"He's here . . ." I said, looking at Virginia, fear and exhilaration erupting in my veins.
"He's here!" she cried, dashed over to the intercom, and pushed the talk button. "Helllllooooo? Ward residence. May I help you?" I could hear his voice in the background, made small by the magic of distance. Then Virginia's chirpy voice, "Come on up! Commencing Operation Zombie Date . . . now . . ." And she pushed the gate release button with a flourish.
She spun around, facing me. "You look awesome. So great. Seriously, I did such a good job." She patted herself on the back. "Good job, me. Now, let's get you downstairs. I can't wait to see what he looks like!"
Reluctantly, I followed her downstairs, every footfall ringing out like a death knell. Working on some sort of supersonic speed, Virginia appeared at the base of the stairwell with a glass of chilled wine in hand. "Here have a sip. It'll help with your nerves. I'll go get your date."
I wasn't a big drinker, but tonight called for some new rules. "Thanks," I said, wishing I’d saved a single Xanax, and took a big swig instead.
I stood in the kitchen, leaning on the marble island, nursing my glass of wine, while Virginia went out to the foyer to collect Ben. I heard the front door open before he even knocked; I heard her voice floating in from the porch—“Hi, I'm Virginia, the big sis. Wow, you look so scary!”—and I heard the calm tones of his voice in the foyer, his footsteps on the stairs leading up to the kitchen. Then he walked into view.
"Come on in," Virginia said to him. And to me, "Doesn't he look great?"
He looked like road kill. The left side of his face looked like it had been scraped off in some terrible accident, leaving behind a bloodied eye socket that drooped down his cheek. Half of his scalp was exposed in a talented play with fake blood and latex. His jeans were ripped up to his thighs. But under all of his crumpled, bloody clothing and copious hanging flesh, he was the most handsome person I'd ever seen.
I took another bolstering swig of wine. "Hey, Ben," I said, and waved lamely.
He crossed the room towards me. "Are you a mummy-zombie?" he asked, eyes wide with what I hoped was pleasant surprise. Suddenly, he was close, so close I could see the bright prisms in his eyes and feel the warmth emanating from his body. He picked up my stethoscope and ran his thumb across the resonator.
I patted the loose bandages on my head, feeling hot blood pulsing in my cheeks. "Yeah, I guess so. A mummy-nurse-zombie. Hope I don't offend anyone's classifications."
"You look . . ."—he met my gaze, still holding the resonator—"you look amazing."
Suddenly, my world went silent. And I felt like I was falling, falling into his midnight blue galaxy eyes and drifting out into deep dark space, watching a distant star explosion.
Virginia cleared her throat. "So, Ben, do you want anything to drink?"
He took an orange juice, and they talked about stuff, but I wasn’t listening. My thoughts had flown to the very near future, when I’d be sitting in the car alone with Ben, trying to think of something to say.
"Thanks for that, Virginia," Ben said, putting his glass in the sink. And to me, "Are you ready?"
I didn't think I was ever going to be ready, but I was going to try. I nodded. "I think so."
Virginia stood on the patio, waving goodbye, while Ben opened the passenger side door of his vintage Mustang and helped me in. I got in and waved goodbye to Virginia, who stuck two enthusiastic thumbs in the air as Ben walked around to the driver's side. Then she turned and went inside.
"Nice car," I said when he got in, looking around. I felt like I'd sat down in a time capsule that was about to whisk me off to a simpler time. The vinyl dashboard was cracked, showing its yellow foam innards. There were three instrument bezels that sat behind the steering wheel. Everything appeared to be original, except for the after-market radio that glowed dimly in the shadows.
"Thanks! Yeah, I love it. It's a 1968 K-code. My dad gave it to me as a graduation gift. I'm trying to restore it." He patted the dashboard. "Life goals, life goals," he added almost wistfully.
"I've heard of a Shelby. Is it the same thing?"
He turned to me, surprised. "Hey you sure know your stuff!"
