Down With the Shine (14 page)

“He wished for this, Michaela,” I say softly.

“Of course he did,” she snaps back at me. “And it’s the only good thing that’s come out of this mess. How else
would my eyes have been opened?”

“But—”

“No. Don’t you dare try to make this into something ugly and wrong. Those wings on Bat Boy out there”—Michaela points toward a nearby window—“that’s screwed up and unnatural. But how I feel for Todd . . . It’s right. I can feel it’s right and soon he’ll feel it too.”

She stands there trembling with . . . passion? I have to look away because watching her feels almost intrusive. Luckily, after a way-too-long moment she shifts back into evil dictator mode.

“Take them upstairs,” she orders two minions. “I can’t have them underfoot right now. And make sure to watch out for Blobert, he keeps trying to start trouble. The rest of you fall in, we’re going to personally oversee the Todd extraction.” She turns to Smith and me. “I’ll send your uncles to you once Zinkowski is fully secured.”

“What’s the deal with Blobert?” Smith asks, even though Michaela has essentially dismissed us. I’m pretty sure she’s not gonna answer, but with one last long-suffering sigh, she replies, “I suppose you should know for your own safety. Robert Blouson, aka Blobert Boobson, apparently made a wish to be hotter than Brad Pitt.”

“Oh, yeah,” I murmur softly as I remember. Then I can’t help but add, “You came up with that nickname too.”

“Yes, I know. I regret it. Okay? So no more nicknames, even if I am rather brilliant at coming up with them,” Michaela replies with an acid-tipped smile. “Anyway, Blob—I mean, Robert—is one of the few people who’s actually happy with the way his wish turned out and has consequently caused quite a bit of trouble for us. Specifically, every time we get Zinkowski cornered or locked away, Blobert gets in the way. If you see him, don’t trust a word he says.”

With that, Michaela and her entourage march from the room in one direction while Smith and I are led in another.

It’s another reminder of how upside down everything is that I’m actually sad to see her go. While Michaela was standing there, I felt safe, like someone was in charge who was gonna keep things under control no matter what kind of shit happened. It’s kind of amazing, really. Instead of freaking out and hiding under her bed like any normal person would’ve done, Michaela has risen to the occasion.

I’d be jealous except, let’s face it, some people are meant to rule the world and some are meant to ruin it.

At this point I don’t think there’s any doubt which category I fall into.

M
ichaela’s minions lead us through the ruins of her house. In some areas, the orange streaks on the walls combined with the cheese reek is brutal. Needing a distraction, I turn to Smith.

“So Michaela’s sort of—”

“A crazy bitch?” Smith finishes.

“Yeah, of course. But in a way that’s really—”

Again, Smith knows exactly what I’m trying to say. “Badass.”

“And impressive,” I add. “I mean, while I was twiddling my thumbs—well, no, I couldn’t even be that useful because of our whole hand thing. I guess we were sorta twiddling together. . . .” My face burns as Smith starts cracking up.

“I think I’d remember if I’d twiddled you, Lennie.” He says it in this low, sexy, laughing voice that makes me feel
equally mortified and tantalized.

In front of us the two freshmen titter.

I decide to change the subject. “So Michaela Gordon and Todd Wilkins?”

Smith, still laughing, shakes his head in response. “Makes me feel pretty good about you only getting my hand.”

I don’t think he was aiming to hurt me, but . . . ouch. And I know I should laugh it off, but I can’t. I just can’t.

“Todd was the one who made the wish for Michaela to want him. As I’m sure you’ve already figured out since the whole school’s been watching him drool over her for years.” Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I realize that this right here is why I’m upset. Maybe the whole school doesn’t know it, but I’ve been hung up on Smith for at least as long as Todd’s been dreaming of Michaela. This makes me less obvious, but just as pathetic.

Still, I’m not about to admit this to Smith—or to our guides, who are hanging on every word. “And I didn’t wish for your hand, Smith. That was all your doing, remember?”

“Shit, Lennie, calm down. I didn’t mean it like that.” The smile has finally been wiped off his face.

“Then how did you mean it?” I demand.

No answer. Smith only looks away, with a guilty
expression upon his face. And almost instantly, I deflate. Funny how that works.

At the very moment when I’m about to give in, mostly because fighting with the person you’re stuck to while in the middle of a house of horrors is a bad idea, Smith surprises me by breaking the silence first.

“Okay.” He pauses, and then shockingly adds, “You’re right.”

“Wait, what?” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Could you say that again?”

“Nope.” Smith grins at me, looking almost relieved to be in my good graces again. “I never apologize more than once.”

“Oh, no no no no.” I laugh despite myself, feeling the last residual bits of anger drain away. “That was not an apology. An apology is two words, and those words are: I’m sorry.”

As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know exactly what Smith’s response will be, and he doesn’t disappoint. “I accept your apology.”

He busts a gut laughing and the freshmen join in too.

