Chapter Seven
Tommy caught Merton as he walked out of his Social Studies class at the end of the day.
"I've been reading the paper here and I think . . . look." Merton held up an article that had been lovingly clipped from the Pleasantville Sun.
"Local basement flooded?" Tommy asked disbelievingly, as he headed in the direction of Merton's locker.
"I'm thinking it could be an attack of water pixies. Or more specifically Nereids." Merton continued, ignoring Tommy's tone. "They are little mischievous creatures that inhabit water dwellings, well specifically, sea-like places, and prey on the life force of human beings." Merton continued, pulling his backpack out of his locker, and stuffing it with textbooks.
"Nereeds?" Did Merton have any idea how cute that was? Little coffin back-pack, all wannabe-rebel, stuffed to the brim with textbooks. Because, heaven forbid, he didn't get his homework done. It was positively adorable.
"No, Tommy, it's pronounced more like knee – re – idz." Merton continued on, paying no attention. "I just need a little more information to discover the process of imprisoning them."
Tommy could only shake his head. Merton believed that the basement of some poor Pleasantville family was flooded due to the presence of some monster. And this being Pleasantville, he was probably mostly right. "Wanna go to the factory?"
"We should go to the Lair, Tommy, and do some research." Merton sounded anxious. Like he thought Tommy was going to blow him off.
Oh no, Merton, let's not head back to your place so you can find yummy treats to keep me sated, while you read books. You'll even ignore it if I play video games while you read. "Sounds good."
On their way, Merton picked up a pizza, as predicted. Well, two pizzas. Tommy was a growing werewolf after all. And willing to fight tooth and nail over a single slice.
"Sorry for the mess." Merton apologized as he opened the door.
Mess? What mess? Everything was pristine as usual, for Merton's humble basement of recluse (Okay, he was even starting to sound like Merton, think Tommy, think. Or don't think. Big dumb football player here. Grunt.) Merton ran to pick up a couple sets of clothes that Tommy hadn't noticed lying on the floor. His room was the refuge for dirty clothing.
Merton picked up a set of dusty leather-bound books and lovingly spread them on the coffee table. Oh god, Tommy thought, I've got to stop thinking of Merton like this. I've managed to make research sound slightly dirty. And it was a little scary. Tommy had always subscribed to the do-whatever-makes-you-feel-good, live-in-the-moment philosophy.
Tommy really wasn't upset about the whole sudden sinking attraction to his best friend thing. What he was – was positive that Merton would either a) explode and rain little Merton-bits everywhere, or b) feel that he had finally figured out the reason for Tommy's interest in him. Aha – you don't really care about me. You just figure I'm your best chance to get laid. Merton felt better about people when they had an ulterior motive. (You couldn't blame him, a lot of his innocence had been lost in that embarrassing episode when Tommy had ditched him to yak it up with the crowd so he could be elected homecoming king, and Merton had hooked up with people he thought cared about him, but really just wanted to fatten him up and eat him. And not in the good way. Stop it, Dawkins, stop it.)
And nothing could be farther from Tommy's mind. He didn't want to use Merton, (in fact, a lot of times when he dreamed, it was all about Merton using him. . .). He couldn't even pinpoint the moment when he stopped liking Merton in spite of his geekiness and his tendency to be obnoxiously annoying, and starting liking him because of his tendency to be obnoxiously annoying. And the point where he'd started to admire Merton's ability to simply not-give-a-damn-what-other-people-think. And he wasn't even sure when he'd begun that slow slide from best friend to possible crush.
Damn. He had to stop this. He never used to think like this. Life used to be a football field that he played through. Sometimes he got tackled into the grass, and sometimes he got touch downs, but it was never something he had to think about. . . Just a game. Tommy smacked himself in an effort to empty his head. And looked up to find Merton staring at him. "What?"
"I said, Tommy would you like the pepperoni or the Hawaiian pizza?"
"Ah, hell, just give me four slices of both."