by Chuck Wendig
It works. They find Shane and the others: Steven, Eddie, Kyle. Eddie’s got this thin little black tie like the flat blade of a machete; Kyle’s got a baggy button-down and, for reasons unknown, some kinda Star Trek pin on his shirt; Steven’s rocking a T-shirt made to look like a tuxedo shirt; and Shane, well, Shane’s about as impeccable as he can get—a full-on black suit, white shirt, black bow tie, and hair slicked back into a shellacked helmet that makes it look like LEGO hair.
(He’s like a teenage version of Gomez from The Addams Family. Atlanta used to love that show. Nick at Nite, boy howdy.)
They laugh and dance. Atlanta doesn’t know how to dance, but neither do the other people she’s with, far as she can tell. Actually, looking around, she’s not sure any of these people really know how to dance—everybody’s just kinda moving like they’re snakes on fire, like they’re possessed by clumsy devils, like the music is in them and they just don’t care how they look.
She envies it at first, and then just claims it as her own, and soon she’s flailing and head-banging and doing her own dumb thing.
It feels nice to be someone else.
It’s funny, too—she doesn’t see many of the elites around here. Not too many richie-riches. No Mandy, no Samantha. No Barford twins. She spies Moose Barnes dancing with Megan Luscas, but he seems drunk and loud (of course, he always seems that way). He tries to dance with Atlanta at one point, coming up on her with those big meaty paws, but she gives him the same look a rattlesnake gives a nosy dog and then he turns back around and he’s donezo, gonezo, good-bye. Still, he’s the only one, and the absence of the popular crowd makes her happy. That’s one of those things you always see in movies: the popular kids go to the dances and they’re always kings and queens of the dance floor. But here, none of that’s true. They’re so popular, they won’t slum it here. Maybe they’re already at Samantha’s party. Maybe she doesn’t even care.
She manages to slow-dance with Steven, and then Shane. With both she has to keep her distance—arms locked like she’s some kinda prude, some 1950s housewife who has to keep twelve inches between her and her partner at all times. And sure, it mostly feels like her skin is about to crawl its way right off her skeleton, but that feeling breaks apart, too. And the dance is nice. Swaying like a couple of old boozers at a bar after last call.
Then she sees someone. She tells Shane, “Hey, hold on,” and breaks away from him to cut through the crowd.
A half minute later, she comes back, dragging Damita with her.
“You two need to dance,” Atlanta says.
Damita shrugs. “I can be into that.”
Shane beams.
Moments later, they’re dancing. A whole lot closer than Atlanta could ever get. Which makes her happy, and sad, too.
The night zips along, time gobbled down by an uncaring clock. There’s a roller-coaster feeling to it all—she’s given up some control. And it feels righteous.
Comes a point, though, where her armpits are itching something fierce. Stupid powder roll-on deodorant. It’s hot in here, too hot all of a sudden, and that’s enough to crack the mirror and chip the façade. A little bit of the bona fide Atlanta starts to peek through, and she tells the others: “I’m gonna go get some air.” They all nod and keep moving. Shane asks her if she wants him to go with her, but she gives him an eye roll and says, “I can take care of myself, Lafluco.”
She’s outside at the back of the school, not far from the parking lot. Summer has finally loosened its grip—like the night before, the air now is cool, so cool she can see her breath. But it feels good after being in the furnace that is the high school Homecoming dance.
Jeez, she thinks. Can you believe it, Atlanta?
Her? At a dance? Enjoying herself?
She looks up at the moon just to make sure it hasn’t gone bloodred or cracked open and hatched like some kind of world-ending egg.
It hasn’t. It’s still there, full and fat. Pregnant with a bunch of smaller moons, maybe. (And here she thinks of Bee. Maybe I should’ve invited her. But Bee wouldn’t have said yes. Plus, this was for Shane. If he really is “jelly,” then no reason to go poking that bear.)
She’s about to turn around, go back inside, when—
Pop.
A sound coming from the back of the parking lot.
A sound like—what? Glass breaking? Maybe. A windshield.
A voice carries. Angry. Then laughing, braying, even. She knows that kind of laugh. It’s the laugh of tormentors having fun doing what they were made to do.
