Deathskull Bombshell (5 page)

Trevor was kind of a nimrod.

“You hate everything,” Brooke said, taking a
drag off the swirled glass pipe she used for smoking weed. One of
her slacker friends in study hall sold her a dime bag, discount
price, but the edge wore off pretty quick. Hopefully the next one
would be better.

She took another hit to calm her nerves,
breathing the smoke out. It looked like grey clouds, and she
thought of buildings. Maybe one day she’d topple over too. She
pulled her hair back into a ponytail with both hands, then let it
fall to her shoulders, writing a song in her mind. Amber waves of
grain, she thought to herself. Amber who? Why waving? Why grain?
Everybody was so patriotic, hungry for conflict, eager to hate.

Toad the Wet Sprocket on the radio, smoke in
her brain. She stared at the ground in front of her, trying to
decide between two hair ties.

One of them was neon pink with thick magenta
beads. She found it on the sidewalk a few weeks ago. It probably
belonged to a little ghetto kid once upon a time.

The other was a light blue polka-dotted
ribbon she’d snatched up while dumpster diving.

Both hair ties were equally ugly, not
something you’d really want touching your hair. That was cool,
though. Punks didn’t give a shit about appearances.

She sighed.

Elizabeth rolled over on her back. Like every
other body part, Elizabeth’s boobs were too big for her. No matter
what feminist literature Brooke forced upon her, Elizabeth’s
complaints about her body were endless. It wasn’t an aesthetic
thing, not really. Her boobs really were too big. They made
everything difficult, even relaxing, especially in the hot
September weather. The fat rolls on her back allowed for more
cushioning. “Yeah, but summer especially sucks.”

Brooke examined the pink elastic band. The
beads were cute, but she hated pink. It was too girly, and it
clashed with her hair, the unfortunate color of a moldy old carrot.
“It’s not all bad,” she said.

“Easy for you to say,” Elizabeth said. “Your
house has air conditioning.”

“My house is the fucking Smithsonian,” Brooke
grumbled. She hated being the product of a middle-class family. It
interfered with the artistic process. Artists were born to suffer.
The fact that her parents were college professors only made it more
disgusting.

They were always busy with school, always
taking groups of students to foreign countries, leaving her and
Nick alone to house-sit. They had to dust off the old Greek
stoneware, make sure the paintings didn’t get stolen in the middle
of the night, tend to the upkeep of weird tatami bamboo mats.
Tatami was a real bitch to clean, by the way. They couldn’t even
throw house parties. Nick was too worried about breaking
things.

Once a week, Grandma Roche called to check in
on them. Grandma Roche was the technical long-distance landlord of
the house, renting to her favorite daughter and her family, but
whether it was out of family obligation or a love of money, Brooke
couldn’t say. She just knew Grandma Roche always phoned them up
whenever she planned to get in trouble.

Elizabeth groaned. “I need air
conditioning.”

Trevor walked in just then, rolling a
cigarette. He kicked affectionately at Elizabeth’s pudgy leg. “You
need a gastric bypass operation.”

“Oh, shut up,” Brooke said. “At least
Elizabeth’s not made of hair gel.”

Trevor touched his shellacked-back, crunchy
dark-blonde locks. He was pretty good-looking, actually, but his
attitude ruined it. He set his lips in a flat line, thinking. “You
know, I bet if we book a few more concerts and set up a donation
jar, we could afford an air conditioner.”

“Yes!” Elizabeth threw her hands in the air.
Finally, she could be cool.

Brooke looked at them, then at the light blue
hair ribbon. “I think Pete at Smelly’s Tavern is looking for
musicians. And there’s another Battle of the Bands coming up.”

“Nice,” Trevor said.

“Will Parker be allowed in?” Elizabeth
said.

“It should be fine,” Brooke said. “They don’t
have age restrictions for performers, you know that. And anyway,
Parker doesn’t really drink.”

“I think he and Nick are so cute together,”
Elizabeth said.

Brooke was quiet. Comments like that were
unnecessary. What did that word mean anyway, cute? It bugged her.
Everybody thought being cute was so important, but really it was
just another useless capitalist requirement. Insecure people were
good for the economy.

The hair ties bugged her too. Maybe she
should just wear her hair down. “Non sequitur por nada, machisima.
Por quoi? No me gusta. Dak dak dak dak dak.”

