Fook (24 page)

Turning the last deadbolt, Sarah yanked open
the door.

“Are you okay?” Derek addressed her
excitedly, though seeming a bit disoriented as he appeared unable
to maintain his balance.

“What?” Sarah responded, unsure of the
reason behind the question. “What happened?” she shifted the focus
to his condition.

“God damn!” Reyna exclaimed as she joined
Sarah at the door, ready to blind and then stab the late night
visitor but quickly lowered her weapons upon seeing that someone
else had apparently beat her to the punch.

“Is he here?” Derek continued the odd
questioning.

“Is who here?”

“So you’re alone?”

“Yeah, it’s just us,” Sarah answered.

“Don’t forget about my boyfriend Terrance,”
Reyna added her imaginary boyfriend.

“Good,” Derek offered an impaired smile
before succumbing to his injuries and passing out in Sarah’s
arms.

TWENTY-THREE

3:00 am

The alarm clock on the night stand beside
him was the only source of distraction from the explosively violent
sounds of regurgitation escaping from the master bathroom. For the
third time in the last hour now, he’d been awakened by the
violently discarded covers and the sounds of his wife frantically
darting for the toilet. The first time he’d immediately followed
her, confused and unsure of the problem before having the door
slammed in his face and being told, between the sounds of the
chunky liquid discharge, that she didn’t want him to see her like
that and that she was okay and he should go back to bed. He’d done
as he was told and ten minutes later, with teeth freshly brushed,
Tabitha had returned to bed.

The next round he’d known better than to
follow, though he had still climbed out of bed just in case, like a
typical woman, she’d changed her mind and now wanted him to witness
the vile display. Again she’d slammed the door shut but not before
issuing a don’t move an inch glare through the dimly lit room.
Again, he’d done what he was told and again, ten minutes later the
room was filled with the scent of peppermint.

This time he didn’t even bother to get up.
He knew better. This time he’d simply pulled the covers back up and
rolled over to face the bright red digits of the time keeper to his
left. The sounds from the other room were equally as loud this
time, however had taken on more of a dry, hacking quality. The
shellfish, which had been rejected earlier, had obviously run out,
leaving nothing but the thin bile at the pit of her stomach to make
the sudden, northerly journey.

Typically possessing a strong stomach, he
was surprised to find himself also starting to wretch with each dry
heave, leading him to contemplate just what he’d do if he himself
needed the services of the occupied, porcelain god. He very well
couldn’t just burst through the door and shove his sick wife to the
side. One, he’d feel horrible afterwards and two, when she was done
puking all over the floor, she’d probably kick his ass.

Scanning the room, he quickly eyed the
large, potted ficus beside the dresser and decided that, if needed,
he’d fertilize the tree. Lucky for the tree however, the wretch
inducing sounds began to die down and he managed to regain control
of his own regurgitative reflexes. The welcome lull, followed by
the familiar sound of running water signaled the end of what would
hopefully be his wife’s final bout with dinner.

“Never again,” Tabitha announced in a
strained voice as she appeared in the bathroom doorway, turning off
the light and making her way back to bed.

“Are you okay?” Richard questioned as he
rolled over to face his returning wife.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I get
the Pescatore all the time,” Tabitha moaned as she slid back under
the covers, laying her head on her husband’s shoulder while making
it a point to keep her mouth and potentially offensive breath aimed
safely away from him.

“Maybe Georgio’s got a bad batch of mussels
this time.”

“You didn’t get sick.”

“That’s because this time I was cheap and
only got the Fettuccine Alfredo,” Richard pointed out as he rubbed
his wife’s back.

“You’re always cheap,” Tabitha rebutted,
turning her head to flash a smile before regretting the movement
and returning to the crook between his shoulder and chest.

“Eighteen dollars is too much for a
mediocre, eight ounce steak and noodles,” he offered up his usual
complaint when the topic of Georgio’s came up in conversation. It
was Tabitha’s favorite restaurant and for that fact alone he didn’t
mind going; however, it didn’t mean that he was about to drop a
pretty penny on something he could easily prepare at home. It
killed him to pay even eleven dollars for a bowl of noodles and
sauce but at least it was a cheaper option and the salad and
breadsticks easily offset the inflated price. “I’d much rather
have—,” he continued.