I looked away, blushing. The internet was a wondrous thing. "Nah. Just did some research once. I had a character with a vintage car obsession."
"Oh right, yeah." He jammed the key into the ignition and started the car. "So the K-code was an added feature that went into both the Shelby GT's and the normal Mustangs. Think of it as an optional package. Back in the day, people could either buy the regular Mustang or the Shelby GT option, which was a special high performance 289 cubic-inch engine."
We started down the driveway.
"And from there, you get the extra added K-code, with upgraded pistons, cylinder heads, a chrome air cleaner and so on. K-codes have an extra nine inches on the rear end too, and they have upgraded clutches, drive shafts and suspension. There's supposed to be a little K-code badge on the front fender that says 'high performance 289,’ but I can't seem to find one."
As we turned onto Chesapeake Drive, I listened to him talk about horse power, carburetors, and high-rise intake manifolds, feeling amazed and grateful that the conversation hadn't slipped in the land of awkward silence.
"Sorry if I'm boring you," he said apologetically after a while, glancing over at me.
"Not at all!" I cried. He could have talked about the process by which crayons were made and I would have found every word interesting. "Sorry I don't know more about engines."
"You know a lot of stuff. You know how to write books, for one. I couldn't write a book if my life depended on it."
I laughed. "Sure you could. They say everyone has a book in them."
"Yeah, but what kind of book?"
"I don't know. Memoirs?"
"Boring."
"I love autobiographies," I said, almost afraid to disagree.
He kept his eyes on the road.
"So," I ventured, "do you think there are zombie Mustangs?" Zombie Mustangs? I turned away and bit my lip. What a stupid thing to say! But I was so afraid to let the conversation die.
He laughed out loud. "That would be the thing!" Then he slapped the car on the dashboard. "What do you think, ole gal? Are you a zombie Mustang?" Then he looked at me, eyes bright. "Maybe that would explain why I can't find many spare parts."
"I wouldn't know about spare parts. I drive a Honda."
"You know cars say a lot about a person?"
"Oh, I don't believe that." But I stopped myself. There I was disagreeing again!
"They say people who drive Hondas are very reliable," Ben replied. Did he mean boring?
"And Volvos?" I asked, thinking of Virginia's SUV.
"Driven mostly by women and bad drivers."
I giggled. Stereotypes were so insulting, but true. Virginia was a terrible driver.
"And what about K-code Mustangs?" I ventured.
He looked over at me, fake blood accentuating the lines around his eyes that crinkled with good humor, and shrugged. "Driven by people like me."
But who was like him? And was he like anybody else I'd ever met? I didn't have a great knowledge bank of boys from which to draw comparisons, but I'd had a few guy friends in high school, mostly loners, computer geeks, and good all-American misfits.
We would walk to class together sometimes. They would tell me about role playing or software programming difficulties. But they were outcasts like me, and the romantic disinterest was mutual. But I didn't need to experience one thousand men in my bed to tell me that Ben was special.
When he looked at me, his supernova eyes became soft, almost effervescent. He had a straight nose, which fit perfectly with his plush lips—lips that smiled warmly when I looked at him. He was working towards goals. He was gainfully employed and had parents. Parents. What in the world would he think of me when I told him about mine?
He slowed and turned off Chesapeake Drive. Soon, we'd reach our destination. Soon, I'd have to laugh a
nd smile even though my bowels were turning into water. I'd have to think of something funny to say, enough to make him like me, maybe even, ask me out again.
As we drove under a street lamp, the interior of the car lit up. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror and almost gasped. A fake bloodied gash ran from the corner of my eye down to my jaw. Bloodied mummy wrappings held together my exposed brain matter. And fake blood oozed down my forehead.
But even though I looked like a monster, for once, I didn’t feel like one.
I glanced down at my right hand and touched the ruby ring Mom had given me, winking faintly in the receding light, and smiled when I heard her voice: EGBOK, honey . . . everything's going to be OK.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. It’s far cooler than Christmas, where everyone sits around a tree and pretends their lives aren't that messed up. They laugh with their family, or argue, trying to put on a happy face and good cheer that the season demands, secretly wishing they were somewhere else, somewhere warm preferably, and far away from their dysfunctional family and pathetic lives as possible—made all the worse by the bleak landscape of winter. In winter, there is no outdoor escape, only internal misery to be endured.
