A Plague Year (13 page)

Warren stepped back inside and closed the door. I don’t think he even saw us.

But the college boys did.

They kept walking toward us, but the one with the Baggie stuffed it into the pocket of his Blackwater U jacket. They got into the Saab, backed out, and roared away down the road.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Arthur cut me off. “You didn’t see that. You didn’t hear that. You know nothing.”

I agreed, “Okay.”

Arthur opened the driver’s-side door. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

We both got inside. I assured him, “I don’t even know what you’re saying, because I didn’t see or hear anything.”

He mumbled, “Good. What Warren does is his business. Always has been.”

“Okay.” Arthur dropped the Geo Metro in gear, and we began a tense drive up to the party.

I guess you could say that Blackwater University is the most famous thing around here, but I had never heard a good word
spoken about it in my life. The university people look down on us, and we hate them for it. That’s the way it is, and always has been.

We drove for about twenty minutes, mostly through farms and woodlands, until the highway narrowed. Then we turned onto a two-lane road leading to the main gate. College-kid businesses lined both sides of the road—used-book stores, coffeehouses, trade-or-sell music stores, and several bars. (I wondered where, exactly, Warren and Jimmy had found those guys and beaten them up.)

We entered the campus and veered right, following a perimeter road around academic buildings, dormitories, and a wide quadrangle dotted with statues. I recognized that Venus-without-any-arms statue. She had been the victim of a frat boy prank, though, and was now wearing a pink bra. (I wondered if frat boys did that in Florida, too.)

The perimeter road took us behind the student center, where we veered right again and, technically, left the campus. We were now in a tree-lined area that held the fraternity and sorority houses and the homes of the university professors.

Arthur had not spoken all the way up, and he did not sound happy when he finally did. “What’s the address of this place?”

I told him, and we slowed down to look at numbers. But that turned out to be unnecessary. It was obvious where the big Halloween party was taking place.

The Lyles’ house was a large redbrick structure with a white porch running around the front and sides. College kids in costumes were hanging out on the porch and on the lawn, and they were moving in and out of the open front door.

We found a parking spot a block and a half away and started walking back through a crowd of partyers. Some were in real
costumes—I saw a Spanish matador and a couple of Disney princesses—but most people had improvised like we had, and the prevailing costume was indeed zombie.

The first person I recognized was Catherine Lyle. She was standing, costumeless, on the front porch (which was, of course,
her
front porch). She was speaking to a young man about the plastic beer cup in his hand. The young man reluctantly poured the beer over the porch railing and onto the dirt below.

When Arthur and I mounted the stairs, Catherine Lyle looked up and met my eyes. But then her counselor ethics kicked in, I guess, and she looked away. Her frown deepened, though, as she realized that two more underage kids, very underage kids, were entering her house.

Some kind of rock music was playing as we walked into the wide foyer. To the left was a living room filled with people on couches and chairs. They were all smoking and drinking.

To the right was a dining room. There were snacks and sodas on one table, and a CD player, some CDs, and two kegs of beer on another.

I heard a familiar voice call out from the back of the foyer. “Hey! You made it!” Wendy Lyle was standing there (leaning, really) against a wall. She was wrapped in purple cloth. Like a genie, I guess.

A short guy with curly hair had his arms pressed against the wall over her head, like he had her trapped. He was wearing an eye patch and a purple sash with a plastic dagger stuck in it.

Wendy slipped out from under his arms and walked toward us just as Catherine Lyle walked back inside. Catherine stopped her long enough to say, “There is to be no underage drinking, Wendy. That goes for you and any of your friends.” She then continued down a hallway to what I figured was the kitchen.

Wendy was not like herself. Not like herself in class anyway, or in the counseling group. She was smiling at everything. She told me, over the rock music, “One thing I will say about the town of Blackwater [she pronounced it
BACKwahr
], one
good
thing, is that they are really into Halloween. We were driving around, and we saw all of these … haunted houses. You know? Like people had gone all out to turn their houses into these … haunted houses.”

I nodded. “Yeah. There are always a lot of those around.”

“I guess because it already is a dark, old, scary place, people just go with it, you know? They make it even darker and scarier. You know?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

She stopped talking. I tried to come up with something to say. The best I could do was to point to the walls. “This is a nice house. It’s all brick?”

Wendy wrinkled her nose. “I guess. Aren’t most houses brick?”

“No.”

“No? What’s your house made of?”

“Wood.”

I had forgotten momentarily about Arthur. He was right behind me, and he suddenly spoke up. “I live in a trailer.”

Wendy started to laugh hysterically. “My God! Do you hear that? Do you get it? We’re the three little pigs! I’m brick, you’re wood, and you’re … I don’t know. What are trailers made of?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He walked into the dining room and stared at the snacks table.

Wendy laughed for a little while longer. She muttered, “Straw. That’s it. They’re made of straw.”

I asked her, “What’s with the purple? Are you a genie?”

“It’s not purple! It’s indigo. It’s because
I
am an indigo.”

I must have looked confused. Wendy added, “That’s the color of my aura.”

That didn’t help me. She asked, “Have you ever had your aura read?”

“No. I don’t know what that is.”

“Every living thing gives off energy in an aura,” she explained. “Like the aurora borealis. And every aura has a color.” She tugged at my sleeve. “You could be an indigo and not know it. Tell me: Do you seem to have more empathy than those around you?”

I remembered my PSAT vocabulary. “Like can I put myself in someone else’s shoes?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah.”

“And are you more creative than those around you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. That’s not too hard around here.”

“Yeah. Right.”

The conversation deflated after that. Wendy started looking around, maybe to find someone better to talk to. “So, where did you get your aura read?” I asked.

