Down With the Shine (13 page)

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Open my mouth wide.

And scream.

N
othing happens.

I stop screaming and open one eye to see Benji staring at me in disbelief. If nothing else, I may have finally convinced him that I am definitely not a criminal mastermind. But before I can once again ask him to please let us go, five hundred things happen all at once.

The first is that a tennis ball hits Benji’s forehead. Then three more tennis balls come shooting into the room. One hits Benji, the second goes wide right, and a third gets me in the back of the head.

“Lennie, get down,” Dyl shouts. I immediately hit the floor, dragging Smith with me to relative safety beneath the kitchen table. Once secure, I glance over my shoulder to see not Dylan, but
W2
of all people, coming to the rescue using the tennis-ball-spitting machine Uncle Rod bought years ago in yet another attempt to impress
a potential lady friend.

I snap my head in the other direction to see Benji swinging his gigantic hands like rackets. He manages to bat most of the balls away while advancing toward W2.

Just when Benji’s close enough to rip the machine from his hands, W2 chucks the whole thing at his head. Benji catches it, then tosses the machine aside and balls up his fists in a way that suggests he’s decided to keep things straightforward and simply beat W2 into jelly. From across the room, I see Dyl slide into the kitchen through the back door, holding a gigantic can of Aqua Net in one hand and a Zippo lighter in the other.

“Hey, meathead,” she shouts at Benji. He swivels to face her with a murderous look and suddenly I am incredibly afraid.

Not for Dyl, but for Benji.

Even though she doesn’t smoke, Dyl always carries at least three lighters at all times. Papers that other people would throw out, she burns. Bugs that other people would squish, she burns. Old clothes, moldy leftovers, and anything else she can get her hands on—it all burns.

When she’s bored, as she often is, her favorite thing in the world is to grab one of her Zippo lighters and a can of hair spray to create a DIY flamethrower. I usually keep as far away as possible during those times, while also making
sure to have my phone ready to go in case I need to dial 911 when the hair spray explodes and takes half of Dyl with it.

With this thought in mind, I pull my cell from my pocket. A quick glance at the screen tells me the battery is two seconds from dead and I have a text message from Larry that simply reads: HELP.

Aw, crap. It’s definitely a never-rains-but-it-pours type of day.

Unable to do anything about Larry, I shift my focus back to Dyl, who is advancing farther into the kitchen while fire shoots out in front of her. Maybe it’s the way the flickering flames reflect on her face or the wide, maniacal grin, but she looks ten different types of crazy.

Behind Benji, W2 fires up his own homemade flamethrower. The two of them quickly have poor Benji pressed up against the fridge with his hands held high in surrender. W2 falls back, but Dyl moves closer, apparently determined to barbecue him.

Without taking my eyes off Dyl, I begin to frantically shake Smith, wanting him to wake up now and tell his sister to take it down a few notches. At the same time, Dyl cranks it up a million notches. She swipes the flames across Benji’s midsection once, twice, and then she laughs when his shirt catches fire.

“Dyl!” I scream. “Stop!”

I don’t actually expect her to listen, but luckily—I really can’t even believe I am saying this—W2 is there. He pulls her back a half step, allowing Benji to grab hold of a dishcloth to smother the flames. Meanwhile, Dyl shoots forward again.

“We’ll go!” Benji yells, throwing his hands up once more. “Just let us go.”

Dyl considers this for a moment, then nods. “Get out,” she says, her voice hard and angry. “Now.”

Benji doesn’t waste any time taking Dyl up on her offer. Scooting around the edge of her flamethrower, he snags Jules and is out the back door before I can even count to ten.

“The cops are on their way,” Dyl screams after them. “So don’t even think of sticking around.”

The door slams and I come crawling out from beneath the table, dragging Smith behind me. “What the hell? Stop with the fire already! And go lock the doors. Oh my God, what if they come back? Oh, shit. Oh, hell.”

“Duuuuude,” W2 says in response to my freak-out, while Dyl merely nods and says, “I’ll go lock the doors.”

