Summer Days and Summer Nights (10 page)

“Do it, pumpkin! Be
you
!” Dave finger-gunned at John-O, who stiffened and ran over to the rope, fiddling nervously with the brass release hook. Dave sighed. “God bless freshmen.”

“Here we go. Last stand at the Cinegore,” I said as people swarmed in through the doors. “We who are about to die salute you.”

*   *   *

Maybe a third of the seats were filled. Even on our last night, with a supposedly haunted movie, we couldn't draw a crowd. No wonder they were bulldozing us. Dave reminded everyone about turning off cell phones just before he snapped pics of the audience, who were, in turn, memorializing themselves and uploading it all.

Then I went into my bit. “Welcome to the last night of the Cinegore Theater, your premier vintage horror movie experience.”

“Shut up and start the movie!” Bryan Jenks called from the back row. There was a reason we called him Bryan Jerks.

I took a deep breath. “As you know,
I Walk This Earth
is cursed—”

“Mo-vie! Mo-vie! Mo-vie!” Bryan and his pals chanted. A couple of the hipsters tried to shut them down with an apathetic “Dude, c'mon” chorus, but that only made Bryan try harder.

“Hey, Jerks—your mother still cut the crusts off your sandwiches?” Dani was suddenly beside me, shining her usher's flashlight right in Bryan's eyes.

He held up a hand. “Damn, girl. Don't blind me.”

“Don't piss me off, and I won't,” she said. “Got your back, vato,” she whispered in my ear. Her breath sent a shiver down my neck.

“All the people who worked on this movie died in mysterious ways,” I continued. “The lead actress, Natalia Marcova, hung herself in a cheap motel room. Teen heartthrob Jimmy Reynolds was beheaded when he crashed his car into a tree. The mileage on his odometer? Six hundred sixty-six miles.”

“Ohmigod,” a girl in the front row said, giggling nervously with her friends. The booze on their breath was eye-wateringly potent.

“Lead actor, Alistair Findlay-Cushing—”

“That was his actual name, not a stage name,” one of the local college hipsters said smugly.

Dani mouthed, “Wikipediot.”

Fighting a grin, I said, louder, “
Alistair was found facedown on his bed
, a pentagram scrawled on the floor, his heart nailed to the center of it.” I stopped to enjoy the audience's squirms. “But the creepiest part? When director Rudolph Van Hesse was on his deathbed, he confessed that he'd sold his soul to the devil to make the film, and that it had the power to corrupt anyone who watched it. ‘There is evil woven into this film. A powerful darkness shines out from each frame. It must not be seen
by human eyes
!'”

“How can darkness ‘shine out'?” Hipster Dick said.

In my movie, he would die slowly and painfully, thanks to sentient, malevolent facial hair. I ignored him. “Van Hesse may have spent the last ten years of his life in a mental institution, but it didn't stop him from having every print of his film destroyed … except for one copy kept under lock and key for the past fifty-five years. That single existing copy is the one you're about to watch.”

“Ooh,” the audience said.

“So put on your special DemonVision 3-D glasses and enjoy the show. We'll see you at the end—if you survive.”

The theater went dark, and I stumbled into Dani on the way out. “Sorry! You okay? Jeez, I'm so … sorry.”

The smell of her vanilla perfume made me want to bury my face in the crook of her neck. She quirked an eyebrow, and I realized I was still holding on to her. I sprang back. “Sorry.”

“It's okay,” Dani said, and pushed through the theater doors into the bright lobby. I hung behind for a second to get my shit together.

“Sorry,” I said again to the dark. But really I was just sorry I had to let go.

*   *   *

I met Dani halfway through our junior year, when she moved to Deadwood from San Antonio and landed in my alphabetically appointed homeroom class (A–G, Dani García, Kevin Grant). She had pink pigtails and the air of somebody from the Big City. Plus, she wore a Bikini Kill T-shirt. I was toast.

“Hey. Nice shirt,” I'd said, pointing.

“Oh my gosh,” Lana French had shouted. “Kevin just pointed to the new girl's boobs!”

