We Won't Feel a Thing (3 page)

“Huh.” Mr. Woodlawn adjusted his sturdy plaid dress shirt and scratched his sparse hair. He looked, as Rachel had once pointed out, like a confused manatee. “You didn’t tell me there’d be drums, Anne.”

“You didn’t tell me we’d park in East Atlantis, Ed.”

“Well, I tried to park closer.”

“You tried one aisle and gave up. But that’s fine.”

“Would you like to try again? We can get back in.”

“No, no, dear. Please don’t bother. We’re late now.” Mrs. Woodlawn took out a gold compact and touched up her pink Paris Kisses lipstick. “We’ll leave the car here on the lawn. Like it’s Woodstock.”

The clock in the tower bonged. Rachel and Riley hurried across the packed parking lot between the senior Woodlawns: Ed shuffling beside Rachel; Anne marching next to Riley.

“Hey Rach,” muttered Mr. Woodlawn. “I saw a sign back there that said Fresh-Egg-
apostrophe
-S. That’s wrong, right?”

“Misused possessive,” she assured him. “They’re a national epidemic.”

“Thought maybe I was crazy.” He adjusted the fat knot in his stiff brown tie. “I’m pretty nervous about all this. Seems kind of weird.”

“Weird can be good.”

“You think?”

“It’ll be fine.”

Mr. Woodlawn took a sandwich bag from his pocket, removed half a chocolate chip cookie, and allowed himself a nip. “I just want to be a good family. A nice
normal
family. You know?”

Rachel patted his back. She’d miss him a little. She almost regretted not calling him
Dad
, like he’d wanted. “I know.”

“Riley, I can’t tell you how excited I am about this,” Mrs. Woodlawn was saying. “This is going to be a whole new era. You looked over that DERT literature I gave you, right?”

“Sure,” Riley fibbed.

“I know it may seem—unorthodox, but Gary Gannon was on the Dr. Bridges Show. You should have seen the results! Siblings conquered their differences. Wives forgave even the most disappointing husbands.” She threaded her arm through Riley’s. “We’ll be a much stronger family after this. You’ll see. We’ll be the family we were always meant to be.”

Nice normal family. Meant to be.
Rachel and Riley walked shoulder to shoulder, their eyes on the huge vinyl banner tacked above the entrance:

“What’s a dyad?” whispered Riley.

“A couple. A pair.” Rachel grimaced at the DERT sign. Acronyms were worse when they misspelled a word. “If my brain explodes, will you clean it up?”

“For a small fee.”

“Of course.”

As the twinkling concrete steps of the building drew near, the double doors swung open. A bright young cavegirl waved them closer, wielding a clipboard and a carnivorous smile.

“Welcome to DERT!” she said. “You’re late, so I’ve prejudged you as rude and selfish. May I have your consent forms?”

Rachel and Riley stared. The girl wore a modest knee-length cocktail dress made of hundreds of pelts, hacked in pieces and stitched together. A necklace of polished bones circled her neck, and two thick streaks of mud underlined her eyes. Her hair was done up in a sleek ponytail.

“Right here.” Mrs. Woodlawn took a thick packet of papers from her purse.

“Thank youuuu,” said the cavegirl. “I hate your purse. It reminds me of my mother.”

Mrs. Woodlawn smiled and nodded. Mr. Woodlawn stole a last bite of cookie.

“This is your whole party, right?” said the cavegirl.

“Correct, miss.”

“Just double-checking. We need even numbers.” She made checkmarks on her clipboard. “Woodlawn…family of four…”

“Seton,” Rachel said. “My last name is Seton.”

“Family of four,” Mr. Woodlawn insisted.

“I’m tired and cold, and you all have annoying faces.” The cavegirl grabbed four packets from the table behind her. “Please put on these ponchos and store your footwear in the cubbies to the left. Dr. Gannon’s about to start, so hurry!”

Inside the lobby, DERT stragglers yanked brown plastic ponchos over their clothes and stuffed shoes and socks in a tower of cubbyholes. Mrs. Woodlawn shook her poncho out and sighed admiration at the DERT logo, a cartoon splat that made Riley design a half-dozen revisions in his head. “Oh, these are very
official,”
she said. “Isn’t this whole thing fascinating?”

“Yep.” Mr. Woodlawn shrugged politely. “Sure.”

Rachel poked Riley. “Will you drape me in brown plastic, sir?”

“Certainly.”

“I love a good poncho.” She smoothed it and posed. “What’s the verdict?”

