by Myriam Gurba
Candace pulled away from him and turned to gesture at us.
“These are my friends. From St. Mike’s.”
“Hi, girls.”
“Hi,” we chorused.
Sammy motioned for us to follow him into the house, to the den. Laura whispered, “Is the Mighty Oz asleep?”
“I don’t know.” Candace turned to her brother. “Sammy, is Mommy sleeping?”
He smiled and nodded and then motioned at a Mexican who I figured was Paco. The guy was seated on a blue La-Z-Boy, prepping a bong. He concentrated, studious as a schoolboy, on the task at hand. Paco was a marijuana savant.
I rubbed my palms together. “Goody, goody gumdrops,” I said in an excited whisper. “After all the shit I’ve been through today, I could really use a smoke.”
Sue poked me in the arm. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Oh, yeah. But, um, I have to take the first hit.”
My seeming selfishness attracted Paco’s attention. His cinnamon-colored eyes looked up from the purple glass contraption. “How come you gotta take the first hit?” Paco asked.
“Just ’cause,” Laura defended. “It’s not like Desiree’s gonna hog the bowl or anything. That’s just how she is.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Anything that we share with our mouths, she’s gotta go first. It’s her habit. It makes Desiree unique.”
Paco wiggled his eyebrows. “You go first with your mouth?”
“Duuuuuumb,” I rebuffed. His sexual innuendo was weak.
Paco laughed and passed me the bong and a Zippo. I sparked up, took a deep toke, and let the smoke come hissing deliciously out of me.
’“Kay,” I said, “I’m ready to go get the freak show out of the trunk now. Candace, gimme your keys. Laura, come with me to go get it out.”
Candace tossed me her key ring, and I walked back out to the driveway with Laura. I unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid.
“Salte55,” I commanded into the cramped, dark space.
Nito’s top half emerged. We watched him awkwardly fumble the rest of his way out.
“We are at Candace’s house,” I told him as he got his land legs back. “Follow me.”
We brought him into the smoke filled den.
“Odelay!” Sammy called to Nito. “Wassup, dude?”
Hovering on the periphery of the ganja pow-wow, I snapped, “Sammy, don’t act like you know him. He doesn’t need any encouragement.”
“But I do know him. We picked up this guy at the Greyhound Station today and gave him a ride out to some big house in the middle of nowhere. He’s cool. Kinda serious, though.”
“Sammy,” I began, my tone filled with shock, “did you take him to Pitt Hills? Up a long, steep driveway? Plain white house with green shutters and a red brick porch?”
“Yup.”
I beat my chest with my fist. “That’s my house!”
“No way! Trip out…”
I turned to look at Paco. He was taking deep bong rip after deep bong rip. Pig. The guy looked straight up Indian. Olmec. Tarascan. Chichimeca, they of the tribe who wrangle dogs.
“Hey, Paco,” I began, “did you, like, talk to Nito? Did he tell you why he’s here?”
Exhaling, Paco stroked a dark, greasy lock of hair. “No se habla Español56, man. Dude just needed a ride. So we gave him one.” A mushroom cloud ensconced his head. Paco was awake but in the Land of Nod.
My face twitched, and my fingers went to my hair. I imitated Paco’s hair play.
“Listen,” Sammy explained to me and Laura, “while you guys were letting that dude outta the car, the rest of us came up with a plan. We decided it’d be cool to drive to Guadalupe. Paco’s got some Keystone out in the Skylark. We’ll have my Welcome Home party out at the dunes!”
Sue, our school’s president of Students Against Drunk Driving, squealed, “Yeah!”
I watched Candace polish off the bowl, her face looking the zittiest I’d ever seen it. Sammy put on his wool-lined jean jacket and sang, “Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war…”
He marched to the door. Everyone followed.
“Andale,” I said to Nito.
We were the last ones out onto the driveway where Laura was carrying a six-pack from the Buick to the Ford. Leaning against the passenger door, she tore off three shiny cans and tossed each of us a present.
“One for the road!” she said.
I cracked mine opened, foam spilled forth, and I took a swill.
