Zomburbia (9 page)

I kept working on my paper while I heard Dad and Bev getting ready to go. I put on my headphones when I realized that no matter what room Bev was in, her voice cut through the house and it sounded like she was standing next to me having a very loud conversation.

I finally saw my dad's Volvo back out of the driveway and putter down the street. I was safe. I finished up the chem homework, then I set about waiting for Brandon to show up for our journey into class differential.

I found myself constantly checking my phone while I waited. Was Sherri going to call me? If she wasn't mad at me, she'd at least call to give me a hard time for not sticking around to help her clean up last night. I even went on to Gmail and Facebook to see if she was logged on. She was maintaining strict radio silence, apparently.

Fine. Let her sulk. I really didn't feel like I'd done anything wrong. As if she'd never told someone I didn't like about a party. Hell, it was because of her that I had to invite Lori Caldwell to my birthday party two years ago. That was way worse than telling Brandon about her stupid get-together last night.

I finally worked myself up enough that I decided Sherri could go screw herself. She was totally wrong about this whole situation. I grabbed my phone and thumbed the power button. Let her try to get a hold of me now. I hoped she called all day needing to talk to me. I fantasized about her trying to call to apologize and not reaching me. I hoped she'd wallow in guilt for being such a bitch to me. I'd talk to
her
when
I
was damned good and ready.

I threw my phone into my bag and got up as I heard the sound of an engine rumbling up to the front of the house. I parted the curtains and looked out into the street. The truck came to a stop right in front of our gate, and Brandon hopped out. Two people sat in the back of the king cab. I couldn't tell who they were. Brandon opened the gate and entered the yard. I took that as my cue to grab my bag, check my makeup one last time, and scoot toward the door. I opened it just as the bell ding-donged.

The look of shock on his face made me burst out laughing. He was only confused for a second before he laughed, too. “Have you been standing there all day?” he asked.

“Only since noon,” I said, and then laughed again as he tried to figure out whether or not I was serious. “I saw you pull up and grabbed my stuff and came out to meet you.”

“Gotcha,” he said. “So, I guess you're ready?” He looked me up and down. He was subtle about it, but I could tell.

A million thoughts raced through my brain. Was he silently judging me? I mean, I know he was, but was the verdict negative? Should I have toned it down for a first date? Christ, was this a date? We'd never actually used that word. “Date.” I worried I might start hyperventilating if I didn't get the situation under control. I needed to say something to zero in on how he felt about my ensemble. Something subtle.

“Is how I'm dressed okay?”
Goddammit!

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I was just asking.”

I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I checked to make sure I had my house keys and closed the door. He just grinned at me for a moment.

“Okay,” he said, “let's get back to the truck. The others'll be wondering what's taking so long.”

Suddenly it felt like there was a hot rock in my stomach. In all of our rom-com banter, I forgot others were involved in this scenario. Other people who probably weren't as nice or cool as Brandon seemed. As we walked toward the gate I started wondering again what the hell I was doing. Why was I dressed like this? I should have dressed more normal, or put on less makeup. Why was I even thinking things like this? What did I care what anyone thought about me? God, I felt like I was going crazy. I should probably just go back to the house and go to bed until this case of hormonal insanity passed.

Then Brandon opened the gate for me and it was too late. He also opened the door to the truck and gave me a hand up. He closed it and went around to the other side.

“Hi, Courtney,” said a voice from the backseat. Crystal Beals sat back there looking cute. She was a tiny brunette girl with long hair and sharp features. She always reminded me of the elves in
Lord of the Rings.
I told her that once when we were in sixth grade and it made her so happy. I called her elf girl all the rest of that year. I'd probably still call her that if we were still friends. She wore an orange T-shirt and tan capri pants. She looked good. Summery.

“Hi, Crystal,” I said, “how are you?”

“I've been really good?” she said. She had a habit of making most her sentences sound like questions. “I'm gearing up to take the SATs next month?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I took them a couple of months ago. I haven't got my scores yet.”

The driver's side door opened and Brandon hopped in. He closed the door and turned to look at all of us.

“You guys know each other?” he asked.

“Me and Crystal go way back,” I said.

“We used to play together all the time,” she agreed.

