Sirens of DemiMonde (HalfWorld Trilogy Book 1)

by N. Godwin

  As the Halflings curiously ask one another what Randy could possibly have been thinking, I notice that only a few seconds go by before Randy follows Ali outside. We can vaguely hear as Ali begins arguing with him loudly while the thin emo dude dressed all in black steps up to the mike.

  “Well,” Horst nudges me. “Guess we won’t be seeing any more of Cousin Ali.”

  Everyone can hear Ali’s muffled yells above the din. She is slapping and screaming at Randy without pausing for a break or breath. And we all finally explode with laughter. The poor emo dude thinks we’re all suddenly laughing at his Ode to Fallen Love, but we can’t help it. Hobie and Mandy are laugh-gasping and hugging each other, while Horst and Alan are bent over still laughing.

  “Poor, poor stupid dude,” Andrea sighs with honest compassion.

  “I think we should shoot him and put him out of his misery!” John bursts into contagious laughter.

  “Nah, dude,” Hobie defends grimly, “I think we should all shoot ourselves after listening to that,” Hobie says this nudging me in my ribs, trying to get me to look at him as he has done for the last few days ever since Ken and I showed up at LaVela’s security office, luckily before the police got called (with four chocolate bribe-cakes and five pounds of boiled shrimp), to cart their under-aged butts back home after their MTV fiasco.

  You have never seen five teenagers on such good behavior in all your life because they are all truly terrified I am going to kick them out. I didn’t say a word to them that night and I still haven’t said a word about it. This seems punishment enough. It’s like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, which would explain Hobie’s exceptionally good moods, Tony’s newfound interest in books, and Robert’s astounding record of going three days without breaking anything. Mandy and Genie have been pretty-much like you’d expect fifteen year old girls to be, you know “oh so bummed over Jimmy-Sue being so bumbed and all.”

  Ken swooshes by with a dish tub on the top of his head. “My turn next,” he says with a grin and a wink.

  There is something different in the air surrounding Ken that makes me turn and study him. I watch him place his tub on a stool and begin to shuffle through his props to ready himself for his turn. I gently stroke my ears as I realize the static in them has changed decibels and pitch until every other sound in the room is muted and dulled as if a blanket had been laid across over them to muffle every other sound except Ken because even though he’s standing a good thirty yards away in a crowded room I can clearly hear him whisper killer a couple times. I can hear his breath, his laughter, and even his heartbeat as if my head were against his chest, and even I know to pay attention.

  I’ve avoided the Ken decision as best I can, terrified of the outcome because I’m leery about my point of no return. Just how deep a wound can you sustain and live to tell the tale? But I can’t be selfish and dwell on such human frailties or else I’ll never succeed. So I listen and watch my best friend, straining with all my might to clear my mind and be receptive come what may.

  As he steps up to the mike the entire room goes quiet with curiosity and the odd hushed respect that always accompanies an appearance by Ken at a poetry bash. He is the king of poetry, the undisputed monarch of the bash. I do however notice this is the first time he’s made an appearance without his trusty guitar.

  Ken peels off his shirt. “This is birth,” he says suddenly breaking half a dozen eggs across his body, on his head and down his face. The room responds with grossed-out screeches from the girls and laughter from the guys.

  Ken holds up a banana next. “This is the frustration of youth.” He unzips his pants and places the banana in his crotch, looking shocked as he moves it to become an erection. Everybody laughs, claps, or whistles, even me. Ken takes the banana then puts it under his foot and pauses as the room goes silent. “And this is the reality of passion,” he allows with a grim grin as he steps down hard on the end of the banana. The banana shoots out from its peel and goes slamming across the room as another round of claps erupt.

  Ken holds his hands up for silence and reverently shows his audience a pink English peony. “And this, my friends, is the frailty of life.”

  He waves his hand across the top of the flower and sprinkles an iridescent powder over it. We watch in fascination as the peony blooms open slowly, petal by petal, magically evolving before our eyes until it begins aging and curls inward on itself and begins to wilt into a leathery brown. I can hear each individual beat of Ken’s heart as we are all silent as the petals one by one slowly drop to the floor.

