Another non-commission, this one featuring Alex and Jessy from Reeling in the Years in a different context. That is, this story is not connected to RITY at all and is set in the present day. I never planned to use them as general-purpose OCs and put them into non-RITY stories, but things change. This is chapter one. I hope you like it.
My name is Alex Loud and, boy, do I have a story to tell you. It's full of action, romance, drama, comedy, and stars yours truly - basically, it's the greatest story ever told and I envy you for getting to kick back and enjoy it. I know if I was hearing this for the first time, I'd pee with excitement.
Yeah, it's that jaw-dropping.
So grab an adult diaper, a bag of chips, and get comfy, because it starts…..now.
First of all, I gotta set the scene a little bit. That's how we writers do, can't neglect that detail or your readers will imagine the story taking place in a blank void or something. Like I said, my name is Alex and I'm the coolest person ever. Close your eyes and picture a beautiful, stunning, ethereal, gorgeous, bodacious half-Hispanic girl with silky, waxy, flaxen black hair, dark eyes, and caramel skin.
(By the way, yes, I'm using a thesaurus to help me write this and yes, I kind of go overboard sometimes).
Anyway, back to the girl. She's tall, exudes self-confidence, and carries herself with grace and dignity...until she trips over something and falls down, but that doesn't happen very often. She's aloof, mysterious, you see her and you're like, "Man, she looks cool; I wish I was her."
That girl is me. I'm sixteen, fun-loving, and adventurous. I light up the room with my quick wit, acerbic tongue, and...whew, this is harder than I thought. Just take my word for it, I'm awesome. I promise.
I live in Royal Woods, Michigan with my mom, my dad, and my cousin Jessy. It's a small place where not much happens. You know: Quaint, picturesque, charming, rustic, a real hole-in-the-wall. You got an arcade full of old games, the library, and the park - that's pretty much it for nightlife. Big, comfortable old houses line narrow, shaded streets, storefronts flank Main, and the railroad runs right through the middle of town - honk, honk, comin' through, Jess.
But seriously, train whistles will wake you up at night.
My dad (where my terminal whiteness comes from) owns Flip's Diner and my mom (the Latino of the bunch) teaches math at the high school. Yuck, amirite? Of all the subjects she could have picked...she picked math. EYEROLL. Math sucks. I hate math. I'm more of a history and creative writing kind of gal. Yes, I dabble in the literary arts from time to time. Luckily for Stephen King, I don't do it more often; otherwise, his publisher would kick him to the curb and give his contract to me. That's to say, my horror fics rock.
Sorry, getting distracted.
Back to my family (mi familia in Spanish). My dad's the lamest dude to ever live. On weekends he wears cargo shorts and sandals with socks and he loves nineties music. I tease him all the time but I secretly love him to death. He's hardworking, honest, fair, and has a heart of gold...that he hides under constant bragging and complaining. If a big, buff dude comes on TV, Dad's go-to reaction is, 'I can take him.' He grouses like an old man and unironically says, 'Back in my day.'
Calm down, buddy, your day was, like, 1998. Not much has changed since then.
Before he met my mom, he served in the army; he enlisted after 9-11, saw combat in Afghanistan and Iraq, and came home in 2005. And, brother, he will never let you forget it. It's because of me you don't speak Arabic, he'll say, and if Mom asks him to take out the trash, he'll beg off because Gee, hun, I'm an American hero. Make Alex do it.
Well then.
He doesn't really mean it, though. Like me, he kids around a lot.
My Mom, on the other hand, is a stick-in-the-mud. Just like you'd expect a teacher to be. It's not that she's really strict or humorless or anything, it's...well…
How do I put this? She's constantly on my back about learning Spanish and stuff. You gotta keep in touch with your heritage, Alex; speak the Mother Tongue, Alex; here, put the burger down and have a taco, Alex.
Okay, she doesn't really say that last one, but she is very adamant that I learn, know, and respect my Mexican ancestry. Look, I get it, that kind of thing is vital and all, but I just don't see the point. My dad's white, my sister's white, I'm basically white, this town's white…
That's to say: I don't feel a connection with Mexican culture. It's not mine. I've never been to Mexico, I don't know anything about it, I was born in America, I live in American, and what right do I have to put on a sombrero and celebrate Sinko Da Myo? It's like...you ever see those people at Oktoberfest or whatever pounding their chests about being German...and the last full-blooded German in their family died fifty generations ago? It strikes me as fake, you know? Like...sit down, white boy, you aren't German. Culture is something that we're born into, shaped by, something that influences us from our earliest days. My culture is hamburgers, MTV, and iPhones. I'm Mexican by DNA and I'm proud of that, but it doesn't seem right for me to claim something I have no business claiming.
