"Hello, David."
"Hello Gordon. And how are you today?"
"Gordy. My name's Gordy."
His fishy eyes blinked. "Dr Thomas calls you Gordon in class."
"I know, but I prefer Gordy. I mean, my…" I stopped short before the words left my mouth. My friends call me Gordy. The last thing I needed was Quibbins thinking I was extending an invitation of friendship.
Two of the books under his arm slipped and hit the floor. He knelt down, scrambling to slide them back into the overflowing pile he carried. I got frustrated just watching him, and my hangover tapped my temples.
"Why don't you get a backpack, David?"
Finally getting his books in order, he stood. "I don't believe in spending money on frivolous items. God gave us two arms to carry things."
I met his eyes and held a poker face. "I see."
He leaned over and glanced at my screen. "Are you studying for the Literature exam?"
I blinked at his too-close face, examining the tiny red veins that spider-webbed through his thick eyelids. David's ugliness was mesmerizing in its perfection. It was so complete; there was no small part of him not at odds with nature; his height, his pallor, his long arms and frightening thinness, his large head and bulbous eyes. These traits were strangely synchronous in their consistency, like he was simply another species. Perhaps somewhere a whole island of David Quibbins' existed, and there he'd be considered charming and exceptionally handsome.
I looked at the computer screen. "Oh, yeah. Studying. Got a lot of studying to do. I'd better get back to it."
"I intend to study tomorrow," he said. "Isn't it a splendid class?"
I nodded. "Oh. Um, yeah, splendid."
Real people didn't talk the way David Quibbins did. They just didn't. It was like he'd gotten trapped in some cosmic grade school play, each line as formal as a Dickens novel, delivered with a mix of aristocratic formality and flat, prepubescent awkwardness.
No one knew exactly what was wrong with him. Some said he was retarded, and got to attend college only because his mother was the campus librarian. I didn't believe that. Though painfully shy and stumbling in lit class, he functioned passably for the most part, and I'd seen him get papers back with decent grades on them.
Others claimed it was his strict religious parents and rural upbringing, but I doubted environmental factors could take all the blame.
I only knew three things about David Quibbins for certain. He looked like a foetus. He was the librarian's son. And he had unquestionably, and to my great discomfort, fixated on me. Had I been a bit more of an asshole, I'd have told him to fuck off by now. But I wasn't quite asshole enough to do it, and the kid hunted me down once a day and subjected me to these inane conversations. I could have done without it, but it wasn't a fate worse than death. Thus far he'd never pushed it, never tried to cross that barrier of casual acquaintance, so simply wincing my way through these brief exchanges had been tolerable.
But that was all about to change.
"This is for you." David pulled an envelope from one of his books and held it out to me.
I spotted Brooksie coming toward the computer room, so I waved frantically, desperate to be liberated from the fixed, boiled-egg focus of David Quibbins' eyes.
"Yo Gordy!" Brooksie hollered.
David turned to my friend, who slowed his approach, smile wilting when he spotted my visitor.
Retracting the envelope, David slid it into his jacket like it contained government secrets.
When Brooksie reached us, David sneered. I hadn't thought he could get any uglier, but the sneer brought his thick upper lip back from his gums so he looked like an agitated horse.
"Mr Brooks," David scolded. "This is a library, and the first rule is that you must speak softly."
I pulled my chin to my chest, trying not to laugh. Brooksie forced a sombre expression.
"I apologise, David. To you and your mother. I was a careless oaf to shout like that." He did a noble bow, sweeping the floor with his outstretched hand.
David didn't seem to know how to react to the cordiality. He was used to people simply shoving him into a wall or smacking him in the head. He sputtered, then spoke.
"Well, see that you remember that." He turned back to me, hesitated, then took the envelope out of his jacket and slapped it on the desk. "Please read this when you're alone, Gordon. Good morning."
He offered Brooksie a final scowl then, in a flounce, pranced out of the computer room with his pyramid of books, half tripping every third step.