  No one says a word. Not even a whisper. We all seem to hold our breath as Killer takes his bow. I stare at Ken feeling it pulse through my veins that there is no grand mortal sin this gentle soul is hiding, just promise and a fragile honesty. I instinctively know this as a warm wave washes over me and I cannot stop my heart from overflowing for the joy his friendship brings me, and my guard momentarily goes down.

  Before I can stop myself I say it aloud: “I love you best of all.” I cover my mouth in absolute horror, knowing beyond a doubt that this is a sure-fire kiss of death.

  “Please tell me Killer’s not the one!” I whisper desperately to the stars outside. “Please tell me no.”

  Then the miracle happens. As Ken straightens from his bow the electricity suddenly flashes off. There is a gasp then several others, including mine as the lights flash off and on a dozen times in a row, blinking rapidly from darkness into light and back again, and suddenly out of nowhere my static clears and the winds whisper “Nooooo.”

  When the lights flash back on there is no sign of Ken anywhere. Everyone gasps again looking around them and I realize I am crying. The entire room is on its feet, clapping and whistling and stomping their feet to the chant of “Killer! Killer! Killer!”

  Can’t you just picture it, President Killer? Wouldn’t that be one awesome ride?

  As I blow my nose and wipe my eyes I notice the small line forming at the cash register and quickly move over to deal with it. Tony slides over and stands silently by my side as I ring up the customers and collect their money. After a moment I turn my head slightly and look at him, questioning with a shrug.

  “Nothing, “he replies. “Really, nothing.” He fidgets with the adding machine tape for a minute and is singing some juvenile lullaby in Spanish under his breath.

  “Come on, dude,” I coax, “you can tell me anything, remember?”

  “My real name’s not Smith,” he says quickly.

  “No kidding.”

  “It’s Santos, Antonio Salvador Santos. And see, I messed up with some very bad people who want me dead, so Robert and I left Miami and came here, because, see, I’d met this friend of my cousin’s Rosita once who told us about this place so—yeah, so I need you to know that I never killed somebody or hurt a girl or anything,” Tony says in one rambling sentence as he backs away from me, his palms upward gesturing surrender.

  I am touched and watch as he melts into the crowd again. “Hey, Antonio,” I call after him, “I looooooove you too, dude”

  “Women,” he says with a shrug looking a little flustered, “they all want me.”

  Everyone within range laughs or slaps his back as he passes, while the other’s around them shush the offenders quickly because Andrea has made her way up to the mike and the crowd loves Andrea as much as they love Ken. A handful of men are whistling the crowd silent because she always does this outrageous erotic reading that’s part phone sex and part poetry.

  Andrea’s trademark cigarette is dangling from her lips and she’s wearing the same blue jean jacket she wore the day she arrived. Except tonight it’s meant more as a costume instead of armor. I notice how her handsome face has softened somewhat and how her hair now flows softly around her tanned face. Andrea actually looks feminine, a description I know she would hate, despite the combat boots and the handcuffs dangling from both wrists.

  “I call this one Bind My Ankles to My Wrists,” Andrea delivers in her most obnoxio
us Jersey twang. “But it’s a work in progress.”

  A moment later you would never guess that the breathless sexy voice you are hearing belongs to the same person. Even seeing is hard believing, and it’s funny to watch the reaction of the crowd as Andrea slides in and out of innuendo in a language both gendered species can understand. By far the most fascinating reaction to watch is the shocked expression on the men’s faces when they suddenly realize how gracefully a woman can ease in and out of a dramatic scene.

  This part of Andrea can play men like a violin. Eunice says if she were Andrea she’d hit Paris or Rome and become a mistress to one or two mega-industrialists who always return to their wifey and screaming kiddies every night, and call it a swell life.

  Bend me over

  Bind my ankles to my wrists

  But watch out, I am not mute

  You are utterly deaf.”

  The women are always attentive and often nod with even the most far-reaching philosophy Andrea utters. The men seem to hear only the seductress. I always know which cue to close my ears on and let her create, unedited, so I concentrate on checking the stock and pace of the evening. Kelly stands just off to my left listening attentively, but what could that hurt? Cecile is in Horst’s arms, nodding off to sleep.