At least that's how I feel. I told Mom that, and she rolled her eyes.
Sorry, mamacita, but that's how I feel.
Also...when it comes to speaking Spanish, I can't roll my Rs very well. When I try, I sound like I'm drowning in phlegm...so that's discouraging.
Where was I?
Oh, right, introducing my family.
Last, but certainly not least, is Jessy. Jessy's fifteen and came to live with us when she was two - her parents died in a car crash, and Dad stepped in to take her without a second thought. Because we were raised together, we're basically sisters; calling her my cousin feels weird, so I'm not going to do it anymore. I'm a goofball and rarely take anything seriously, but protecting and looking out for my sister is a different story. Don't mess with the Jess or you'll get the Alex.
I'm serious. Don't even think about it.
Now, Jess and I are alike in ways, but unalike in others. For one, we both love reading and learning new stuff. On the flip side, she's a little more...let's say...timid than I. Shy, awkward, really self-conscious, you know, a total dweeb. She gets panic attacks sometimes and has trouble breathing and she worries over everything.
What if I walk outside and a meteor hits me? Then a marching band stomps me into the pavement? Then a freak rain shower sweeps me away? I better just stay in my room and hide.
She's not that bad, but she might as well be sometimes.
Fortunately for her, she has a brave, bold, awesome big sister to give her the kicks in the butt she needs to excel. Without me, she'd probably be a hermit by now.
And smell funny.
Anyhoo, that's enough setup. Now, your feature presentation. I call it Oh No, Zombies.
Muhahahahaha!
It all started on October 28, a couple days before Halloween – AKA my favorite holiday ever. See, I'm a huge horror fan and during the rest of the year, that puts me at odds with friends and family. God forbid I put a plastic skull on my nightstand; Jessy will flip. That's really tacky, Alex, you should put it away. Or Eww, that's really creepy, stop. My lunch group at school turns sickly green if I start talking about The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (then he put her on a meathook – LOL) and Mom and Dad finger wag because uuuuh, you're watching horror movies, Alex, uhhh. But the Halloween season is different. Starting in mid-October, everyone's a morbid ghoul. Even Mom and Dad; she'll spend hours sitting at the kitchen table and making decorations, and he'll watch MonsterFest on AMC. Don't tell him I said this, but I really cherish kicking my feet up and watching horror movies with my dad - sharing what you love with who you love really hits the spot.
So, October 28: It was a Saturday and I worked the night before so I slept in. Before you say anything, yes, I have a job making pies and pasta at Pissy's Pizza (off-putting name, I know) and I'm super good at it.
Visions of pumpkins and ghosts danced through my head, and in my sleep, I smiled. I went to roll over, and it happened.
I started to fall.
My heart rocketed into my throat and my eyes shot open just as I dropped over the side. My life flashed before me (wow, I was so cool) and I hit the floor with a melodic, dying scream that sounded nothing like a cat being murdered. I lay there for a moment, tangled in the blanket and wedged between my bed and the desk, then creaked one eye tentatively open. I'm not dead? Whew.
Sitting up, I yawned, gave a big stretch, and stumbled to my feet. Because we live in a tiny, crackerjack ranch house with three bedrooms and Dad insists on having an office "for the business", Jess and I share a room. Her half is neat, tidy, and obsessively organized.
Mine is not.
Hey, between working at Pissy's and volunteering at the library, I'm a busy girl, so picking up after myself kinda takes a backseat. Last night, when I shambled into the house past midnight, dead on my feet and covered in dough, I kicked my shoes off, peeled my pants off and dropped into bed. The latter lay in a heap in front of the desk, and the former were five feet apart from one another and facing different directions, like a couple in the midst of giving each other the silent treatment. Getting up, I threw the blanket back on the bed and, in my tank top and underwear, went to the head, scratching my butt as I went.
In the bathroom, I sat on the toilet, propped my elbows on my knees, and rested my face in my hands. Sleep swirled in my head like a raging snowstorm, and I started to nod, but caught myself with a jerk.