Elizabeth and Trevor exchanged looks.

Keeping secrets stressed Brooke out. Acting
weird and crazy was her only reprieve.

The world was a mean place. People started
nasty rumors about the O’Doole siblings. Nick got beat up a few
times, and then she had to fuck them up herself since he wouldn’t
fight back. Only punches, nothing that bad. A bloody nose here and
there to prove her point. He was such a pacifist. In retaliation,
somebody wrote up a bunch of graffiti about her. Her reputation
never recovered.

She put most of her anger into writing songs
for Deathskull Bombshell. Lucky for them, abrasive lyrics were in
these days.

Sometimes when her parents were gone she
would take a ball-peen hammer to glass wine bottles in the
backyard. It felt good to smash things. Nobody ever talked about
it.

Elizabeth spoke first. “You know I have no
idea what you just said, right?”

“You’re too smart for us,” Trevor joked. He
scratched behind his ear, grinning in a weird way she didn’t
recognize, jiggling his foot. He seemed really hyper all of a
sudden.

“What?” Brooke asked. “I am not. It’s called
linguistic blurring. People do that when they want to speak in
code.”

“What’s the point in speaking in code if
nobody knows what you’re saying?” Elizabeth asked.

“Because Jesus.”

Elizabeth sighed. “You and your atheism.”

“I think my atheism is quite nice, actually,”
Brooke said, crossing her arms. She fluffed her hair. Yeah, no hair
ties today. Punk ideology didn’t necessitate head lice.

They were silent for a while, listening to
Toad the Wet Sprocket. Good chill-out music. She missed the
nineties sometimes. Everything was so simple before the
attacks.

“Have you ever read Kafka?” Trevor asked
her.

“I don’t believe I have.”

“I have a copy of
Parables and
Paradoxes
upstairs.”

Brooke stared at him. Was Trevor hitting on
her? They were in a band together. She was his sister’s best
friend, for fuck’s sake. He’d never hit on her before. Why start
now?

“Oh, shit, the frying pan!” Elizabeth yelled,
shooting straight up into the air like someone stuck a fork in her.
She grabbed Brooke’s arm and dragged her into the kitchen, running.
An omelet, left unsupervised on the stove, fried to a crisp. It
smoked with heat, smelly and burnt.

“Whoops,” Brooke said. She smiled.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, tucking her hair
behind her ear. “Here,” she said, handing Brooke a paring knife and
a few jalapeño peppers from the fridge. “Make yourself useful.” She
grabbed the egg carton and a new frying pan, prepping for another
omelet. “We gotta stay in the kitchen for this one, okay? I don’t
want to start any fires today.”

Brooke rolled her eyes and got to work.

Cockblocker.

January 2009

“I just feel so useless,” Corey said,
half-asleep in my room. The January sun shone dark through the
Saran-wrap. I had to tape Saran-wrap over every window so my mom
wouldn’t complain about the cold.

I ran a hand through her hair, but it was too
greasy, so I settled for petting her head. I wiped the grease on my
pants, hoping she didn’t notice.

She wasn’t useless. If anything, I was
useless.

Corey was tough. She knew everything. She’d
lived in the ghetto since elementary school, could instantly form
friendships with perfect strangers, a total chameleon. She was punk
in all the right ways, educated, a fan of both seventies glam and
nineties alternative, but she knew enough not to be too openly
weird, a crime that got you targeted in the ghetto. Any sign of
excessive luxury, especially from a white girl, led to street
harassment and eventual mugging attempts. Corey kept her head down,
wasn’t racist or judgmental, heard enough of everybody’s business
but never repeated anything, having few people to repeat it to.

More than that, she just didn’t care.

Engineering school kept her busy and out of
trouble. My father often used her as an example with me, in his
rants about how I should be more motivated. Look at your
girlfriend, he liked to say. She’s capable.

Sometimes I thought he liked her better than
me.

“You’re doing just fine,” I murmured into her
shoulder, kissing her cheek.

She rolled over, clutching her belly. “I look
like a whale.”

“You look beautiful,” I lied. She looked
tired and angry. Her hair was stringy. She hated shampooing and
showering, couldn’t stand the sight of her body in the mirror. I
kept waiting for the pregnancy glow to kick in so she could feel
fuzzy and maternal, but so far, nothing.