So she does what she was made to do, which is keep on walking toward the danger and not away from it. Her feet—each in an oxblood boot, the one accessory she was able to bring to the rockabilly-Josie-lipstick-lesbian makeover party—carry her down the steps and sidewalk like she’s walking the gangplank on a pirate’s ship.
Her boots crunch on loose asphalt.
She doesn’t bother trying to be quiet.
But it hits her suddenly:
She’s naked.
Not, like, naked-naked. But she’s got nothing. Her shotgun is at the police station. Her bear mace and telescoping baton are both in her room, at home.
Most she has is this little clutch purse. Josie’s, not hers.
Meaning: not naked, but worse than naked. Vulnerable.
From not far away, she hears the whap and oof of someone taking a punch.
Atlanta kneels down, opens the clutch purse. Starts scooping up rocks and bits of broken parking lot. With the flat of her hand, she bulldozes them right into the clutch. When it’s full, she snaps it shut, lifts it up.
Heavy. Good.
With the little purse back over her shoulder, she keeps walking.
A voice goes: “Shh, shh, someone’s coming. Shut up. Shut up!”
Atlanta thinks she knows that voice.
And when she rounds the bend, looking down one of the aisles of the lot, she sees that Mitchell Erickson and Charlie Russo have someone pressed up against a Jeep Wrangler. Charlie’s got a baseball bat. Under the yellow streetlights, broken glass glitters like fake-ass diamonds.
Charlie makes a hissing sound—hsst!—to alert Mitchell.
Mitchell, who turns and sees her.
He makes a sound that, if she’s being honest, tickles her to death: it’s this frustrated, exasperated, straight-up pissed-off grunt of rage. “Atlanta Burns.”
“As I live and breathe.”
“That can be fixed,” Charlie says.
She clings to the clutch purse.
Mitchell pulls away from whoever he’s got pinned up—
And now she sees who it is.
Damon Carrizo.
He gives her a boozy, beat-ass smile, his white teeth pink with blood. Hair stringy, sweaty, stuck to his forehead. “Hey, Atlanta,” he says, his words mushy. He spits a line of blood. “You should probably go. It’s okay.”
“It looks pretty far from okay.”
Mitchell says: “You know what you’re like? A bad cold. Just when you think you’ve kicked it, here it comes again to bring you down.”
“Achoo,” she says, sneering.
Charlie steps away from the pickup. He twirls the bat.
“You should go,” Charlie says. “Like D-Bag here says. Right, D-Bag?”
“Cuntrag is right,” Damon says, wincing. Mitchell pumps a fist into his stomach. Damon doubles over, a string of spit dangling from his lower lip.
“Back away,” Atlanta says.
Mitchell turns. Sniffs. Cracks his knuckles. “You think you’re untouchable now, huh? Think you got my father by the nuts just because you got some, what, some recording? Maybe he’s on your leash, but I’m not.” He steps forward. Charlie has now taken to thwacking the bat against his own open hand.
Charlie says: “Whaddya gonna do to us?”
“Maybe I got something special here in my purse.”
“In that thing?” Charlie asks. “I doubt it.”
“Maybe I’ll run,” she says. “Get help.”
Mitchell says: “Not your style. Besides, we’d catch you.”
A high-pitched whine rises in her ears. Her hand holding the clutch shakes. Her vision goes dark on each side and it feels like someone’s put a vice over her skull—a crushing pressure at each temple.
All she says is “Bring it on.”
Charlie licks his lips, steps toward her—Mitchell’s got a scared look on his face because he knows what’s coming. Charlie should, too, but he’s dumb where Mitchell is smart. Soon as Russo steps up and brings the bat back—maybe just to threaten her, maybe not to hit her, but she can’t take that risk.
Like a rattlesnake, she strikes fast.
She whips the purse off her shoulder and clocks him in the face with it. His head snaps back. The bat rattles against the ground and the clutch pops open, stones raining down. Blood streams down Charlie Russo’s face and out through his fingers. He yelps and sputters, staggering back.
