Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [52]
Paul laughs uneasily. He says, “My younger brother does not usually lie curled up in, you know, the fetal position on the floor of my car.”
Jenny is making a face. “Is he . . .” She taps her fragrant, unruly chestnut curls.
“No,” says Paul. “Just tonight.”
“Are you going to this party?” Lolli asks. “I’ve just been invited.”
“We sure are,” says Mark. “You?”
“We’ll follow you,” says Jenny.
Lolli taps on my window. I can see the glare of her claw-red nail polish in the streetlights. “Please don’t feed the animals,” she jokes.
“Is he, like, okay?” says Asheleighe. “He looks, like, très weirdamundo stressed.”
“He’ll uncurl as the night goes on,” Lolli prophesizes.
Jenny has backed up and slips her key ring over one pronged finger; as she draws it over her stiffened knuckle she says, “You lead. We’ll be right behind you.”
I watch Lolli Chasuble walk away. Everything about her seems alert and cunning. I can tell how those eyebrows, dark and sure, would arch and work as she sucked on someone’s neck. She has made up her face as carefully and with as much malice as a warrior arraying himself for battle.
I am frankly afraid of her.
Mark is rolling up his window. “This is great,” he announces. “This is so great.”
Paul is heaving in his seatbelt to try to fit his wallet back into his pocket. “Yessiree Bob,” he says. “But just keep hold, man.”
“Keep hold? This is going to be the greatest party ever!”
“Keep hold.”
“I can’t believe this!”
“Keep hold! Report to mission control, man!”
“Capsule to mission control.”
“Read you, capsule man.”
“Stardate 3867.5. Ready to blast off. Orders?”
“Lock phasers . . . to stun.”
“A-OK!”
“Warp five, Mr. Sulu.”
And we pull out of the drive-thru.
The three girls are in their car and they drive close behind Paul. At the stoplight, Jenny pulls her car up hard behind ours and nuzzles our bumper.
“She is wild,” says Paul to Mark.
“She is,” says Mark, nodding. “Wild.”
We drive out through the forests and fields. As Jenny’s car kisses ours, Paul says, “Tell her it’s getting a little rough.”
Mark nods and rolls down the window. Our heads jerk as Jenny bumps us again and flashes her high beams. “Thank you!” Mark calls back, his black hair flopping. “Thank you, that will be enough.”
I am curled up in the back seat. I don’t want to be caught in the harsh-seeing glare of those headlights.
I collapse onto the floor at another impact.
“Damn, man,” says Paul. “What’s the big idea? Can you tell them to —”
“Let me off at the fairground,” I say suddenly. I have to avoid her. “Before we get to the Rigozzis’. Let me off at the fairground.”
“Okay, fart-cheese. Whatever you say. You going to be all right?”
“Yes,” I say. “Tom and Jerk will be there. Everything will be hunky-dory.”
We are hurtling through the carnival night.
I picture talking to Rebecca Schwartz. It is a stupid fantasy. I picture saying, “I am a vampire now, but with you I can save the world.” We are at the fair, and the lights swing in ballet around us to the music of the merry-go-round.
Then someone will understand. Then someone will take me in her arms. She will kiss me, and we will run to the police. We will bang on desks. We will shout. We will stand by and watch as the helicopters, their tails like wasps’ low with poison, buzz over the knotted forests, spraying the dark and enchanted places with gallons and gallons of holy water.
That is my dream.
I do not know what to do.
I do not know at all.
“There’s Chris!” says Jerk, looking up from a big unwieldy scab of fried dough and a game called “Shoot Like the Pros.”
Tom is standing, his back against the booth, arms folded, looking around with quick catlike motions for some people who are his friends.
“Hey, Chris,” Jerk says, running forward. “This a great carnie, or what?”
I feel strangely sorry for him, but I still find myself saying flatly, “Oh boy, oh boy. What a great time.”
Tom has decided to walk toward me. He does it in a way that suggests that moving five steps in my direction is an early birthday present. “Hey,” he says. “How did you get here?”
“Paul drove