Mom pursed her lips as she plucked the boxes from my hands and then read over the product descriptions for, like, twenty minutes apiece. I figured that she was also analyzing all kinds of details or whatnot. Then she looked at me.
“Color me ignorant, honey, but I’ve always bought into the stereotype of gay kids being a lot less prone to violence than straight kids,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Mom, we’re still boys. Being whacked out on hormones goes the same across the board, and that includes the need to massacre monsters.” Well, kind of, I guess. If anything, Liz would be more prone to violence than me, being female who was subjected to that monthly torture-everyone-else thing as well as being an older sibling. I wish I could account for the violence levels in Scanlon, but I decided that his method of terrorizing the world because of testosterone meant being this totally creepy 1950’s nerd who was lost in the twenty-first century. I guess that was more like mental and psychological violence. You know, like passive-aggression.
“Still! Can’t you find something that’s less bloody than these?”
“Aw, c’mon, Mom. We’re not going to turn into serial killers after playing these things. I play free online games all the time, and I haven’t even killed an ant. Unless it was going after my food, which is as good an excuse as any.”
Mom’s look hardened. “You play free online games? How many and how often?”
Ah, damn. Another bim, bam, boom, and I was under stricter house rules regarding online gaming. So it was like I started out quality time with Mom being the center of her universe and then ended the afternoon being lectured about video games and violence and homework and just about everything else that made a teenager’s life meaningful. At least she didn’t ground me. I sighed the whole time and nodded and said, “Yes, Mom” or “I’m sorry, Mom” or “You don’t love me anymore” and the bazillion variations of those.
The only upside to this was the fact that she felt sorry enough to kiss my cheek before pushing me out of the game store like it was some kind of Hound from Hell that was about to eat me whole. In fact, she’d latched on to my arm with a grip that felt like an iron band and didn’t let up till we crossed the threshold of our home. Then she went straight for her coffee mug like it was kind of a magic wand that would get rid of all the bad video game vibes that surrounded me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard her mutter weird stuff in Latin or something Harry Potter-ish. It was most likely a special magic spell associated with her French Roast.
I went upstairs to sulk a little before going online to blast some asteroids. Hey, at least the only violence in that game was my ship getting rammed by an asteroid and exploding in space. Man, it looked like I was well on my way to turning into Scanlon Dorsey, Jr. I really should up my gaming ante before I make myself sick from all that wholesome destruction kind of gaming.
Even my Troll Warrior game was starting to freak me out, and I actually spared the lives of a small colony of flower fairies because Mom’s lecturing got under my skin. Total suckage, man.
* * * *
“Okay, so what do you think?” I asked, barely keeping myself from jumping up and down in my chair, waiting for Althea to say something. “They’re kind of like indie games, I guess, since they were pretty hard to find online. Not everyone knows about them, probably even among diehard gamers.”
My computer screen remained black for a moment, and then words appeared in rapid succession—as though someone were typing up a message in hyper speed. But it was just Althea channeling her superhero alter ego, Spirit Wire, doing what she was good at doing: possessing my computer and communicating through text. The results weren’t far off from when she’d started coming into her powers months ago. I didn’t notice any change in the way my desktop monitor looked; it was still black. I also didn’t notice any change in the way the text looked when she “talked” to me; it was still in white against black, though the speed was certainly much, much faster than before. The text also morphed in terms of font. I think now she communicated in 12 pt. Verbatim. Verdant. Whatever. The font name started with a “V,” anyway.
They all sound cool. Maybe we can test them out.
I blinked, frowning. “Yeah? Like how? Are you thinking of doing something illegal? Because if you are, I love you.”
I’m hardwired not to do that. Try again, you criminal. I was thinking about buying those games and then playing them together, duh!
“Well, that’s stupid. The whole point I was trying to make was that I wanted to find out which one was good for me to buy.” I must say that it was so boring, being friends with someone who was genetically predisposed to being lawful. “Is there a way for us to, you know, get a hold of the games, test them out discreetly, and then delete them and cover our tracks?”
