Thirsty Page 13

  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.

  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 wa
y that suggests that moving five steps in my direction is an early birthday present. “Hey,” he says. “How did you get here?”

  “Paul drove me. He’s going to the Rigozzis’.”

  “The Rigozzis’ party?” exclaims Jerk.

  “Like everyone else,” says Tom. “Everyone goes to that party.”

  “It’s supposed to be really cool,” says Jerk.

  Tom nods. “I heard that last time all these girls danced topless.”

  “No,” says Jerk. “Like who?”

  “Jane McKinley, Liz Dinn . . .”

  “No. Like, no way.”

  “Besta Worritz . . .”

  There are three girls, all leaning into one another’s shoulders, tripping along and laughing, and one of them has dangling from her arm a big pink fuzzy gecko that she has won; I look carefully at her freckles, for they are soft, and brown, and dashed across her face like cinnamon across a fine dessert. Suddenly my throat constricts, and I feel the beginnings of the thirst coming on. I can tell it will come on strong as the night goes on.

  Tom looks boldly into my eyes. “So can you get us in?”

  “No,” I say. “Just, my brother is there.”

  “Come on. It’ll be great. There is going to be, like, all this major action there.”

  “No,” I say. “There’s someone I don’t want to see there. A girl.”

  Tom looks at Jerk. “I’m going to go anyway. So many people there, they aren’t going to notice one more.”

  “Yeah, great!” says Jerk, smiling. “Or two more!”

  “Okay,” says Tom. “You can come. Just don’t act like a complete dorkus totalus and embarrass me — got it?” He starts walking toward the Rigozzis’ house. “You coming?” he asks me.

  People are howling in the bouncy castle of fun.

  “No,” I say quietly. “I’m not.”

  Tom doesn’t even acknowledge I’ve spoken. He just turns his back and starts walking. Jerk stumbles to catch up to him, but keeps looking back over his shoulder, just to see if I’ve changed my mind.

  I am thinking hard. I am trying not to panic. Why is she here? I am wondering. Why? She must be here for me. She is supposed to take me to the abandoned church. I bet that’s it. Otherwise there is no really obvious reason for an undead being to attend the Bradford/Clayton Carnival. It is $1.50 for just a small 7-Up. She wishes to take me to the convocation of vampires for her own dark purposes.

  And that is when I realize that perhaps it would be the best thing.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have started something by dropping that disk into darkness, and I don’t know what. I have played into Chet’s hands, and I don’t know how. But I do know that I am helpless while I’m stranded here at the carnival.

  So that is what I need to do, I realize suddenly. I will go with her. I will let Lolli Chasuble take me to the hidden coven of vampires again. The wizards and sorcerers of that vampire band will be locked in their vicious ceremony, trying to interrupt the festival spells being cast on the lake. At the height of the vampires’ spells, right when the bonds are about to break, when the tension is greatest, right before Tch’muchgar hurtles back into this world through whatever convoluted means Chet may have worked out, I’ll throw myself into the center of them, call out the Lord’s Prayer, obscure their runes, gash the high sorcerer’s face with my keys, anything to botch their spells of summoning, anything to break its stranglehold, to let the festival rites be spoken.

  The vampires will kill me after that. I don’t have any doubt that they will. But there is nothing else I can do.

  So I will find Lolli Chasuble after all. I will have to face her sometime.

  And with that, I run after Jerk and Tom. I follow their backs until I’ve caught up to them, grim and puffing.

  I say, “I’m coming after all.”

  “Great!” says Jerk.

  “Let’s go,” says Tom.

  We head toward the Rigozzis’ party.

  Over the scream of people on Captain Hook’s Giddy Galleon, there is a sound of broadcasted voices. “Testing,” it says across the uneven grass, the crowds, and the litter of ticket stubs and crushed cups. “Testing.”

  “They’re going to start the ritual,” says Jerk. “Cool.”

  “I’m so glad you could all make it this evening,” the speakers say. “I’d like to thank everyone who made tonight’s ritual sacrifice possible and, of course, everyone involved in the committee that organized this wonderful festival, which is really great this year. Great festival! Isn’t it great? I’d like to thank them all.”

  Our mayor is addressing us. We’re walking. I am picturing finding Rebecca Schwartz and talking to her, explaining myself, before I go off on my date with the daughter of the damned. There is a touching scene where Rebecca is crying at my funeral. It would be great if I could speak to her before I go.

  One person needs to know of the sacrifice I’m about to make.

  We pass the tilt-a-whirl. People in neon teacups are being flung out over the sweet cow-cropped grass; they’re giggling; boys are trying to lean and spin their cups; girls are screaming “No! No!”