On Halloween, everyone is a misfit. You didn't even have to think about family dynamics, reflect on your past year, and hope the next one will be better. The year wasn't over yet, so there's plenty of time to revisit all of those failed resolutions.
It’s the holiday of escapism, of fun, and of play. It’s the time of year where you get to be somebody else, look like somebody else, and leave your old persona behind if just for a little while.
Downtown Glenhaven had been transformed into a spectacular Halloween wonderland. The crisp autumn air smelled of roasting kettle corn, corndogs, and barbecue drippings on open pit fires.
A few fairground rides were stationed down on one end of the block in bright clusters of blurred light. Intermittent screams drifted down from the swinging chair ride, spinning barrel, and Freakout.
A troupe of young zombies hurried past us, limping, growling, and collapsing into gales of laughter. There was a cover band playing Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo. A cadre of zombies danced in front of the stage, flanked by people in various states of zombie attire.
We wandered over to a row of booths that featured zombie-inspired arts and crafts. There were zombie keychains, paintings, and shredded but unbloodied clothes that one could wear on zombie off-days.
One booth featured black roses, with petals encased in little lockets, desiccated flower arrangements complete with fake cobwebs, and potpourri.
"Mmm," I said, lifting a jar to Ben's nose. "Yum."
He took a deep welcoming breath, then grimaced and starting coughing. "I'll bet that's a top seller. What is that smell, anyway? Old socks?"
I put the jar down, laughing. "Geriatric blues. It's a very popular scent these days."
"I can see why."
We passed a cotton candy stand and wandered over to the silent movie section, where Dawn of the Dead played to an audience of mostly empty lawn chairs.
"It looks like a graveyard in here," I remarked, trying not to smile. It was a terrific pun. “Where is everybody?"
Ben laughed. "I don't know. Maybe . . . six feet under?"
"Oooh. Good one." And we turned, laughing, toward the zombie obstacle course.
It had blow up kiddie castles, burlap sack slides two stories high, and ball pits where zombies wallowed, trying to get to the other side (so many jokes, so little time). It cost two tickets to run the gauntlet, which Ben handed over to the attendant.
We wandered around the grounds until we found some parallel bars that swiftly carried me back to my piss drinker years, back to my long solitary lunch breaks at school. Racing other kids on the parallel bars had become my therapy back then, an avenue to vent my anger, and a place to hide my solitude. No Friend Nigel could have something to do besides stand around, looking like a loser.
I was the resident champ, channeling all my anger into pushing myself faster and faster, swinging my legs over the bars and launching myself an extra foot or two, until I was gaining on my opponent, until I was just behind him, barreling down on him like a—
“Are you okay?"
I jumped. "Hm?" I hadn't realized I'd stopped in front of the bars, transfixed. "Yeah, sorry. I just . . ." I just what? I just fell down a dark hole of my past?
"Do you want to hang out here?" He stepped to the bar and grasped it. "Not really sure what you're supposed to do . . . but I guess it could be fun."
My heart melted a little. Ben. So nice. So accommodating.
"No," I said, waving him on. "Parallel bars are boring."
We ran the obstacle course that night, sliding down the burlap sack slide about forty times, swimming around in the ball pit, swinging across the rings, and jumping in the kiddie castle until my legs became sore, until the smell of caramel popcorn and corn dogs lured us out.
I wasn't sure about date etiquette. I'd read a lot online about what to expect, what to do, what to say, and who pays. Apparently, this last topic was a point of much debate. Guys, traditionally burdened with the bill, complained that it can get expensive to continually take girls out for dinner. Girls, for their part, harkened back to good old fashioned chivalry, though they wanted full equality in all other matters.