After securing Nito back inside the trunk, I slammed the lid shut on him and hopped back into the passenger seat beside Candace. She drove us west, past the Indian Motor Lodge, the Happy Camper Trailer Park and Mazzini’s Dairy Farm, where we’d gone when I was in third grade to watch the cows get milked. I could hear Laura and Sue in the backseat matching each sip of beer Candace and I took with a guzzle, and soon, their cans were empty.
“Mind if me and Sue finish off these last two?” Laura asked. She ripped a burp that stank up the car.
I pinched my nose.
Candace said, “Go for it.”
Narrow two lane roads cutting through miles of dark strawberry fields delivered us to the shore. Laura collected our empty cans and tossed them out the window. They landed noiselessly on the sand. I could see the dunes’ entrance. A thick chain blocked the one lane road. Darkness filled the guard booth. I heard an owl hoot nearby.
Candace set the parking brake. “We’re in for a hike,” she said.
We spilled out of the Escort and into the night and the rough ocean breeze rustled our hair. Candace took the initiative of going to the trunk to release Nito. As the lid popped open, Laura channeled Whitney Houston, belting out, “I believe that children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way.” In the darkness, Nito grasped for something to hold onto. He flopped onto the dirt, flailing. Laura pointed at his tangled mass of limbs and sang, “Show them all the beauty they possess inside…”
Paco and Sammy pulled up behind us, flashing their lights. The strobe they cast on Nito made it look like he was doing performance art, perhaps Japanese Butoh dance. Sammy killed the Skylark’s engine and parked. He and Paco unloaded the cases of booze, readying them for the haul.
“Follow me,” whispered Paco. “I know this place real good.”
Like pack mules, they led us up a trail that took us to epic looking sand dunes. In the light of the full moon, their majesty commanded our awe. I now understood why Cecil B. DeMille had chosen to film The Ten Commandments here. We were Hebrews, escaping from Pharaoh.
Sammy and Paco climbed to the top of a dune, collecting twigs from a nearby grove to make a campfire. It blazed and we formed a circle around it, Candace and I starting our second drinks, Sue and Laura their fifth or sixth.
Laura moaned, “Someone’s cryin’ mah Lord! Kumbaya…”
She sang with her eyes shut as the rest of us watched Nito head towards a short dune three mounds down. He scurried up it and planted himself atop it, cross-legged. He stared up at the moon, its rays illuminating the angry lines in his face. He fished a beanie out of his pocket and pulled it on over his head.
Sammy said, “Your husband looks pissed.”
“He’s not my husband,” I snapped.
“Go check on him,” Sue told me. “Make sure he doesn’t, like, have a knife or something and is planning on, like, hopping over here and stabbing us.”
I sighed, stood up, and went to check on Nito.
Hiking up his duneside, I pretended to be cheerful. I heard Sammy begin howling. He was singing the chorus of “Paradise City.” Wayward Mormon was no Axl Rose.
“How’s it going?” I asked Nito.
He made me wait for his response as he gazed at the waters of the Pacific lapping at the shore.
“You are evil,” he hissed.
“Okay, bye,” I said and split.
As I returned to the campfire, Sammy quit singing. “What’s up with the Nitster?” he asked.
“I don’
t know,” I said. “But he’s definitely pissed.”
“He looks like an oracle,” said Laura. “Let’s go ask it for advice.”
“No,” I said.
We sang “Clementine” and “Oh Susannah” and did a round of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and since Sammy begged, “American Pie.” We made fun of my cousin, drained the cases of Keystone, and shouted our throats hoarse. Two hours before dawn, Paco and Sammy threw sand on our fire, and we stumbled back to the cars. Candace drove us back through the countryside without killing us or the doe that decided to prance unexpectedly across the road, and we entered Pitt Hills in one piece.
At the top of my driveway, the Escort idled as I let Nito out of the trunk. We walked across the concrete path together, to the brick porch, and I held the front door open for him. Nito followed me down the hall, to Vincie’s bedroom.
“You are sleeping in here,” I said, flipping the light switch. I pointed at a twin bed dressed in He-Man sheets. “Buenas noches.”
“Desiree–” I heard, but it was too late.
I’d already shut the door behind me.