  “Father Bread,” says the mayor over the loudspeakers. “Would you do the honors?”

  “Thank you, Mayor,” says Father Bread. He adds, “Ehhrm,” rattling as he takes the microphone. Then he begins, echoing out over the booths and the fields and the hot summery oaks, “We call upon the great hierarchy of angels for their aid in the shadows of night.”

  The beginning of the spell of binding. That means nine o’clock. Three hours for me to find the convocation of vampires and do something to stop them.

  I’m in a sweat.

  The Rigozzis live on the edge of Barley’s Field in a big green Colonial house with a three-car Colonial garage. People are wandering out of the house over to the carnival and back again. Music pounds inside the house.

  “Time to crash, boys!” says Tom.

  “I feel bad about crashing,” I say. “What if they find out?”

  “Your brother is in there.”

  I say uneasily, “I’d really rather wait for an invitation.”

  “God you’re impossible,” says Tom. “Come on,” he says to Jerk and walks up the steps.

  “I’ll wait out here for a minute with Chris,” says Jerk. “Couldn’t we find Tony Rigozzi and ask him?”

  “Christ!” says Tom. He walks up the three concrete steps to the front door. He opens the door. Inside there is music and dancing. He hesitates, just for one moment, and moves his lips together nervously. Then he walks in.

  He slams the door behind him.

  “Hey, bruiser,” says a voice from behind one of the bushes at the front door. “Waiting for an invitation?”

  The bush waggles, and out into the light steps a young man with messy blond hair, an armless jean jacket, and a bat tattooed on his arm. “Chris, good to see you. We thought you’d come around,” he says. “Bat is my name, and it is my symbol. The bat. I move by night and seek things out by screaming.”

  Jerk isn’t very comfortable. He doesn’t like Bat much.

  And I see that Bat has an aura. He is a vampire. I remember the tattoo. I saw him before at that abandoned church, where he ate the flesh of women in casseroles.

  He says, “Lolli Chaz is looking forward to seeing you.” And, “She has quite an evening planned for you. Come on, sucker.”

  He walks up the three concrete steps to the front door. He wipes his feet on the welcome mat and swings the door open.

  “Heya heya heya!” he screams. “Someone gonna invite me in, man?”

  There’s a momentary pause inside. I can’t see past Bat. In a second, Tony Rigozzi, a junior at my school, stumbles over to the door, laughing, spilling beer from a plastic cup. “Whoa! My first day,” he says, “with my goddamn new legs.”

  “Friend of Lolli Chasuble,” says Bat. “Can I come in?”

  Tony laughs again. “Shit, yes! Everyone’s invited! What’re you waiting fo
r, a . . . ? Get in there! My house is your house. It is! It’s your goddamn house!”

  “Great, man,” says Bat, punching Tony on the upper arm. “I’m damn glad to meet you.”

  “That a real tattoo?” says Tony, stubbing his fingers on Bat’s upper arm. “Man, that real?”

  “No,” says Bat, secretly motioning to me with his other arm. “Got it out of a box of goddamn Cracker Jack!”

  I walk up the steps with Jerk. We’re lingering right behind Bat.

  “Lolli’s over there,” says Tony, waving his hand toward the living room. “Dancing on the table. She’s some . . .” He sizes Bat up. “So, you her boyfriend?”

  “No,” says Bat.

  “No? She is something,” Tony says in an undertone. “I mean, look at her.”

  “She’s nice,” murmurs Bat.

  They’re standing close, side by side now, needling each other in the ribs. Tony says, “Those lips were made for more than talking, huh?”

  Bat smirks, says, “Heh heh heh.”

  And they disappear into the living room.

  The door is left open.

  “We could go back to the carnie if you wanted,” says Jerk. “The, like, haunted house is only seventy-five cents. I mean, I’ve been in it four times, but there’s a really good skeleton and stuff.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ve got to go in. Come if you’d like. Or go. It’s up to you.”

  I snap my fingers from nervousness. Then I go in to find her.

  The party is in full swing. People are packed up and down the front stairs right near the door. They’re leaning on the dining room table and dancing in the living room. Kids are singing with the music, playing air guitar, slam dancing delicately, and gargling beer.

  Lolli whirls like an Indian goddess of destruction atop a side table, scattering issues of Good Housekeeping with her heels. She and Jenny are dancing, pointing at each other, casting their shoulders back and forth, up and down.

  Lolli’s friend Asheleighe is perched on the arm of the sofa, yelling over the music to Trunk McIntyre, “I, like, loved their first album totally, but then when their second album came out, it was like, god, way to be completely queer, all right?”

  Trunk nods. After some thought, he washes the beer from one cheek to the other and swallows. He says, “Yeah!”