“Cassadaga. In Florida. My dad took me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s all spiritualists. It’s a very spiritual place. You should check it out when you’re down there.”

“Yeah. Maybe I will.”

“I know you will.”

“How do you know that?”

Arthur rejoined us. He had a handful of Chex mix.

“Because I’m an indigo,” Wendy said.

Arthur asked, “What’s that?”

“It’s the color of my aura.”

Arthur tried to pronounce it, like it was a foreign word.
“In-DEE-grow?”

“Indigo—like indigo on the light spectrum,” I explained. “ROY G BIV.”

Arthur asked, somewhat dumbly, “Roy Biv? Who’s that?”

“Nobody. It’s a mnemonic device.”

Arthur rubbed at his eye, smearing one black line of makeup. “Huh?”

“A memory trick. ROY G BIV. Each letter stands for a color on the spectrum.”

“Relax, cuz. I know what it is. I’m just bustin’ them on you. I know all that stuff.”

“Oh.”

“I was good in science.” He asked Wendy, “Indigo? So that means you’re … what? Like a grape?”

Wendy didn’t respond to that. She checked around furtively. Then she whispered to both of us, “Who wants a drink? We have beer. We have rum punch!”

Arthur made a dismissive gesture with his hand. He answered curtly, “Not me,” and walked outside.

I shook my head. “No. I’d better not, either.”

Wendy shrugged. She stepped into the dining room and grabbed two pieces of candy corn. “I love these. Love them, love them, love them.”

She took me by the arm and led me back to that spot against the wall, the spot where the pirate had been. He wasn’t there now.

She told me, “Open your mouth.”

“Huh?”

“Just do it.”

I complied.

She placed a piece of candy corn on the tip of her tongue. Then, out of nowhere, she leaned into me, like for a kiss. She slid her tongue and the candy inside my mouth. I took it off with my lips, letting them run down the length of her tongue.

It was incredibly exciting.

Wendy reloaded her tongue with another piece, and we did it again.

Then she looked at me expectantly. All I could manage to whisper was, “What was that?”

She whispered back, “It was … what it was. Did you like it?”

“Yeah.”

She backed away, smacking her lips together loudly. “Let’s get some more. For eating, though.”

“Okay.”

“No more taking advantage of me because I am drunk.”

I laughed. “Okay.”

She led me back into the dining room. Two guys were standing by the CD player. One was dressed in zombie attire. The other had on a long black robe and a white skull mask, a death’s-head mask. The death’s-head was saying, “Play something Midwest, man. I’m sick of this L.A. pop crap.”

The other guy pointed to a stack of CDs. “Tell me what you want to hear, bro.”

Wendy dragged me right up to him. She called out, a little too loudly, “Hey, Mr. P.!”

The death’s-head mask turned around. It had big holes, so you could see the eyes and mouth inside. It was Mr. Proctor all right. Definitely. And he did not look pleased to see us. He managed to say, “Hey. What are you guys doing here?”

Wendy replied, “I live here! This is my house!”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” We stared at each other for a few
seconds. Then he turned left and started toward the front door. “Sorry. I really don’t think I should be partying with you guys.”

I watched him go.

Just as he disappeared, I felt a hard tug at my arm. I turned and saw the pirate guy with the eye patch. He looked me up and down, but he spoke to Wendy. “Now, what’s he dressed up like? A townie? Is he your little townie friend? A little townie who has to go home now?”

Wendy said, “Shut up!” But she didn’t sound angry.

“Bye now, little townie friend.” The guy turned his back on me. He told her, “You come over here and shut me up.” Then he took Wendy by the wrist and walked her back to that same place against the wall. Then he leaned over her, just like before.

I started to panic. I wondered:
Should I go rescue her?

Then I stopped wondering.

Wendy opened her mouth to him, revealing another piece of candy corn. She stuck out her tongue and held it there, dangling it in the air, just as she had done with me. The pirate guy knew what to do next. He covered her tongue with his whole mouth.

And there they were, the two of them, making out against the wall. Right in front of me, like I wasn’t even there.

I felt the blood rising in my neck, and face, and ears, like when Rick Dorfman was choking me.

I stared for a few more seconds; then I tore myself away. I pushed through a crowd at the front door, looking for Arthur, hoping to get out of there as fast as I could. But I didn’t see him.

So I found an open spot against the railing and stood there with my head hanging down. I was furious and ashamed and humiliated all at the same time. I gripped the railing and stared at the ground, hoping nobody would see me or, worse, say anything to me. I was a total loser, just a total coward loser.

After a few minutes, I sensed somebody grab hold of the railing next to me. Grab it clumsily, bumping me to the side.

I saw a girl’s arm to my left, and the purple folds of a costume. It was Wendy. She may or may not have known that it was me standing next to her. She leaned over the railing and hurled very loudly, projecting a solid three-foot-long stream of vomit onto the dirt below.

My stomach turned at the smell, and the sight, of the pieces of candy corn. There they were, risen from the grave of her stomach. Undigested. Making me sick.

From behind me, I heard someone say, “Nice shot.”

It was Arthur. “You ready to get out of here?” he asked. “Or did you want to, maybe, kiss her again?”

Before I could answer, I heard the sound of a large, boisterous group coming out of the house. Wendy suddenly snapped to attention. She hurried down the steps and took off into the night.

A man in a pirate costume called out, “Wait! Is that my daughter? Does my costume embarrass her that much? Come on, Wendy—I did leave off the codpiece!”

The group of mini-pirates around him started to laugh, and I realized this was Dr. Lyle. He had on a long blue velvet coat, a puffy white shirt, and a golden vest. He had on a feathered blue hat, too.