On Saturdays, I help Mr. Atkins at the library. Seventy-two and frail with a shock of white hair, glasses, and a mustache, Mr. Atkins was both the town librarian and the curator of the historical society. Dressed perpetually in slacks, a sweater, and a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows (either the coolest outfit ever or the dumbest, I haven't decided yet) he was what you'd call a queer duck if you were a homophobe. For one, he talked to himself, and for another, he talked like a character from a P.G. Wodehouse story ("Splendid! Right-ho!). He reminds me of Doc Brown from Back to the Future only less science-y. I might be flippant and carefree and annoying (that last one per Jess), but I'm responsible when I have to be, so calling out and playing sick wasn't an option.
Mr. Atkins needed my help and my help I would render.
Sigh.
Done with my morning pee, I jumped in the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go, because nothing wakes you up like having your skin melted off by boiling water.
After valiantly assisting the aged and infirm antiquarian formerly known as Mr. Atkins, I had work - yay.
Sarcasm.
Today, though, I'd probably get to leave early because my boy Langston worked and he was a machine; really, this dude can do the work of three people and not even break a sweat. He lived, breathed, and slept Pissy's, kind of like SpongeBob with the Krusty Krab...only with Squidward's personality. Strange dude, but cool nevertheless.
As awake as I'd ever be, I cut the spray, jumped out, and toweled off, then put yesterday's undies back on. In my room, I switched them out for a clean pair (never know when you're gonna get lucky, kids, always change your drawers) and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with AC/DC across the front. I freaking love AC/DC. In fact, all eighties metal; that stuff rules. Blame my grandfather, because while Dad has lame-o taste in music, his dad is lit.
Putting my shoes on, I went into the kitchen. Mom stood at the stove in a threadbare pink robe that was probably older than me and fried bacon and eggs, Dad sat at the table with the day's issue of The New York Post, and Jess-a-less sat across from him, bent over a notebook and writing something. It was either homework or poetry.
Short and petite with clear eyes and her rust-colored hair held back in a perky ponytail that begged to be swatted, she looked like literally none of us; you could tell she didn't fit. Only she did because this is her home and she's my sister, so there.
Dad glanced up from his paper when I came in, faded blue eyes, and sniffed. "It lives."
Giving into temptation, I flicked Jess's ponytail and dropped into the chair next to her. "Look who's talking. Shouldn't you be at work?"
He meh'd. "Fred can handle it."
Fred was his cook, a Vietnam vet who was working there when Dad bought the place in 2014. Because they were both army nerds, they were BFFs and talked about war and stuff. You'd be trying to eat your burger and they'd be at the counter gossiping like a couple of girls about all the severed limbs and bomb-blasted dead people they saw. And he has the audacity to call me a ghoul. Dad didn't trust many people, but he trusted Fred and let him open and close by himself. For as much smack Dad talked about not wanting to go in, though, he always did...eventually.
"You're lucky you own the place," I said.
I slouched coolly to the side and draped my arm over the back of the chair. This whole time, Jess hadn't so much as looked up from her project. I craned my neck to look over her shoulder, and coming alive, she crossed her arms over it. "No, stop."
I arched my brow in my best Rock imitation. "Uh...okay."
"It's private."
I held my hands up, palms out. "Okay." Then, to be a jerk, "I'll just read it when you're asleep."
"You'll have to find it first," she said cockily.
"Under your bed, that's where you hide everything."
The color drained from her face, and I smirked. Jess thought she was slick, but you gotta get up pretty early to pull one over on ol' Alex. "I don't hide stuff under there."
Dad watched us over the top of his paper. You hide stuff? What do you hide? Drugs? Weapons?
"Yes you do," I said. I started to say That's where you hid 50 Shades of Grey, but stopped myself. That might be going a little too far; the embarrassment of Mom and Dad finding out she read something like that would probably kill her. She'd probably have a heart attack if she knew I knew.
Before she could protest, Mom brought our plates over and set them in front of us. "Here, hide this in your stomachs."
Bacon, toast, eggs, and grits - you don't have to tell me twice!
While we ate, Dad divided his attention between his food and the paper, and Jessy covered her mouth with her hand. She has this thing about not liking people looking at her while she eats. Yeah, I know, she's a mess, but I love her.
"I saw Mr. Huggins at the supermarket yesterday," Mom said. The morning sun falling through the window over the sink set her face on fire, and holy wrinkles. She was forty-five but she could easily pass for fifty. Her long black hair, done up in a slack and half-hearted ponytail that lay limp between her shoulder blades, was free of grays, though. I think she dyes it and fronts like she doesn't.
"Yeah?" I asked. "How's he doing?"
"Good. He uses a cane now."