As she leaves, W2 holds a hand out to me. “C’mon, let’s get my boy Smith off the floor.”

I eye him warily, wondering what’s happened to him
since this morning when he was threatening to sue and basically ruin my whole family.

“Don’t leave me hanging, Lennie,” W2 says, giving his hand a shake.

“Umm,” I say. “I need a minute down here to recover. Sooo . . .”

“Oh, I get it.” W2 nods knowingly. “You think I’m still mad about the balls. But look, I don’t hold grudges and also that whole wish thing worked out okay. Turns out all the equipment works the way it should, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” I quickly answer, not wanting to hear anymore.

But W2 keeps going. “Yeah, I thought if the boys were steel, the piston wouldn’t pump anymore, but Dylan was like, ‘How do you know it’s broken? Have you given it a test run?’ And I was all, ‘No, I haven’t, but
you’re
welcome to.’ Foreplay, you know?” W2 winks at me and I try not to gag.

“You and Dyl did not hook up,” I say, praying I’m right.

“Hey, hey, hey, that’s personal,” W2 protests, which immediately tells me that nothing worth bragging about happened between them or else he’d be doing so right now. “But I’ll tell you this. Everything down here”—his hands draw a big round circle around his crotch—“is working
the way it should. Seems like the boys are only encased in steel. Sorta like M&M’s, you know? Melts in your—”

“Hey, look! Smith’s waking up!” I announce in my loudest voice. This is finally enough to shut W2 up.

Even better, it’s true. Smith is groaning softly. “Hey,” I say quietly. He blinks a few times, as if trying to focus, and then his gaze settles on me. Our eyes meet and he sorta smiles, almost like he’s relieved to see me.

“Lennie, hey.” His voice is low and husky. That half smile already had my heart flip-floppin’ around in my chest like some poor fish gasping for water. Hearing him say my name in that way only compounds the damage.

“You’re awake,” I say stupidly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. Then his free hand finds mine and we simply hold hands. Both of them. One pair because we have no other choice. But the other . . .

“Dude!” W2 sticks his head under the table. Instantly the mood is shattered into pieces so small they disappear entirely. Our free hands slip apart. “You gonna hang out under there all day? You scared of the bad guys? No worries, bro, I chased them away.”

I whirl to face W2. “
Dylan
chased them away.”

“Dylan’s back?” Smith sits up and looks around. “Where is she?”

“Right here.” Dyl steps into the room as Smith and I
slide out from under the table. “Sorry for bailing. I needed some time to work stuff out.”

“With W2?” Smith asks doubtfully.

Dyl shrugs and looks away. Smith opens his mouth as if to say something else and then closes it again. We stand there for several moments in awkward silence. Well, Smith, Dylan, and I stand there in awkward silence. W2, oblivious to anything that doesn’t concern him, hums while hunting through the cupboards. Finally, he slams his hands on the counter.

“There’s nothing to eat here, man. And I’m starving. Lennie, they better serve food at your dad’s bar.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap.

“What am I talking about?!” He rolls his head around in this really obnoxious way, like he can’t believe what I’m saying. “Lennie, c’mon already. The dude wants to see you, and if he’s got people like that working for him”—W2 jerks a thumb in the direction of the back door Benji and Jules just exited through—“he’s probably gonna get his way eventually. It’s time for a power move. You go to the man and say, ‘Look, Pops, no need to send your minions, I came here alone to face you mano a mano.’ Then he’s looking at you like you’ve got some balls of steel. WHUT!?!” W2 swivels his hips so we can all hear the gentle
ting
of the metal between his legs. “That’s my new catchphrase, by
the way. Balls of steel. WHUT!? Awesome, right?” I open my mouth to answer in the negative, but W2 is clearly all amped up by his victory and there’s no stopping him now. “Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way, for the save. You owe me now. Big time. It’s lucky Dylan and I heard those freaks when they came in and decided to lay low. And it’s even luckier we are such badasses that we were able to scare them away.”

