Dr. Morbid's Castle of Blood (Masks)
Page 19
“It looks more like being chased after by a freight train and not playing.” Mom paused and gave Grimm a light poke with her finger. Nothing. In fact, Grimm almost slid off her lap, still passed out, and Mom had to catch him. “Okay, I guess I’ll have to live vicariously through him sleeping like this.” She continued stroking Grimm while changing the channels to her favorite evening crime drama.
Before I went to bed, I got online to see if there were any last minute cool things I could get for Peter even though I’d already convinced myself not to bother. And if I were to come away from that online surfing adventure with something substantial, it’d be the realization—or more like resigned acceptance—of how insane the ‘net was. Like, one could start off with one thing in mind, do research along those lines, and then find himself going from one tangent to another till, by the time the hour was up, he’d have been exposed to about fifty million whacky things he never knew existed.
There was one site that caught my eye—a place that sold dolls that were similar to those super-expensive pretty boy dolls from Japan or Korea. But it was a local manufacturer, which I thought was really cool, and the dolls looked incredible—though maybe a bit spooky the way their eyes looked so real and the way they seemed to follow you when you moved, even though they were only images online. The dolls came in all kinds of costumes and hairstyles that one could mix and match and even customize. I checked out the prices and frowned. The dolls were way, way cheaper than those from Asia, if my memory served me right. At the same time, they also looked like they could be trendy—or something that people would go crazy over for a short amount of time until their novelty wore off. With a lower price compared to the original versions, I wouldn’t be surprised if people had already started collections by now.
“Living Dolls,” I muttered, reading out loud the dolls’ basic description. “Well, I guess they’re sort of like living dolls, the way they stare at you. Everything else is obviously fake. I mean, duh.”
I read up some more on the dolls, clicking links here and there, and getting slightly creeped out by claims of “loyal companionship” or “fiercely close friendship” or even “protectors” of their owners. I grimaced. I felt myself growing more and more unsettled with every page I checked out.
I found, though, that I had a hard time leaving the site. There was something attractive about those dolls even though they weren’t my type, so I bookmarked the page before checking my email and then shutting my computer down. When I went to bed, I kept looking over my shoulder even though I knew I was alone save for Grimm. Maybe it was an effect of the experiences I had being trapped in a horror computer game, but strangely I somehow felt like there was someone else there with me. Which, of course, made me wonder all the more if I owned one of those dolls, like, would it make me feel like it was alive or something? That was what their website made me think, anyway.
“Meh. So dumb,” I said, yawning, as I tucked Grimm under the covers and listened to his purring till it finally faded, and I fell asleep immediately after.
* * * *
Peter’s birthday finally arrived after a few more days of humdrum existence in Vintage City. He celebrated with his family first and then the superheroes the next day. His family’s celebration was quiet and private, he said. They took him to a swanky restaurant, naturally, and showered him with high-end gifts.
As far as what the heroes did for him, I never got to find out beforehand, but I didn’t care at that point, having suffered through the agony of planning and stuff. They were more than welcome to do whatever they wanted, even if it meant hosting a surprise birthday for Peter that was superhero-themed and seriously, seriously cheesy. They could always give me the scoop after the fact; for my part, I was too busy focusing on how best to pamper him even more. The whole time I lay low, of course, and let him enjoy being spoiled by everyone, and didn’t care if I had to wait one more day to celebrate it with him.
An idea finally clicked in the meantime, and I went to the library to see how possible it was. Then I went to the store to buy some stuff for his birthday meal.
The only bummer was that our day fell on a Thursday, so we spent most of it in school first and then afterward enjoying a quiet, warm time in the same little park-like place where I first saw Grimm. I’d put together a picnic basket with Brenda’s help—even waking up super early to haul off Mom’s old picnic basket packed with raw materials that I got from the store (okay, so Dad drove me to the antique shop)—and then tuck away his gift.
“You really shouldn’t have,” he said, grinning and coloring, when I gave him the package. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me properly after we’re done eating,” I replied, and ordered him to open it up while I pulled out sandwiches, a bag of chips, and sodas. I even brought some of the leftover recyclable paper cups from our pizza party days ago because, you know, one didn’t have a proper picnic without glasses, plates, silverware, and napkins—even if they were all paper or plastic. He chirped and did what he was told.
“Whoa.”
I glanced up to find him staring at the cover of one book first before turning it over, running his fingers slowly over the tattered and discolored leather. Then he opened it and pored through about a dozen pages before finally looking up at me, eyes wide. The second book sat on the table, waiting to be explored. It was just as old and fancy-looking as the first one, and I liked the way it smelled. You know, like an old book.
“Where did you get these?” he asked. He sounded almost awed.
“At the library’s store—where they sell their old stuff.” I squelched my excitement. “Do you like it? I mean, them. You’ve got one more to check out, by the way.” I nodded at the other book that he hadn’t examined yet.
I watched his grin broaden till it practically broke his face. “Eric, this is fantastic! It looks like the first edition of this book! Thank you!”
He slid off his bench, hurried over to me, and gave me a big, long, wet one on the mouth. In public. In broad daylight. I stared at him, wide-eyed, at first when he pulled away and then walked back to his bench. At that point, I didn’t give a rat’s ass if anyone anywhere saw us. All that mattered was watching Peter rediscover his old passion for poetry in that old book of World War I sonnets from his favorite British poets as well as poets he’d never read about before. The second book I bought him was also the first edition of a collection of biographies of some of those poets. I decided to get it because I figured that those books together would help Peter’s appreciation of World War I poetry deepen even more. I didn’t know anyone else our age who read that stuff, and in a way, I felt damned proud of being the boyfriend of a rare breed of teenager.
“If there’s anything I learned from your birthday, it’s to keep things simple and go back to the basics,” I said. When he glanced up and looked at me, I shrugged, adding, “Like I said before, these breaks from crime-fighting are so rare, and it’s great seeing you and the others do what regular teenagers do. I’m just taking advantage of whatever’s left of your down time.” When he didn’t say anything, I felt myself blush. “I like seeing you smile a lot and not be so tired every time. I know, it sounds kind of sappy.”
Peter’s grin softened. “I love you, but you already know that.”
“Yeah, but hearing that never gets old. Love you, too. And happy birthday.”
Peter looked down at the book he held, looking so giddy all over again. “This is so cool,” he muttered.
I laughed quietly the whole time I prepared our picnic because Peter suddenly forgot about me as he started reading the biographies first, the look of wonder and bliss on his face something that was so rare in an overworked teenage superhero that I plain didn’t have the heart to bother him. Too bad I didn’t have a camera with me then; on the other hand, this was a moment worth keeping in memory, not in pixels. So I sat there, waiting for him to stop on his own time, resting my chin on my hand as I watched, still laughing to myself.
THE END
I’ve lived most of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area though I wasn’t born there (or, indeed, the USA). I’m married with no kids and three cats, am a cycling nut, and my day job involves artwork, crazy coworkers who specialize in all kinds of media, and the occasional strange customer requests involving papier mache fish with sparkly scales.
I’m a writer of young adult fiction, specializing in contemporary fantasy, historical fantasy, and historical fiction genres. My books range from a superhero fantasy series to reworked folktales to Victorian ghost fiction.
My themes are coming-of-age, with very little focus on romance (most of the time) and more on individual growth and some adventure thrown in. More information can be found online at haydenthorne.com.
ABOUT QUEERTEEN PRESS
Queerteen Press is the young adult imprint of JMS Books LLC, a small press specializing in queer fiction, non-fiction, and poetry owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. Visit us at queerteen-press.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!