching soap operas. Oh, and on Friday morning, she finally remembered to text Sally and Georgia about their unfinished conversation.
I’m not a leech, you morons. I’m a vampire.
19
All Haloes' Eve
By Friday afternoon, Marianne felt a lot better. She needed to get up and do something for once in her life, so she took a shower and went to the store for trick-or-treating candy. Today was Halloween.
She went to the holiday section and grabbed five bags of chocolate candy, a plastic cauldron to put them in, and even a cartoon paper witch to tape to the door. There was a bin of discounted costumes in the center of the aisle, so she dug around in there for a while. She ended up choosing a white and gold angel getup—one hundred percent polyester and the hoochiest thing she’d ever seen. No one was going to see her in it except the folks who came to the dark front porch—plus, it was cheap—so she threw it in the cart. She seriously needed a party, even a one-woman party. The Goths were all going out together, but she didn’t want to go; she wasn’t feeling social at all. Marianne put all her stuff up on the counter at the checkout and searched around for anything else fun she might want to buy.
They sold cloves here?
No, she couldn’t. That was such a stupid idea. Marianne pulled out her wallet and glanced behind her. No one was around except the employee in front of her. She was sure that she didn’t know him.
“Anything else?”
Well, if you insist. “Yeah... a box of cloves,” she said quietly. “Right there. No, below that. Yeah, that one.”
“Can I see your ID?”
“Sure.” Just don’t memorize the name and rat her out to anyone. She showed him her license, paid, and left quickly.
Marianne ripped the tags off her costume as soon as she got back to Danielle’s. It was almost dark. She put the little dress on—surprisingly, it was a good fit even though it was polyester. She raided Danielle’s closet for stockings and heels, and searched the girls’ room for glittery make-up. She put her hair up, attached the furry halo, and she was done. Little princesses and werewolves started ringing the bell before Marianne could even open up the candy bags.
She had just sent off two brothers—both dressed as Spider-Man—with a double dose of candy when Patrick called her cell phone.
“Happy Halloween, angel.”
“You really are the creepiest guy ever,” said Marianne, looking down at her costume. “And not just on Halloween.”
“Feeling any better?” he asked. “I see you got your spirit back.”
“Sorry. Was I boring you with my disease-induced good temper?”
“Who said anything about a good temper? I just meant that your nastiness was less peppy of late.”
Nastiness? Marianne frowned and perched herself on the arm of the couch where she could see the kids through the window. “Am I nasty?”
“Well, no. Of course not,” he said. “You just think you are, so I play along.”
She let herself flop back onto the couch with her legs hanging over the arm. “You’re so sweet.”
“How kind of you to notice.”
“I mean it.” Marianne rolled over on her side and curled her legs up in front of her. All of a sudden, she was burning inside. Dying to have him back home with her. “I miss you,” she whispered.
“Sweetie...” he whispered back. “I love you so much. Only a few more days. I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Kay.” Marianne wished she could just sleep straight through until that day.
“Are you at home?” Patrick sounded worried. Her tone must have been as dejected as she felt.
“I’m at your house,” she said, trying to sound happier. “Giving out candy.”
“I wish I was there. That sounds fun.” He laughed a little. “I can just see you... You give more to the cute ones, huh?”
Marianne laughed silently. “I give more to the polite ones.”
“And what do you give the rude ones?”
“They get their fair share, don’t worry,” she said. “But I do give the evil eye to the teenage boys carrying pillowcases.”
“Poor kids.”
“Patrick! They don’t even dress up.” She shook her head and sat up. “I run out of candy early every year, and I blame them for that.”
“Cut them some slack, baby,” he said. “They may be too embarrassed to wear a costume, but they’re still just little boys who want candy.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“What?”
“Now you’ve gone and made me like them,” she said. “I hate when you do that.”
“You love when I do that.”
She did. Along with every other thing he ever did. Marianne closed her eyes and spoke silently into the phone. I love you.
“You there?” asked Patrick.
“Oh, yeah.” She cringed at what a dope she was, even though he hadn’t seen her. “Sorry, there are trick-or-treaters at the door.” Not really.
“All right,” he said, trying to sound exasperated. “I’ll just go back to my stupid book.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Happy Halloween. Love you.”
“Happy Halloween,” said Marianne.
Marianne took a chair out to the front porch and dispensed the candy from there. She could have called Patrick a
gain during the lulls, but her cell phone was all the way back inside the house, so she didn’t. Two hours later, the candy was gone. She bolted the front door and shut off all the lights to discourage kids from knocking in vain.
