The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You (10 page)

Why had I thought that this would be better than doing the monster mash in the cafeteria?

I turned to the closest member of the haunted house crew, who was perched on top of a table in a ripped suit and a hobo-style top hat, his face hidden under a grotesque clown mask. There was a large rubber axe in his hand. Thankfully, I didn't share Meg's fear of clowns. The misshapen downward curve of the mask's mouth and the mottled blue paint over the eyes just looked like what would happen if someone stuck Mary-Anne France in a rainstorm. Which I found comforting rather than scary.

“Pardon me, homicidal clown.” My voice was shaky as I forced myself to look up at him. “Any chance you could get me out of here before I have a nervous breakdown? You look like an upstanding gentleman. Not that your gender matters to me. I just require assistance.”

The clown looked at me and tugged his lumpy top hat farther down, the mask puckering at the forehead. In one graceful leap, he was standing in front of me. The mask's chin wobbled, but the sealed mouth garbled any sound.

“I didn't catch that,” I said. There seemed to be too much spit in my mouth and yet I felt dehydrated and dizzy. I touched a glove to my forehead. It came away slick and green tinged. “Sorry. My friends ditched me here and, well, maybe you wouldn't understand, being a murderous children's entertainer, but haunted houses really aren't fun by yourself. And I'd like to avoid being known as the evil queen who fainted in the chem lab. See”—I pushed my glove down, revealing the smear of homework notes—“I forgot to add ‘don't have a panic attack' to my to-do list. A grave oversight.”

The clown seemed to consider this for a second before offering me the tattered brown sleeve of his non-axe-wielding arm. I took it, too thankful to be led out to worry about cutting off his circulation. He was warm and didn't smell like fake blood.

“If it's all the same to you,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed as Freddy Krueger jumped out in front of us, “I'm going to ramble until we're free. It'll help stave off the screaming and fainting thing, I think.”

The clown shrugged as if to say,
By all means, Maleficent, go ahead.

He was fairly tall for a clown. I wasn't sure why I tended to think of clowns as a shorter bunch. It would help them all pile into those tiny cars if they were small. But my axe murderer escort was nearly as tall as my horns, much too big to be a frosh. If I hadn't known that Peter was running around in a Disney sweatshirt, I would have assumed it was him. Regardless, the clown being tall and armed—even with a wobbly axe—was reassuring.

“I'm Trixie Watson, by the way,” I said.

The clown saluted me with his axe. I wet my lips, coating my tongue in sweat and slimy, sweet makeup.

“First, I'd like to point out that I'm down with the consumer part of this shindig. Costumes and candy? I'm totally on board. But being trapped on campus after hours while my classmates work through their sexual frustration by making people pee themselves? Not so much. Of course, some people are working through their sexual frustration in the normal run-off-and-find-a-private-corner kind of way—did you see Teen Wolf and Supergirl come through here?”

The clown nodded while also brandishing his axe to push us through the traffic jam of giggling farm animals. They scattered, revealing the second chem lab, which was full of zombies. Groaning, drooling, claw-your-eyes-out
Walking Dead
zombies. The room stank from the solid carbon dioxide being used to roll out waves of fake fog. The music was different here, a discordant warble of distorted roaring and screaming layered under a violin being violated. My veins tightened with another flush of adrenaline. I dug my fingernails into the clown's sleeve as the zombies started approaching us. With a sweep of his axe, they staggered backward, a few of them glaring at him for ruining their fun.

“Supergirl is my best friend Harper,” I continued loudly, jerking to keep one of the zombies from touching me. “And she's been all kinds of in love with Cornell Aaron for years. And it's about time those crazy kids went ahead and stuffed their tongues in each other's faces and all, but, you know, they could have waited until I was safely through the haunted house.”

Stopping short, the clown's shoulders seized with a laugh that I couldn't hear. He lifted his axe and reached over himself to poke me in the stomach. The blade folded in on itself above my belly button. Laughing despite myself, I batted it away and gave him a grazing shove with my shoulder.

