Friday Nightmares

by Corey Edward

  “It’s her family,” I said. “They want her to transfer to a new school because of the bullying.”

  “God damn it.” He pounded his fist on the table. “How long is this shit going to go on? Are they just going to keep picking on people until they kill someone?”

  “Frankie, calm down,” Enisa said. “I’m fine, really. It’s my parents I’m worried about. They’ve got their hearts set on it. Just yesterday, my dad was showing me pamphlets and talking about going to visit their campus. I threw them away when they weren’t looking.”

  “Will they back off if the bullying stops?”

  She shrugged. “Probably. It’s hard to tell with them. At least it’ll give me additional ammo to defend myself with.”

  “And if they don’t?” asked Molly.

  “Then we fight,” said Frankie.

  “No,” I said firmly. “Enisa doesn’t want that. Hurting them won’t do anything but get us all expelled.”

  “So don’t hurt them,” Molly chimed in. “Embarrass them. Bullies are all about image. They abuse the power they have over others and target the helpless to exercise that power. Destroy the image and you’ll destroy the bully.”

  “I’ve tried that and failed,” I said. “Probably because the consequences were mostly in private. To stop them, we’d have to humiliate them somewhere everyone will see. And they’d have to tie it directly to us, as a consequence of their bullying and religious bigotry.”

  “What about the Halloween dance?” Frankie suggested. “It’s next Friday. It’ll be the perfect chance to show them who’s boss.”

  “I’m in,” Molly exclaimed. “Nothing like a good old fashioned public humiliation to fix a snobby rich kid problem. I’m assuming magic will be involved, yes?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I’ve got a few ideas already. Maybe we can mull them over at lunch. As long as Enisa’s okay with it, though.”

  “I’m fine with it,” Enisa said. “I’m sad that it’s come to this, but we have to take matters into our own hands. Not just for me, but for all of us. For all the outcasts of Dunwich High.”

  “We need a code name,” said Molly.

  “Why?” asked Frankie.

  “Everyone plotting to overthrow a totalitarian regime needs one. That way, nobody else will know what they’re talking about.”

  “How about… Operation Outcast?” I said.

  “Nah,” Enisa said. “Too obvious. Operation Vengeance?”

  “Too scary,” said Molly. “We’re not going to shoot up the school. Just turn it on its head.”

  “I know, I know!” Frankie exclaimed. “Operation Candy Corn. It’s on Halloween, and we’re going to make those popular kids eat shit.”

  “How dare you,” I said. “Candy corn does not taste like shit. It tastes like Heaven.”

  “Then send me straight to Hell,” said Molly, “‘cuz it tastes like shit.”

  “I’m right there with you, sis,” Enisa said. “And shit is what we need to make those bullies feel like.”

  And with that, I was officially overruled.

  So a secret project was born on a cloudy October morning, binding four outcasts together on a common mission. Though it wasn’t the first time we’d plotted against the bullies of Dunwich High, it was going to be the last.

  I would make sure of that.

  ~&~

  It was a little after three when we pulled into the driveway of my grandparents’ house. The sky turned gray and rain started to fall at a steady, slow pace, but that did nothing to mar the honey-warm feeling of 85 Lovers Lane. In fact, it only accented it. The great big oak tree in the front yard had exploded in a brilliant burst of orange, and the sidewalk was littered with reds and yellows and browns. Lights were glowing gold in the windows, and I could see Grams shuffling around in the kitchen, apron on and a wooden spoon in hand. October was feasting on the corpse of summer, and it was a glorious sight to behold.

  One of my favorite things about coming home after school was the way it smelled: today, it was apple cider, cinnamon and brown sugar mixed with the scent of a fresh-cooked meal.

  This was where I’d truly grown up. Not in my father’s dingy, drafty old apartment. Here, with them, raised on pumpkin pie and cinnamon candies and hardcover fantasy books. This was more than a house. It was a home.

  “Grams!” I called out. “Gramps! I’m home. And I brought dinner guests.”