Mitchell’s eyes go wide. Then narrow to slits. He’s angry. Angry enough to do something. His body coils up and she thinks, Shit, the purse is broken, the stones are gone—the bat’s just lying there, maybe she could get it—
A scuff of stone—a roar.
Damon tackles Mitchell from behind. The two tumble to the ground, punching and kicking. Throwing elbows. Rolling around like it’s some kind of courting dance or mating ritual.
Atlanta picks up the bat, bangs it against the ground.
“Everybody up,” she barks, putting some iron in her voice. “Unless you want me to start breaking legs.”
The two of them pull apart. Mitchell sits back on his ass, panting. Damon’s like a jungle cat, on all fours, ready to pounce.
“This isn’t your business, Atlanta,” Mitchell says.
Damon rolls his eyes. “It’s not our business either, dumb-ass.”
Mitchell shoots him a look.
Charlie Russo, for his part, stays on the ground, clutching his face. Whining and spitting.
“Carrizo,” she says, “get up. Erickson, just stay there for a while.”
She twirls the bat.
“You’ll get what’s coming to you, Atlanta Burns,” Mitchell says.
“Uh-huh. Here’s what’s coming to you, hoss.” She flips him the bird.
“Thanks,” Damon says, just to her.
“That your truck with the busted glass?” He nods. “Then let’s get outta here.”
They stand against an old fence rail about a mile away from the school. Behind them, the moon shines on a duck pond. Technically, they’re trespassing, but whoever owns this property has a house way, way back off the road. It’s quiet here but for the complaints of crickets and other night bugs. Atlanta wings a pebble toward the pond. Ploop.
“So, what was that all about?” she asks.
“Ah, nothing.”
“It ain’t nothing. Those two charm school rejects don’t come at you unless they got a reason. They play who they are pretty close to the vest. Won’t be any good to get suspended from the baseball team. So: why you?”
“Their fathers aren’t a fan of my father,” he says.
“No kidding? Orly Erickson isn’t much of a fan of my mom, either. Or me. Or my dog. Well. Kinda my dog.”
He picks up a stone, tosses it overhand into the water.
“You didn’t have to save me,” he says.
“Please. They would’ve broken your kneecaps or worse.”
He hesitates. Like he doesn’t want to admit it. “Maybe. I could’ve called the cops, though.”
“Using a mouth full of broken teeth, or fingers busted up like bent coat hangers, sure.” She leans over, bumps her elbow into his. “And here’s a little tip: the cops in this town may be in Mitchell’s pocket, sooooo.”
“Fine, okay, thank you for saving my butt.”
“Yeah, well.”
“You wanna make out?”
The word “Sure” escapes her lips, and next thing she knows, those very lips—the treacherous turncoats that they are—are mashed up against his, and they lean up against one of the fence posts. Teeth on teeth, tongues sliding against tongues. Maybe it’s the way the night has gone, maybe it’s the dress, maybe it’s getting a few nights of sleep thanks to the Ambien, but for a good five minutes she forgets who the hell she is. The kissing is nice, like a warm bed on a cold day with sheets to get tangled up and lost in, and the sides of her mouth feel hot and chafed but in a good way, and then his hand drifts to just under her shirt and—
Bang.
The gunshot sound in the deep of her ear. The gunsmoke stink, eggy and violent. She staggers back, feeling hot, too hot, not turned on but rather like she’s burning up—tossed in a furnace and gone to char. Damon stands there, mouth slack, eyes wide, and she thinks for a half second that the gunshot was a real thing and not just a thing her mind made up.
Her breathing comes in short gasps. Panting like a sick dog. Nausea rises up inside her, like a crocodile lifting its head out of grim, swampy waters.
“What the hell?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
He reaches for her, but she pulls away.
“Yeah,” she lies. “I’m fine.”
“I thought . . . I thought we were having a good time.”
“We were. It was great.” She knows she doesn’t sound convincing even though she means it. The sulfur stink of expended gunpowder still hangs in the air. It’s not real. She knows that. But it still smells like Satan’s bad breath just the same, and she just can’t shake it. “Maybe I ought to go?”