So...
The magic was over for the night. Marianne grabbed a throw blanket, a copy of Dracula from Patrick’s room, and the cloves. She got a cup of coffee, went into the backyard, and sunk down into one of the patio chairs. The Disneyland fireworks distracted her for a bit, then she read for an hour or so before reaching the point where the words went in but the meaning stayed out. The soft nighttime noises all around her seemed unusually loud, and the corner of her lip was in shreds from chewing on it. She tried the last paragraph three times and then finally shut the book. She put her fingers to her temples and rubbed till it hurt.
This was guilt.
Guilt was stealing away all her focus. The way she’d ended the call with Patrick had been more than rude. He was all alone in Monterey with nothing to do, and yet she hadn’t even bothered to call him back. Marianne ran into the house for her phone. When she came out, she lit the dusty citronella candle on the table and flicked off the porch light. She started dialing but paused on the fourth number. He was probably fine, watching TV or something. He could even be asleep. She couldn’t justify waking him only to clear her own conscience. She snapped the phone shut.
Except it was only ten-thirty. He probably wasn’t asleep. What if he was sitting in his room wondering about her, wishing that she had called back, insecure about why she hadn’t? Marianne eased the phone open with her thumb and stared at the display until it went black.
Snap.
She couldn’t do it. She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap and tapped her pointy high heels on the ground. “What’s the big deal?” she said out loud. “Just call. You don’t have to say it.” Of course, she didn’t have to say it. Mouthing the words didn’t make her somehow obligated to say them louder. Frick. She wasn’t fricking obligated. Marianne pulled the cellophane off the pack of cloves and lit one on the candle. The smoke shot off the end in white ribbons, disappearing into nothing a second later. Was the smell disappearing into the atmosphere, gone forever, or was it lingering under the patio cover, seeping into the wood, sinking up the place? Marianne tapped her fist against her forehead. Interesting question, but not exactly the point right now. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
Marianne whipped her head up. Nothing was wrong with her. What was wrong was Patrick, Sally, Georgia, and everyone else heaping all sorts of peer-pressure all over her to do something she didn’t want to do. She was just reacting to them and all of their stupid comments. Back off. Just say no! Obviously, she wasn’t emotionally ready to take that step yet; it felt all wrong. Someday it would feel natural, and she’d do it then. When she was good and freaking ready. Why couldn’t she just do that? Why did no one have her back here? If kids were pushing her to do drugs, she’d have mad backup—parents, doctors, the law. But no. If she didn’t give in with this, she was doomed to be a schmuck. A leech. Why’d that stupid, mind-twister Sally have to put all this inside her head?
Marianne wiggled her cigarette, making jagged patterns with the smoke. “You’re hurting him,” she sneered in a copy-cat voice. What did Sally know anyway? Patrick was in love, for crying out loud. Patrick was freaking happy. “Yeah,” said Marianne to the smoke. “Like a happy freaking bunny jumping around in a happy freaking meadow. Unlike, you know—” she gestured with the cigarette toward her own forehead, “—me.” Fricking Sally and all her interfering. Fricking Patrick and all his loving outbursts. He should have kept his fat mouth shut.
Ouch. Okay, perhaps that was taking things a bit too far. He just loved her and it had spewed out of him because he was so stinking happy about it. Obviously, he didn’t say it to make her feel guilty; he never made her feel guilty about anything, not on purpose anyway. She could forgive a few happy transgressions on his part. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and neither had she. She was cool. And she didn’t have to say it. Marianne stared up at the corner of the patio cover, repeating that to herself over and over, watching an ill-constructed spider web jiggle in the wind. She ashed her cigarette in the planter and straightened her shoulders, mentally forcing her heartbeat to return to a normal, non-panicked rhythm. It’s cool. It’s cool. Logic said so, after all.
But my goodness! If everything was cool, then why was she still wigging out? She must have a complex. A sickness. Something happened to her in her childhood to make her so guilt-prone; she just couldn’t remember what it was. Had to be. She simply must have been abandoned or wounded or something. There had to be an explanation for all these random, imaginary feelings that she couldn’t get rid—Oh no.
Oh no… The truth exploded in her brain, brighter than the fireworks she’d just been watching.
She was a drama queen.
Marianne let her mouth hang open; felt the blush coming on. She was a wimp-out whiner who blew everything out of proportion. She was. How utterly humiliating. A personal low point.