  “Guests?” Grams called, her voice carrying over from the kitchen. “Who dares intrude upon my lair? Is it the Trouble Three?”

  “Yes, and we have a plus one! Hey, Rusty Dusty,” I said to the pug as he hobbled his way down the steps. “How was your day?”

  He gave me a look which said that it was the same as any other: he slept, he ate, and he slept some more. The day of a pug was spent enjoying life’s simplest pleasures. We could all learn a thing or two from them.

  We all shuffled into the kitchen, walking past the endless stream of pictures that lined the walls. Molly paused to examine one — presumably of me as a baby — and her face filled with an emotion that looked like longing.

  Grams was positioned in front of the stove, stirring a wooden spoon around a big metal pot. Her orange apron was dotted with pictures of spooky black cats, and her brow was slick with sweat. She wheeled around as soon as we entered the kitchen and moved forward to greet us.

  “Hi, Henry,” she said. “Enisa. Frankie. How was school?”

  “Crazy,” I admitted, “but we survived.”

  Enisa remained silent. It was craziest for her, no doubt, but Grams didn’t need to know anything more about that.

  “Was it, now?” She put her hands on her hips and smiled at Molly. “How could it be so crazy if you made a new friend?”

  “We made our new friend a few days ago, actually. Grams, this is Molly. Molly, this is my grandma.”

  “Hello,” said Molly, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Molly,” Grams said, ignoring her hand and instead pulling her into a big hug. “I’m Claire, but you can call me Grams. All of Henry’s friends do.”

  “All two of us,” added Frankie as Molly looked both bewildered and overjoyed. “Is that chili I smell, Grams?”

  She smiled proudly. “Sure is. It’s all done, too, so help yourselves. I hope that stomach is as strong as your nose, Frankie.”

  “Oh, it’s strong. Empty, too. That cafeteria food tastes like dog doo-doo.”

  “I can imagine. You’ll be happy to know I made it halal,” Grams said to Enisa as she put the pot onto the table and plopped a serving spoon into it. “Just in case my future daughter-in-law dropped by for dinner.”

  “How thoughtful,” Enisa said, laughing at this remark. “Thanks, Grams.”

  “Grams,” I warned. “You know we’re best friends, not husband and wife.”

  “Not yet, that is. But I’m working on it. Help yourselves; I’m going to get fetch Gramps.”

  She went off down the hall, headed toward his office. Each of us grabbed a bowl and spoon from the counter and all but dove for the pot at once. It was a mad rush, but Frankie eventually won. Rusty was jumping up and down and begging for a helping, so I gave in, filling his doggy bowl with a generous spoonful. He dug in before I could even get the bowl all the way onto the ground. What a pug.

  Gramps came in as we all sat down, wheeling his walker across the wooden floors slowly and methodically. Grams hated it when he “scuffed up the floor,” as she so aptly put it, and he’d learned his lesson after many an irate tongue lashing. Still, he moved as quick as he could, probably lured by the pleasant smell that filled the air.

  “Hey, Gramps,” Enisa said, waving at him. “You’re just in time to eat the best chili ever.”

  “Smells like it,” he said as I pulled out his chair to let him sit. “Unless my nose is lying- and let me tell you, it hardly ever does in this house. Now, who's this?”

  “Gramps, this is Molly,” I said. “Molly, me
et Gramps.”

  “And so the Trouble Three became the Trouble Four.” Gramps smiled at Molly and nodded. “Nice to meet you, young lady.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Molly said.

  “You’re in luck. The only thing Claire makes better than chili is pumpkin pie- and I hear talk that pie may be on the menu later on, too.”

  “Grams really does make the best chili,” Frankie said. “And the best pie. And everything else, too. My parents usually just heat up some Stouffer’s and call it a day.”

  “Stouffer’s would be a gourmet meal compared to what I usually get,” Molly said. “And we never sit down and eat dinner together like this.”

  “Never?” asked Gramps. “What does your family do on holidays?”

  “Not much.” She sounded almost embarrassed to say so, as if she were admitting some shameful secret. “My dad’s a lawyer and my mom works in finance. They’re always busy. Even on holidays.”