“Yeah, I know. It's stupid to get freaked out. But the rest of the crew isn't as facetious as you are. The mountain of stuffed animals that's really a person? Not a fan. I will have nightmares for weeks.”

The clown wiggled his head and patted his chest proudly with his axe.

“That was your idea?” I asked.

He bobbed his head enthusiastically, the mask flapping around his neck. I was surprised at how well I could translate mime. Yet another useless skill I could put on my résumé.

“That is utterly demented,” I said. “But I would expect no less from a hobo clown. Or do you prefer displaced circus entertainment professional?”

The clown held up two fingers with the hand holding the axe, indicating the latter option.

There were more zombies trapped behind a piece of chain-link fence, growling and spitting. One grabbed at the tail of a girl dressed as a cat and pulled her against the fence with a clatter.

I blurted out a curse and cringed into the clown's shoulder. He pulled me closer, the brim of his hat resting against my horns. We stood still for a moment. I could feel his breath rising and falling against my cheek. My arm was pinned to his side, my gloves buried deep into the fibers of his sleeve. There was an arm under that sleeve. Biceps brachii, coracobrachialis and brachialis connecting to a humerus bone. A real human arm, attached to a real human boy.

My pulse fluttered up into my throat again.

The zombies whispered “Ooo,” like a studio audience. The clown and I took a step forward in tandem.

“Anyway,” I said, staring firmly at my feet, “Harper and Cornell are going to be all happily ever after and the rest of us will have to deal. Which is going to be fairly sucky for me considering Cornell is now super best friends with Ben West. Do you know Ben West, homicidal clown?”

He glanced down at me, the axe going limp in his hand. From the shadowy recesses of his mask, I could barely make out confused brown eyes.

“Ben West?” I repeated. “Skinny, handlebar mustache, really lazy insults?”

The clown cocked his head and shook it side to side.

“Lucky you,” I said, shivering closer to him. “You must be new. He's less of a class clown—no offense—and more of our token idiot savant. I don't know how Cornell and Peter are putting up with his jackassery. Two minutes with West is like one really obnoxious lifetime. They'll realize it eventually. Everyone does. I mean, what kind of loser do you have to be to get kicked out of the role-playing club?”

The clown yanked the elbow I was holding onto, steering me around a group heading into the next room and toward the opposite wall. He drew back a black sheet of plastic—which looked no different from the rest of the black plastic—to reveal a door that opened onto the quad. There were people prancing around with bags of kettle corn and candied apples.

“Oh, sweet merciful freedom,” I said, ducking my horns under the plastic. I turned around with my hand on the doorknob. “Thank you, homicidal clown. You've been a lovely companion. If you've given up your murderous tendencies on Monday, find me in the caf. I owe you a soda for your trouble.”

He tipped his top hat to me and turned on his heel, striding back through the zombies as I stepped outside. I was almost sorry to see him go, but the fresh air was such a relief that I couldn't be too troubled.

I immediately fished money out of my cloak and bought a spiced cider, drinking deep as I sat myself on a bench. With the adrenaline seeping out of my bloodstream, it was easier to focus on being happy for Harper and Cornell, as much as I would need to have a chat with them about the appropriate times to disappear together.

I sipped my cider, watching the parade of princesses and superheroes dashing over to the apple bobbing booth. I had absolutely no will to shove my face into a bucket of water after being trapped in the haunted house. I was going to keep my butt firmly planted until Meg or Harper reappeared.

I dug through the pockets of my cloak until my fingers found the worn copy of
The
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
I'd stashed inside. I pulled it out and read a few chapters, nursing my cider until it went cold and became really spicy juice.

“There's something you don't see every day.”

I looked up and saw Peter standing in front of me, his hair poking out of the front of his purple hood. I adjusted my cloak to make room and he sat down heavily next to me, holding out a mostly empty bag of kettle corn.

I folded the book over my knee so that I could take some kettle corn. Like my cider, it was no longer fresh, but I ate a fistful anyway. The sugar stuck to my gloves.

“Where's your posse?” I asked in between crunching.

“Scattered.”

“Same here,” I said. “It looks like we're the only ones not using the costumes as an excuse to be more adventurous.”