“I was . . . you know, before I was got jumped, I was about to get in my truck and head out to Samantha Whatever-her-last-name-is’s party. Maybe you and I . . .”
Shit! The party.
“I’m . . . supposed to go to that, yeah.” Suddenly she wishes they were all invited. Maybe she can crash it, bring everyone.
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“It’s okay, I can walk.”
“I won’t let you walk.”
She sticks out her chin. “You’ll let me do whatever I want.”
“Sorry, I just mean—c’mon. It’s a long walk, yeah? All the way up to Gallows Hill? Let me drive you, please?”
She has a lot of fight in her, but not for this.
Without another word, she gets in his truck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Last she saw Samantha’s house, it was during the day. At night, with a party going on inside, it takes on a whole new dimension. Cars parked up and down the drive and on the lawn. Lights flashing inside. Bodies moving behind most of the windows. A dull douche-douche-douche beat coming out. Some girls out back yell woo! and some guys yell yeaaaaaah! and then: applause.
Atlanta walks up to the front door with Damon at her side.
She thinks: Pretend like you’re in the army. This is a mission. Get in. Secure the intel. And get the heck out before they know you were here.
Damon says: “You ready for this?”
“Sure,” she says. Another lie.
“At least you don’t look like someone kicked your ass.”
“I’m guessing that’s your way of passing me a compliment.”
He shrugs.
They go inside.
The music sucks. Some kind of club banger beat. Rock or country, okay, she could do that, but this is like a horse kick to her heart and a key stuck into her eardrum. Everyone else seems to like it, though: wall-to-wall students dancing, running, drinking, singing, laughing, making out, feeling each other up, playing video games. She catches a whiff of weed coming from somewhere. Hears a blender running over the sound of the music.
Damon’s saying something, but she’s cutting that bait and already moving through the crowd. She has to stick her elbows out to make sure nobody gets too close—a lanky dude and some tease-hair brat are making out while moving around like maybe they’re trying to find the stairs or a bedroom or something, and Atlanta has to give the guy a hard elbow in the kidneys t
o get them out of her way.
But so far, nobody notices her.
A lot of faces she recognizes, but just as many she doesn’t. Kids from other schools, maybe. Some of them look older. College? Bloomsburg, maybe, or the Penn State satellite campus. Whatever. They don’t matter.
And she doesn’t matter to them, either.
She’s invisible to them, her irrelevance providing a perfect camouflage.
But then, like the gopher in a Whack-a-Mole game, Mandy Newhouse pops up right in front of her. “At-lan-tuh” is the way she says her name, and then she’s shouting, “We got Atlanta Burns in the house!” And half the room cheers and half the room shrugs with total indifference.
“I need Samantha,” Atlanta says, and realizes her voice is swallowed by the dragon’s roar of the crowd. She yells it again: “I said I need Saman—”
“She’s around!” Mandy yells back. “I’ll find her! But first—”
She thrusts a plastic cup in Atlanta’s hand. Something purple inside it sloshes, something that looks like grape juice. But the smell rising off it won’t just strip the wallpaper from the walls, it’d probably burn the whole house down.
The cup already has Atlanta’s name on it. Misspelled, of course:
Atalanta.
“Hunch punch!” Mandy says, then laughs like it’s a joke. “Drink up!”
Atlanta shrugs, thinks, What the hell.
She might need a little liquid ass-kick to help her get through this. Mandy ducks through the crowd and Atlanta tips the cup to her lips—
But suddenly, a hand darts out, grabs it away from her. Damon. She’s already protesting—“Hey!”—but it’s too late. He pivots fast and gives the drink to some girl passing by: a baby-cheeked chick with strawberry hair and eyes as blank as windows. Babycheeks squeaks: “Sweet, thanks!” and keeps on motoring.
“Asshole,” Atlanta says.
“Trust me, you don’t wanna drink random drinks at parties,” he says. He winks and pulls out a little flask. With one thumb he spins the cap off—which dangles from it, still connected by a leather strap. “I bring my own.”
“So I should trust you?” she asks, dubious.
“I’m trustworthy,” he says, grinning like the fox that just crapped out a bucketful of chicken bones.