"Jesus fucking Christ." Brooksie watched him leave, then turned to me and hitched the straps of his backpack up. "Why are you talking to Quibbins again?"
"I wasn't talking to Quibbins. Quibbins was talking to me. Quibbins is always talking to me."
"You need to tell him to fuck off."
"I'm afraid to. He's like an alien or something. He probably wants to harvest my organs."
"Yeah, exactly."
I gathered my backpack and headed out after Brooksie. "I guess I feel sorry for him."
Just as I said this, I caught Gloria Quibbins, David's mother, eyeing me from behind the book checkout. Though severe and birdlike with a perpetually sour expression, Mrs Quibbins did not look like she could have produced David. In her late forties, she was thin and pretty, but her puritan style contradicted attractiveness in favour of priggishness. Pale yellow hair in a severe centre parting, girlish banana curls spilling to her shoulders, she looked like a china doll, but one that would come alive and kill you in your sleep at night.
I met her eyes as we passed, and she held my gaze for a few seconds too long before turning away and busying herself with a pile of books.
"What was that about?" Brooksie laughed as we took the stairs out into the crisp winter morning. "Quibbins' mom stalking you too?"
I shook my head, the humour somehow hollowed out of me. "I don't know."
"What's in the envelope?"
"I'm not sure, but it's from David Quibbins, so it's probably a pamphlet on how to save my soul."
"You know he's from here, right?"
My friend Brooksie, Thomas Wendell Brooks III, was the handsome and well bred son of a wealthy heart surgeon in New Jersey. You'd never know it to look at him; one of those rich kids that liked to dress like a hobo in raggy sweaters, his head a mass of blond dreadlocks. But the snob in him came out periodically, particularly when the town of Pollock came up.
It was understood that anyone actually from Pollock, not just going to school there, was a likely freak. Gossenford was a great school, but the town would have been nothing without the college. A convenience store, a diner, a small post office, a couple of churches and several grimy pubs made up the bulk of it. And a whole lot of deer hunters in flannel shirts with gun racks on their trucks. They hated us, though our existence probably kept their little town afloat. And we hated them because they hated us.
"You heard Todd and Scotty got mescaline for tonight," I said, desperate to change the subject of Quibbins so I wouldn't have to open the envelope in front of Brooksie. This had nothing to do with adhering to David's request that I open it while alone. I simply wanted to read and discard it before Brooksie gained yet another Quibbins nugget to tease me about.
Brooksie's eyes lit up. "Did you put our names in?"
Mescaline was the only mind altering substance Brooksie's body could endure, so he was always eager to partake when the drug was around.
I nodded. "I gave Scott some money. Bonfire party in the woods tonight. We're going, right?"
"Fuck yeah. But first…coffee."
At the local diner, we found our friend Leah, who allowed us to share her booth. I was relieved to see she was as puffy-eyed and hung over as I was. Brooksie's perkiness was getting on my nerves. Especially when the first thing he did was inform Leah that I'd gotten a sealed envelope from David Quibbins.
"I wouldn't open it," Leah said. "You should just toss it in the sink and set it on fire."
"The guy's obsessed with you, Gordy. What if it's a bag of jizz or something?"
I wrinkled my nose. "You are vile."
"What? You never thought of that? There could be a big gob of baby batter in there. People do that, you know. To celebrities."
"I'm not a celebrity."
"To David Quibbins you are. It's because you keep letting him talk to you."
Brooksie smiled and waved his hand at Leah. "You see? It's a unanimous opinion."
I fingered the envelope. "It's not like I solicit conversations with the guy. He talks to me because I stuck up for him that day, what am I supposed to do, tell him to go away and not speak to me?"
"Yes." Brooksie and Leah said the word simultaneously.
Brooksie tapped a finger. "But first, you're opening that envelope. The suspense is killing me."
Sighing, I tore it open and pulled out what was inside; a small white card with a clown holding a cluster of balloons. Above the clown, printed in rainbow glitter were the words 'You're Invited!'
"Oh crap."
Brooksie and Leah leaned forward. I opened the card and read.