God, you’re hopeless.
“Dude, I’m not rich. I might’ve just gotten my first paycheck, but it’s like minimum wage, and I can’t afford to blow it all on stupid games.” Seriously, what the hell?
Okay, okay, tell you what. I’ll check around in school to see if anyone has those games. Maybe I can borrow them, and we can test them out. Happy?
“Yeah, finally!” I paused, thinking some more. “Hey, how far have you advanced in your powers? Are you able to bring a game alive or something? You know, like, work on a gamer’s connection and then turn it into a virtual reality experience? ‘Cause that’d be awesome!”
Althea was quiet for a moment. Hmm. I never thought of that, but I can easily control databases in computer systems. I mean, you’ve seen how that goes. I’ll try the game thing and see what happens.
“When you have time, though,” I cut in. “Can’t keep you away from doing all the good guy work, keeping Vintage City free of crime.”
It’s been slow out there since the Debutantes. I guess people are still recovering from the trauma, and even scumbags are lying low. So, yeah—it’s been slow days at the office lately. I must admit, it’s kind of creepy.
I beamed. “Cool! We can mess around a little with games till you get called in full time again.”
What made you think about game manipulation like that? Are you trying to break into someone’s database or something? If you are, I’ll have to beat the shit out of you, truss you up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and kick you all the way to the police station.
Ouch. That was what best friends were for, I guess. “Boy, I’ll have to make sure that I don’t break the law when you’re PMS-ing.”
Pfft. I’m a girl. Girls are very complex.
“And batshit crazy as all hell, before, during, and after your period,” I snapped. “But to answer your question, you psycho, I was wondering if you could somehow get into the game’s program or whatever and then tweak it to make it a really kickass experience for Peter when he plays it. You know, like work it so that he’s in the game itself, but he doesn’t get hurt literally when his character suffers a hit. Or gets totally creamed.”
I winced. I just said “creamed.” I felt so deprived and miserably virginal.
So basically you want me to screw with something legally made and owned. Yeah. I should beat the shit out of you now, truss you up, and kick you all the way to the police station for saying that.
I rolled my eyes, my brain starting to throb with a dull kind of pain. That usually happened when I hung out with Althea, whether or not she was in person or possessing my computer because she had the superpower, and she was too dang lazy to call me on the phone. “Hey, guess what—you’re keeping me from my homework, which makes you an official scumbag in my parents’ eyes. I’ll see you later, you crazy-ass pile of computer chips.”
Ha. You can’t deal with justice and truth. And you’re as psychotic as I am—only more criminally inclined.
“Well, at least you admit you’re psychotic,” I said.
Althea was quiet for a moment. Damn. I didn’t see that coming.
“Score one for the persecuted gay boy,” I said. “See you later. And you’d better have those gam
es with you when I do!”
Or what?
I shrugged. “Or I’ll get a hold of Grandma Horace and tell her just how much you love Bingo Night, and that you can’t wait for the next one to come. Oh, and also if she could please get her church to give you a lifetime membership thingie for that because you seriously love playing, and you want to do it without your friends, who’re nothing more than a distraction when you get down and dirty with those bingo markers. In fact, maybe Grandma Horace can negotiate with the organizers, so they’ll make you the official bingo game announcer from now on.”
God, when you think like a criminal, you really think like a criminal. I’ll catch you later, gutter scum.
I gave her the middle finger, and I think she flipped me off, too, because the monitor exploded in flashing bright white light that lasted for five seconds before dying completely. Maybe she was trying to mimic Pokemon-induced seizures in me. If she were, that was a pathetic way of doing it. I mean, come on. Instead of collapsing on the floor, convulsing and drooling, I just sat at my computer, making a WTF face at it before shaking my head and leaving my room to raid the fridge for a late night snack.