“Hey, I have been to infinity and beyond,” he said, proudly displaying his costume before shaking some kettle corn into his palm. “But my knee hurts and I don't feel like dancing.”

I grimaced. “Is that where everyone is?”

“Looks like it,” he said. “I guess we're the only people left not paired off. Well, you, me, and Ben.”

“Yikes,” I said. Even with getting trapped in the haunted house, I'd been having a lovely West-free evening. “Don't lump us in with Ben West. We can't be that pathetic, right?”

Peter laughed and nudged me with his shoulder. “I guess not. I mean, we could always…”

He turned in slow motion, his big blue eyes asking a really stupid question. It hung in the air between us like the dry ice fog in the zombie room. It would have made sense—if I were someone else—for us to pair off because the rest of our group had. That's how things worked on TV. If there was an even number of girls and boys, you coupled up. I watched sitcoms. I got the formula. I snorted at the idea.

Peter shrank back, scalded. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. It was just absurd. The Donnellys had been running the Mess's student government since the school opened. Except for Jack. But I was much more suited to the sociopath than to the student council president.

“Sorry,” I said, clasping my hands together in my lap. “Absolutely no offense intended. But I am so not First Lady material. I'd destroy you without even meaning to. Because I'm, you know, me. And you're—”

“A gimpy member of leadership?”

I threw up my hands. “See? You're too nice to deal with me all the time. I'm the evil queen and you save the day.” I paused to consider him. He had chosen his costume well. He hadn't even needed to draw in Buzz's chin dimple. He came with one already in place. “It's not that you aren't crazy good-looking. You are. You know that. You need to find a nice Jackie Onassis.”

He gave me a bemused shake of his head. “That was a lot of references in one compliment.”

I cringed, thinking of West, who had said something similar about my insulting him on the first day of school. “Yeah, well. I'm off my game. I got trapped in the haunted house when Harper and Cornell went frolicking off together and I'm still a little woozy. I had to ask some dude dressed like a clown to help me escape.”

Peter raised his eyebrows at me. “You asked—”

I held my hand up. “I do not want to talk about it. Apparently, I have problems with zombies up close and personal, okay?”

“Don't feel too bad about it. The drama club spent all week training them. Even Jack said they were pretty intense.” He stood, peering inside the nearly empty bag of kettle corn. “Do you want another cider?”

“Please,” I said. “And then can we track down our stupid newly-in-love friends? I want to get this gunk off my face.”

 

To:
Messina Academy Students

From:
Administrative Services

Subject:
Harvest Festival

 

 

… infractions against the school code will be met with the same repercussions set in place during school hours.

 

8

Peter and I
wandered aimlessly, not spending much time at any one booth, eating through a second bag of kettle corn and drinking apple cider. Dr. Mendoza had abandoned the dunk tank, leaving damp pavement behind as the only evidence that he'd let half the student body sink him into what had to be freezing cold water.

“Even before my leg blew out, I never thought about going pro,” Peter said, tossing kettle corn kernels into his mouth. “I've wanted to go to MIT since before I started kindergarten. It's the top mechanical engineering program in the country.”

“Might as well aim for the best,” I agreed, taking a handful of kettle corn for myself. It stuck unpleasantly to my gloves and I had to scrape the residue off with my teeth. “Are you leaning more toward Stark Industries or Skynet?”

The corners of his mouth quirked. “I don't follow.”

“Nerd stuff.” I shrugged. “Don't worry about it.”

“Trixie! Peter!” Meg was running toward us, her legs seeming to move much faster than her shoes. Her hair had started to lose its curl. A piece stuck to her flushed cheek as she hopped in front of us. “Oh my God, tonight is the best. I danced with Brad for a little while, but then he disappeared and I ended up with Ishaan Singh. We mostly talked about cricket. He's cricket captain and fifth in the ranking, but he didn't know that J. M. Barrie started that team with Wodehouse and Kipling, if you can believe it. I thought that was common knowledge. Anyway, we had kettle corn and split a candied apple. It was very sweet.”