  “You have some more family now, sweetie,” Grams said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Once you set foot into the Miller home, you’re family, whether you want to be or not.”

  “That sounds more threatening than she probably meant, but trust me. She’s not lying,” Frankie said. “She adopted me the second day of sixth grade and hasn’t let me go ever since.”

  This produced a chorus of laughter and reminiscence that further prompted a good half-hour’s worth of storytelling. Grams talked about that one time, Frankie caught his backpack on the side of the counter and fell backward, and it took both of us to get him upright again. And then Gramps shared the tale of how he took Enisa and I out to meet our favorite young adult author, Neal Shusterman, but got the date wrong and ended up at a signing for a famous erotica novel instead. Even long after the chili was gone and the pot grew cold, laughter still filled the air, the chandelier over the table glowing bright and warm against the steady darkness outside. I swear that Molly was glowing even brighter.

  “What’s in the cards for the Trouble Four this Friday night?” asked Gramps. “Out on the town or in on the couch?”

  “We’re going to a concert,” I said. “Frankie’s playing at the Brew.”

  “Oh?” Gramps turned his attention to Frankie and smiled. “How great for you. What’s your rock and roll band called again? Murder and Meatballs?”

  “Monsters and Meatloaf,” Frankie corrected. “Murder and Meatballs is a bomb name for a band, though. I’ll have to keep that in mind if we ever get tired of our current one.”

  “Well, you four have fun,” said Grams, “and remember: back by midnight or no pie for a week. Got that?”

  “Got it,” I said because that was punishment enough.

  Naturally, I left out the part about breaking into a museum later. They thought that a concert was all we had going on tonight and left it at that. I wanted so desperately to come clean with them- to tell them every gory detail about my new and exciting life, just as I’d done back when I was too young to know how to hide things from grown-ups. But it couldn’t be helped.

  I didn’t want them to think I’d end up like their daughter.

  Or worse, their son-in-law.

  ~&~

  The Brew was so packed it was nearly bubbling over that Friday night. Four bands were playing along with Frankie’s, and the cafe was nearly filled. The only seats open were two tables situated close to the crackling fireplace. It was different from our usual spots near the back, but we would survive for just one night.

  “I’m so hyped you guys like this place as much as I do,” Molly said as she draped her coat over the back of the chair and sat down. “It’s got the best pumpkin spice lattes in Boston.”

  “And the best hot chocolate,” I added. “We’re regulars.”

  “Too regular,” said Enisa. “The baristas are starting to prepare our orders before we even order them in the first place.”

  “That’s how you know it’s real,” said Molly. “Are you nervous, Frankie?”

  “Me, nervous?” he repeated. “Nah. I’m not nervous. I’m pumped. Get it, pumped? Because we’re in a cafe?”

  “It’s a good thing you’re not doing stand-up,” said Enisa.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But I know you’ll knock your musical performance out of the park. And we’ll be here cheering you on.”

  “Thanks, guys,” he said. “Hey, there’s Ernesto and Thomas. Ernesto! Thomas! Over here!”

  I could smell Frankie’s bandmates before I saw them approach our table. The scent of weed and Axe cologne clung to their trademark flannel shirts like a curse, detectable from several feet away. They were cool, for high school dropouts, but they didn’t always acknowledge Enisa and I existed. Whether that was by choice or by accident remained to be seen.

  “Hey, bro,” said Ernesto, a plump, fedora-wearing nineteen-year-old with brown hair and an almost-neckbeard. “You ready to blow this place up?”

  “Totally, man,” Frankie said, bumping his fist. “Just, uh, be careful how loud you say that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. I heard we’re going on second.”

  “Yeah,” said Thomas, who had a face full of piercings and blond hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. “We’re playing after some Journey tribute band. Should be an easy act to follow.”

  “We need to go practice,” said Frankie. “But first, Henry… can I talk to you in private?”

  He looked almost embarrassed to be asking, although I already knew what was coming. I nodded and followed him backstage, passing through the curtains and walking into an old stairwell. Frankie double checked both the stairs and the exit, making sure we were alone.

