Out of Whack (18 page)

       I fidgeted nervously as the girl talked. “Becky? It’s Trish, let me talk to Laura. Laura? You will never believe who is here at this very moment. Go ahead and guess. Nope. Nope. Nope. Here, let me give you a clue.” She made a vomiting noise into the phone. “Yes! I’m completely serious! I’ll do your laundry for the next month if I’m lying!”

       Trish listened for a few moments, her grin widening at an even rate with the feeling leaving my legs. “Okay, I’ll tell him. You bet. Bye.”

       She hung up and blinked innocently at me. “She’s on the second floor. She wants you to come down.”

       “Really?”

       “Oh, yes. She most certainly does.”

       I felt like an ulcer spontaneously generated. “Which room?”

       “I forget the exact number, but I know where it is. You need an escort, and I don’t want to miss this. Just let me put a new roll of film in my camera and we’ll go.”

       Let me tell you, the urge to drop to my knees, wail “MOMMY!” and suck my thumb was very strong indeed. Trish kept letting out this creepy little giggle while she got ready to go. As we walked toward the stairs, she kept glancing over at me and smiling.

       “Is Laura a violent person?” I asked.

       “Yep.”

       “Really violent?”

       “Yep.”

       “Is this a huge mistake?”

       “Yep. Walk a little faster, sweetie. We don’t want to keep her waiting.”

       We proceeded down the stairs, which is quite a task when your legs are numb. The numbness was spreading through my entire body, which meant that any second my words were going to sound like “munnhhhhh munnhhhhh.” That is, if I didn’t forget how to talk altogether.

* * *

* * *

* * *

       (I put in three segment breaks to draw out the suspense.)

       We stopped in front of a room with a “Becky & Winky” sign on it. I wondered if Winky was going to be there to share in my destruction.

       Trish rapped on the door. Each knock seemed to echo menacingly throughout the hallway. I swore I heard a wolf baying at the moon.

       “Yes?” a voice asked from inside.

       “It’s me,” said Trisha. “And him.”

       “One moment, please.”

       God, that was a long moment.

       The door swung open, slowly. Laura, looking breathtakingly gorgeous, was seated at the other end of the room, legs crossed primly, textbook on her lap, wire-framed glasses on her face. Becky, a split-end-laden peroxide blonde, smiled kindly at us.

       “Won’t you come in?” she asked.

       Trish walked into the room. I hesitated for a moment, but upon coaxing from Trish I entered as well. Becky shut the door behind us.

       “Hi,” I said, shocked that my verbal skills were still present.

       “Hello, Seth,” said Laura, closing her textbook. “And how are you?” She spoke with exaggerated politeness, her eyes not giving any clue to what evil intent might lie within.

       “Not too bad.”

       “Are your classes going well?”

       “They’re okay, yeah.”

       “I’m pleased to hear that. My classes are also going well.”

       “Do you think maybe we could go somewhere to talk in private?” I asked.

       Laura shook her head slowly and deliberately. “Anything you wish to say, you can say in front of my friends.”

       “Okay, I’ll start with ‘Please don’t gang up and beat the living crap out of me.’ I’m here to do some serious groveling.”

       “Groveling is good. I like groveling.” Laura regarded her friends. “Do the rest of you like groveling?”

       “I like groveling,” said Trisha.

       “Groveling works for me,” Becky added.

       “But you have to grovel without saying ‘I’m sorry,’ because my threat to kill you if I hear you say that one more time stands,” Laura explained.

       “I understand.” I took a moment to compose myself, which was made fairly difficult with all three girls staring at me. “Okay, I guess it’s obvious that we got off to a bad start. And I’m going to freely admit that the bad start was entirely due to my own clumsiness and lack of control over certain bodily functions.”

       “I’m pleased that you understand that,” Laura said.

       “Now, why I’m here. Basically, I was a little antsy knowing that there may be someone out there carving ‘Die, Seth, Die!’ into local livestock. I mean, you know, having people make voodoo dolls of you is nothing but a hassle, especially trying to get your fingernails back. I think women started wearing fake nails to keep the voodoo doll producers away from them.”

       Laura furrowed her brow. “You’re trying to be amusing. I don’t think you came here to be amusing. If you did come here to be amusing and make peace, you should know that you’re failing at both.”

       Tough crowd. The voodoo doll observations were supposed to continue for another three jokes, but I decided to let it drop.

       “Okay, here’s the deal. I want to make up for all the laundry problems I’ve caused you.” I reached into the grocery bag and took out a bouquet of eleven red roses. I’d purchased a dozen, but while arranging them I’d discovered an interesting new fact (thorns hurt), causing me to drop one and knock off most of its petals.

       I gave the roses to Laura, and for the briefest fraction of the briefest second I saw a flicker of a smile on her lips. Her expression quickly returned to Bad Momma territory, but I was encouraged. I wanted to glance at Trish or Becky to gauge their reactions on how I was doing (“Run, you poor bastard, run!”), but kept my eyes on Laura.

       “There are only eleven,” she pointed out. “It goes well with your inadequate personality.”

       I wondered how many guys she’d performed fellatio on. My curiosity was strictly concerned with whether her tongue had severed their penises.

       (Let’s hear it for Number Four!)

       “Yes,” I agreed humbly. “It does.”

