The End of FUN (35 page)

There was a light on.

In the house.

Just this light.

A little light in an upstairs window.

And for a moment there I was filled with immense envy—because was that window not a bathroom window? Was Oso not perched up there upon a cool porcelain bowl with a
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine and the softest roll of new Charmin
®
SofterTouch Double Strength toilet paper (YAY!), while I clenched in such agony on the lawn? But then I noticed something else. I'm always noticing things.

The window—it was too big to be a bathroom window. It was more like a bedroom window. And I had to wonder at Oso's tactics. If you're all about stealth, why turn on a bedroom light? It was almost as if there was someone else on the premises….

And then came a crash—this big, long crash—from inside the house. Like someone tripping over a stack of pots and pans. There was a shout, another crash, and then
all
the lights came on at once, every single one of them, even the outside lights, like the eye of God opening up.

And it was like,
Bingo, you dumb shit!

A moment later, Oso rounded the corner, heading at me in a sprint, a package in his hands. He was saying something, shouting to me, nostrils flaring like a horse, but I couldn't make out the words—just
wub wub wub
—and yet I knew what the message was anyway:

RUN!

There was just one tiny, little problem. My limbs weren't working. Or, it wasn't that they weren't
working
, per se, it was that there were suddenly so many of them.
Ghost limbs
. Until I sorted out which were real and which were not, I wasn't going
anywhere
. It couldn't happen soon enough. Whoever or whatever was after Oso was probably after me as well, and any second now he, she, or it was going to turn the corner and find me rolling around on the ground like some kind of whacked-out centipede.

Sure enough, as I was playing Twister on the lawn, a figure appeared from out of the dark. I curled in a ball, protecting my soft underbelly against whatever was coming at me, but it wasn't the beast—it was Oso. He took my arm and tugged me to my feet. I could understand the words now:

“Off your ass, bro! We gotta GO!”

And then we were running. The pills were hitting hard now, and I began to understand why they call it werewolfing. Suddenly I was feeling OK. I mean, I was feeling better than OK. I was feeling like I could
run
.

You should've seen us, me and Oso. Talk about speed. Talk about endurance. Down the block, past the cemetery, the high school, the old abandoned hospital, then up into the tree streets, down another hill—I chased after my friend, and the only reason he didn't get away was every so often he'd look over his shoulder and slow down for me. I was moving. I was going. I was feeling such sweet, sweet relief—but then I had a thought that slowed me right the hell down.
Wait. Relief? Didn't I really have to go? How come I don't have to go anymore
?

A quick inspection in an alley confirmed it. It was true. I removed my undies and flung them over a fence into the darkness in disgust—and it was only then that I realized I needed something to wipe with, and that's how I lost my favorite pair of socks.

Oso was gone now, but I was able to locate him by the sound of his voice. He was standing at the entrance of the Old 65 gas station, pounding his fists against the big glass doors.

“Let me in! Let me in or I'll blow this house down!”

Behind the glass, two attendants were staring back at him from the counter. One of them was holding a mop stick like a baseball bat, and the other guy was speaking very purposefully into a phone.

“Oso! Let's go! They're calling the cops!”

Oso wasn't listening. He was pounding on those doors, the glass wobbling, ever so slightly, with each impact.

“Guys! I just want the key to the bathroom! Gimme the key!”

“Oso! We gotta go!”

I grabbed his arm. My friend turned to face me. His eyes big and yellow. It was like he didn't recognize me.

“Oso. Come
on
!”

He growled and shoved me away. “I need the key!”

Look, you never leave a man behind. I know that rule. I KNOW THAT. But what was I supposed to do? Stand there and fight him until the cops got us both? As I was heading across the parking lot, I heard the first wail of sirens in the distance, and I called to Oso again—I freakin'
howled
at him—but he wouldn't listen. He was a werewolf.

Sirens. Lights. Shouts.

I started running.

I woke the next morning with a splitting headache and a vague feeling that I'd committed myself to some kind of obligation, but what it was I couldn't remember. I scraped myself out of bed and crawled to the bathroom. Homie
™
popped up.

“Go away.”

I swatted it aside and took my first pee of the day, where I was surprised to discover that my urine was electric blue, although that didn't concern me as much as the way it foamed. I was heading into the kitchen when Homie
™
popped up again.

“Go away.”

One was from Shiloh, the other was from Katie. Neither of them had left a message. It didn't seem like a good sign. Then Homie
™
was back.

“Thank God you answered,” she said. “I tried earlier, but my battery ran out before I could leave a message. We had to go back to the hotel to find my charger, so that's why we're late. But anyway, we're here.”

“Where?”

“The pool.”

“The pool?”

“We just got here. Sorry we're late. Are you here?”

“Am I at the pool?”

“We're
meeting
here, remember? You, me, and Papa. Like I told you last night…remember? You're still coming, right? Please tell me you're still coming. He's starting to drive me insane. I could really use some company.”

“We're meeting at the pool?”

“Yes! He wants to meet you, remember? Look, it's nothing serious. It's just…well. I've got to warn you. My papa, he's kind of…I don't know…
enthusiastic
.”

“What's that mean?”

“He may ask you some questions….”

“Questions? About what?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Just, you know, questions.”

The truth is, I've never liked swimming pools, and not just because I'm a terrible swimmer and don't enjoy hanging out with a bunch of strangers and their bodily fluids in a big tub of chlorine—but now that I think about it, those are some great reasons right there.

There were two pools: indoor and outdoor. The indoor one was the more popular one, at least with the kids—when I got there it was a boiling froth of children, flotation devices, and actual froth. Shrieks echoed off the concrete walls. Chlorine fumes burned the air. At the far end, through the dirty aquarium windows, I could see the outdoor pool, all glittery in the sun. Two figures were paddling around in the water: Katie in a purple swimsuit, and this big hairy dude who I took to be her papa.

So out I went. The hairy dude climbed out of the pool to greet me—this short, barrel-chested man with blue eyes, a mustache, a smile like Katie's.

“My name is Aitor Ezkiaga,” he said as he pumped my arm up and down. “But you may call me ‘Mr. E.' I am from the town of Errenteria in Gipuzkoa, Euskadi. Do you know this place? Not Espain—
Euskadi
. Basque Country. Katie has told me much about you. I am so pleased we can finally meet.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you, too.”

Mr. E. looked me up and down and smiled bigger. “It is nice to be here, no? Swimming pools are places of happiness. And yet, my nipples, they are sore.”

“Papa!” said Katie from the water. “I keep telling you, that expression doesn't translate into English!”

“Well, but it is true. Can you not both see how sore they are?”

When I woke up that morning pretty much the last thing I expected to be looking at was Katie's papa's nipples—and yet here there they were, just chilling out on his chest like some kind of weird sea creature.

“Why are my nipples sore?” he said. “Because I am saddened. I see her so rarely, and yet now my daughter will not race me in a swim. I have come all this way, across the ocean, and yet my dear youngest daughter refuses—”

“Papa! No one wants to race! Can't we just hang out?”

Mr. E. winked at me. “Maybe together we will convince her for a race later, eh, Aaron?”