Just as I’m about to tell all three of them where to stick it, we walk into a small bedroom and there is Larry, tucked into a tiny twin bed with a ruffled pink comforter on it. I race over, dragging Smith behind me, not bothering to
hide how happy I am to see him. He has an old Nintendo 3DS clutched in his giant paws and a huge grin on his face. “Lennie, look!” he says, holding it out to me. “Michaela has
Donkey Kong
!”

“Awesome,” I say, and then unable to resist anymore, I reach in for a big hug. Smith sighs, but doesn’t physically resist as he gets half pulled in as well.

Larry, of course, hugs me back immediately. Like everything else he does, Larry hugs with his whole heart. Still, that grasp also reveals how weak he is. The few times I’ve been caught in one of his hugs he squeezed me so hard I was afraid my ribs would snap. This hug doesn’t constrict my breathing at all.

I gently pull away, not wanting to use up any more of Larry’s obviously depleted strength.

“You okay?” I ask now. “I got your text asking for help, but then my phone died.”

“Help?” Larry’s brow furrows in confusion . . . but then suddenly clears again. “Oooh, right. I couldn’t get past this one board, and I wanted to know if you’d ever beaten it. But don’t worry, I figured it out.”

“Great,” I say, and Larry nods, totally missing the sarcasm. But even knowing Larry didn’t need me to return to Michaela’s, I’m glad I did. Seeing him, alive, healthy, and oh so very Larry has given my lagging spirits a little lift.

It’s like standing on a teensy ice floe of happiness—even though I know it’s melting beneath me, I’m still glad to be there anyway. I can’t blame global warming that only two seconds later, the feeling is completely gone.

Whistles once again sound from everywhere all at once, followed by feet pounding past our doorway. I whip around in time to see an unmistakable flannel pattern fly past. “My uncles,” I say to Larry.

“Go.” He flaps a hand at me. “I get it. Michaela says you’re gonna find a way to wish us all back to normal. That you’ll fix it.”

Larry says it like it’s a foregone conclusion. Like, of course I’ll make everything all better. Easy-peasy.

The sound of the chase is growing more distant, but I feel like I need to say something to Larry. Either set him straight or tell him more lies about how of course I’m going to fix things.

“Yeah. No,” I reply, somewhat nonsensically as I waffle. “Of course, I’ll . . . I’m gonna make sure—” I stop, unable to think of any promise I’m not sure to break. At last I settle on, “You look tired. Get some sleep, Larry. I’ll be back soon.”

I don’t wait for him to answer with more of his “gosh, gee whiz, Lennie, I sure am lucky to have a friend like you” crap, which right now would feel like someone taking a
weed whacker to my guts.

Smith and I zip out the door and run in near-perfect sync down the hallway, up the stairs, and through the endless rooms of Michaela’s house.

We lose my uncles anyway.

Without a word we turn and start to retrace our steps, hoping they might have peeled off into one of the rooms. We hit pay dirt on the second floor. From behind a half-closed door we hear a soft whining voice.

Smith, having apparently overcome his belief that one should always knock first, pushes the door open and we enter an enormous bedroom done entirely in shades of gold. I think the color scheme is meant to play off the shelves overflowing with trophies for various clubs, events, sports, and activities.

This is, of course, Michaela’s room.

And she stands at the center of it. No longer calm and put together, but looking strangely vulnerable and un-Michaela like with huge tears streaming down her face as she confronts her one true love: Todd Wilkins.

For his part, Todd stands trembling at the other end of the room, his hand on a door leading who knows where. His darting eyes take us in for a moment before quickly focusing back on Michaela, who he watches the same way you might a lion or some other carnivorous animal with
the power to rip the flesh from your bones.

“So-so-so,” Todd stutters at last. “I can really go?” His voice breaks at the end and I wish Michaela could wake from this spell and tell Todd to take his whimpering far, far away from her.

Instead, she simply smiles through the tears.

“Yes. I told you, Todd, I love you too much to keep you, too much to hold you when you want to be free. Just please know that I’ll wait until the end of time, if that’s how long it takes for you to pull your head out of your adorable ass. And when you do, I will be right there ready to blow your fucking mind.”

At that moment I fall a little bit in love with Michaela, because even pathetically, desperately, and—worst of all—unwillingly in love, she manages to be certain of her own worth. But even more, she is generous. She loves Todd to the point of insanity, but is still willing to let him go. One might argue that love—even this totally messed-up version of it—has made Michaela a better person.

Todd, though, is an idiot ten times over and doesn’t seem to notice any of this. Instead he continues to stare at her like he can’t decide whether to make a run for it or lie down and play dead. Then something in him breaks. He flings the door open, then moves to charge through it and
out of Michaela’s life—when Zinkowski comes stumbling in instead.

Todd trips over his own feet as he backpedals and lands in a heap on the floor. Zinkowski, looking more dazed and confused than I’ve ever seen him, keeps walking straight forward, putting him and Todd on a direct collision course.

“Todd!” Michaela screams as she leaps forward to the rescue. Seeing her coming toward him, Todd frantically half crawls, half butt scoots away from her. He’s so focused on getting away from Michaela’s outstretched arms, he seems to have forgotten Zinkowski.

