The Boys Are Back in Town (18 page)

“Will!” Brian urged.

He nodded, put the book down. Brian kept on with those guttural words as Will took the lighter fluid, upended the can and squeezed a long stream into the copper pot, saturating the contents. His fingers were numb, his mind felt detached from his body, and yet he kept working. He set the lighter fluid down, picked up the matches, removed one and struck it. The fire blazed up instantly, the smell of sulfur in the air. Will tossed the match into the pot and the entire contents erupted into hungry flames.

His breath came slow and ragged. His eyes darted around the room, taking in every shadow, watching the slivers of light around the shades with longing, impatient to be out of here, to be in the sunlight. All of his muscles tensed, prepared. But nothing happened.

Nothing. The spell had failed. Failed to accomplish anything except to make Will feel dirty, inside and out. The kind of dirty no shower could ever wash away.

The spell didn't work,
he thought. Some part of him was surprised he was not more disappointed, but in his heart there was only relief. Relief, because it wasn't really a spell at all.

It's a curse.

The music in Dori's room was abruptly silenced. It seemed to echo in Will's ears as quiet seconds ticked by. He and Brian looked sharply at one another, wide-eyed, both of them holding their breath. Had they done it? And if so, what, precisely, had they done?

From outside there came the blare of a car horn. That would be Ian. They heard footsteps, then Dori's bedroom door opened and closed. Her shoes ticktocked along the corridor and then down the stairs, and a moment later the front door slammed. She was gone.

Will sagged as he let out the breath he had been holding. He felt foolish and perverse, but he smiled and shook his head, trying to cleanse those feelings. But when he looked up, he saw that Brian's face was etched with frustration.

“Fuck,” Brian whispered. He knocked aside the empty Reebok box. “Fuck,” he said again.

“What are you gonna do?” Will said tentatively. “Maybe we just don't have what it takes to curse someone. They don't all work. Some do. This one didn't.”

But the hell of it was, it had.

April, Junior Year

Nightfall was still a ways off, but as Dori hurried along the front walk toward Ian's car it seemed to her that the sky had dimmed far sooner than it should have. When she glanced upward she realized that it was not the encroaching evening but the weather that had cast a pall over the day. When she had gotten off the bus with Brian and Will, the sky had been a bright, clear blue. Now it was simply gray, and on the horizon there was a darkening hint of something brewing, thunderheads on the way.

“Perfect,” she sighed.

The party didn't start for a couple of hours yet, but she had wanted to be gone before her parents got home. Ian had suggested they go out to dinner someplace nice, but since there was very little that fit that description within the town limits and she didn't want to have to go far, Dori had suggested The Sampan. She loved Chinese food. At the moment, she wasn't very hungry, but the key was avoiding her parents. Not that they were that difficult. They just asked too many annoying questions.

Ian sat behind the wheel, the window rolled down, and he smiled at her as she approached. Dori had on brand-new jeans and a white top with a brown suede jacket one size too small that she left unzipped. With just a touch of eyeliner and the coolest bloodred lipstick, she knew she looked good, but the expression on his face as she strode toward the car was all the assurance she needed.

“Hey, cutie,” Dori said, marching around to the passenger door. She popped the door open and climbed in. When she leaned over to kiss Ian, she misjudged and their teeth banged together.

“Oww!” he said, flinching back from her.

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Dori put a hand on his leg.

Ian laughed, though a bit hesitantly, and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Let's not do
that
again.”

Dori smiled and shook her head, then reached out to close her door. Her fingers slid into the smooth plastic grip on the inside of the door and she yanked it toward her. A sharp pain made her hiss and pull her hand away, and she cursed as she glanced at her hand and saw that her index finger had a slice in it.

“What the hell?” she muttered, sucking on the cut finger as she examined the plastic grip. It was cracked, and one portion jutted higher than the other, jagged and sharp.

“What's wrong?”

She shot him a withering glance. “I cut myself on your stupid car, that's all. Do you have any Band-Aids?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I carry a purse? No, I don't have any Band-Aids.”

“We'll have to stop at the 7-Eleven.”

Ian nodded and put the car into gear, backing out of the driveway. “Not a problem. Sorry about that. I didn't even know it was broken. I'll have to get some duct tape or something, cover it up.” He seemed troubled, his forehead creased with concern, but as he drove toward the center of town he lightened up considerably. “You hungry, babe?”