For two weeks solid, I was known as McBoobster. After that, my exchanges with Dani were on a strictly “Heyhowareyou/Wellseeyalater” basis. I'd watched from the sidelines as she cycled through short-term-parking romantic partners: Paul Peterson (he of the any-surface-can-be-skateboarded fame), Ignacio Aguilar (a strange, mostly texting-based relationship), Martha Dixon (the brief bi-curious period, documented through a variety of Hot Topic T-shirts), and the true horror show, Mike Everett, who had broken up with Dani three days before the Valentine's dance so he could go with Talisha Graham instead, which was just wrong—like, adult-diaper-party wrong.

And then, by some spring miracle, Dani had taken a shift at the Cinegore. “Thought I'd see what all the fuss is about,” she'd said. “Besides, it beats working the fry baskets at Whataburger.”

For the past four months, we'd been toiling side by side, our Saturday nights playing out like a montage from every bad teen romance ever filmed: Wayward fingers briefly touching in the vast fields of popcorn. Heads bending in sympathy as we restocked the Raisinets. Eyes glancing while we talked smack with Dave about which Richard Matheson movie adaptation was the best:
The Last Man on Earth
(me),
The Omega Man
(Dani), or
I Am Legend
(Dave, who was a sucker for both Will Smith and German shepherds). When our shifts ended, we'd stagger down the road to IHOP at two a.m. for plates of spongy pancakes and endless cups of burned coffee. Sitting there with my best friend in the world and the girl I secretly loved, I would feel like a vampire, staring out through night-painted windows at the lonely semis crying down the interstate, willing the dawn to stay tucked in for just a few hours more so I could suck up all the living I could get.

When the first streaks of pink lit up the West Texas scrub, we'd wobble out to our cars. “Later. Unless we're killed in our sleep by malevolent forces,” I'd say. Dani would laugh and give me a half-wave, and for the entire ride home I'd obsess about the meaning of that one gesture, reading hope into every flutter of her fingers. I'd let myself into the house, stepping carefully over my mom's empty vodka bottles. Then I'd crawl into bed and let the Dani–Kevin horror movie in my head spool out toward its inevitable victorious-romantic conclusion.

*   *   *

“And we … are … go,” I said, as the dramatic score blared from the Cinegore's speakers. Through the projection booth window, I could just make out the grainy opening credits before I walked away.

“Aren't you going to watch this marvel of cinematic art?” Dave taunted from the floor, where he sat hunched over his bag of weed.

“Maybe later.” I glanced pointedly at Dani, but Dave was already engrossed in his Olympic-caliber spliff-rolling skills.

“I wish we'd at least go out with something good, like
Final Destination 12: We Really Mean It This Time
. Now
that
is a rad movie,” he said.

Unlike me, Dave thought that vintage horror films were crap. He couldn't see the beauty in blood splatters made from chocolate syrup and werewolf transformations achieved via painstaking stop-motion. If it didn't feature multimillion-dollar explosions and a heavy body count, Dave wasn't interested.

“Like, why would you come here and pay twelve bucks and eat stale corn and get gum on your new kicks,” Dave said, his voice tight with held smoke, “when you could stream that shit on your phone from your toilet?”

I rolled my eyes. “Classy.”

“Dude, that's the future. This…” Dave gestured to the small confines of the projection room as he exhaled a gust of weed fumes. “This is a graveyard.”

He offered the joint to me. I shook my head, and he offered it to Dani.

“No, thanks. I'll just enjoy the inevitable contact high.”

Dave shrugged and took another hit.

“Yeah, but what about the ritual of getting your ticket and your snacks, finding the perfect seat,” I countered. “All those strangers watching the movie with you, they change how you see it, you know? You should hear their gasps and laughter and sniffling. It's a communal experience. You can't get that on your laptop or phone. That sharing, it's the foundation of storytelling. It reminds us that we're…”

“What?”

“Human. Humans who need other humans,” I said, glancing quickly at Dani.

“That was so beautiful, Kevin.” Dave pulled me into a crushing hug and kissed the top of my head. “Mother, our little Kevey's all grown up.”

I pushed Dave away hard. “Not everything is mockable.”

“Then you're not trying hard enough,” Dave shot back, and even though I loved him, I wanted to punch him, too. Because I was gutted about the Cinegore closing down. I loved the old place like crazy—the sneaker-flattened, rose-patterned carpets; the ratty projection room that always smelled vaguely of weed and BO; the gaudy chandeliers with their fluttering, unpredictable lights; the popcorn-littered rows of red leather seats; the billboard-sized marquee out front with the letters frequently rearranged by drunken pranksters to say rude things. After my dad took off and my mom's drinking got worse, the Cinegore had been my safe place. It had become more home than home.