  And right now, at this very moment in time, God seems in his heaven and all’s right with the world. But my eyes can’t see Lavelle, and I sigh when I spot him. He takes the cash from another customer and pockets it.

  Poor Lavelle is proving to be a difficult one. I’ve never had another with stickier fingers than this poor dude. He isn’t even the least bit discriminating, he steals anything, knives, forks, ketchup, Eunice’s shoes. He doesn’t fight us when we always find the contraband in the same place every time, under his mattress. This dude just keeps on keeping on oblivious to the enemies he’s accumulating within the rank and file of the DemiMonde in less than a week, a new record for here, unless you count Randy.

  Eunice wants him gone but I just can’t give up on Lavelle because I don’t see the evil in his intent, only the pathetic. I don’t see a thief but a homeless child finding comfort in holding an object in his hand for longer than a moment. I hear only his cry for help. I know in my heart he has something more to say than Let me hold that?

  I slide up beside him and hold out my hand, palm up. “Lavelle, give me the money.” He doesn’t say anything just hands me a wad of cash. His expression is almost what I might hope to call apologetic. And I smile and pat his arm.

  “Hey,” he says to me eyeing the silver bangles on my wrist. “Let me hold those. Okay?”

  I flip off the lights and lock the door behind me, pausing to inhale deeply on the warm midnight scent off the garden. I listen to the crickets and frogs in the rosemary bushes and listen to the roar of the gulf across the street. There is always a deceptive calm before the storm but I relish the moment and hug myself as I exhale. I can feel a storm brewing out there somewhere in the dark because something doesn’t feel right, some familiar oscillation from our family was off-kilter. I concentrate on my immediate surroundings, the girl’s dorm in particular. All lights are out in the bunkhouse and I find this odd. It’s far too early to be so quiet from that vocal crew. There were still too many things from their day to be discussed ad nauseam, so lights out this early was peculiar indeed… I see a shadow at the girls’ window and decide I’d better investigate.

  As I push open the unlocked-yet-again-door, I am struck by the depth of the silence in the room, there is no music, no T.V., not even MTV, no anything, except for some overwhelming and lovely scent. I run my hand along the wall and reach for the light switch.

  My hand comes in contact with another hand and I cry out in the dark as the lights flash on and a crescendo of screams are shouted at me by a host of angry and grotesque demons! They’re screaming at me and shouting a mantra over and over.

  I rub my eyes and exhale painfully, trying to release the breath caught in my chest. And suddenly from out of somewhere nearby I hear a familiar voice and then another and another, and I open my eyes.

  “Surprise!” they shout again.

  “Happy birthday!”

  “Happy big 21!” I clearly hear Ken’s voice say amidst the demons gathered before me.

  I look around the room as my eyes adjust to the light and begin to laugh. Every single one of them is dressed in ridiculous Disney costumes or really silly pajamas. Lamb Chops comforters are spread across the floors with every pillow we have scattered on top. There are dozens of large free-standing arrangements of blush pink peonies leaning against the wall and vases of them crowding every dresser, every cabinet and cranny, dozens and dozens of them.

  “Oh my,” is all I can say as they carefully move an arrangement of peonies off a chair and sit me down. “Y’all,” I try to say something again, overcome by the generosity and how silly they look.

  “It’s a slumber party!” Horst yells and hits Hobie in the chest with a pillow, “girlie style!”

  Nobody looks sillier than Horst and that’s saying something. Horst is wearing a red and white Polka-dot baby-doll nighty and his arms and chest are stretching the absolute max out of the fabric. I can’t stop laughing because he even has the matching little thong panties over his boxers.

  “Quick. Grab a camera, for once Jimmy-Sue is speechless!” Andrea shouts.

