All Good Children - Catherine Austen [52]
“She doesn’t even like tall guys, you know.”
He smiles his dazzling ultimate smile. “She thinks I’m the best-looking guy in school, remember?”
I snort. I have nothing to say to this friend who’s trying to get his tall white mitts on my brown zombie girl.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Max, look! It’s Tyler. What is he wearing?”
Tyler Wilkins is twenty feet away from us and closing fast.
He’s alone and dressed like a caterpillar. He wears stretchy polyester pants striped black and green, with a skin-tight green T-shirt that shows off his nipples, and a black ski cap that sprouts long spiral antennae. His hair is tucked under his hat so his bony face is blindingly bare. The tip of his nose is painted black like a pup’s.
I crack up. I can’t help it. I double over and pretend to be coughing. I can barely breathe, I’m laughing so hard.
Dallas steps in front of me to block Tyler’s view.
“Hello, Dallas. How are you?” Tyler asks. His antennae wobble when he speaks.
Dallas starts to lose it. “I’m well, Tyler. How are you?”
“My doctor says I should be fine, thank you. Is that Maxwell behind you?”
“Yes, it is,” Dallas squeaks.
I straighten up a little and wave.
“Salt and Pepper,” Tyler says. “Very clever.” He nods twice. His antennae sway back and forth. “Happy Halloween.”
Dallas and I flee down the street and break into laughter that feels like it’s never going to end.
TEN
Dallas invents history and communications projects that require extensive teamwork. He comes over almost every night, giddier each time. The stress of living as a zombie under constant surveillance is wearing him down.
On Friday he helps me set up my art tent in the living room. It’s like a small canvas building, ten by ten and six feet high. It has no floor—it’s last-century war surplus—so we put it over the couch. It’s stiffer and heavier and more complicated than I’d expected. We’re swearing our asses off by the time we straighten it out.
“This is a huge tent,” he says. “You haven’t got much living room left. Are you sure your mom won’t mind?”
“Nah. She never sits in here. I’ll lay down sheets before I paint.”
We tie back the flaps and sit inside. It smells like a moldy basement. The stained plastic windows barely let in any light. “Ally will love it once it airs out,” Dallas says, bouncing on the couch. “It’s every kid’s dream.”
Freakshow is down to the final three contestants. Zipperhead was in the lead, but they did a Saturday special on Squid and his dead parents, which earned him a boost in support.
“Dorsal’s got to go,” I say. Dorsal is crippled by a bulbous curved spine and a lumpy skull, but her brain is normal. She takes virtual college courses in library sciences. They did a show on her a few weeks back, stressing how hard she worked to go that extra mile like Mom always talks about. Not that Dorsal could even sit in a car, let alone drive an extra mile.
“Zipperhead always looks sad,” Dallas says. “It makes the show depressing.”
Celeste knocks at the door. She’s blue, literally and metaphorically, wearing alien makeup and a frown. She’s not withstanding so well these days.
“Hey, come on in,” I say. “Want to sit in our tent?”
“No, thank you.” She smiles like everybody has a military staff tent in their apartment. “I have a favor to ask you, Max.”
“Anything.”
“Will you walk to school with Xavier tomorrow? It’s his first day back since he got sick, and he’s still having dizzy spells.”
Dallas peers through the tent window and shouts, “Come camping with us, Celeste! Wow, this window makes you look completely blue!”
“I guess Dennis isn’t doing so well either,” she whispers. “Poor thing.”
Xavier barely speaks when I arrive at his door the next morning. He doesn’t smell right. His fruitiness has fermented. He hunches inside his gray suit and his hair hangs stringy. He has a Christ-on-the-cross sort of beauty that dazzles me. I want to offer him a cup of water, sling him over my shoulder, carry him somewhere safe.
“Take care of him,” Mrs. Lavigne says, her face tight, resigned