But at least it meant that all her soul-crushing relationship problems were nonexistent. That was nice. Marianne let herself burn for one more second, then flipped open her cell phone, dialed, and hit send. She studied the spider web as she waited for Patrick to answer. The wind was picking up again, pulling loose another weakly attached string. “Oh, stop being so pitiful. Apparently, you have it worse than me. I get it.”
“What? Hello?”
“Oh, hey,” said Marianne. “Sorry, I was just telling off a spider web. It was mocking me.”
“I see.”
Marianne leaned her head back against the chair. “So, I’m feeling like crap. How about you?”
“Uh... about the same, actually.”
Huh? That was unexpected. “What’s wrong?”
“Eh. Nothing really,” he said. “Just moody, I guess.”
“Well, that’s a lie.” She waited a moment for him to explain, but he didn’t. “Do I have to beg?”
Patrick laughed a little. “No. I was just... well... how come you didn’t call me back till now?”
Sputter. Sputter. “I was busy. With the kids.”
“Okay,” he said. “Till eleven?”
Marianne sat up and gave the spider web a nasty look. The call wasn’t supposed to go this way. “I thought you’d be sleeping.” Uh-oh. Then what was her excuse for calling now? “But then I changed my mind. I realized that you wouldn’t care.”
“Well, I’m glad you changed your mind. Miss you.” His voice sounded normal again.
But she couldn’t help herself. “Are you mad?” she asked.
“No. Of course, no.”
He could deny it, but it didn’t matter. She knew what his problem was. It’d been whining at her in the back of her brain, but she hadn’t paid much attention before now. “I haven’t been calling you much lately.”
“That’s correct,” he said.
See? This is what being a drama queen does to your life. She was so caught up in her imaginary crises that she hadn’t realized that she was creating a real one. “I’m sorry,” said Marianne.
“Don’t—”
“I was sick,” she said. “And I had school, too. I mean, I don’t know.” Weak excuses, but the best she could come up with.
“I get it,” he said. He said it funky, though, like he didn’t get it, but was forcing himself to believe that he did. Marianne bit into her lip again. He always tried so hard to be fine with everything; it was a little unsettling. Humbling. He continued to talk, still insisting that he wasn’t mad. “—just so long as everything’s okay between us, it doesn’t matter. I was—”
There it was again. Why was he doing that? Why pretend that he didn’t care? She was the kind of person who could take constructive criticism. Didn’t Patrick know that about her? And he had every right to be upset; this was only the second time in a full week that she’d picked up the phone and called him. That was bad. Real bad
.
“—and just slap me when I get like that. I’ll be more normal when I get home again—”
Marianne would be seriously panicked if he ever avoided her the way she’s been doing to him. What if he’d gotten bored with her? What if he’d found another girl? She’d have gone ballistic and brought it up the first chance she got. And here was Patrick, skirting the issue, acting all cagey. She was about to interrupt him and ask him why he wasn’t telling her off when her brain crashed, leaving her with only one coherent thought: Oh, crap.
“—finally gave me time to play Guitar Hero with Jose. It’s fun, as long as you can find a seat in his room under all the Wendy’s trash—”
“Wait. Just wait,” said Marianne, interrupting the story she wasn’t listening to. “Just stop talking for a second.”
Oh, crap. Sally was right; they were all right. Oh, crap. She needed to think, but she couldn’t do it with an audience. “Um, I have to call you back,” she said. And she hung up.
Marianne flicked the phone closed and chucked it on the table as if it were crawling with bugs. “I’m an icky leech,” she breathed. “I really am.” She stared at the phone and shook her head slowly back and forth. All that freaking out from before? That wasn’t melodrama; it was legitimate guilt. She fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, and smoked as ridiculously hard as she could manage.
Patrick wasn’t hiding his anger because he didn’t care; he was hiding his anger because he wasn’t allowed to care. In reality, Marianne was in love with him and he had every right to demand that she act like it. Too bad he didn’t know that. Too bad he was forced to pretend everything was fine when he was probably sick inside. When Patrick had told her that he loved her she’d said “thanks,” and then she’d told him to go love a rock. What the? How fun must that have been for him? Like a fricking fist in the face. Marianne would have died—died—if that had happened to her. The man was living on nothing. Marianne stared at the clove in her fingers and started bawling. Uncontrollably, hysterically weeping. She knew that it was partially from the chemical, but it hardly mattered. She tossed her clove down on the concrete and smashed it with her silver stiletto.
Marianne Page 23