Meh. Althea might have cool superpowers involving computers, but that was total loserville, man. As I put together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I tried to think of who to invite for that test game thing I was scheming. Wade played, and so did Ridley and Peter. Wade and Ridley kept a strict schedule, though, and limited their game-playing time because of homework (hello, nerds). Freddie played now and then, but he wasn’t too keen on games; besides, being the shapeshifter of the superhero group sort of took care of that. I was sure that masking himself a dozen times in one crime-fighting spree was just like doing a role-playing game, only in real life involving real villains and real danger.
Yeah, I guess I’d have to work my charms on him. Maybe bribe him with sugar the way the cops did during the Debutantes’ attacks on Vintage. Or treat him to a cheesy old school Japanese monster film. Or…
Oh, hell, Freddie was a total dork, anyway. He’d say yes to anything that wasn’t illegal or gross.
Chapter 3
Talk over breakfast the next morning revolved around Peter’s birthday. That’d be the biggest WTF moment of my life. Well, after my stint as The Devil’s Trill’s tragic sidekick, anyway. It was like living out an episode of The Twilight Zone the moment I set foot in the dining room.
“Oh, there you are, honey,” Mom said, turning to watch me while she cooked eggs. She even smiled, fer chrissakes. “Have you figured out what to get Peter for his birthday yet?”
I slowed my pace as my brain tried to absorb what it was she just said. “Huh?”
“You should take him out for a movie and dinner,” Liz piped up from the table. “Sometimes it’s best to give someone a night to remember and not physical gifts.”
My pace slowed down some more as my head swiveled, so I could make a face at Liz. “Huh?”
“Actually,” Dad cut in, raising a fork with a piece of pancake skewered on it. “Major caveat on that ‘night to remember’ thing that Liz said. Dinner and a movie, Eric. Period. That’s as memorable a night as you two boys should have. Know what I mean?”
I stopped completely, staring at Dad now. “Huh?”
“I think it’ll be really sweet if you reserve a table that’s like in a nice but not posh restaurant,” Liz said as she refilled her glass with juice. “Seriously, don’t hold back on that. A great meal in a quiet and private corner with a massive bouquet of roses and then a good movie after? Totally romantic.”
I inched closer to Mom, who’d turned her attention back to the eggs. Once I was about a foot away, I grabbed hold of the hem of her apron.
“Don’t underestimate a quiet walk somewhere. You don’t even have to spend so much money to make his birthday memorable. Sometimes the best things are the ones we take for granted all the time,” Dad said before wolfing down a piece of bacon.
I tugged at Mom’s apron. “Mom,” I hissed. “Help me. They’re creeping me out.”
Mom laughed as she turned off the stove and picked up the platter and its pile of freshly cooked eggs. I kept my hold on her apron as she walked over to the table, and I didn’t have a choice but to follow her, still clinging in terror.
“They’re only trying to help, honey,” she said, giving me a quick kiss. “Now let go of my apron and sit down to eat. You’re starting to creep me out.”
I frowned at everyone before turning around to put together my morning toast and jam. My family must’ve been chomped alive by giant alien plants, and the people sitting at the table that morning were their body doubles. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were created to freak me the hell out till I went crazy and turned heterosexual.
I tried not to listen to them as they all carried on and on about Peter’s birthday gift, which was morphing from one thing to another at the rate of two-and-a-half times per second. Suggestions were made about homemade cards. Or fun gift baskets packed with items I’d choose from different stores. Or a shirt with a custom design or phrase (which I was inclined to have “I constantly deprive my loving boyfriend of sex because I was born a sad little killjoy” printed in big, bold letters). Or fun gag gifts that’d make Peter laugh.
I continued to scowl with my back turned to them as I toasted bread and scraped blueberry jam across each slice. After five more minutes of this, I finally realized what was happening and rolled my eyes. Dumping the used butter knife in the sink, I picked up my plate and made my way to the table, shaking my head.
“It’s a slow news day, isn’t it, Dad?” I said as I plunked myself down on my chair.