“It’s kind of two years ago. But you can work it.” From the corner of his eye, he saw a DERT staffer toting a quiver of arrows. “Um. Rach.”

“What?”

“What’s going to happen in there?”

“How would I know?” Rachel kicked off her hightops and chucked them in a cubby. “I’m sure they’re not real arrows.”

“Right.”

“If they are, I’ll protect you. Look, cupcakes!”

Silver trays of chocolate cupcakes crowded the tables against one wall. Each cupcake was crowned with cookie crumbles that looked like dirt and a thin round chocolate wafer with TRUTH stamped on it in white. The sign above the table said “ONE” CUPCAKE PER ATTENDEE—NO “EXCEPTIONS.” No one was paying attention. Rachel took four.

“What are you doing?” said Riley.

“They have superfluous quotes around ONE,” said Rachel, “so I can only conclude they didn’t mean it.”

“My best friend is a dirty thief.”

“Shh.” She passed him two. “We’ve had a weird day. Plus there’s no way we’re surviving a two-hour seminar on one cupcake each.”

“We
are
prisoners here.”

“That’s right.” She popped a chocolate TRUTH wafer into her mouth. “They have caged us, so we will exact our revenge.”

Rachel and Riley grinned at each other. Then their faces misted over, as if this banter were a memory observed from a long sad distance of five to ten years. They thought of the crossed pen and whip of Martinet College, the wrecked mosaic in California waiting for Riley’s deft hands.
Act normal,
they told themselves.
Act normal. Be normal.
Then a bell clanged, and Mrs. Woodlawn said
“Allons-y,”
and the small crowd jostled them in the direction of the bongos: down the east corridor that led to Cattle Hall A.

***

“Two people to a stall!” said the man with the plastic light saber. “Two people only!”

Rachel and Riley elbowed each other. When Mrs. Woodlawn had told them they’d be attending a self-help seminar to “strengthen family functioning,” they had pictured an evening in the PACC’s dim approximation of a conference room, listening to the buzz of fluorescent lights and talking to each other through puppets. They had not anticipated a handsome young man in a pelt tie and pelt pants, herding them between the bars of a five-by-eight cattle stall.

“Two people only! Families, pair off with your primary Conflict Partner.” The man waved the red saber in a circle. “Into the stalls, please! One minute to Dr. Gannon!”

“Hey.” Rachel tapped the man’s arm. “We aren’t Conflict Partners.”

“We hardly ever fight,” said Riley.

“Maybe that’s the problem.” The saber man shrugged. “Into the stalls, people! I have a giant headache and a joint I want to smoke!”

Mr. and Mrs. Woodlawn claimed Stall 40. The stall beside them was already full, so Rachel and Riley slipped into Stall 42. They edged away from each other in the tight space. Their jokes dried up and sudden private thoughts burned their skin in red-hot letters.
I can’t lose you. Don’t leave me.
They startled, willed the words away.
Act normal. Be normal. Eat cupcakes.

They tore off the wrappers and ate their first cupcakes in four bites. These were fancy, complicated cupcakes with filling, the kind they sometimes attempted late at night while Mrs. Woodlawn was downstairs in her writing room, hunt-and-pecking away with her noise-canceling headphones on. They looked around at everything but each other.

Every stall was filled. The two bongo players sat on a raised platform against one wall, between giant faux torches with whappeting flames of silk. Overhead, a new scaffolding bloomed with shower heads shaped like prehistoric flowers, one directly over each stall. The stalls were all carpeted in four inches of spongy soil, dark and rich as the cookie crumbles on their cupcakes.

“These are good,” said Riley, his mouth full.

“These are
amazing
,” said Rachel, licking frosting off the wrapper.

“What’s in them?”

They swished their tongues around, trying to decode the ingredients. The raspberry filling had a strange bitter tang that made them think of medicine. Their mouths began to tingle.

“Who cares?” said Rachel. “Let’s eat the other one.”

“Already?” said Riley.

“Why not?”

Their teeth sank into frosting. The lights cut out and the bongos thrummed faster. The torches glowed purple and amber. Then a poof and a shower of green and gold sparks, and Dr. Gary Gannon took the stage.