Mr. Huggins was the principal at the elementary school when me and Jess went there…and probably when Mom and Dad went there too. He retired two years ago at eighty-one. I didn't know they let people that old work, but okay.
"Cane?" Dad asked. "You mean bitch stick?"
I snorted laughter and Mom shot him a dirty look. "Will you go to work already?"
"When I'm done." Dad picked up a piece of toast with a flourish and took a mocking bite.
Mom rolled her eyes and shook her head long-sufferingly. With them, it was hard to tell where the kidding ended and the bickering began.
When he was finished, Dad took his plate to the sink, set it in, and leaned over to kiss Mom on the cheek. "Love you."
"Love you too." She turned her head and they kissed full on the lips.
Yuck. There goes my appetite.
Just kidding, I was done anyway. I set my plate on top of Dad's and checked the time on my phone. "Gotta go."
"Alright," Mom said. "Be careful."
She always says that when I leave the house like I'm a reckless dope or something. A busy street? I better cross it without looking both ways, durrr. "I will."
On my way out, I slapped Jess's ponytail again. "Later, dork."
"Tell Mr. Atkins I said hi."
"I will."
In the living room, a cozy space full of knick-knacks, family photos, and ceramic dolphins (Mom loves dolphins), I slipped my coat on and went outside. The morning was bright and cool, the sky cobalt blue and the light that vivid shade of gold you only see in fall. Houses faced the street and the trees along the sidewalk blazed with autumnal color. The tang of burning leaves found my nose, and I drew a deep breath. Ahhh. Love that smell.
Pulling my jacket closed against the chill, I went down the steps and hung a left. Next door, Old Man Grouse raked fallen leaves in his front yard. "Morning, Mr. Grouse," I called.
"Don't talk to me, Loud," he spat without looking up, "I'm busy."
Well then.
I followed West Street to Aldrich, where the houses are bigger and the people slightly richer. Boys rode bikes, girls skipped rope, and a dog trotted aimlessly back and forth, tongue hanging out. He saw me, crossed the street, and sniffed my shoe. "You smell pizza stuff, don't you?" I scratched behind his ears. God only knows what I dropped on it last night.
By way of answering, he licked it.
Shortly, he got bored and wandered off, and I went on my way. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, off to the li-berry I go. Mispronouncing words triggers Jess's OCD so I do it a lot. Hey, gotta keep her on her toes, right? It's like a form of toughening her up. The uninformed call it bullying, I call it a public service.
Two blocks later, Aldrich filtered into Main Street. Two-story brick buildings lined the way and people moved up and down the sidewalks on Saturday errands. I took a left and crossed town square, a patch of green edging the old county courthouse. A statue of Royal Woods' most famous native son dominated the commons.
Dino.
Dino was a white boy who dressed in a dinosaur suit to set himself apart from the other white rappers and spat lyrics like a Tommy gun spits bullets. He won a bunch of rap battles in Royal Woods and Chippewa Falls, then took Detroit by storm. For a while, the press hailed him as the Midwest Riff-Raff. He cut a track with Post Malone but got kicked off the Post Malone tour for getting messed up on sizzurp and using the N-word.
With sunglasses and a bandana tied around his forehead Tupac style, ol' Dino was not the kind of guy you usually see immortalized in bronze, but in a town this small, you take what you can get.
Tragically, Dino went the way of many rappers when he was gunned down in a drive-by two years ago; the gunmen mistook him for someone important and lit him up as he came out of a porta-potty in Southeast. He was buried in Westvale Cemetery on the other side of town; his crypt has chrome spinners on it.
The library was housed in an American Foursquare with blue siding and a slate roof. It sat in a grove of trees beyond the railroad tracks, and if you weren't looking for it, you were likely to blow right past. A bush covers the sign out front, which probably throws people off. I offered to trim it, but Mr. Atkins doesn't trust me with power tools.
I climbed the steps and went in through the front door. Straight ahead, a hall led to a kitchen at the back of the house, and to my right, a steep set of narrow stairs provided access to the second floor. The wallpaper was blue with white floral print and the woodwork was scuffed and dull with age. An archway on either side of the foyer opened onto a shadowy parlor crammed with bookshelves. The cinnamon smell of old books seasoned the air and a tranquil hush lay over the house like a blanket of newly-fallen snow.
Mr. Atkins was in his tiny office off the west parlor. When I say tiny, brother, I mean tiny. It was originally a closet before he had the walls knocked down and widened. Stacks of books, loose papers, and filing cabinets towered around the desk, and the only way to get to said desk was by a thin little pathway. He held a big magnifying glass to his face and closely studied a ledger by the comfortable glow of a lamp.
