The Revenge of the Radioactive Lady - Elizabeth Stuckey-French [83]
One afternoon after he left his new job at Arby’s he swung by Walgreens and bought a block of paraffin that was meant to be used in a foot spa. The following morning, he was up by eight o’clock, and soon after his dad left for work, Otis started down to his shed to don his lead apron and test his gun.
It had been nearly a month since he’d stolen the clock from Grandma’s Attic, and he’d stopped worrying about the police showing up to arrest him. He’d decided that the whole shoplifting thing was just an aberration. He’d never stolen before and promised himself he never would again.
He’d also just assumed that he’d continue toiling alone in his wonderfully odiferous, sweltering shed, but his new friendship with Rusty had squashed this assumption. She’d started hanging out in his shed, watching him, asking questions, refusing to be deterred by his rudeness. She usually showed up around one p.m.—she slept until noon—and she’d bang on the shed door saying things like “Little pig, little pig, let me come in” and “Mr. Sharkey, white courtesy telephone, please” and “What da password today? Unguent? Lima bean? Toblerone?” until finally Otis gave up and let her in.
He was totally mystified. Why was this snarky girl paying so much attention to him? He’d made overtures toward pretty girls over the years—kind, shy girls who professed to love all animals and therefore should love him—usually by writing notes or contacting them on MySpace, but these girls always claimed they could only like him as a friend. Rusty—loud, mean, and self-confident—was the sort of girl he’d never even considered. But he found himself remembering things she’d said and wanting to tell her things, too. He supposed that meant that he liked her. But did he really want to keep explaining to her what he was doing? Let her in on his secret project?
The morning after he’d purchased the block of paraffin, she came knocking early in the morning, as if she’d known he’d be up to something special that day. When he opened the shed door, he stopped her from barging in like she usually did. “There’s gonna be high levels of radiation in here.” He gestured at the lead-lined apron hanging from around his neck. “I’m testing my gun.”
“Cool,” she said, pushing past him. She sat down on the stool that Otis usually sat on. Her stiff black hair looked like she’d brushed it the wrong way on purpose. “I stayed out all night,” she said. “Want to hear what I did?”
“No,” Otis said.
“I was messing with someone. That old lady. Mrs. Archer, right? I’m going to smoke her out of her den.”
“You’re going to set her house on fire?” He was relieved that she didn’t want to talk again about sex or drugs, two things Rusty liked to talk about, two things that the very mention of made him feel inadequate.
“You’re so literal minded!” Rusty said. “No, I’m going to force her to come clean. I mean, like, reveal her true identity.”
“Good luck with that,” Otis said.
Rusty flared her nostrils at him. She wore a black tank top with rips in it, which showed her black bra, and a short black-and-blue-plaid kiltish skirt and black high-top Converse sneakers.
“Don’t you want to know why she needs to be smoked out?”
“She’s a spy,” Otis said. “I caught her snooping around my shed.”
“Nope. She’s a serial killer.” Rusty sat there, waiting for him to ask how she knew that, but he didn’t want to hear it.
“Is there a reason you wear black all the time?” Otis asked her. “If some day you wore something green, or pink, what do you think would happen?”
“Can’t risk it, Biscuit.” She rubbed her thin little hands together. “So, Igor, what are we doing today?”
Otis sighed and slipped on his rubber gloves. “Like I said. I’m testing my neutron gun,” he said. “I told you it’s not safe in here. I don’t have any more aprons.”
“Like that apron is