Dad sighed, nodding. “It is. Nothing’s on the news lately. Even the rest of the world seems to be taking a quick break from destroying itself. It’s not normal, and I’m starting to get worried.”
“I figured as much.” My family was bored out of their minds. No wonder they were all nice to me. “Why don’t you cook up trouble, Liz, and get the heroes going? I’m sure they’re all just as bored as everyone else. Take Scanlon with you when you get them riled up with something illegal.”
Liz turned to Mom. “Told you it won’t work, Mom. Being nice to Eric makes him even more obnoxious than he already is. What did you eat while you were pregnant with him? Rat poison?”
“Eric, you really shouldn’t be so ungrateful whenever someone tries to help you out,” Dad said, frowning at me. He continued to use his fork and whatever piece of food was impaled on it as an extension of his finger, as he moved it like he was shaking his finger at me. You know, the way parents shake their fingers at their kids because they totally misunderstood their own flesh and blood and were pissed off as a result. “Everyone here knows that you’re having a hard time finding a gift for your boyfriend. Is it too much to ask to—as you kids say it—get with the program and carry on a conversation with us without whining or bullying your sister?”
“I didn’t raise you to be a brat, Eric,” Mom said as she held up her steaming mug of morning coffee. Come to think of it, it must’ve been her second mug for the day.
I sighed happily and sank down in my chair as I gorged on food. Ah, there it was. Back to normal. I also decided not to talk about Peter’s birthday because that was my deal, and while I secretly appreciated everyone’s suggestions, they were still nowhere near my ultimate perfect gift (yep—my ass), and it was a sore point for me.
“Mom, Dad, you’ll have to admit that being nice to me is like tumbling down the rabbit hole. It’s unnerving being on the receiving end, considering the abuse I put up with every day. I used to think that running away because everyone picks on me would be good, but I think running away because everyone’s so nice and out of character is a lot more logical.”
“Yup. Looks like rat poison, all right,” Liz said.
* * * *
The walk to “school” only brought home how quiet Vintage City was, and if my family being nice to me was a real freaky, brain-melting moment, saunt
ering through the streets of Vintage without a single whiff of danger anywhere was like living out a zombie apocalypse movie. I wasn’t sure if all the pedestrians I passed were human. I kept a suspicious eye on everyone, hoping I didn’t have to resort to using my heavy-ass messenger bag as a weapon or a shield against brain eaters.
In fact, I felt so disoriented that I had to stop next to an old man who was minding his own business, looking through a display window of a cigar shop. I felt happy vibes coming out of him, and I couldn’t resist reaching out and giving his arm a jab with my finger. He was caught off-guard and lost his balance, tipping over to his left, and I had to catch him and steady him again.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I didn’t look where I was going. You okay?”
“Eh? Yeah, I’m fine, sonny. Thank you.” He nodded and smiled at me, those happy vibes—which kind of wavered and rattled around a bit—coming back in full force. I was tempted to give him another jab just to irritate him and reassure myself that the world wasn’t going to explode, but I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and moved on.
I paused in front of Brenda’s antique store, looking around me. “What the hell, people?” I muttered. “We’re all supposed to be miserable and screwed up!” I sighed and shook my head. The feeling of zombie apocalypse danger faded when I entered Brenda’s shop, but it was quickly replaced by the usual spookiness that came with being surrounded by a bunch of old stuff that was once owned by dead people.
Too bad Peter didn’t share my morbid taste in things. Otherwise, I’d have bought him a real human skull or preserved innards or a severed hand that was pickling inside a giant mason jar. Then I wouldn’t be giving myself a hernia trying to come up with something special for him.
I spotted Brenda in one corner of her shop, moving things around.
“Hiya,” I said, and she glanced back over her shoulder, grinned, and waved. “Hey, is there any way for the Sentries to stir up trouble? It’s getting kind of boring around here, and my family’s starting to treat me nice. There’s only so much I can handle without going insane.”
Dr. Morbid's Castle of Blood (Masks) Page 3