I felt like a doctor sometimes, looking for a
heartbeat in a dying patient.

“A big, beautiful whale.” She closed her
eyes, falling asleep. I wished I had the money for a real house,
not a lease on my mom’s basement.

We weren’t even married yet. My mom kept
bugging me. Her mom kept bugging her. It was a maternal conspiracy.
At least we could agree not to marry each other.

She started snoring, and I felt her tense
body start to relax. I smiled, knowing there’d be drool crusted on
my arm when we both woke up.

Maybe I’d be an okay dad after all.

October 2010

“Man, I can’t believe your sister’s coming to
visit,” Parker said from his old flannel-lined sleeping bag on the
floor. A few feet away, Nick lay in another sleeping bag, curled up
like a fat caterpillar.

Even though they lived together, they always
had the same argument about where to sleep. Neither of them wanted
to be the asshole who slept in the bed while the other one had to
sleep on the floor. And they both had twin mattresses. Sleeping in
the same bed was impossible. It always ended with both of them on
the floor. Separate sleeping bags. Like one of those old-school
television sitcoms where nobody fucks.

He felt like an old maid.

They’d slept a dozen places together over the
years. Couches, floors, tents, even in the back of a pick-up truck
a few times back when Parker and his dad were fighting.

But they’d never fucked, not once.

At least Nick kept his bedroom floor clean.
One of the perks of having a boyfriend with OCD. And it wasn’t like
they’d never made out. At least there was that.

“I can’t believe you tried to win a date with
her,” Nick said.

Parker snickered, hugging his pillow. “Had to
get Austin to step his game up,” he said. “I never seen a guy more
motivated to win at Tekken. He almost looked happy.”

“You let him win?” Nick asked.

“I don’t remember. I was drunk.”

“Dude, you had one beer,” Nick said, shaking
his head.

“Meh, well, he won, I didn’t. Your sister’s
safe from my dirty man-meat.”

“Oh, well, that’s comforting,” Nick said. He
half-smiled, gazing up at the ceiling, then glanced over at Parker.
“Seriously, man. It’s not that dirty.”

“How would you know? You’ve never seen it,”
Parker said. “I could be covered in diseases for all you know.”

“Whatever,” Nick said. “You haven’t slept
with anyone either, so I doubt you have diseases. At least no
sexually transmitted ones.” He frowned, taking his glasses off and
folding them next to his pillow. “You don’t have a crush on my
sister, do you?”

Parker looked at the ceiling. He scratched
the back of his head and narrowed his eyes, pretending to think. Of
course he didn’t. Brooke was too female. But something had got into
him tonight, and he felt like being contrary.

He yawned, stretching out his arms.

Nick crossed his arms, waiting for a
response.

Parker didn’t say anything. He looked out the
window, contemplating. It was kind of nice to have control of
something.

A full minute passed.

“Well… she does look like you,” Parker
said.

Nick threw a pillow at him. It sailed past,
landing near the bookshelf instead.

“You suck. Learn to throw.” Parker threw the
pillow back at him.

Nick climbed on top of Parker and hit him
with the pillow a few times, soft hits. “Take that back.”

“Bastard,” Parker said from underneath
him.

Nick hit him with the pillow again.

“Homo,” Parker said.

Another hit.

“Butt-head. God, you’re a jerk. Ow.” He lay
there anyway. He kind of liked it.

Nick held the pillow above his head, ready to
attack again. The weight of his pelvis was heavy on top of
Parker’s. Parker swung his leg up, kicking Nick in the head, and
Nick grabbed his foot, leaning into his face. His
toothpaste-scented breath came in short, hot gasps.

A siren went on from outside, and they hushed
up, holding their breaths. Nick had an irrational fear of
policemen. The uniforms freaked him out, he said, you never knew
how often they did laundry.

Maybe this was it. You couldn’t expect
consent, you had to ask these days, but they’d been going out long
enough. It was a beautiful night. The world stretched before
them.

Maybe maybe maybe maybe.

They glared into each other’s eyes, daring
the other to continue. Parker’s blood pumped hot through his chest.
Everything buzzed through his body, while outside the sirens
wailed.