I went with Dad to take Nito to the Greyhound station. Mom forced me to. I stayed by the lockers near the glass doors, watching Dad march the cripple to the ticket counter.
“Here,” he told him. Dad handed him fifty bucks. “Don’t come back.” Stern-faced, Dad lifted his eyebrows. He was waiting for an answer.
Nito looked down at his feet. Nodded.
What a relief. At least one parent took craziness for what it was: craziness.
We stayed and watched to make sure Nito boarded a bus destined for far-off places and then Dad dropped me off at Laura’s. Her front door was unlocked so I let myself in and walked to her room. I could hear giggling from the hall. I knocked on her door and pushed it open and found all three of my friends sitting on the carpet, passing around a jug of yellow Gatorade. Candace held it out to me.
“We’re hydrating,” she said. “Want some.”
I examined her skin and shook my head and knelt on the carpet. “You guys never heard about the pee scare?” I asked.
“What pee scare?”
“A few years ago, some delivery guy peed in all these bottles of Gatorade. They shipped them all over California and people bought them and gulped down the guy’s urine, and they didn’t even know what they were drinking since that stuff looks like pee and tastes salty, anyways.”
“Really?” Sue grabbed the bottle and sniffed the lip.
“Uh-huh.”
Laura lunged at me and stopped with her face poised an inch from mine. She opened her mouth and exhaled deep. “I’ve been drinking this shit all afternoon. How do I smell?”
I looked at her dog, Richard, asleep in the corner. I cocked my head, “Like you’ve been making out with him all morning.”
Laura leaned back and grinned. “Hey, how long did it take you to fall asleep last night?”
“Quick. How come?”
“I would’ve stayed up if I was you. Nito probably snuck into your room and stood over you while you were sleeping.” She waved her hands like a sorcerer and chanted, “’She will be mine, she will be mine, she will be mine, she will–”’
“Pinche puta cabrona malcreada57!”
Laura cackled gleefully. She collected insults the way some kids collected coins.
“That was a good one!” she said.
“Hmph.” I stood up. “I’m going to the kitchen. Does anyone want anything?”
“No.”
I left and walked to the dining room. Laura’s water cooler stood in the corner, behind a table with a bowl of dusty plastic fruit on it. I skirted around the chairs and pulling a Dixie cup from the beige dispenser, poured myself a drink. The Culligan man, Jim, who Sue thought was cute, had delivered the now half-empty water bottle Wednesday. I tried not to think of Jim with his dick out, peeing in all the cargo out in the back of his truck, giggling like a maniacal panty sniffer from the movies.
Hechizo58
I’d gone and let myself forget about you-know-who, and with summer less than three weeks away, I was excited. I’d have three months to do anything with. I could sit around like a tree stump all day if I wanted to. I could O.D. on Mountain Dew and twitch on the floor and pull my own hair out. I could catch dragonflies and bumble bees and hold them hostage in jars and find out how long they could live without air.
But first, I had to make it through June.
Candace and Sue and Laura were just as itchy as I was for school to be over and with an entire season of freedom looming, we were extra jittery, decompressing at my house, doing our usual after school routine of snacks and Beverly Hills 90210 reruns, the good ones from before Shannen Doherty got kicked off the show. From where I was wrinkling my nose in the family room, I could see Laura working in the kitchen. Dressed in Mom’s faded red and white apron, she manned the stove. All four burners blazed, each one with a pan frying on top. Laura lifted her spatula, transforming into… Napoleon, saber raised, leading a doomed cavalry into Waterloo.
“I hope you bitches are hungry!” she called. “And don’t forget! Kiss the cook!”
Sue was sitting on one of the sectionals, near Candace. She fumbled with the remote and giggled, “Ew, I don’t wanna get herpes!”
“Shut up ya dumb broad!” Laura yelled. “Ya already got it! What d’ya think cold sores are?”
“Hey, I’m gonna go get the mail,” I said. “Does anyone wanna come?”
Candace went limp. Sue, catatonic.
“Hmph,” I sniffed.