“I get it,” Dani said, surprising me. “When you watch one of these old movies in a place like this, you're connected to everybody else who's ever watched it. You can practically feel them around you.”

“I hope you brought condoms, then,” Dave said, pinching the end of the joint to put it out. “Safety first, kids.”

“Oh my God.” Dani's eye roll was a thing of beauty.

“Dave,” I said, a little sharply. “Make yourself useful. Take out the trash. It smells like a bag of your farts.”

“Kev, how do you expect me to get my curse on if I can't watch the movie? Why can't
you
take out the trash?”

“Because I'm the manager, that's why.”

Dave sighed dramatically as he staggered to his feet and headed for the door. “Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Discuss. Oh, and one more thing.” He turned his ass to us, farted loudly, and shut the door. I heard him shouting “Victory for the proletariat!” on his way down the hall.

“Admit it: He's your community service project,” Dani said, waving her hand in front of her nose.

“Sadly, I get no points for befriending David Wilson. Just a lifetime of painful stories to tell my children someday.”

In her flimsy Misfits tank top, Dani shivered from the Cinegore's icy AC. She steadfastly refused to wear the beribboned usher's jacket, citing her reasons, alternately, as “I don't do butt ugly,” “Dress codes are basically fascism,” or “It's not like the boss is around to fire me.”

She offered me an apologetic smile that made my stomach tingle. “Sorry. Forgot my sweater again. Can I…?”

Automatically, I peeled off my jacket and draped it around her shoulders, as I did practically every shift.

“Thanks.” Dani threaded her arms through the sleeves and gave my jacket a surreptitious sniff. I hoped it didn't smell bad, but she smiled, so I figured it was okay. She picked up a Cthulhu plush figurine from the elaborate horror diorama she'd been adding to over the months. In his current incarnation, Cthulhu wore a Strawberry Shortcake dress. “Is it weird that I'm gonna miss this place so much?”

“No. It's not weird at all.” I couldn't help hoping that I was included in the things she'd miss. “Maybe we'll have to get together on Friday nights and dress up in our uniforms and throw Coke on the floor just to relive the experience.” I tried to make it sound like a joke, in case she wasn't interested.

“I'll spray some Scorched Popcorn air freshener so we can have that feeling of being nauseated but strangely hungry at the same time.”

“For sure,” I added, my hope making me a little dizzy. “And then one of us can shout, ‘Please deposit all trash in the receptacles. Thank you. Good night.'”

My imaginary movie cranked up again. This time, we drove a vintage Mustang through the desert like a couple of badass outlaws.

“Do it, Kevin,” Dani says, sliding behind the wheel while I jump up through the sunroof, my sawed-off shotgun trained on the semi full of undead trying to force us off the road. “How do a pack of revenants know so much about driving?” It's a legit question. Dani's a smart girl.

“I don't know, baby. I'll work it out in post,” I say, and toss a hand grenade behind us, where it explodes in a fireball of zombie-infused glory. “That's for remaking
Psycho
with Vince Vaughn!” I shout.

Dani was playing nervously with Cthulhu Shortcake's dress. “Hey, um. I've never really said thank you.”

“For what?”

She used Cthulhu to gesture toward her diorama. “You were the first person to ever take my art seriously.”

I shrugged, embarrassed. “That's because it's awesome. You're awesome. I mean, an awesome, awesome artist. Your art is … awesome.”
Jesus.

“Still, it meant a lot,” Dani said, thankfully ignoring my babble. “You're the reason I applied to UT and got that art scholarship.”

I was the reason she was leaving Deadwood. Great.

“You should let me draw you sometime.”

My face went hot at the idea of posing for Dani, maybe on her bed. Shit. I did not want to get sprung now. “Um. Like in
Titanic
?” I splayed my hand against the wall. “Jack!
Ja-a-ack!
”

Dani laughed. “Just for that, I'm never giving back your jacket. It's mine now.” She pulled it tight around her. Her eyes shone with challenge. The inside of my chest was a cage match between heart and breath, and both were losing.