       “You’re doing a little better,” said Laura. “Anything else?”

       “As a matter of fact, there is,” I told her, reaching into the grocery bag again and taking out a box of Tide. “I figured you could use this if we ever ran into each other again. And,” I said, making my voice sound like an announcer, “it also makes a handy—”

       “Don’t try to be amusing,” Laura warned.

       “I’m done,” I said.

       “Okay, I can use some more detergent.” Laura took the Tide from me and set it on the desk. “Any other offerings?”

       “One last thing,” I said, taking two candy bars out of the bag. “Here, Milky Way and Milky Way Lite. I figured Milky Way would be insensitive if you were on a diet, and Milky Way Lite would be insulting if you weren’t, so I got both to cover my butt.”

       “I’m allergic to chocolate,” said Laura.

       I felt a cool breeze blow across my butt.

       “But Becky and Trish aren’t,” she continued, “so I’ll pass your gift along.”

       “Thank you,” I said.

       Laura gestured to the door. “Now, get out of here and stay away from me. We’re even now.”

       “Get out of here. I can do that.” I crumpled up the grocery bag and headed for the door. Trish winked as she opened it for me.

       I started to turn around.

       “Don’t turn around,” Laura said. “Just go.”

       I left.

       As I walked down the hallway, I wondered if that had been a success or a failure. She hadn’t hung me from the ceiling by my belly button (an outie, making this a physical possibility), but I couldn’t help feeling a bit depressed. What had I expected? Her to throw her arms around me when I gave her the roses? A relationship between us was ridiculous—I’d only come there to make peace, right?

       Becky and Winky’s door opened. Laura stuck her head out.

       “Hey, doofus, you need an escort!” she said. She hurried down the hallway after me, then took my hand. “And I need somebody to take me to lunch.”

       We interrupt the plot to bring you the educational segment of our book...

10 Ways To Tell That You’re Not A Trout (for all of you who asked)

1. You don’t live underwater.

2. You don’t have gills, fins, or scales.

3. You have a job.

4. You have hands and feet.

5. You can read, write, and solve mathematical equations.

6. You can answer a telephone in the correct manner.

7. When somebody says “Hi, Trout!” you don’t respond.

8. When you stare into the mirror, you honestly believe you don’t look like a trout.

9. The last time you saw a trout hooked, reeled in, gutted, and eaten, it really didn’t bother you much.

10. Your parents insist that they would never have raised a trout, and still they raised you.

      
This information may seem unnecessary, even frivolous. But as long as any of you have any doubts about whether or not you may be a trout, I intend to help ease your turmoil. Because, as much as I try to fight it, I care.

       —Seth Trexler, Your Friend

“Love Me, Baby, Love Me”

       I’m going to get philosophical for a moment. If nothing else, it will balance out all those penis jokes in the last chapter.

       What is love? Where does it come from, and what does it mean?

       Or, more specifically, why was I wildly, insanely attracted to somebody who had treated me like I was covered with a five-inch thick layer of mutant fungus? Sure, she was gorgeous, but this wasn’t just a physical I-Wanna-Stand-At-The-Foot-Of-Your-Bed-And-Do-Gross-Things-While-You-Watch love, this was something deep! I mean, this was an attraction that could have entered stalker territory! I might have built a shrine to her in my dorm room, except that the danger of gas leaks made lighting candles a bad idea.

       Why was I feeling this way? Why did her touch make my internal organs feel as if they were rearranging themselves like furniture? Why was I envisioning scenarios involving us complaining that the grandkids never came over for Thanksgiving anymore?

       “Ugh, your hand is all sweaty,” said Laura, removing her hand from my grip as we continued down the hallway.

       See the way she talked to me? Why was I obsessed with her?

       Stupidity certainly played a role, but, really, Laura had a certain...
aura,
for lack of a better word. If you would like a worse word, she had a certain “thingie” about her. And though she’d been insulting me constantly, I didn’t detect any real malice. Okay, maybe a little real malice, but at least no hatred. But, hey, here I was, walking down the hall with her, and we’d actually spent three seconds holding hands!

       So maybe she was attracted to me, too.

       What the hell was wrong with
her?

       Love. Don’t try to explain it. That’s what Hallmark is for.

* * *

       Without speaking, we walked outside to the Sniper Hall parking area. Laura led me to her car, an incredibly used blue Plymouth. There was a yellow sign in the rear windshield that said “Dead Baby On Board.” I wanted one. Maybe several to give as gifts.

       “Where’d you get that?” I asked, pointing to it.

       “From a catalog. There’s this place that has all kinds of sick stuff like that. I place an order every couple months.”

       That’s why I was so attracted to her! We were both sickos!

       She got in the automobile, shoved about six years’ worth of fast food refuse off the passenger seat, then unlocked and opened the door for me. I climbed in and she started the engine.

       “So, where are we going?” I asked.

       Laura shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I know a place that has great steak and lobster if you don’t mind paying.”

       “Actually, the roses came pretty close to wiping me out,” I admitted.

       “I was only kidding,” Laura said. “How do hamburgers sound? Dutch treat.”

       “That sounds fine.”

       She pulled out of the parking area, and after a seatbelt-inducing left turn we were on Trade Point’s main street.

       “I have a question,” I said.