“Nice, well, this is Ken Leung,” Brandon said, and tilted his head toward the guy sitting next to Crystal. He hadn't said anything to me, and I couldn't even tell if he was looking at me because his eyes were hidden behind huge aviator glasses. His short black hair was gelled so it stood straight up, and he wore a baby blue polo shirt with a popped collar. Everything about him screamed, “Douche!”

I nodded at him.

“Yeah,” he said, “hi.”

I turned back around. “So what are we doing?”

Brandon gave the truck some gas and steered it into the street. “My dad has a cabin out on Silver Creek Reservoir, so I thought we'd go hang out there,” he said. “We can swim, there's a grill out there, and my dad stocks the fridge with beer.”

“That's what I'm talking about,” Ken said even though he hadn't actually been talking about it.

“Swimming is great?” Crystal said.

I knew I wasn't dressed for it and hadn't brought a suit. Why the hell didn't Brandon mention it so I could prepare? I had a feeling this is how the whole day was going to go—one small annoyance after another. I forced a smile, however, because I like to maintain a sunny disposition.

“Yeah,” I said, “let's do it.”

Brandon gave an honest-to-God whoop and stepped on the gas. “Yes,” he said, “this is going to be fun.”

And as we headed out on our little adventure, I just hoped he was right.

I
had to admit that the drive out to the reservoir was a pretty nice one. You drove out on Highway 22 through a town called Aumsville and then to the reservoir. Along the way, farmland lined the old highway. My dad said it was nicer before all the pieces of land were surrounded by barbed wire and electric fences. I can only take his word for it.

As we drove, Ken and Brandon kept up a steady conversation about the football team—who would make first string next year (they were both certain they would); what sorts of punishing exercises their coaches devise; what would the schedule of games be, et-kill-me-cetera.

Crystal tried to start a conversation with me, but we couldn't really talk over the two knuckleheads. When they weren't talking, Brandon focused straight ahead. Which is probably what he should have done since he was driving. He was also quiet and licked his lips a lot. If I didn't know better, I'd have said he was nervous.

I was content to sit back and watch the scenery. Lots of rolling hills and rows of one kind of plants or another. I don't know. I heard they grow a lot of grapes for wine out here. Maybe if wine didn't taste like ass, I'd have cared more about it. Really, I might have been able to see myself living out there one day. You know, when I'm old and boring.

The farmland became more and more sparse and was replaced by lots of trees—spruce and pine and, here and there, a cedar. The air coming in through my cracked-open window felt noticeably cooler. I started to think that it might be too cold to actually go swimming. For now, it felt good, refreshing. The road narrowed and Brandon dropped our speed because it also became rougher.

The barbed-wire fences were replaced with some split-rail ones. You could see the occasional side road disappearing up into the woods, each one with a gate of some kind across the road. Brandon eventually pulled into one of these and stopped, letting the engine idle. The gate across the entrance to the property had a heavy chain locking it closed. Brandon turned and handed a set of keys to Ken in the backseat.

“Want to unlock it, dude?” he asked.

Ken looked like he was going to put up an argument, then he took the keys and got out of the truck. His movements were quick and precise. He opened the gate for the truck and then swung it shut again as soon as we'd passed through. Brandon stopped and let him climb in again.

“Thanks, man,” Brandon told him as he took the keys from him.

“De nada,”
Ken said. I rolled my eyes.

We drove on for another fifteen minutes down this one-lane dirt road. The light barely reached us through the thick forest. I started to creep myself out thinking about what could be out there. I mean, you could only see a few feet past the tree line. People are always talking about how zombies don't come into Salem anymore because they're all hiding out in the woods now.

As soon as we got to the reservoir itself, it was different. A clearing surrounded the water, and the sun beat down on the cabin there. Well, Brandon called it a cabin. When I heard that word, I thought of something out of a Jack London story—something big enough for maybe two people and held together with bailing wire and prayers. This was a pretty massive building with a porch and everything. Even though it was built out of logs, I don't know if “cabin” was the right term for it.

“Your dad owns this?” I asked.

Brandon looked a little sheepish. “Yeah, this and the property for a few acres on either side.”

“Is your dad a bank robber?” I asked.
Or a drug dealer,
I thought.

Brandon laughed and threw open the door to climb out. “Nope. He was a session musician in LA before the dead came back. He wrote some hit songs for other musicians. That's what paid for all of this.”

I sort of regretted giving up on piano lessons when I was twelve.