“Dyl’s a badass. You’re an asshole,” I correct him. “It’s a small but subtle difference.”

W2’s ego is impossible to puncture, so my words bounce right off him. “But they’re totally coming back. And somebody’s gonna call the cops eventually, so you’ll be dealing with them too. Anyway, the answer’s obvious. Your family’s a bunch of losers, except for your dad. He’s the man. So now we go to your dad.”

“No way,” I say. “Weren’t you eavesdropping? Didn’t you hear about all the horrible things he’s done? I’m not messing with him. No way. And if you had half a brain,” I add, pointing to W2, “you’d want to stay far away from him too.”

“Oh, c’mon, he’s probably not that bad. People are always talking shit about me too, but I’m not the bad guy they make me out to be.”

“No,” I counter. “Actually you are.”

Dyl impassively studies W2 for a moment before turning to me with a shrug. “He did help save you.”

“I don’t care. He’s the worst. While you were gone just now he told me you helped get his junk working again.”

That crazy look lights up Dyl’s face again, confirming that it wasn’t just the flames causing it earlier. “You know, Lennie, everything isn’t always about you. And it’s none of your damn business what I did or didn’t do with W2.”

I feel like I’ve been punched. Dyl and I were always united in our mutual scorn for Smith’s fratty friends. For her to side with the very worst of them . . . I swallow hard, before finally answering. “Okay, fine, whatever. W2 can go meet my father. Tell him I said to stay the fuck away from me. I’m going back to Michaela’s.”

“Aw, yeah, party!” W2 throws his head back and howls. Then he grabs hold of Dyl’s arm, dragging her with him as he races out of the kitchen while calling over his shoulder, “Race you guys! Last one there buys lunch!”

Smith and I don’t even attempt to chase them. We simply stand in the kitchen and do nothing at all. I wait for him to say something about me or Dyl or W2 or anything that has happened. But he is silent. And still. And inscrutable.

“You’re quiet,” I observe at last, feeling the need to say something.

He shrugs. “I don’t like being a dead weight.”

I laugh, certain he’s making a joke. Smith does not join in. It occurs to me that this might be one of those ridiculous male pride things. Trying to make it better, I point out the obvious. “Well, you were unconscious.”

This makes it worse. Smith sighs in this dejected way, as if I’d instead said, “Well, you were useless.”

It’s amazing to see such a huge chink in his armor. Funny enough, it makes me like him more. Or like him in a different, fuzzier way. Not from afar, like he’s some distant god that I’m hoping to brush up against, but in a way that makes my heart sort of swell. It’s deeper than attraction.

And it scares the hell out of me.

So I don’t tell him how right now he’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing into a pile of defeat. And that having my hand stuck to his is—without a doubt—the best worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Buck up, Smith,” I instead say, more than a little roughly. “We’re going to Michaela’s, remember? I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to prove your manhood there.”

His shoulders go back, his chin comes up, and that little chink closes solid like it’d never been there at all. “Bring it,” he says, sounding every bit as stupidly confident
as W2. And if it’s all just an act, at least it’s a good one.

Deciding to borrow his self-assurance—even if it’s totally fake—I parrot back at him, “Yeah, bring it.”

Then, as prepared as we’ll ever be, we march out the door, almost as if we truly believe we can leave all our fears behind us.

A
ccording to the clock on Smith’s dashboard, it’s 5:11 by the time we reach Michaela’s. We roll up the driveway only to find that our spot’s been stolen by my uncles’ truck.

As we pull up beside it, I see Old Bill snoozing in the front seat. Rolling down my window, I reach across to tap on his. Old Bill jerks awake and blinks at me through the glass in this sleepy confused way before his eyes go wide. “Lennie!” he exclaims as his window comes down. “What are you doing here?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“Hmph,” responds Old Bill, which is actually a pretty typical reply. He’s not exactly a chatty guy. So I’m amazed when he decides to elaborate. “The boys said you’d caused some trouble at a party. Wanted to see the damage. Drove round with the police scanner. Heard some noise ’bout
a flying boy or some such nonsense and Jet says, ‘That’s it.’” Old Bill shakes his head. “Flying boys. Hmph. They grow the weed too strong these days, that’s the problem. So anyhow, we came here. Your uncles talked to the officers. Musta made nice ’cause the cops left and your uncles went inside. That’s all I know.”