The gray skies and cutting her finger had annoyed her, but Dori wasn't going to let that ruin her whole night. She gave him a warm smile and nodded. “Wicked hungry. And looking forward to the party later. Hoping we can get a room to ourselves.”

As he glanced at her, a lascivious grin on his face, the front left tire blew. The shotgun report of the exploding tire made Dori cry out, her heart hammering in her chest, and Ian slammed on the brakes. From behind them there came the screech of tires. An old Ford behind them swerved, but not far enough, and the driver clipped the back of Ian's car, ripping metal and smashing the taillight.

Dori cried out again.

Ian swore and pounded the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” Dori rasped, hands on the dashboard.

Which was just about the moment that she felt a trickle between her legs, and she knew that her period had arrived two full weeks ahead of schedule.

N
EARLY TWO HOURS AFTER
the flat tire and the fender bender, they sat at a table by the window at The Sampan, staring at one another in numb disbelief. While Ian was exchanging information with the driver of the old Ford and changing the tire, Dori had been forced to sit there and bleed, both from her cut finger and elsewhere. The entire time she had waited in the car, glancing anxiously at her crotch in hopes that she would not bleed enough to soak through her jeans before they could get to a convenience store.

They did manage to make it to 7-Eleven in time, but that was the only thing that had gone right.

Now Ian sat across from her, silhouetted against the window, beyond which the night was coming on and the thunderclouds had moved in. Rain pelted the glass so hard it seemed like sleet, though it was too warm for sleet. Dori was miserable and it was obvious Ian felt the same. Neither of them was very patient in general, but this night would have tested anyone. The appetizers they had ordered had been overcooked and cold, and one piece of steak teriyaki had a fringe of what looked like mold on the edge of it. The Sampan was usually fantastic, but Dori had nearly thrown up at the sight of that and been unable to eat any more of it.

It seemed an eternity before the waiter brought them dinner, and when it finally came, both orders were wrong. Completely wrong. Now they were enduring a second infinite lag and both of them were in a foul mood. They were going to be much later for the party than they had intended. Not that Dori really felt like partying anymore.

Ian glanced around as though the waiter might suddenly materialize out of thin air, then sighed and shook his head. “Can't believe you got your fucking period.”

Dori put on a tough-girl veneer, but she made no pretense to herself . . . it was very thin. Yet it wasn't his words that wounded her. It was the tone, the dismissal inherent in his voice.
You've got your period,
that tone seemed to say.
What good are you?

“You should say a prayer every time I
do
get it,” she said in a low voice, glancing around to be sure no one could overhear them.

“I know. I get it, OK?” he said, softening, shooting her a regretful glance. “But it's like you just had it.”

“I did just have it. I'm not due for another two weeks. It's early.”

Ian frowned and he looked around again, though not for the waiter this time. For the first time in minutes his eyes focused on her and he leaned in closer. “Is that supposed to happen? I mean, are you all right?”

But she was still stung by his attitude and so she only sniffed and averted her gaze. “Like you care. Asshole. Sometimes it's early, sometimes it's late. But it's never been this early. Sorry I ruined your night.”

“Come on, Dori. Don't be like that. You didn't ruin anything. Not your fault, is it?”

Every word seemed to have been torn from him. She could see it in his eyes, in his expression and the way he moved his hands. Ian didn't mean a word of it. He was just saying what he thought he ought to say, and that kind of patronizing baby bullshit made her crazy.

“Do you even want to go to the party?” she asked, her back rigid against the chair, fingernails tapping lightly on the table. She had been ravenous before, but the wait and the hideous appetizer had fixed that. Her stomach had gone from empty to numb, and now the smell of Chinese food made her nauseous.

“What? Of course I want to go. You don't?”

“Do you still want to go with me?” The moment the question was out of her mouth she was furious with herself for how small and weak she sounded. She had meant it to come off as demanding, even bitchy, but now she sounded needy. She abruptly changed gears.

“You know what? Fuck it. I'm not hungry anymore. Let's get out of here.”

Ian blinked in surprise as she got up from the table. “What? Where?”

Dori narrowed her eyes. “That's up to you. Take me to the party or take me home.”

With that, she turned her back on him and strode out of The Sampan. As she left the restaurant she could hear Ian arguing with the waiter, who still hadn't brought their dinner. Ian was going to pay for the drinks and the appetizer but that was it. Dori hoped he didn't leave a tip, either. She didn't give a shit. No way was she ever going to eat in this place again.