  “Gotta be a first,” Robert says as the huge pink foam curlers wound in his hair bob up and down, “really, cuz we all know that Jimmy-Sue--”

  “Man, these things itch!” Horst cackles scratching like a fiend at the elastic around the tight sleeves of his pajamas. “I can’t believe the discomfort you women endure to achieve such artificial beauty. You’re so much prettier without them,” Horst insists then suddenly blushes when he realizes his inference. “Well, I mean I have no idea what you’d look like without—Not that I daydream about you naked or--”

  “Quit while you’re ahead,” Andrea offers slugging his arm affectionately. “And thanks, we think you’d be cute naked, too,” she laughs.

  “These dang bras suck!” Hobie laughs. “Talk about a pain in the butt.”

  “You can’t fool us, dude,” Tony shouts circling around Horst, making kissie-faces and pulling on the hem of Horst’s nighty while Horst strikes a grotesquely feminine pose and bats his eyes.

  “Ewwww!” everyone moans then laughs.

  “Okay, Jimmy-Sue,” Ken says approaching me as I sit in my chair, “you gotta look the part, too.” He hands me a large present wrapped in Pepto Bismol pink Sleeping Beauty paper.

  “Open it!” they shout as many hands suddenly appear at once and tear my present open with me and throw the top to the box aside. They inhale as I move the tissue paper aside.

  “What the heck is this?” I ask holding up the elaborate harem outfit. It is iridescent purples and pinks with pearl beads dangling from the bottom of the bodice and again from just above the crotch on the harem pants. There are even ridiculous matching curly-toed slippers with jingly bells and a tiny hat with more pearls and a tassel.

  “Ooh, I don’t think so,” I say.

  “It’s Princess Jasmine!” Kelly and Mandy say and clap.

  “You get to be princess for a day!” Kelly chuckles, wagging her Tigger tail in her hands. “You don’t have to work or babysit or anything!”

  “I don’t think so. No way--”

  “It was supposed to be comfortable pajamas,” Genie insists, “because we knew you had to be tired, but the stinking dudes went behind our backs and convinced the seamstress to make it sexy instead!”

  “I wanted to see her dressed in this,” Horst laughs as the other dudes raise their hands.

  “This is supposed to be a slumber party!” Mandy and Genie say almost in rote. “And she can’t sleep in that.”

  “She’s not supposed to sleep in it!” Andrea laughs.

  “Then what’s it for?” Hobie wants to know as everybody laughs.

  “Come on, Jimmy-Sue!” Genie and An
drea say as they pull me up from the chair. “Put it on!”

  A moment later all hands are propelling me into the bathroom. Mandy closes the door behind us as Andrea and Kelly begin to immediately untie my apron, slide my shoes off my feet, and pull my dress off over my head.

  “I’m not wearing this!” I say again.

  “But we looked everywhere for a costume and couldn’t find anything, so we gave in and decided to have it made” Mandy says. “I took sides with the dudes,” she confesses. “Horst and I wanted to see what you would look like in something romantic like this, right out of Aladdin.”

  “We each put twenty bucks into it too so you darn well better play along!” Andrea insists.

  I acquiesce and let them play dress-up with me. They dress me, put way too much makeup on my face, and I even let them place those ridiculous belled-shoes on my feet. Mandy finishes applying lipstick to my lips and steps back to view the results along with everyone else.

  “Dang,” Andrea laughs, “I want her!”

  “I’m a friggin’ Dalmatian!” Genie whines as she pulls on her tail and pouts. Suddenly she bursts out laughing and we all join her.

  “They wanted you to look silly and I wanted to see you look sexy and proud,” Andrea admits.

  “I look pretty silly myself,” Mandy giggles in her Ariel pajamas and red wig.

  A moment later their hands thrust me back out into the waiting stares of the dudes. “Wow!” someone says.

  “Whoa, killer hooters!”

  “Ken!”

  “Wow!” Horst agrees. “Wow!”

  “Hey, it’s I Dream of Jeanie!” Robert and Hobie shout.

  “But she’s supposed to be Jasmine!”

  I give in and clap over their clever decorations. The overhead lights are off now and there are dozens of white candles the dudes have lit while the girls were dressing me. I look at each of their generous face and I feel a tear stinging my eye.

  “How the heck did you get Robert to keep a secret?” I laugh and shake my head in disbelief.