All I knew was that a FedEx delivery man probably earned considerably less than Amy Mathews. So when we placed our order for two zombie dogs, a fried candy bar, and two beers, I stepped forward to pay.
"Oh no you don't!" cried Ben, elbowing me out of the way.
"I insist," I said, sliding some bills toward the cashier. The cashier, just interested in closing out the bill, reached for my money.
"Don't take her money!" Ben cried, stuffing the bills back into my pocket and withdrawing his wallet. So, reluctantly, I let him pay.
We found an empty table and sat down.
"You didn't have to do that," I said. "I'm happy to pay—or split, whatever you're supposed to do."
"You're supposed to let the guy pay," replied Ben.
"Oh."
"Why, do you always pay on dates?" he asked.
My face flushed. I looked away. Under no circumstances did I want to discuss my zero previous dates. "Um, yeah," I lied, shrugging. "I just, I don't know. Want to help. I don't want you to go broke . . . I mean, zombie dogs are really expensive."
Ben laughed. "It's okay, I saved up. Took a while, but . . ." He shrugged. "I think you’re worth it."
"A while?" I asked, feeling absolutely terrible.
He laughed again. "Genie, I’m kidding."
"Number forty-seven!"
And off he went to collect the goods. He brought back a tray, thoughtfully filled with mustard, catsup, and some plastic utensils. I reached for overflowing cup of frothy beer. I needed the liquid encouragement. I needed something to blunt my frazzled nerves.
"So tell me about your books," he said.
I wanted to correct him. My book. My lumbering giant of a book that gobbled up every spot on the New York Times bestseller list and spat out spots on USA Today. But I couldn't tell him that. Amy Mathews would kill me.
I shrugged. "Oh, it's nothing. Just something I wrote."
"What's the name of it?" Ben asked. "I not lying when I tell you I'm a big vampire fan. I read all that stuff." I took another gulp of my beer. "I just finished After The End by Amy Mathews. Have you heard of it?"
Beer gurgled down the wrong pipe. I coughed, trying to breathe.
"You okay?" he asked, helpfully patting my back.
"Fine," I choked out. I blinked a few times and brought a napkin up to my watering eyes. I put my beer down. "Yeah, I read that. I thought I was pretty good."
Ben nodded, tucking into his dog.
"Actually, I write fan fiction," I said. "I'm working on a book now called Rhenn and Friends." Which wasn't too far from the truth.
H
e looked up at me, eyes bright. "About Rhenn Larson? He's pretty bad ass."
That he knew Rhenn's last name made me want to weep for deceiving him. He was a fan. He knew Rhenn. And he liked him. I felt like we had a common friend.
"He's . . . inspiring," I agreed.
I reached for my zombie dog, took a bite, and chewed, trying to think of something else to talk about—anything, besides After The End.
Ben sniffed and swallowed. "Do you know your eyes are shaped like almonds?"
I blinked, grateful for the turn of topic, feeling as if Ben had read my mind, but a little unsure where this would lead. "Are they?"
He nodded. "Mmhm. And they're really blue. Like electric blue or something."
I didn't know what to say.
"They're like blue almonds."
"Okay . . ." I laughed, heart sinking. This is it, I thought. This is the moment he decides that I'm too boring for him, too vanilla. He's probably looking for a sizzling girl with sparkling conversation, someone, who, like, turns people's heads, and makes him proud to be with her. I imagined his ideal girl. She was an ‘Insta-girl’ with flowing hair, a perfected pout, thoroughly documented rear end, and lots of fake followers.
"They're really pretty," he said, at last. He looked up at me, a light leaping in his eyes. "You're really pretty." My stomach churned. I swallowed hard. "Can I call you my blue almond girl?"
"Your . . . girl?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said so softly I had to lean in. "My girl."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
An early autumn storm blew in. From the comfort of my office, I watched the wind rattle the trees, shaking loose colorful tranches of leaves. Soon the killing frost would arrive, finish off the last remnants of my vegetable garden, and propel us into the dead of winter—my favorite time of year.
I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller Page 8