We unloaded the truck—a cooler, blankets and towels, and some lawn chairs. Brandon and Ken grabbed the shotguns out of the rack and slung them over their shoulders. Brandon took the Benelli. The way they handled the guns, I was glad I'd brought my pistol in my purse. If there was trouble, I wouldn't want to rely on those two amateurs to save me.

We walked down to the shore, which was just a few yards past the house. The sun beat directly on us here, and I started to feel hot. I was going to need to get these leggings off soon. We arranged the chairs and blankets and sat down. Brandon headed back to the house to start some music—his dad had outdoor speakers wired up. Ken went with him. They left the double-barrel with us girls.

After they were gone, Crystal smiled at me and asked, “So, are you and Brandon a thing?”

“I don't think so,” I said, and then thought about it a moment. We weren't. I turned back to her. “Mind if we don't talk about it?”

“God, no,” she said. “Boy talk is boring. It's just that sometimes I feel, you know . . .”

“Obligated?”

She nodded.

“Sure.” I said.

Then she asked about my folks and got embarrassed when she remembered that my mom wasn't on the scene. I assured her it was okay. I was about to ask about her parents, when the music started up. It was something funky, maybe George Clinton. It didn't matter, really; it was fun.

The boys came out of the house then, each carrying a bottle and some plastic tumblers. Uh-oh. Brandon grinned as he brandished his bottle. “Rum,” he said, “and Ken has vodka. I don't think my dad'll miss them.” Ken held up his bottle. Apparently, smiling was too pedestrian for him.

“There's juice in the cooler,” Brandon said, “and beer, too.”

I decided to go with OJ and vodka, the drink of choice for juvenile delinquents everywhere. After everyone got their drinks—Crystal just took juice I noticed—we sat around and sunned ourselves and talked about stuff other than football. Grades and after-school jobs (everyone but Brandon had one and, no, I didn't mention my second job); music and movies; Ken talked about a video series he wanted to write, direct, and star in, which he would post to YouTube and that I thought sounded like it would suck ass. I didn't say that.

I made the boys turn around so I could take off my shorts and strip off my leggings—it was way too hot now for that sort of nonsense. I asked if anyone wanted to get in the water, and Crystal was the only one who seemed interested, so I grabbed her hand and dragged her down the shore and into the reservoir. Before we got in, Crystal stripped off her capris to reveal a black bikini bottom. I dived into the water. I screamed, it was so cold at first. It felt like all the air was crushed out of my chest for a second by the frigid water. Then I got used to it and it felt really nice. I was glad the sun was so hot that day—it would make climbing out again bearable. I floated on my back while Crystal swam lazy circles around me and we talked some more. I guess the boys couldn't resist our wet siren call, and they came running into the water. They acted like boys for a while and shouted and splashed and drew attention to themselves. When Crystal and I failed to react, they calmed down and waded or swam or floated. It became really quiet, and, as I floated on my back in the water, my ears below the water line, I heard my heart beating. I timed my breath with my heartbeats and stared up into the sky. Wispy cumulus clouds hung up there, and I fought against the feeling that I was falling up into the sky.

The others got out of the reservoir and mixed new drinks. I followed and had more OJ and vodka. After being in the sun and water, the drink hit me kind of hard. I definitely felt light-headed. Great. A joke came to mind: What's the cheerleader mating call? I'm so drunk! Ooh, I was going to have to apologize to Crystal for even thinking that. She was so nice—I shouldn't have thought bad things about her chosen lifestyle.

And then I was struck by a sudden need to pee.

“Are there toilets in that rustic, pioneer structure?” I asked Brandon, and I tried to enunciate as carefully as possible so no one would suspect I was feeling tipsy.

Brandon flashed me a weird grin and then he nodded. “There are toilets, yep,” he said. “They flush and everything. Go inside, down the hall, and it's on your right.”

I stood up and halted my swaying and headed off toward the cabin.

Crystal called out behind me. “I'll come with you.” I almost asked why, but dropped it. I just hoped she wouldn't want to come in with me while I peed. We left the boys behind making jokes about how women were incapable of going to the bathrooms by themselves. Very funny material circa 1960.