Here I am, buddy, notice me.
When he didn't, I said, "Hey, Mr. Atkins."
He started, looked up, and adjusted his glasses. He leaned forward, squinted like he couldn't see me, and then sat back. "Oh, hello, Alex. What brings you by?"
"Uh...I always come in on Saturdays. Remember?"
"Right," he said with a laugh, then shook his head (duh, of course you do). "Forgive me, I was cleaning out the attic last night and I found this book. I've been here reading it ever since."
All-nighter, huh? I know all about those. I once stayed up all night to read one of the Dark Tower books. By the end of it, I was a zombie.
"What book?" It takes a special tome to keep a man awake all night.
He picked it up, marked his place with his thumb, and showed me the cover. Not that I could make out the title from here. "The History and Social Influence of the Potato."
…
Wow.
Fascinating.
"It's terribly engrossing."
I nodded slowly. "Riveting."
"Very," he said, oblivious to my sarcasm.
Neither one of us spoke for a moment. "So, uh, what do you want me to do?"
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and hummed thoughtfully. "I don't have very much for you today." An idea seemed to then strike him and his eyebrows rose. "You could clean out and organize the storeroom in the basement." That way I can continue reading uninterrupted."
Ugh. That storeroom was packed with junk. It'd take me hours to clean it.
Oh well. I could get started on it and finish Monday or Tuesday. "Alright," I said heavily.
"Thank you."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Leaving him to it, I went back through the foyer and down the stairs to the basement. At the bottom, a door bearing a gold plate presented itself: ROYAL WOODS TOWN HISTORICAL SOCIETY. I dug my copy of the key from my pocket, unlocked the door, and went inside, snapping the light on as I went.
Most of the space was given over to display cases filled with corroded arrowheads and musket balls people dug out of the ground and brought in. Framed, black and white photos of Royal Woods at various points in history hung on the walls.
The storeroom was off to my right. I opened it, pulled the overhead cord, and deflated. The mess was even worse than I remembered. There were boxes, filing cabinets, chairs, Civil War muskets, and a thousand other pieces of junk heaped haphazardly about.
I blew a puff of air and shrugged out of my jacket. Like Dad says, the longer you stand around moping about something, the longer you'll be there. I tossed my jacket aside, metaphorically rolled my sleeves up, and fell in.
First, I took as much of the crap out as possible and set it aside. Next, I dusted, swept, rearranged things, and hurt my back moving a heavy filing cabinet. What's in here, rocks? When the space was as empty as I could get it, I brought everything back in and carefully packed it all together like a puzzle. Or Jenga blocks, 'cause if you pulled one thing out, the whole mess was coming down house of cards style.
Ah, there, done...for the most part. I dusted my hands and turned around, flush with accomplishment...then stopped.
Whoops.
One more thing.
A metal lock box stared up at me from the floor like Oliver Twist. Can I have some more, sir? It was roughly two feet by two feet, rusted, covered in dust, and had a flimsy little lock that wouldn't stop a toddler.
I bent over, picked it up, and went into the storeroom. Literally every spot was taken. Huh. Where oh where am I?
Like the big dumb oaf I totally am not, I kicked a filing cabinet and started to fall. My heart jolted and I reacted on pure instinct; the lockbox flew from my hands and landed on the floor, and I caught myself on the cabinet.
Darn it.
I brushed my hair out of my eyes and took a deep, resolute breath. Y'know, Mr. Filing Cabinet, I'm here to help. The least you can do is not try to kill me.
Sorry, Alex the cabinet seemed to say sheepishly, it's just been so long since I murdered someone.
The box lay upside down on the floor. I bent to grab it, but paused. In the fall, the lock snapped off and the lid popped open, freeing what was inside. It sat next to the foot of a broken chair, lonely and forlorn.
Double darn it.
I started to pick it up, but wrenched my hand back with a gasp.
It had a face.
A human face.
Heart knocking, I leaned over, and realized it was just a book. A book bound in cracked, skin-colored leather. The face, twisted features and mouth open in a frozen scream of agony, was slightly raised, like an image in a macabre pop-up book. Shadows seethed in its gaping eyes, and...it was just creepy, okay?
And creepy is my middle name.
"Oh, wow," I marveled. I copped a squat, crossed my legs, and picked it up. The leather was warm and fleshy in my hands, almost like the book were alive,
Ew. Kinda gross, but okay.
