Venomous (4 page)

“Best, actually.
Best
friends.”

“Oooh. Sounds official. Let me know when you guys head up to Brokeback.” My face must turn as red as it feels, because she smiles and scratches lightly at my shoulder with her long black fingernails. The sensation stays on my skin like an aftertaste. “Just messing around. No worries.”

“Sorry,” I say, and then, with all the eloquence of projectile vomit, “I’m just really, really, really not used to meeting new people is all, y’know? I’m a little on edge. This is a lot to take in over, like, five minutes.”

She nods slowly, smiling still. I’m trying to keep my eyes off her cleavage, and I’d be failing miserably if she weren’t so beautiful. “Want a Djarum?” she says, holding out a pack. I’ve heard about these—clove cigarettes, like smoking incense, big in the Goth scene—but I’ve never had the pleasure. I grab one immediately and light it on a nearby candle, an action that seems unspeakably cool to me.

One drag tells me I haven’t been missing out on much. Gag. Ugh. Yech. Medic. If I wanted to inhale potpourri, I would’ve hit up Gracious Home on my way here.

She lights her own and glances over at me. “Good, huh?”

I force a smile. “Great.”

“So, what sort of scene are you a part of?”

Well, shit. This is the music thing I’m so worried about. I have to calm down and not be a fucking nutcase. Maybe a raver? No, that’s moronic, look at yourself, don’t say that. Hip-hop? God, no, you’re about as convincing a hip-hop fan as you are a fucking jellyfish. Classical? Country? Polka?

“Well, I don’t really have a scene.”

Her pointed eyebrows arch. “Really?”

Okay, work it. I’ve gone with the honest answer, so I might as well stick by it. “I’m a music fan, but I like a lot of different stuff. I don’t fall into any scene or category. I listen to a lot of Tom Waits, if that helps.”

To my surprise, she says, “Cool.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, it’s cool that you can stay outside the boundaries of all the scenes in that way. Too many kids just buy the right clothes and go through the motions, so they can be dumped into a category, right? I mean, look at
me
, all dolled up like Siouxsie. And some of the schmucks here…” She waves her hand, displaying the schmucks. “I’m impressed. Plus, Tom Waits rocks.”

Locke, you are an accidental genius. You are the fucking moron Mozart.

Suddenly “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” comes tinkling out of her pocket. She reaches in and yanks out a cell phone, which she flips open. “Just a second. Hello?…Yeah…Well, no, we’re just hanging out…. Okay…one song? Okay…one song…okay, bye.” She snaps it shut and pouts. “I have to go home after the first song, dammit. How bogus is that?”

“Utterly bogus. There is none more bogus.” Wow, Locke. Just…wow.

She laughs. “Well said, Locke.”

I repeat: moron Mozart. Idiot Einstein.

Before I can continue charming the pants off this dark angel, Randall whips his guitar out and starts a-plucking. I recognize the tune as “El Scorcho” by Weezer (him and his fucking Weezer). Suddenly the whole crowd yells out, “El Scorcho! Aye caramba!” and a frenzy begins. We sway, banging our heads, screaming the lyrics we remember and garbling the ones we don’t. Kids begin dancing; soon the entire rock is a whirlwind of spikes, parkas, checkered ties, purple hair, and smiles. I’ve never been a part of something like this before; this is only supposed to happen in nineties teen comedies. These people, these candles, Randall as the host…It’s like a dream. A weird, unexpected, magnificent dream.

The Goth pixie taps me on the shoulder as the last chorus becomes one huge joyous scream. Before I know it, there are soft hands cradling my cheeks, and she kisses me—she, her,
this
girl, kisses me, Locke, poisoned boy. Our arms work their way around each other (I have to do that damn awkward scoot, where you sort of hop over to someone while sitting), and soon we’re in what a Victorian novelist would call a “passionate embrace.” It’s airtight. I want every possible part of her on me.

She pulls back and says, with her inky lips only millimeters from mine, “I’m Renée, by the way.”

This
is
Renée
?

Her breath smells like a church after dark, like the graveyard in Candyland. “I’m Locke.”