Todd hits Zinkowski’s legs, then does this weird yodel of terror as Zinkowski tumbles forward, arms outstretched—

Michaela leaps, like her insane love for Todd is some kind of superpower, and lands with her body spread over Todd. Protecting him. Absorbing Zinkowski’s fall. Making sure that Zinkowski’s fingertips do not connect with Todd. That they find her instead.

Michaela shimmers and glows orange. That lasts only for an instant, and then all three of them disappear in a sudden and explosive burst of orange cheese.

Smith and I instinctively fall back, pulling our shirts
up to cover our mouths and noses from the noxious smell.

I wish I was making that up. I wish I was making all of this up.

Zinkowski is the first to arise from the orange haze. A low keening noise comes from him as he staggers around before finally collapsing in the farthest corner of the room, curled into himself as if he cannot stand to see what he’s done.

Todd pops up next. He looks confused. We watch as he pats at his own body, as if making sure he’s still all there. Then he seems to take in the cheese coating him and everything around him. He bends down to pick up one of the many Cheetos scattered across the floor. “M-M-M-Michaela?” Dropping it, he flees, not seeming to care about the Cheetos smashed beneath his feet or the trail of crumbs he leaves in his wake.

“Did that just happen?” Smith asks, sounding as shaken as I feel.

Before I can answer, my uncles come charging into the room. Uncle Dune drags an incredibly good-looking guy behind him in an inescapable headlock. I realize after a moment that this must be Blobert, er, Robert Blouson.

“Damn it!” Jet curses loudly when he sees the slowly settling cheese cloud at the center of the room. Then when he sees me, another “Damn it,” this at an even greater
volume than the first one.

“Don’t move,” he barks at me. Then my uncles as one turn toward Zinkowski.

Of course, I move. “No,” I say, jerking forward but not getting far as Smith refuses to budge. “He took out Michaela. Stay away from him! You’ll get Cheetos’d!”

They ignore me, except for Uncle Dune who gives me a mildly reproving look. “We already got him once, before this joker”—Uncle Dune indicates Robert, who winces—“got him all agitated and running off again. So don’t worry. Okay, Lennie? We got this.”

And they do. Somehow they manage to coax Zinkowski back to his feet and sort of nudge him—without ever touching him—out the door.

“Stay here,” Uncle Rod commands right before the door shuts behind them.

“I need to sit down,” I announce at the same instant that my legs give way beneath me. Luckily, Smith isn’t quite as weak-kneed and manages to grab me with his free hand and gently lower us to the softly carpeted ground.

“Yes,” I say, finally answering Smith’s unanswered question. “That did just happen.”

Smith nods, as if I’ve settled something important, and then nudges my shoulder with his. “You okay?”

“I guess,” I say, and am surprised to hear how shaky
and breathless I sound. “All right, maybe I’m not okay,” I admit. “It’s the shock. And when my uncles came in. I was so afraid that they’d end up like . . .”

I can’t say it, not without breaking down into hysterical sobbing. Beside me, Smith closes his eyes and exhales deeply, like he’s trying to hold back tears of his own.

“Michaela. Dead. I mean, she is dead, right?” Smith says after a protracted silence.

Something snaps inside me. I want to pound things and howl and scream with the unfairness of it all. Instead, I lash out at Todd Wilkins. “Yes, she’s dead. I don’t think there’s any coming back from that.” I gesture to the orange cloud slowly settling. “She’s dead because of that idiot. Wee Willie Winkie. When she wouldn’t give him the time of day, he couldn’t get enough of her. Then when it flipped, he couldn’t run far enough away.”

Smith tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. It is, like everything else, a burnished shade of gold. “Yeah, well, she was out of his league and he knew it. He was scared shitless. I mean, if he was smarter maybe he would’ve enjoyed it while it lasted, but I can’t really blame him for running instead.”

I glare at Smith, unable to believe his nerve. Out of his league. Scared shitless. Enjoy it while it lasts.

“I get it, Smith,” I finally respond, barely able to control
my shaking voice. “
I’m
out of your league. Whatever happened this afternoon was just you slumming it while you’re stuck with me. Right? But you got a few things wrong. I’m not scared of you and I’m not trying to enjoy it while it lasts. I know there’s nothing between us”—I lift our two linked hands—“except this.

“And don’t think you’re shattering any of my illusions here.” I hold my stupid dead phone up between us. “I’ve had your number for a while now.” And then I play his message while repeating his horrible words verbatim. I even get his mixture of hurt and angry and so fucking deeply sad exactly dead on.

“It’s Smith. I just wanted to call and say, to call you and tell you, that you should know, in case you don’t already . . . It shoulda been you, Cash. Not Dyl, but you. She didn’t deserve to go that way. She—” I let myself take the pause where he sounds close to tears. I could get an Academy Award for this performance. I finish it the same way he did. “Fuck.”

“I was drunk!” Grabbing the phone from my hand, Smith throws it across the room as if this will get rid of the message. “Stupid, blasted, out of my mind drunk.”