It’s probably the most Old Bill has ever spoken in one go. He looks exhausted.

“Thanks,” I say, but he’s already rolling his window back up and letting his eyes drift closed once more.

“Is this a good or bad thing?” Smith asks as he helps me climb over the center console.

“Don’t know,” I answer. “Good, I guess, that my uncles were here when the cops came. They’ve got this knack with them. Whenever they’ve gotten pulled over or a cop comes to the door ’cause they’re making too much noise, all my uncles have to say is, ‘What’s the problem, Officer?’ and bam, suddenly it’s like they’re best friends.”

“Wow,” Smith says as we finally get ourselves out of the Cherokee and start walking up to the house. “So your uncles totally made a wish that all cops would like them.”

“No!” My response is automatic. But then I think about it. I always figured their way of charming cops was sorta like the stuff falling off the back of a truck thing,
that my uncles simply happened to know people who were helpful. . . .

Holy crap. That was another wish. Of course. It all makes a crazy sort of sense. Uncle Jet said they had a lot of wishes, ’cause they could each grant for one another, and apparently they’d used their wishes a hell of a lot more wisely than me.

“Your uncles are smarter than they look,” Smith quietly observes.

“Yeah,” I agree, feeling my whole world being rocked. “I guess they are.” As we reach the front door something else occurs to me. Maybe they’re smart enough to have figured out how to fix this whole mess. Maybe we’ll walk inside and everything will be back to normal.

Foolish hope swells inside of me as Smith swings the door open.

We step inside. And hope dies.

As I take in the destruction, my mouth falls open. Couches shredded and flipped. Streaks of color across the walls that might be blood or vomit. Red Solo cups littered everywhere. There’s even one stuck to the ceiling.

The only thing that’s missing from this scene is people. Stace and the lacrosse girls. The money guys. There’s no sign of any of them. They’re here, I know that for certain. Not just because none of them can leave, but because the
place pulsates with a certain nervous energy. Twenty steps forward—I count them for courage—on legs stiff with fright, take me through the living room and into a room with a piano and . . .

I only have time to notice there are legs dangling out from beneath the half-closed piano lid before falling flat on my face.

Two seconds later, I’m being pulled to my feet, not by Smith but by a cooing Michaela Gordon. “Oh, Lennie, I’m so glad you could stop by again. So sorry I missed your last little visit. Are you okay? You really have to watch out around the doorways.” She leans down and flicks what I now see is a thin wire strung across the doorway. It’s crudely bolted into the wall on either side, making it not all that invisible really. I only missed it because I was distracted by the legs hanging out of the piano . . . which I can now see are a pair of pants that someone stuffed.

“What’s with the booby trap? And the end times décor?” I ask.

Michaela looks around the room in this blasé way, as if everything is the way it’s always been, furniture upended, piles of family pictures shattered and left in a corner, the chandelier hanging from a single frayed wire and dangling only a foot off the floor.

She turns back to me with a shrug. “Survival of the
fittest. Like
Lord of the Flies
or
American Idol
, ya know? I think that’s pretty obvious. What I’m more interested in knowing is why you’re here. Again. I heard all about how you were touring the place this morning checking out firsthand all the damage you’d caused. Then when the sightseeing was over, you flipped out and nearly killed your friend Larry in the process of making your escape.”

“He’s why I’m here,” I say shortly. But then I also add, “And for my uncles.”

“W2 and Dylan too,” Smith adds.

“So another search and extract and fuck everyone else. Is that right?” Michaela asks. Her fake bitchy smile is now completely gone. It’s obvious she’s not playing anymore.

“What exactly do you want her to do, Kayla?” Smith asks. He steps forward a bit as if he wants to protect me.

Michaela smirks at me before focusing her attention on Smith.