She giggles. “I know.” And with that, she leaps down off the rock, gives Tollevin a hug, and trots uptown while I stare after her and make a mental note to crown myself King of the Universe.

The feeling of eyes on me jostles me out of my girl-scented world, and I turn to see Randall giving me the ultimate shit-eating grin. He leans in like a mom and pulls his thumb across my face, then gives me a thumbs-up smeared black. Again, I swell with glee.

“You could’ve told me,” I growl sidelong at Randall, “that
that
was Renée.”

“And miss your suave-ass moves? No dice. Besides, getting between Renée and her food is incredibly hazardous to my health, and you obviously weren’t expecting that kind of girl—Well, it was too perfect.”

“Did you set that up?” I ask, riding the adrenaline.

“Not exactly, but I was damn sure hoping for it.” There’s a moment of good vibrations between us; then, with spider-like grace, his fingers go slowly across the strings of his Gibson and leap to life. And this time, there’s no garbling.

“‘When the night…has come…’”

The kids with the bongos howl in approval and pound on their skins, like their lives depended on it. Guitars all over the rock wake up, and pretty soon we’ve managed to start the biggest, coolest camp singalong I’ve ever heard. Kumba
ya.

“‘No, I won’t…be afraid…No, I-eee-I won’t…shed a tear…’”

And as I’m sitting there feeling truly cool for the first time in ages, I see this guy sitting off to one side of the crowd, with a bottle of something or other, facing toward the river. He’s all curled up into a fetal position and sort of rocking back and forth, taking a swig from his bottle, and then rocking back and forth again. And his demeanor, the way his shoulders hunch and his head hangs, sets off a buzzer in the back of my head: familiarity. This kid hits me with a two-ton sack of déjà vu.

I tap Randall on the shoulder as the song draws to a loud finish. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing.

Randall follows my finger and frowns. “
That’s
Casey. He’s the Emperor of our little group.”

“I thought you were the Emperor.”

“Oh no,” he says, “I’m the Fool. Casey’s the Emperor.” He hikes his finger back toward uptown. “Renée’s the Hierophant.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I’d be a little weirded out if you did, to be honest.”

“I want go talk to him. I’ll be back, okay?”

Randall nods like he understands. “He’s in one of his funks, though. Don’t push him.”

“Why, what are his funks like?”

Randall opens his mouth to explain, but then gets this thoughtful look in his eyes. “Y’know what? Go find out. It’d be good if he tells you himself.”

I get up and start walking through the crowd. The closer I get to Casey, the more I see that he’s dressed quite nicely. He’s wearing a white collared shirt and black slacks, and his hair is all slicked back and shiny. He looks very dapper, and I begin to wonder what he’s doing with a crowd like this. He has a round face with chubby cheeks and the tiniest hint of a double chin, but also has very dark patches under his eyes, only they aren’t painted on like Renée’s, they’re earned. As I stare at him, he takes another slug of whatever and holds the bottle out to me. I take it and take a very tiny sip, which burns nicely on the way down. I glance at the bottle. Jack Daniels. I’ve never had whiskey before.

“Hi,” I manage to say very quietly. “You’re Casey, right?”

“I’d prefer you not take the guidance-counselor tone with me, Locke,” he says in a deep baritone voice. “Locke Vinetti, the school friend, Randall’s cohort. Lovely night, isn’t it?”

I nod. “It’d be nicer if you join us, sir.” What the hell? Where did that come from? Maybe it was the whole “Emperor” thing.

He finds it funny enough to laugh a little. “‘Sir’? Call me Casey. Or ‘Emperor,’ if you’re into that thing.”

“Thing?”

He waves his hand back to the crowd. “Locke, Tarot. Tarot, Locke.” He takes another deep slug of whiskey. “It’s something Randall and I came up with, which all these kids have taken a little too far. There are even gangs now.” I look confused, and he sighs and continues. “The punks and rude boys are the Swords, the hippies and emo rockers are the Wands, the mods and indie kids are the Cups, and the metalheads and Goths are the Pentagrams. Mind you, in the original tarot it’s actually Pentacles or Coins, but they changed it to Pentagrams, what with the Satan-loving and the angry music, and the…Ah, whatever, you know what I’m talking about.” He spits like the idea has left a bad taste in his mouth. “The creators get to be the Major Arcana. Tollevin, Randall, Renée, myself, two or three others.”