J
ILLIAN
M
ANSUR
'
S FAMILY LIVED
in a sprawling farmhouse on Grove Street, set back a ways from the road. Her father had been sent on a business trip to San Diego and had taken his wife along, leaving Jillian alone in the house. She had just turned eighteen and they thought of her as a responsible girl in an irresponsible world. That was almost a direct quote, though Dori couldn't remember the rest of it. Obviously, the Mansurs didn't know Jillian at all.
Maybe,
Dori thought,
they've taken one too many business trips.

The house was a wreck. Beer had been spilled onto the living room carpet and left to soak. Someone had shattered a Zima bottle in the kitchen sink. There was vomit in the garbage can. Under the dining room table, a senior named Jimmy Vons was curled up into a fetal ball, passed out and snoring. He was missing both shoes and one sock.

Dori felt like crying. Frustration burned in her chest and her throat tightened, but she would not allow tears to moisten her eyes. Not here. Not in front of all these people, all these seniors. Some of them had been nice to her since she had started seeing Ian, but many of the girls dismissed her. She was just a lowly sophomore, after all. She didn't belong.

Tonight, she agreed with them.

Off the kitchen was a small pantry that one had to pass through to get to the back door. Dori had fled there, and now she leaned against shelves of tomato paste and soup cans and hugged herself, trying to catch her breath. Her eyes burned. When she raised her hands to push her hair back, her fingers trembled. Her back was wet where someone had spilled a glass of red wine on her neck, staining the collar of her suede jacket and the white shirt beneath and drenching her in that rich, earthy burgundy odor. The jacket was ruined. She could not escape the smell. She had no idea what to tell her parents.

When the drunken bitch had spilled the wine on her, Dori had rushed to the bathroom, hoping to wash as much of it from her jacket and shirt as possible. But when she banged into the bathroom she had found a couple of senior girls snorting coke off the toilet seat, half-naked, groping each other. Trying to find some privacy, she had ended up in the pantry, and only now, as this little bit of intimacy enveloped her, did she feel the dampness at her crotch and realize that she needed another tampon. To get one, she'd have to go out to the car, but Ian always locked it. She needed his keys.

She needed Ian.

Never in her life had she wanted to leave anywhere so badly.

Dori reached out and steadied herself, holding on to one of the shelves. She took several long breaths and found herself staring at a can of baked beans. For some reason it made her smile. Though fleeting, that smile was enough to let her breathe again. Nothing was going right tonight. Not a goddamn thing. The rain, the flat tire, the fender bender, the fucking Sampan, and now this party from hell.
Whose idea of fun is this?
she thought.

With the added motivation of not wanting to bleed through her jeans to complete the ensemble of stains for the evening, she took a final breath and left the pantry. A trio of guys passed a joint around and the sweet smell of marijuana filled the kitchen. One of them was cooking scrambled eggs and dancing along to Nine Inch Nails or Jane's Addiction or whoever the hell it was on the sound system.

After her red wine shower, Dori had left Ian in the living room. She figured maybe ten minutes had passed, but he wasn't there.

“Son of a bitch,” she whispered, glancing around until she spotted Brad Ghilani, a friend of Ian's. Her skin crawled with a paranoid unease, for she was convinced that somehow everyone in the room was tracking her in their peripheral vision, that they could see she was falling apart. A kind of frenzied panic overtook her as she strode up to Brad.

Normally brazen, Dori glanced around hesitantly and tapped him on the arm. “Brad? Have you seen Ian? I'm . . . I need to . . .” Flustered, she forced herself to stare at him, chin raised. “I need his car keys.”

Brad was useless. She should have seen the glaze over his eyes before she had even spoken to him, but somehow she had missed it. He took a long swig of beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Nah, sorry,” he said, slurring ever so slightly. Then he pointed toward the stairs. “Think he had to piss, though.”

As she walked toward the stairs, a gentle wave of relief began to wash over her. Why hadn't she thought of the upstairs bathroom? That had been foolish. Not only might it be possible for her to get a moment alone, but surely Jillian would have tampons.
Just chill out,
she told herself.
Take care of this first, then you can find Ian and decide if you still want to leave.

There were a few people on the stairs, but the second floor was quiet. The door to the hall bathroom was ajar and the light was on inside, the fan whirring. Dori raised a hand to rap on it. From inside, she heard a soft moan. She rolled her eyes in frustration. Snorting coke in the downstairs bathroom and now this upstairs? Couldn't people pick someplace else to fuck around? She lowered her hand, trying to decide whether to interrupt or just to wait.