The face regarded me like I was the spooky one (oh no, an Alex – ahhhh!). I opened it to the first page, yellow and brittle with age. Tight, flowery script marched across the paper in tight, inky columns, and a sketch of a guy being sawed in half occupied the bottom right corner.
Whoa.
There were fifty pages of this stuff. Drawings of people being burned, people being cut up, people getting their hearts ripped out and their brains eaten. I tried to decipher the writing, but in addition to being in cursive (which is hard af to understand), it was in another language…I think. If you asked me, I'd say it was a witch's spellbook and they put it down here after they burned her at the stake. They tried to destroy it, but because of Satanic dark magic, it was indestructible. Burning it didn't work and when they threw it in the lake, it later appeared on one of the witch-killers' nightstands, just chilling like it paid rent. Hey, how's it goin'? They finally shoved it in this anti-magic lockbox and hid it down here so no one would ever find it.
Then, along came Alex.
Oh, what dark mysteries it held; what arcane secrets privy to only a few learned scholars.
I don't know what dark, malignant power compelled me to take the book and slip it under my shirt. I blame the devil...and Jessy...everyone but myself.
Closing the box and setting it aside, I shut the door and went back upstairs, holding my stomach like I had the runs. The book felt funny against my belly, and I shivered.
Mr. Atkins was still in his office, still reading about potatoes. Standing there in the doorway, concealing the book beneath my shirt, I felt a twinge of guilt. Oh, come on, I'll bring it back. I just wanna get a better look, okay?
And find out what that writing says.
'I'm done." Could he tell from my voice that I was a thieving a-hole?
"Alright," he said simply, not even glancing up. "See you Monday."
Guess not.
"Okay. Bye."
On the porch I stopped, took the book out, and turned it over in my hands. The binding was stitched together in places and tattered in others.
Is this, uh, real human skin?
Awesome.
Now, I just needed someone to help me read the writing.
And I knew just the person.
Twenty minutes later, after much hoofing, I found Jessy sitting at her desk and writing. Still at it, huh? I went over, perched on the edge, and dropped the book on top of her work station. She recoiled, then, realizing she'd just been Alexized, she took a deep, centering breath.
"Hey, Jess, check it out. It's a spellbook."
She looked up at me with a tight-lipped expression, then to the book. She furrowed her brow and leaned over to get a better look. "Ew!" She crossed her eyes. "Where'd you get it?"
"Found it at the library." I gave her the 411 and her features slowly knotted in shocked disgust. "So," I concluded, "I brought it back here."
She gaped. "You stole it?"
I missed a beat. "Well, no, I'm not keeping it, I just -"
Jess cut me off. "Did you ask permission?"
"..."
"So you stole it."
I sighed. "Okay, technically, yes, I stole it." Here I whipped out some air quotes. "But in spirit, I only borrowed it."
Jess threw her head back and moaned. "Alex, why?"
"Because." I leaned over and opened the cover. "Look, it's really old. Like Mom and Dad. You'll love it."
She eyed the page warily. She was a history geek and a book lover, so she couldn't pass this up even if she wanted to.
Anxiously biting her lower lip, she gave in to her curiosity.
Ha, check and mate.
"What's it say?" I asked. "It's a spellbook, right?"
Jess scanned the words and muttered to herself. "Yes," she said absently. "It says, He who owns this booke shall weeld the power of the infernal one…" she trailed off and looked like she was going to be sick. "I don't like this," she said quickly and snapped the cover closed.
The infernal one?
As in…Satan himself?
Cool.
I picked the book up, set it in my lap, and opened it. "Didja see all the cool pictures?" There's one of a guy getting mauled by a cat. Like, hello, how do you lose to a cat? It's five pounds and twenty inches tall." I laughed and shook my head. Good times, good times.
Jess hugged herself.
"You cold, Jess?"
"No." She glared at the book. "That...thing. Get it away. It's awful."
I snorted. "Yeah. Awfully awesome."
"It's gross and yuck and evil."
Evil? Uh, since when did my sister become superstitious? "Oh, it's not evil; it's just a book."
"A book full of evil."
I rolled my eyes. "Jess -"
"I'm serious," she said firmly. "Get it away from me or I'm telling."
Oh.
She was serious.
Softening my tone, I said, "Look, you don't really believe that stuff, do you?"
Jess wrapped her arms around herself like a girl in a straight jacket. "No, I don't, but it gives me the creeps. Take it back where you found it."
