Part 21 (1/2)
”You've already branded him with your b.o.o.bs. There's nothing I could do anyway.”
We both laughed, and Becca's laugh turned into a cough again.
Helen's big b.u.t.t resurfaced. When the camera was free, Becca's newly -1- scratchy voice said, ”I have to go. Keep me posted on number twenty- 0- three. I'm counting on you.”
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”And Caleb's counting on you. Sweet dreams.”
”If only.” She hung up.
From downstairs, I heard the garage door close and my brothers'
clumsy footsteps fi ll the house with life. I didn't want to be alone, a rarity, so I headed downstairs and spent two hours splayed across the couch watching AJ and CJ destroy zombies. It wasn't quite as good as a movie, but their aggressive banter helped me temporarily erase the vision of Becca puking that was on repeat in my head. I must have been pretty f.u.c.ked up to watch horror movie after horror movie, not to mention my brothers ripping intestines out of realistic dead humans, and only be disturbed by a little puke. Forgetting about that day, and so many others, felt like a constant goal. I hoped there would come a day I would want to remember.
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CHAPTER.
20.
Tuesday and Wednesday were regular school days in the sense that I went to cla.s.s, n.o.body threw up near me, and Leo and I didn't spend any time in the book closet. His creative writing teacher was annoyingly holding him accountable for what ever it was he was working on, so I ate with my lunch friends listening to them talk about stage crew and trying to win me back.
”We miss you, Alex. The catwalk isn't nearly as creepy without you,” Brandon told me.
”Yeah, and you already own enough black to blend in,” Eliza said.
”You're really selling it, but I have an actual job and actual, you know, stuff I have to do with my eve nings.”
”Watching Dead Hags 7 isn't 'actual stuff ,' ” Brandon air- quoted.
”If only that were a real movie,” I mused.
-1- I spent both nights working at Cellar and cramming in home- 0- work when I wasn't fi lling bread with a.s.sorted meats and cheeses. I
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liked the busyness, the mechanical yet artful nature of building a sandwich and delivering it to a hungry person. Sometimes I felt like the patron saint of subs. There probably already was one, from what I've read about saints, which wasn't much. Except that there's one for practically everything. I could totally fi ll out a pair of black wings.
Do saints have wings?
Near the end of my Wednesday s.h.i.+ft, Doug called back to me in the kitchen. ”Alex, you have a visitor! Clean the bathroom fi rst.”
”I'll get right on that, Sir Subs- a-lot.” n.o.body tells the Patron Saint of Subs what to do.
I wiped my hands on my grungy jeans and stepped out to fi nd Leo waiting for me behind the counter.
”Hey,” he smiled.
”Hey,” I repeated, not matching him in enthusiasm. I didn't want to get razzed by the college crew.
I stayed behind the ledge where we placed the subs ready for consumption. Leo leaned on the counter with his elbows, bringing his face closer to mine. The low lighting somehow emphasized the freck- les that seemed inappropriate with the rest of his tougher exterior.
”Did you want something to eat?” I asked.
”Nah. Already ate. Thanks, though. Just stopped by to say hi.”
”Picking up your comics?”
”Yeah. New Buff y and Walking Dead are out.”
”Buff y comics any good?” I asked. ”I liked the show.”
”They're really good. Most of the time. They had this totally weird plot where Angel and Buff y had s.e.x in s.p.a.ce. I didn't quite get it.”