The rough grain of the wooden porch felt good beneath my feet. Inside the cabin the air was noticeably cooler. Little goose bumps raised on my arms. It made my head feel better. The interior of the cabin was beautiful. It was mostly an open space with a loft above the living area. The kitchen sat in the far corner, and a big dining room table—that looked like it was carved out of a single gigantic slab of wood—added to the feeling that I didn't belong there. Everything was either wood or stone. There were lots of rugs and cushy furniture so it didn't feel cold. This place is what Land's End catalogs were trying to look like. And failing.

“You've never been out here?” Crystal asked. My awe must have been written all over my face. I needed to rein that in.

“Yeah,” I told her. “You have?”

“Sure,” she said. “Brandon's had parties out here before. His dad's cool with it. The bathroom's down there.” She pointed down the hallway.

“Thanks,” I said, and scooted away.

The bathroom was nice, but nothing like the rest of the house. Functional. I closed the door and as I turned toward the mirror, I caught a look at myself. All of my carefully applied makeup—my mascara and eyeliner—had spread out so I looked like the world's biggest, saddest raccoon. I burst out laughing and then immediately tried to stifle it.

A second later, Crystal knocked on the door and asked if I was okay. She said it sounded like I'd screamed. Doing my best to hold back new peals of laughter, I told her I was fine. I got it under control and sat on the toilet and pissed for about an hour. I needed to cut back on the alcohol.

I finished up and washed my hands and then scrubbed my face until I couldn't take it anymore. My skin was all pink when I was done, but that was better than what it looked like before. When I left the bathroom, I found Crystal looking at a shelf that practically groaned under the weight of all the books on it.

“I love looking at all of Mr. Ikaros's books whenever I'm out here,” she said without looking up at me, then she turned and smiled. She was really pretty when she smiled. I mean, she was always pretty. Especially when she smiled. When I didn't say anything, she turned back to the books. “He has a ton of books by journalists.
All the President's Men, Black Hawk Down
.”

She took a book down from the shelf. “Wow,” she said, “this one is brand new.
The Black Flower;
it's a book about that zombie drug, Vitamin Z. I can't believe he's already got it out here.”

“Is that something you're interested in?”

“Journalism?” she asked. “Oh, yeah.”

“That's great,” I said. I'd meant was she interested in Vitamin Z, and I was relieved to hear that she wasn't.

“Yeah, I want to study it when I get to college.” She put the book back on the shelf and stood up. “How about you?”

“Me?” I asked.

“In college,” she said. “What do you want to do?”

“Oh, epidemiology,” I said. We started to head back outside. “You know, studying how diseases spread. Why aren't you on the school's newspaper?” I asked her.

“I had some core classes I needed to get out of the way this year,” she said, “you know, before I send off college applications. I figured I'd join the paper next year—if I can get in. Why do you want to study diseases?”

We were out on the porch and I was about to tell Crystal the broad outlines of my master plan. She stopped and looked off toward the shore.

“Where are the boys?” she asked.

I looked to where we'd been sunning ourselves. Brandon and Ken were nowhere to be seen. I scanned the shoreline and still didn't see them. Next to me, Crystal shivered and hugged herself.

“I bet they're just being dicks,” she said, “trying to scare us or whatever?”

I might have agreed with her, but I noticed that the double-barreled shotgun was gone. This was officially bad news.

“I'm going to go back into the house and lock the doors until they come back,” Crystal said, and she started to do just that.

“I'll be right behind you. First, I have to get something out of my bag,” I told her.

“No, wait,” she said, “don't go. What the hell do you need out of your bag?” Her eyes were big and her lips quivered a little. I tried not to feel as scared as she looked.

“I have a gun in there.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Okay,” she said, like I needed her permission. “But I'm going down with you. No way do I want to be alone.”

I understood, but didn't say anything. I headed down the path toward my bag. Crystal followed right behind. Behind me, I became dimly aware that a new song started up on the stereo. Pink Floyd, I think, something with a woman bellowing wordlessly into the mic. It was eerie as hell and I wish I'd thought to turn the damned thing off.

As we reached our towels, a shotgun blast roared out of the woods. We both jumped and Crystal gave a little shriek. “What is going on?” she demanded, her voice shaky.

“I don't know,” I said, and bent down to rummage through my bag. Dammit! I either needed a smaller bag or I needed to rig up some kind of holster so I could get a hold of the F'ing pistol when I wanted it. I shoved aside my mp3 player, and my hand found the checkered wood grip. I'm always amazed at how comforted I am by holding that thing. I get why teenaged boys love guns.