  “What’s up?” I asked him, pretending like I didn’t know.

  “It’s the pick.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar black guitar pick. “I think, uh… I think it’s running out of juice.”

  “How so?” I took the pick and turned it over in my hands. I could still detect the luck Mana on it from the last time I’d enchanted it. It was fading a little, but still strong enough that it should be affecting him. “There’s still some magic on it.”

  “I used it when we played at the Gazebo last week and people were actually walking out. We had to end the show early. I thought Ernesto was going to ugly cry again.”

  “It’s magic, not a miracle. It’ll help, but it won’t make you a success all by itself. You have to put in the work, too.”

  “You’re right, dude, you’re right.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “But Monsters & Meatloaf is the only hope I got- and without magic, we suck.”

  “You don’t suck.”

  “Yes, we do. Ernesto bangs the drums like a drunk monkey and Thomas sounds like a nursing home resident singing the Star Spangled Banner. My mediocre guitar skills can’t cover for their shit-tier musician status.”

  Okay, so that was true, but I wasn’t about to say so out loud.

  “But you’re great at guitar.”

  “Meh.” He shrugged. “I’m decent, I guess. Sadly, decent probably won’t be enough to save me from slinging chicken at Lucky Sevens for the rest of my life.”

  “You’re not decent, Frankie. You’re great. Same with your singing. The issue is that you don’t think you are.”

  “No, the issue is that I’m not and I have no choice but to be. I don’t have the brains for college like you and Enisa do, and I’m not cut out for slinging chicken at Lucky Sevens, either. I always end up eating most of the order.”

  Lucky Sevens was the name of the Japanese restaurant owned by Frankie’s family. He worked there a couple times a week, but never when he could get out of it.

  “I’ll enchant the pick again for you,” I said. “No judgement. But I do want you to start practicing believing in yourself. You’re way more talented than you might think.”

  “Thanks, man. I owe you. Really.”

  I squeezed the pick and summoned my Mana. I thought of Frankie using this same guitar pick to produce tu
nes that would make even Freddie Mercury jealous. I pictured his bandmates, too, and imagined its power transferring over to them. Whether or not they had real talent wouldn’t matter. The audience would think they did, and that was good enough.

  “Here,” I said, handing it back to him. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Henry,” he said, giving me a friendly pat on the arm. “Best friend a dude could ever ask for.”

  I nodded my head and left, headed back for the table. While we waited for Frankie to come on, we decided to order our drinks. Molly got her famous pumpkin spice latte and I got my beloved hot chocolate. Enisa decided to try something different, opting for a steaming chai tea. Rusty was especially interested in the tea, leaning over the table to sniff it out with his nose.

  The first band took the stage, a male-female duo in their early twenties. They played acoustic versions of popular Journey songs, which didn’t entirely work- but at least it was quiet enough for us to still hold a conversation.

  They were right in the middle of butchering Faithfully when I felt a cloud of darkness pass over the cafe like a cold chill. Rusty and Molly noticed it, too: both stopped what they were doing and looked up at the stage, from where the energy seemed to emanate.

  I would call the thing peeking out from behind the curtains a face, but even that didn’t come close. It was more like a pitch-black orb with blood-red eyes and a wide, toothy grin. It smiled at us — was it smiling at us? — and then, after a few seconds, it vanished.

  “I have to go,” Molly suddenly exclaimed. She grabbed her purse, swung it over her shoulder and all but ran toward the exit.

  “Stay here,” I told Enisa, who had gotten up to chase after her. She sat back down and I took off after Molly for the second time this week. Rusty followed, huffing along as I exited the cafe.

  I found her sitting on a bench outside the cafe. She was holding her purse tightly against her chest, staring off silently into the distance.

  “Being your friend involves a lot of cardio,” I said as I sat down next to her. It was meant to make her laugh and it almost worked, but she caught herself before she could get out anything other than a single chuckle. “What’s wrong? The band wasn’t that bad.”