I sighed. Her mind was made up. I stood. "Fine, I'll take it away."
"Thank you."
I couldn't take it back to the library since I had to go to work. By the time I got home, it'd be closed, and it wasn't open on Sundays, so that left me high and dry until Monday. In the meantime, I hid it in the linen closet between two ugly sheet sets no one ever used, then checked my phone. Did I have time to take a shower and wash all the dust and yuck from the storeroom off?
Nope.
Oh well.
I grabbed my uniform, went into the bathroom, and hurriedly changed. Black pants, maroon shirt with PISSY's over the left breast in white, and a black, Jamie Kennedy tier sun visor that made me look almost as dorky as my dad.
Pissy's, the best pizza place to ever live, was on the edge of Main two blocks from the trestle bridge that carries the street across the Royal River. It sits on a corner apart from everything else. The dining room is microscopic (two booths and a counter), and the kitchen is so narrow it makes racist comments. My boy Langston stood behind the register with a blank expression. Tall with a little bit of chub and messy blonde hair, Langston had two modes: Leave me alone and kill me now. He loved making pizza, but he simply tolerated everything else. His voice was flat, his eyes sleepy, and his shoulders stooped; he looked like a slacker but trust me, guy's not.
"What up, Lang?" I grabbed my apron from the stand by the counter.
"Hey," he mumbled.
Langston loves crafting quality pies, but you know what else he likes? Bruce Lee. Dude is obsessed with Bruce Lee. He even has a tattoo of Bruce's face on his back.
I only know all this because one time this guy in a ski mask tried to rob us, and while I cowered behind the counter (I'm gonna die!), Langston just stood there, gun in his face. Sir, he said, please leave.
When the guy didn't, Langston grabbed his arm, snapped it in two, and hit him with a sick throat punch that took the doctors, like, five surgeries to fix. Later, I asked him how he did it, and he said he learned from his idol...Bruce Lee.
"Ready for the big Halloween party?" I asked.
Every year, Alton and Margaret Brenner, the richest people in town, threw a huge costume party at their McMansion on Pine Street.
"I didn't get an invite," he said.
Oh. "Well...it's open to everyone."
"I don't go anywhere unless I'm invited."
Like a vampire – lol. "Alright, well...wanna come to the big Halloween party?"
"No. I work that night."
I sputtered. "On Halloween?"
God, I couldn't imagine working and missing the best and most important holiday in the world. I'd probably cry the entire time.
"Yes. I need extra hours."
I parked my butt on the counter next to him and planted my hands on either side of me, legs kicking back and forth. "Why's that?"
Langston didn't speak for a moment, and I started thinking he wasn't going to tell me. Go away, Alex, you're bugging me. He's totally said that before, btw. "I'm saving up so I can fly to California, find Quentin Tarantino and spit in his face."
Ah. Quentin Tarantino, the guy who made Once Upon a Time...In Hollywood. Langston hated that movie because it made Bruce Lee look like, "A stupid asshole." When it came out, he railed about it for almost a month. I assumed he moved on but apparently not.
"Pretty sure that constitutes assault."
"I don't care," Langston deadpanned.
Alrighty.
Jumping off the counter, I made my way to the time clock, punched my card, and went back into the kitchen. Pat, the manager, stood next to the oven and wrung his hands like a Bond villain plotting world domination.
Ugh. I was hoping he wouldn't be here today. "Hey, Pat," I said, fighting to keep the disdain from my voice.
Pat whipped his head up like Gollum and flashed a big, fevered smile. "Hello, Alex."
A short, fat troll of a man with greasy black hair that veiled his weasel eyes, endlessly oozing pimples, and a snout in place of a nose, Pat was the kind of manager who delighted in throwing his weight around. The technical term is power-tripping asshole, I think. He lived in his mom's basement (literally) and rode an electric scooter to work (scooters are lame, sorry not sorry). On his off-time, he drew art for a cartoon fandom. He brought some of it in to show off one day, and it was shockingly good...but contained just a little more incest than I expected. And this is Lemy fucking his sister Lyra.
Everyone gasped.
Even Langston.
Twenty-eight or twenty-nine, Pat was always staring at my butt and boobs like a grade-A perv, and just being around him made me feel dirty, like every part of my body was lightly coated in slime.
I washed my hands in the sink, then grabbed a wad of paper towels. The entire time, Pat watched me through his bangs, the tip of his tongue swiping his crooked, yellow teeth. A shiver went down my spine and I noped out. In the dining room, I leaned against the counter next to Langston. "Slow day, huh?"