“Really, Smith? Just ’cause Lennie’s magic or whatever, that doesn’t mean you aren’t still slumming it.” Her attention shifts back to me. “And to answer your question, I expect Lennie to get these fucking people out of my house.”

“Go to hell,” Smith replies, at the exact time that I say, “You’re right. This is all my fault. And I’m really sorry about—”

“Nuh-uh,” Smith interrupts. “She didn’t mean to do it. She’s trying to fix it. So I think we can skip the groveling.”

“It’s okay, Smith.” I give him a little shove, letting him know I can handle a simple apology, even if he can’t. “I
am
sorry. All right? Way more sorry than anyone can know. Even if I didn’t know what I was doing. I wish I had some idea of how to undo it all . . . but I don’t.”

“So you’re fucking useless as always,” Michaela sums things up, and maybe it’s low self-esteem or an inability to deny the truth, but it takes everything in me not to agree with her. “Have you even tried to undo any wishes?”

“Well . . . no,” I admit.

Michaela rolls her eyes. “Typical. Well, I was talking with Jet, Rod, and Dune—”

“Whoa,
what
?” I interject. “You were talking to my uncles?”

This earns me another eye roll. “Yes, Lennie. Do you think there’s another trio of people with those names? Try to keep up. Anyway—”

Michaela likes the sound of her own voice, so I know it’s a mistake to keep stepping on her lines, but I can’t help myself from interrupting once more. “What are they even doing here?”

“Lennie . . .” Michaela sighs deeply in this martyred way. “I am getting to that. If you would keep your mouth
shut, we could get through this so much faster. It’s not like I don’t have better things to do than stand here explaining basic shit to you.”

“Power freak,” Smith mutters.

Michaela shoots a dagger-laden glare his way and then continues. “
Anyway
, your uncles showed up here and have—to my surprise—proven quite useful. First, they somehow convinced the police to go away. Then they offered to help me restore order around here, and having realized they weren’t quite the ignorant white trash they appear to be, I was happy to join forces with them. While divvying up tasks, we had a good chat about what might be done to get this whole mess cleared up before my parents return tomorrow evening. Jet floated the idea of some carefully selected wishes being used to undo some of the damage. And I agreed that would be the best course of action.”

I can’t help it. I feel betrayed. While I was nearly kidnapped by Benji and Tinkerbell, my uncles were having a powwow and strategy session with Michaela. “Where are they now?” I demand.

“Upper floors. Working on containing Zinkowski. It’s one of our top priorities,” Michaela replies crisply.

“Zinkowski!” I gasp. “You’re gonna let them get Cheetos’d while you stand by and do nothing?”

“Do nothing?” Michaela snaps back. “I’ve gone up against Zinkowski three times in the last hour alone. I am the reason the walls of this house aren’t made of cheese at this point! So don’t you dare talk to me about doing nothing, especially when you started this whole shit storm and have done fuck-all to fix it.”

Before I can apologize for the second time, Michaela pulls a whistle from the front of her shirt and gives three quick tweets. Almost immediately, as if they’d been lying in wait, a group of about twelve girls and guys come marching into the room and line up behind Michaela straight and orderly like soldiers at attention. I recognize several of the freshmen from last night and a few sophomores. It makes sense. Most of my wishes went to the more senior partygoers, which would explain why these were the normal non-wishers left for Michaela to enlist.

“I need four volunteers to escort our visitors to the infirmary,” Michaela announces in her new voice full of steel. It’s a lot like her old voice, except the mean-girl bitchiness has been sharpened as if all this time it was waiting to be perfected for this very moment—when someone would need to step forward and lead.

“I think you’re supposed to do the beating before patching us up, Kayla,” Smith says. I look over at him and see he has this slight smile on his face, as if he finds this all
amusing. Normally, I’d be totally convinced, but not after seeing that bit of vulnerability earlier. Now I’m tuned in and can feel the tension thrumming through him.