“—a ribeye on the grill at home,” Tabitha
completed the more than familiar rant.

“Well I would,” Richard pouted.

“Can we drop the food talk for a while?”
Tabitha requested as her stomach let out an audible protests. “I
have a particularly important meeting in the morning and it
probably wouldn’t go over well if I upchucked all over Mr. Branson
during my pitch.”

“What are you pitching? Because if it’s an
ad for Pepto, that might just work,” Richard grinned, proud of
himself.

“Stop grinning. It wasn’t that funny,”
Tabitha guessed at the broad smile likely occupying her husband’s
face. “It’s for some new cleaning product called Fabrix. If you ask
me it’s just some cheap Resolve or Woolite ripoff but it’s a new
client and we could definitely use some of those right now.”

“Perfect. First you throw up on him, then
you clean him up with his own product. Get it all on tape and
you’ve pitched the idea and shot the commercial all at once,”
Richard’s grin grew.

“Maybe it wasn’t dinner but instead your
horrible sense of humor that made me sick,” Tabitha joked with her
own broad smile.

“No, I’m pretty sure it was the rotten
mussels.”

And with that, the covers flew, the door
slammed and he was once again left to stare at the trembling
ficus.

TWENTY-FOUR

“Hey! Ya made it!,” Tyler exclaimed as he answered
the door to find Derek standing on the other side.

“Aw shit, they invited you?” Derek feigned
disgust while turning to walk away.

“Ha ha. Very funny asshole. This
is
my house.”

“Technically it’s your parents' house and
frankly, I’m surprised they still let a prick like you live here,”
Derek stopped his retreat.

“The old man keeps telling me next year,
college or not, I’m out. Now get inside,” Tyler backed out of the
way as Derek stepped inside.

The house was filled with the same familiar
faces that filled the halls of Cannon High every day, only now they
seemed noticeably happier, having exchanged their burdensome books
for Solo cups filled with liquid escape.

“I actually don’t know what I’m going to
do,” Tyler continued as they made their way into the busy living
room, the noise of the over occupied space causing him to add to
the growing roar with each word he spoke. “I didn’t apply yet so
I’m probably screwed already but that’s probably a good thing. I
might just take a year off or take a few classes at the community
college until I figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do with myself.
Hey, you wanna drink?”

“Sure,” Derek reluctantly accepted the
offer, his plan of using the search for a drink to escape Tyler’s
typical rambling now ruined.

Scanning the room of bobbing heads, Tyler
spotted an unattended red cup on a nearby table and quickly
claiming it, handed it to Derek.

Derek just stared at the already half
finished beer and the trace of red lipstick lingering on the cup’s
white rim.

“So, I guess you don’t have that
problem?”

“Huh,” Derek asked, confused by the vague
question.

“College I mean,” Tyler clarified.

“Oh,” Derek responded. He didn’t like to
talk about where he was going. Though he enjoyed a very social
existence he didn’t really like to talk much about himself,
especially when it might be construed as bragging.

“So, M.I.T. huh?” Tyler pushed the
subject.

“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?”

“Hey!” a girl’s voice suddenly erupted from
the crowd; likely the drink’s rightful owner.

“I’m just going for electrical engineering.
I’m not going to be a rocket scientist or astrophysicist or
anything exciting like that. Besides, I barely got in,” Derek
continued his modesty.

“It doesn’t matter how you got in, just that
you got in,” Tyler finished his sentence with a slight stammer in
his voice.

“Clearly the drinking started early,” Derek
thought as he realized now that he was never going to escape.

“Isn’t that Jason kid going to M.I.T. too?”
Tyler asked, before downing the rest of his beer and tossing the
empty cup into the crowd.

Derek watched as the red projectile sailed
across the room, striking a red lipped girl in the forehead and
drawing another familiar, “hey!”.

“He’s such a tool,” Tyler laughed. “I don’t
know why you hang out with him.”

“Jason’s a good guy. Sure he’s a bit uptight
and nerdy but he’s a good guy.”

“A bit?! That guy's the king of the nerds. I
mean the guy’s going to M.I.T..”