"Pretty much."
No sooner had I said that, two guys came in the door. I stood up straight - look alive, Loud - and opened my mouth to greet them.
When I saw who it was, my heart fluttered.
Tim and his cousin Mark walked up to the counter. Tim's my boyfriend (3). Short and slight with brown hair and cute little glasses, he was hot, dorky, and always let me win at video games.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call a keeper.
Mark, it just so happened, was Jessy's boyfriend. He looks like that dude from My Friend Dahmer: Tall; shaggy blonde hair; painfully scrawny. With his hooked nose and beady little eyes, he resembled a bird too (caw, caw, your date's here, Jess). He has mild Asperger's, which makes him: 1) flat and unexpressive; and 2) socially uninhibited. Honestly, guy doesn't feel shame about anything. If his wiener popped out in front of everyone, he'd just go oops and tuck it back in. If that happened to me, I'd curl up in a little ball and die from the humiliation. He also can't read social cues. He told me he once spent an entire day thinking a girl liked him only to find out she hated his guts. I didn't see that one coming, he said.
Propping my elbow on the counter, I set my chin in my hand and batted my eyelashes at Tim. He's so dreamy.
Watch how a girl in love greets her beau.
"Hey, short shit, how's the weather down there?"
He leaned against the edge and wiggled his eyebrows. "Hot and steamy."
"You should use Tinactin for that. I think that cures jock itch."
Langston sighed, probably annoyed by our interplay.
"Why do that when I can have you scratch it for me?" Tim asked smoothly.
I shrugged. "Alright. Let me grab my tweezers."
He opened his mouth then shut it again. At a loss for words. Ha, Alex Loud, knockin' 'em speechless since 2005. "It's not that small," he finally said.
"Uh-uh, that's what they all say. What do you want?"
He glanced up at the menu. "Uh...just a large cheese pizza and an order of wings."
I rang him up, took his money, and shoved it into the register while Langston wandered off to start the pizza and wings. "Anything cool going on?" I asked. Mark was currently pacing the dining room and inspecting the floor and walls like his name was OSHA.
"Nah, not really. We're just hanging at my place."
"There's a cobweb," Mark piped up. He jutted his chin to the corner behind the door.
Reaching under the counter, I grabbed a dry microfiber cloth, balled it up, and threw it at him. "He who sees it gets to clean it."
He stared at me, then the cloth, then grabbed it, got down on his knees and swatted the web away.
I was just kidding, but okay. Less work for me! "What are you guys doing?"
"Playing GTA 5."
"Lucky." GTA 5 is my all-time favorite game. The shooting and blowing stuff up is pretty dope, but I'm more in it for the open world aspect. Freeways, country roads, all sorts of towns and mountains to explore – it's awesome.
Tim grabbed a carry-out menu and glanced it over. "What time do you get off? You can come over. Just be warned, my folks are there."
He said that like I was going to try and jump his bones or something. I really like you Tim, but no, I'm not really for all that right now. He knew that and he respected it. Honestly, I think he's as nervous over it as I am. One time, we were playing Xbox and I went to reach over his lap for some chips, and he screamed, grabbed his crotch, and crossed his legs. He tried to play it off like his back twinged (gee, that really hurt) but I'm pretty sure he thought I was going for his junk.
"Too late to hang," I said with a sigh. "Maybe tomorrow."
Tim winced. Oooh, no good. "We're going to see my grandma tomorrow."
Darn. "Monday?"
"Well, yeah, I can't miss school."
Boy, that was the truth. Tim's a smart cookie but he has trouble applying himself in math and science (just like me) and grade-wise, he walked a slippery slope. One wrong move and he was going down like a fat kid tripping on his shoelaces.
Shortly, Langston came out with a pizza box and a Styrofoam container of wings and handed them across the counter. "I'll see you later," Tim said.
"Alright." I didn't want him to leave but, alas, he had to.
"Tell Jessy I said hi," Mark said.
"Why not text her?"
Mark didn't miss a beat. "Because it means more in person, even if it is coming secondhand."
Can't argue with him there.
When they were gone, I slumped against the counter. "Is it time to go home yet?"
"No," Langston said.
Ugh.
Having to work for a living sucks.
You know what sucks even more? When your bully of a manager comes in, says, "If you got time to lean, you got time to clean," and makes you scrub the grease off the vent hoods.
That sucks quite a bit more.