He was a large man, a
giant
man, with a face-consuming red beard and a rugged tan that was almost certainly fake. A diamond stud glinted in his left ear. He had rich wavy auburn hair of indecent length, which he tied back in a ponytail with a leather thong. Only a madman or a guru could have worn his outfit: a white button-down and brown tie paired with a crazy-kilt of pelts and a pair of gladiator sandals. He had a huge wooden barrel clasped in his arms and a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. Holding his left elbow, wearing a short dress made of white fur, was a pocket-sized woman with honey-colored hair and diamond earrings that matched his.

“He’s
dreamy
.” Rachel made a fan from her cupcake wrapper and fluttered it at her face. “Be still, my heart.”

Riley snorted. “You want to have his furry ginger babies.”

“Guilty.” Rachel feigned an erotic sigh.
“Get in me,
Dr. Gannon.”

“If he’s a real doctor, I’ll eat mud.”

Slowly, Gary Gannon unstrapped the barrel and set it down with a showy
thunk
. Then he slid an arrow from his quiver and shot it across the room. It boinged with deadly precision in the center of a DERT banner, right between DE and RT.

“Ladies and gents,” he said, stretching his arms wide like a king awaiting worship. “Welcome…to DERT.”

The audience roared.

“Fartstain,” whispered Rachel.

“
Total
fartstain,” whispered Riley.

They polished off the last of their cupcakes.

“Fifteen years ago, I was exactly like you. And you. And you.” Gary Gannon paced the stage, pointing his thick fingers at random attendees. “I lived in a neat little house, drove a neat little car, told neat little lies to everyone. ‘Ohh, I’m feeling just peachy today.’ ‘Go ahead and cut in front of me; I don’t mind.’ ‘No, no, that’s fine, dear. Feel free to minimize my feelings.’” Rachel and Riley peeked at Mr. and Mrs. Woodlawn, who were both nodding. “And it built up inside me. All those little lies. All the big lies, too. Till I was lugging around a burden of unspoken truth as heavy as this one right here.” He slapped the side of the barrel. “You folks believe it’s heavy, right? Anyone want to give it a go?”

Mrs. Woodlawn’s shrill laughter soared above the rest. Gary Gannon ripped off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt as he spoke, revealing a thicket of red chest hair and a bold tattoo of the DERT logo over his heart. Rachel pretended to swoon. Riley pretended to catch her.

“And then, folks, I reached
ye olde breaking point.
One day it hit me: this ain’t the way we’re supposed to live. What would our primitive ancestors think?” He tossed his shirt aside and held up his quiver. “If you people had to hunt down woolly mammoths together, I guaran-damn-
tee
you’d tell way less lies!” More laughter.
Far fewer lies,
Rachel corrected. “See, civilization is great, but we’ve taken it way too far. We scrub our language, keep everything undercover, and then all
this
builds up inside…” He thrust a hand into the barrel, scooped up a glop of mud. “Till one day you turn to your wife and say honey,
I hate your face!”

Gary Gannon flung the mud at his wife’s serene face. Riley gasped with the audience. Rachel stifled a wild giggle. Mrs. Gannon smiled through the mud, her teeth a feeble flash of white.

“I know!” said Gary Gannon. “I know, friends. That’s how shocking the truth felt at first. Like a big ol’ smack of mud to the face. But I’m telling you, after a good long fight,
and
a good long make-up session…” The crowd chuckled. “We decided yep, this is how we need to live. We embrace the
savage freedom
of brute-force honesty, no matter how messy we get. We give up all our secrets. And ultimately…”

“We
heal
,” said Gannon’s wife. She massaged the mud into her neck.

“That’s right, Lottie. When you’re starting out with DERT, let me tell you: the dirtier the better. Because you have to get dirty,
really
dirty, before you can even think about getting clean.”

Gary Gannon grabbed another arrow from his quiver and shot it across the stage. It hit a large red button, which lit up with a loud
ding
. The spigots over the stalls activated with a shudder, pattering the DERT attendees with a sudden warm rainfall. The transformation was fast: the firm soil underfoot melted into mud. Rachel and Riley shivered.

“Okay, folks. This is it. Eat up those truth cupcakes, if you haven’t already. S’okay, they’re all natural. As seen on TV.” He flashed a wide wolfish smile. “Right here, right now, you’re gonna experience your very first Splatter Session.”

The crowd sent up a murmur of approval. Rachel and Riley looked down at their cupcake wrappers. Their tongues felt thick and the weird tingling had traveled to their chests. They weren’t sure what was happening, but they were sure it wasn’t funny anymore.

“Rach,” Riley whispered.

“What.”

“What was in those cupcakes?”

Rachel crunched the wrapper in her fist. “I don’t know.”