What: A 21st birthday party!
When: Saturday, February 16th at 4pm
Where: 274 Steeple Street, Pollock.
RSVP: Regrets only.
"What is it?" Leah demanded.
"I believe I've been invited to David Quibbins' twenty-first birthday party. This afternoon. At least I was an afterthought."
"Give me that!" Brooksie snatched the invitation. He and Leah examined it. "Oh my fucking god, is that a clown?"
"Dude." Leah shook her head. "Better brush up on your pin the tail on the donkey skills. Cuz this ain't gonna be no kegger."
"I am NOT going."
"So what are you going to tell him?"
I winced. "Do I have to tell him anything? Can't I just blow it off?"
Brooksie smirked. "Sure, you could blow it off. But you'd still have to see him at school. Imagine, sitting in lit class, those wide bulging eyes, staring you down for the whole hour and a half."
Brooksie made his eyes big and stuck his face in mine. "Why, Gordy? Why did you not come to my birthday party? Don't you know I'll be forced to kidnap you and eat your spleen as a sacrifice to Jesus now?"
I shrugged. "I'll just pretend I never opened it. If David asks next week why I didn't show, I'll just say I put the envelope in my bag and forgot all about it. I mean, who invites someone to a party the day of, anyway?"
"Someone who has no friends or sense of social etiquette," Leah said.
"I think you should go," Brooksie said. "It would be a trip."
I shook my head. "Easy for you to say. He doesn't want to make a hat out of your liver."
"I'll go with you!" Brooksie said.
I cocked my head. "Why in the name of all that is holy would you want to go to David Quibbins' birthday party?"
"We're getting mescaline from Scott. We'll take it early. What better place for pure visual insanity when your trip kicks in than David Quibbins fucking birthday party? Besides, it'll give us a funny story to tell at the bonfire later tonight."
Leah grinned. "No way. You guys are actually gonna go?"
"No." I crumpled the invitation into a ball.
"Yes we are," Brooksie said.
"No, we're not."
"Yes, we are."
"No, we're fucking not."
Five hours and two tabs of mescaline later, Brooksie and I stood on the porch of David Quibbins' charming country home. I held a gift wrapped box containing a sweater we'd bought at the mall. Brooksie giggled at the garden gnomes on the porch and the balloons tied to the lamp post. My buzz had only just hinted at kicking in, so I had a bit more control. I knocked.
Gloria Quibbins opened the door, and for a few seconds before she processed who we were, she looked radiant. And radiant is not a word I'd ever used in reference to our priggish librarian. But gone was the puritan skirt and high collared blouse. Instead she wore jeans, a baby blue cardigan, with a pointed party hat atop her head. Her schoolmarm banana curls were nowhere in sight, blond hair falling loose and straight to her shoulders. But the most surprising thing she wore was a smile. A smile that wilted when she recognised us.
"Yes?" Her lips formed a straight line, and I had the same feeling I'd had earlier when she looked at me in the library. Gloria Quibbins didn't like me.
"Hi, Mrs Quibbins. We're here for David's birthday." I thrust the gift box at her to bolster my point.
"Hello, Mrs Quibbins," Brooksie said. He seemed to regain his control, and I was grateful. Gloria Quibbins already looked like she wanted to eat us. If Brooksie fell into drug-induced giggles, I was certain we were going to be spanked with a ruler.
I heard voices and laughter from deeper inside the house, and smelled food cooking. Gloria glanced over her shoulder then stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. She rubbed her arms.
"What are you doing here, Gordon?"
I shrugged. "I…I was invited."
She stared up at me, eyes hard. I felt the need to keep talking, if only to make that look on her face go away.
"He gave me an invitation. I was invited." I tried handing her the gift again, but she only glared at me.
"Yes, you said that already. But that doesn't answer my question, Gordon. WHY are you here?"
Brooksie and I looked at each other. I wasn't sure if the question was as confusing as I thought, or if I was just a bit stoned. Thankfully, Gloria clarified it, or we might have been standing there all night, scratching our heads.