Michaela steps forward and gives Smith a sharp little slap across the cheek. “It’s tempting. But I can’t really waste manpower on beating your asses. So to keep you out of our way, I’m having you visit Lennie’s friend Larry.”

“Larry!” His name bursts out of my mouth. “Is he . . . okay?”

“He looks like shit. Feels like it too. But he’s alive. No thanks to that stunt you pulled. Were you trying to kill him?”

She doesn’t wait for our answer, but turns back to her troops and quietly confers with them, giving a series of orders that sends them running off in three different directions, leaving only five of them. As she spins to face us once more, the high-pitched screech of whistles blowing permeates the air.

“Come on, come on . . .” Michaela mutters under her breath.

“I got three upstairs and two from the media room,” announces ones of Michaela’s soldiers.

“Are you sure it was three?” Michaela asks.

“I heard it that way too,” another troop member offers.

“That’s what I thought.” And then Michaela squeals with joy and pumps her fist in the air. “We’ve got him. I can feel it. We’ve finally caught him.” She points to the two freshmen who’d spoken up. “You two go upstairs and find out what the message is.”

“Is it Zinkowski?” I demand. “Are my uncles okay?”

I am ignored. It’s like I didn’t even speak.

“What about the other whistle?” another minion asks Michaela.

She waves a hand through the air. “How many shits do you think I give right now about a minor territory skirmish? Turlington doesn’t own the basement. Let him and his followers work it out for themselves.”

“Michaela.” Smith grabs her arm and pulls her close. “Lennie asked if her uncles are okay. Wanna take two seconds to answer her?”

Michaela rips herself from his grasp. “You manhandle me again, Smith, and you’ll be in solitary.”

With a grin Smith holds up our connected hands. “I’d like to see you try that.”

“Hmm, well I guess being stuck with Lennie is punishment enough.” She smirks at her own wit before turning to me. “This has nothing to do with Zinkowski or your uncles. Now shut up and let me run my operation.”

Before I can tell Michaela where to stick it, the two minions who’d left in response to the whistle come running back in.

“We got him!” the girl excitedly announces. “He tried to escape through the laundry shoot and got stuck. They’re pulling him up right now.”

“And is someone on the basement end in case he slips through?” Michaela asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy answers this time, clearly wanting his share of Michaela’s oversized grin. “Both ends are secured. There’s no way he’s slipping away this time.”

Michaela’s fist closes over her heart at the same time her eyes close and two little tears squeeze from them and run down her cheeks. “Finally,” she whispers. “Todd Wilkins, you are mine.”

“Wee Willie Winkie?” Smith laughs in disbelief. I have to admit that my mouth falls open as well. “That’s who you’re hunting? The guy who has spent most of the past year practically stalking you? Are you serious?”

Michaela wheels on him, enraged. “Don’t you call him that! Don’t you dare! I can and will have you killed, Smith. So don’t. Just don’t.”

The smile slides from Smith’s face and confusion takes its place. “Kayla, you gave him that nickname.”

“I know it,” she answers, tears glittering in her eyes
once more. “And it kills me. All he wanted was my love and I ridiculed him for it. Never again, though. Once he stops running and I have him captured, I will spend the rest of my life begging his forgiveness. Not just for that terrible nickname, but for failing to recognize sooner how precious he truly is to me. From now on he will be my everything and he will never get away from me again.”

“That’s fucked up,” Smith says quietly. Michaela makes a little annoyed
tsk
ing sound . . . but she doesn’t disagree.

Meanwhile, the gears in my brain finally turn and I realize exactly why Michaela is suddenly so gonzo for Todd.

Todd Wilkins was one of my last wishes. He’d slipped in and whispered, “I want Michaela Gordon to want me. To want me so bad it hurts.” As drunk as I was at that point, I still remember being taken aback. Of all the messed-up shit I’d heard so far, it was the worst. Because unlike the other silly, wistful, or just plain odd wishes, this was the only one that seemed mean. Of course, a few minutes later Smith walked into the room and his wish became the meanest, most messed-up shit I’d ever heard and I forgot all about Todd Wilkins.