Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [51]
— by Cheryl Paluski
It has begun.
This is the night of tears; the time of fear; sorrow abiding at the eventide.
Paul and his friend Mark and I are driving to McDonald’s. They have a special there in which you can buy two Big Macs for two dollars.
My mother sent me out with Paul. He’s going to the big party Tony and Kathy Rigozzi have every year. Tony is Paul’s age. I think Kathy is in college by now. They live right next to Barley’s Field, where the carnival is, and my mother wants me to go to the carnival. She says my friends will be there. She says that I don’t see my friends much anymore. She’s worried about me. I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t have friends anymore.
“I’ve heard this party is great,” says Mark, sliding his hand up and down the shoulder strap. “I mean, I’ve heard that sometimes girls dance with no top on . . .”
“No way,” says Paul.
“Yeah way.”
“No goddamn way.”
“Yeah way.”
“No way, you meat-brained monkey-licker.”
“What?!?” asks Mark, laughing. “What’s that, like, supposed to mean?”
Paul squeals, “How should I know, ear-sucking skunk-tart?”
“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?”
Across the parking lot, there are three girls silhouetted against the streetlights. And I see one has the aura around her, the double shadow. She is slim and beautiful with taut, tan legs. But she is not human. She has the darkness of vampirism all about her.
And I realize: To her, I will have an aura, too.
They are looking this way. I have to hide.
Paul calls into the night, “One double Big Mac Super-Huge Value Pack . . .”
“One for me, too,” Mark whispers.
“Make that two. Two double Big Mac Super-Huge Value Packs.” Paul turns to me. “Buttplug?”
But — like a rabbit in headlights — “I don’t . . .”
“What?” Paul waits. “What do you want?”
I’ve panicked. That’s it — I jump to the floor. Curl up. Below the level of the windows.
“Chris?” says Paul.
I’m looking down. I’m looking at the upholstery of the car and the rugs. The rugs are littered with crumbs. The back of the driver’s seat has split slightly, and white foam is pressing outward at the dirty seam, like spittle round a madman’s smile.
“I don’t know,” I repeat, babbling. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Mark looks at me. “Something wrong?”
Paul is saying, “This isn’t a difficult one, Chris.”
“No,” says Mark to Paul, seriously. “Turn around. Look at him.”
Paul shifts around in his seat. He asks me more carefully, “Hey, what’s wrong, man?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Don’t look at me. Turn around. McNuggets. Fries. A . . . I don’t know.”
Mark and Paul look at each other. Paul shrugs.
Mark asks, “Do you think he wants an apple pie?”
Paul searches my eyes, confused, and turns back to the speaker. “I guess a nine-piece Nuggets, large fries . . . You want a drink?”
He waits, facing forward, his eyes creeping around to look at me.
“Medium Coke,” he says finally.
“That comes to $12.26. Please proceed to the second window.”
“Do you want to go home?” asks Paul. We prowl forward around the topiary Grimace.
“Is that Jenny Morturo?” asks Mark urgently, ducking and pointing behind us. “Wonder if she’s going.”
“Whoo! Woah, boy!” says Paul, and they give each other five.
Mark is waving like a man on an ice floe meeting an ocean liner.
Jenny Morturo has tumbled dark hair and deep, deep red lipstick. She leans against her car. She waves once, then saunters over. Mark rolls down the window — he gets it wrong at first and starts rolling it up.
The other two — another girl and the vampiress — follow Jenny toward us.
“Hi, Jenny,” Mark says.
“Hey. How you doing?” drawls Jenny.
“I’m doing well.”
“We’re ‘well,’ too,” says Jenny Morturo, smiling. “That’s Mark and Paul,” Jenny tells her friends. “They’re ‘well.’ This is Ashley.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mark.”
“Hi, Mark. I’m Ashley. Spelled A-S-H-E-L-E-I-G-H-E.”
“Hi. I’m Paul. Spelled. You know.”
“And this is Lolli.”
“Nice to meet you, Lolli.”
“And you, Mark.” (Lolli nods.) “Paul; Christopher.” No one has told her my name.