Barefoot, I headed out the door by myself. I padded across the enclosed porch, past a trail of ants, and noticed that the June sun had really baked our driveway. The heat started to sting my soles and I moaned, “Ouch!” and flexed my feet, curving them. I crept toe to heel, toe to heel, toe to heel past the bee brigade that was pollinating the pink flowers bushes along our hillside. The insects droned loud and angry. I hoped my presence wouldn’t offend them.
Reaching the last shrub, I inched around it, extra careful, stepping out onto the curb. I raised my arms to help me catch my balance and looked down at the gutter. It was a thicket of bugs, leaves and clay. I couldn’t fall into that cesspool. Imitating a tightrope walker, I took a few steps forward. With the mailbox two feet in front of me, I threw myself at it, grabbing it, using it to steady myself with.
Opening the lid, I peered inside. The mailman had delivered a healthy stash. I pulled it out, shut the lid, and tightrope walked back to the driveway.
Round two of toe to heel, toe to heel started, and I sorted through credit card offers Dad would put through his shredder, bills Mom would whip out the checkbook to pay. I wondered where to hide my overdue notices from the library and decided that I was going to have first crack at Dad’s National Geographic and Mom’s book club catalogue.
The final piece of mail was a medium-sized manila envelope addressed only to, “Ella59.” I stopped and stared at it. The return address said the letter was sent from the resident of a plain sounding street in Vacaville. They’d omitted their name. I examined the handwriting. Shaky. Someone was trying to disguise their penmanship.
I ripped the envelope open, unleashing a dessert smell, sweet as fresh bile. Nervous, I braced myself and stuck my hand in the envelope. The surprising texture of tissue paper. I sat down in the middle of the driveway and held my breath and tipped the envelope. A four by six sheet slid out onto my lap. A plagiarized title, “Les Fleurs Du Mal60,” was printed across the top. Below it, a Spanish ode was written in cursive slanted to the left. The anonymous poem’s subject was a girl, a mean one who was going to get hers.
I thought back to the night at the dunes. “Desiree,” I echoed, “you are evil.” Goosebumps erupted across my backside.
I rested the poem on my thigh and reached back into the envelope, sliding something else out. It was a circle made of tissue paper, burnt along its edges. Writing began along the periphery and wound, like a coiled snake, into nothin
g at the center.
I tried to but couldn’t make out the alphabet. It wasn’t Indo-European. Not Asian. I guessed it wasn’t African either. What in the hell was this thing? A psycho wheel that smelled like little girl lip gloss?
It smacked of magic.
I shoved the circle and poem back into the envelope, rose, and, like a firewalker, sprinted up the driveway. Storming into my house, I marched into the family room. Sue, Laura and Candace were lying on the couches. They were shoveling Mexican food into their faces with the top buttons of their jeans undone.
I glanced at the TV. Brenda Walsh was in a panic. The teenage heroine had discovered a lump in her breast and was waiting for the biopsy results.
“Look at this shit!” I thundered. Everyone gave a start. I tossed the envelope onto the coffee table. Candace, Sue, and Laura set down their plates and huddled around it. “Look at it!”
They spent five minutes in silence, examining the envelope and its contents.
“Desiree!” Laura finally boomed. “That’s the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever seen!”
“I know! It’s voodoo,” I accused. “Santeria!”
“What’re you gonna do?” asked Sue.
“I know what we should do,” Candace suggested. “We should take it to Rex. T-Rex.”
“The warlock?” Sue asked.
“The warlock,” she nodded.
I’d been to The Apothecary before, with Blaze and Malice.
Its proprietor, T-Rex, ran the shop out of a failing strip mall near the bridge. He never had much merchandise, mostly he peddled crystal meth out the back door, but Malice had enjoyed hanging out there, listening to T-Rex sing Rasputin’s praises, browsing through what little he had. Daggers with long white blades. Pouches made of chain mail. Chalices. Incense. Pricey Renaissance Fair costumes and accessories.
The day after my esoteric package arrived, me and my friends bustled in through The Apothecary’s glass door. Small brass bells hanging from the handle clinked together, chiming. I spotted T-Rex, sitting on the counter, next to the register. He was tearing tin foil off a burrito and swaying to some Celtic beats, probably Dead Can Dance. With his teeth, he tore open a chile packet and took a chomp out of his burrito, injecting it with hot sauce.