I’m absolutely amazed. I’ve never in my entire life heard something so incredibly wonderful. Tarot gangs. Tarot get-togethers. A youth network based on magical cards from medieval times. I couldn’t have come up with that in a million years. It’s all too great. This kid is fucking brilliant. “That’s insane. You did all this?”

Surprisingly, he looks enraged. “
They
did it,” he snaps. “I just came up with the whole idea one day after school with Randall, and it became this THING. Fucking…
look
at them. It’s kind of pathetic, right?” I fidget a bit. Well, this is awkward. Randall’s warning echoes in my head. Okay. One more question, then I’m done.

“Is that why you’re sitting off to the side?”

“No, this is different. This is the heaviest shit you’ve ever known.”

I’m about to go against my plan and ask him what that means when Tollevin leaps up onto the rock and yells, “PO-PO!”

The what now?

And like lightning, the candles are blown out and snatched up, the instruments are packed away, and the kids are running, like stampeding cows. One kid, a hardcore-looking punk rock chick, comes running backward past us. “Didn’tyoufuckinghearhimmanhesaidthepo-poareherefucking-RUN!LaterCasey!”

Casey waves drunkenly. “Later, Ivy.”

I spy two policemen wriggling their fat asses over the edge of the rock, grunting stuff about permits and big trouble. A couple of the punks and metal heads start throwing rocks and bottles, which isn’t helping. Suddenly there are two night-sticks in two chubby Irish hands, ready to beat some counter-culture ass. Randall shoots me a frantic look, nods, and bolts into the park.

“Shit! Casey, c’mon!”

Casey slowly gets up and nearly falls to the ground in the process. “Shit,” he says, giggling. “Fucking
whiskey…
”

One of the cops sees us and points to the other one. Two words come ringing out over the din that make my blood drop a couple degrees: “HEY, YOU!” I’ve never had a run-in with the cops before, and personally I don’t want to. Getting picked up downtown by my mom would suck. Even worse, I don’t want to start an argument with people who won’t listen, which is exactly what these two fat, badged, on-edge pieces of shit look like. If the venom breaks out, there would be less Partying without a Permit and more He Must Be on PCP. So I do the only thing I can think of: I hook one of Casey’s arms around my shoulder and we start running.

I expect the cops to leave us be when we sprint away, but no dice. They’re on our asses from the moment we hightail it. Zigzagging, ducking through bushes, nothing works; I glance over my shoulder and they’re behind me, stumbling through the park and swearing under their breath. The 72nd Street stairs come into view, and I begin panicking, because our options are down to Riverside or the Trump Pier, both of which are gonna be packed on a Saturday—

Something catches my eye. The venom twitches nervously, assuring me that it won’t work, that confrontation’s the only option. I swallow it down and go with the only glimmer of hope I have.

I wheel Casey like a sack of potatoes under the picnic table by the park’s baseball diamond, and duck underneath it, squeezed in next to him, our breath quick and purposefully shallow.

“So gentle,” he slurs.

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss.

Through the opening between the bench and the table, I see the cops, their silhouettes distinguishable only by their cute little hats. They stop, the fatter of the two leaning over on his own knees, panting.

“You see ’em? Did you see where they went?”

Pant, pant. “I think”—pant, pant—“I think we lost ’em back”—pant, pant. Goddammit, just leave—“by the restrooms.”

“Ah, shit.” The less fat one whips back and forth, hoping to catch a blur of frightened teenager, but no dice. “Unbelievable.”

“Long.” Pant. “Coat.” Pant. “Couldn’t’a gone far.”

“Fucking kids. Let’s head back, clean up.” The thinner one stalks back to the rock. The fatter one follows, gulping and gasping as he goes.

A full minute after they disappear, I start breathing again. Casey and I duck out from under the picnic table. We somehow drag our carcasses up the stairs to the tunnel leading out to Riverside Drive. My brain is bobbing in a sea of adrenaline. I can barely hold the cigarette I jam into my face. The night air was never this refreshing before.