"Have you come to make fun of David?" She raised her eyebrows.
"What?" I shook my head. "No. Of course not."
She clenched her jaw. "David doesn't need this. Just go. Before he sees you."
Brooksie turned and left the porch. I stood my ground, feeling judged and not liking it. "Mrs Quibbins, you don't know me. And I don't appreciate you implying that I—"
"What are you going to do, Gordon?" Her smile was as cold as the coming night. "After this…novelty is over for you, and you've had your fun? Will you pal around with David at school? Introduce him to your friends?"
I said nothing. She had me.
"Stay away from my son." She turned to go back in the house. As she pushed open the front door, I saw David standing at the end of a hallway, wearing a party hat that matched his mother's. And David saw me. Then all hell broke loose.
He sprinted down the hall and tried to get to the door before his mother shut it, but he was too late. I stepped off the porch. Brooksie and I stared at the closed door, listening to David shriek. There was banging and yelling and the doorknob rattled.
Then the door burst open, and David's cone shaped party hat appeared, followed by his foetus face, which was flushed and pinched in rage. "Gordon, don't leave!" he shouted.
Then Gloria was there, pulling on him. "Get in the house, David. NOW!"
"I don't wanna!" he screamed. "Let him in, Mom!"
Gloria lost her balance as David pushed her off, and she slipped in the foyer and fell on her ass.
A stocky, gray-haired man came around the corner. David stepped away from his mother, shrinking from the man. "It wasn't my fault, Dad! She started it."
The big man grabbed David by the hair and yanked him inside. His mother climbed to her feet. As Gloria slammed the door on us a final time, the last thing we saw was Mr Quibbins slam David's head against the wall.
"Holy shit." Brooksie said when we got back in the car. "Did that just happen?"
I sat with hands on the steering wheel, reeling, still too shaken to drive away. "Okay, THAT was not good for my state of mind."
"No shit. I think I lost my buzz."
I looked at Brooksie. "Let's head down to the woods. Scott should be getting ready to light the bonfire, and I need a beer to purge myself of this experience."
We both jumped when David Quibbins rapped on the driver's side window. I lowered it warily. David
bent his lanky form over and tilted his huge head.
"Gordon, I apologise for my parents."
He had red stress blotches on his cheeks, which did nothing to enhance his already ghastly appearance. He wore a puffy blue snorkel jacket, green wool pants that were too short and black rubber boots. The pointed birthday hat was gone, but evidence of it rumpled his hair into a dishevelled pompadour.
"Don't worry about it, David," I said. "No big deal."
He wiped his nose and glanced over at the house.
"Oh, here, we got you something." I reached behind me and got the wrapped package, handing it through the window to David. I shrugged. "It's a sweater."
David took the package from me, straightened up, and frowned.
"Why don't you open it?" Brooksie asked.
"Yeah, go ahead."
I was worried his mother was going to come storming out of the house any second to drag David back by his ear, but I refrained from looking nervously over my shoulder. It was an effort.
"The sweater has a clown on it," Brooksie said, and snickered like a fool.
David scowled at Brooksie. "Excuse me?"
"Don't listen to him, David," I said. "It doesn't have a clown on it."
David's scowl deepened, folding his weird face almost in half. The mescaline had a hold of me, and I had to pinch my own leg hard enough to cause severe pain in order to block out Brooksie's snickering, lest I start up myself.
"Fucking clown sweater," Brooksie muttered between giggles. "That would have been great."
David handed the box back to me. "I don't mean to be ungracious Gordon, but I don't need another sweater. I'm twenty-one today. What I need is a beer. And to get the dang heck away from my parents. Pardon my language."
Brooksie stopped laughing. We stared slack-jawed at Quibbins.
His face flushed as he glanced over his shoulder toward his house. He turned back to us, shaking his head. "I apologize, Gordon. I—"
"Do you want to come to a bonfire party?" Brooksie said.
My head whipped around and I glared at my friend. I mouthed the words "Are you crazy?"
Scenes From the Second Storey Page 7