Derek just stared at his obviously
inebriated acquaintance.

“I need another drink,” Tyler changed
subjects, obviously unaware of his previous statement. “You want
another?”

“No, I’m good,” Derek raised his untouched
drink with a grin, hoping that his friend’s alcoholic quest might
free him from his company long enough to disappear into the
crowd.

“Saw you empty handed,” Brendan Silva
suddenly emerged from the crowd with two new drinks, one of which
he handed to Tyler.

“Asshole,” Derek thought as he greeted the
new arrival with a smile.

“Hey, Derek,” Brendan greeted his friend
with a hard slap to the shoulder.

While Tyler was too chatty, Brendan was way
too touchy feely. The guy couldn’t have a conversation without some
sort of physical contact at least every couple of minutes.

“Hey Brendan.”

“You’re just in time,” Brendan attempted to
whisper, though given the noise, was probably just talking in his
normal tone.

“In time for what?” Derek asked.

“He’s here?” Tyler asked, obviously excited
by the undisclosed news.

“They’re out back. Come on. We need to
hurry,” Brendan almost giggled as he turned and made his way
through the crowd to the roped off stairs.

“You gotta come,” Tyler, pulling a move from
Brendan’s playbook, grabbed hold of Derek’s arm and pulled him
toward the stairs.

Confused but curious, Derek followed.

“This is going to be a amazing. Hurry up,”
Brendan urged them along as he ducked under the improvised rope
made of duct tape and leapt up the stairs two at a time.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked, still not
sure what could be so exciting upstairs when the party was clearly
a first floor only event.

Neither Tyler nor Brendan answered as they
reached the top of the stairs, sprinted down the hall and
disappeared into a nearby bedroom.

Making his way toward the very door which
had swallowed his two friends, Derek hesitantly glanced into the
room before slowly stepping inside. The room was empty, other than
a well adorned queen bed accompanied by the standard bedroom
furnishings. Another door at the far end of the room stood open,
revealing a white, porcelain tile floor that was most likely an
adjoining bathroom. Obviously the master bedroom, Derek thought to
himself.

“Psst!”

Derek turned to see Tyler’s head poking out
from between the partially open bi-folding doors of the master
closet.

“What are we doing?” Derek asked.

“Get in here,” Tyler insisted.

“Hurry up,” Brendan’s voice joined from
within the small space.

Pushing the doors apart, Derek stepped into
the dark, walk-in closet to find at least six other people in there
with Tyler and Brendan.

“What are we—?”

“—Shh!,” an unknown kid to his right
silenced him as voices could be heard making their way down the
hall.

Turning to his left, in hopes of finding
someone who might let him in on what was happening, Derek was
greeted by the glaring gaze of the red lipped girl from downstairs
as she alternated glances between him and the lipstick stained cup
in his hand. He just grinned and shrugged as the voices grew louder
and Jenna Bishop entered the room.

Undisputedly the beauty of Cannon High,
Derek finally understood why the closet was now full of men and
what he now assumed to be a lipstick lesbian.

“Come on. I won’t bite,” Jenna coaxed her
suitor into the room with the seductive waive of her index
finger.

Derek knew that waive. Though he’d never
been so lucky as to be on the receiving end of one from Jenna
Bishop, he’d had his fair share of pant tightening encounter.
Though he knew hiding in the closet at that very moment was wrong,
he couldn’t help but continue to watch with excitement, curious as
to who the lucky bastard on the other end of that finger might
be.

Watching as Jenna strategically sat at the
end of the bed, her legs ever so slightly parted as an invitation
to the man who approached, Derek couldn’t help but turn his
attention toward the unseen doorway, eager to see who had been
fortunate enough to land the breathtaking blonde.

Quickly glancing at the girl beside him,
Derek rethought the lesbian stamp as he noticed her gaze was also
fixed upon the doorway. “She must know who the lucky guy is,” Derek
thought but instantly began questioning his own curiosity. Did he
really want to know. What if it was someone he was good friends
with. Though secure in his sexuality, he knew himself well enough
to know that he’d never be able to separate the guy’s face from his
manhood which would make for a very uncomfortable remainder of the
school year.