Richard Kadrey - Dead Set

“I want to take him home with me,” said Zoe.

“You want your father’s disc?”

“Yes. I know it’ll cost me something, so just tell me the price and I’ll pay it.”

He tugged at the last few Animagraph straps. “Look how eager you are,” he said. “You must have had a wonderful time.”

Zoe recognized his tone as the beginning of a negotiation. “I did. Thanks for helping me get there. What do you want for the disc?”

“You don’t even have an Animagraph. What will you do with him?”

“I don’t want to play the disc,” Zoe said. “I just don’t like the idea of my father’s soul stuffed in some dusty bin like old socks.”

“Of course,” replied Emmett, nodding and scratching his chin like he was thinking. “The price is this: your blood. Not much. Just a few drops of blood on a tissue or cloth. Give me that and you can take dear old dad home with you.”

Zoe looked at Emmett and didn’t hesitate. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

“I can help you do it now. I’m sure I have a straight pin or box cutter behind the counter somewhere.”

Zoe looked at Emmett’s rumpled clothes and dirty fingernails. The dust on the record bins. “No thanks. I can do it.”

“I was just kidding,” said Emmett with good humor. “This will be a snap for you. You’re a strong girl.”

“Keep my dad’s disc handy,” she said. “I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow.”

“We’ll be waiting with bows on.” Zoe left the shop while Emmett was still putting away the Animagraph, too filled with restless energy to stand still.

Outside, the San Francisco night air was crisp and perfect. The fog was rolling in from the ocean. Emmett’s quirks couldn’t touch her buoyant mood. Besides, she’d finally figured him out. He was like those Japanese businessmen she’d read about. The ones who pay all that money for schoolgirls’ panties. Fine, let him have his creepy collections. What he wants is easy. It’s nothing. One last time with the razor and then never again. I’ll do it after dinner.

The night remained perfect, beautiful, a frozen moment of goodness, but she had to admit she was getting chilly in nothing but her jeans and an old Circle Jerks T-shirt. She stuffed her hands deep into her pockets to warm them up. Something crinkled against her fingers. She pulled it out. It was the butterscotch candy the old woman in Iphigene had given her. Zoe unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. It didn’t taste like much of anything at all, but that was all right. She sucked on it all the way home, wondering where she should keep her father’s disc. Maybe on her dresser, so she could see it when she got up. Maybe on the wall near where she’d tacked up that old single her mother had designed for the Cramps. There were lots of possibilities.

The elevator was out again when Zoe got home. She stumbled up the stairs as exhaustion numbed her arms and legs. The trip to Iphigene and back had taken more out of her than she’d realized. According to the clock in the liquor store window down the block, it was almost eight. She’d been gone for hours. Still, nothing could break her buoyant mood and the new optimism bubbling inside her. Today she’d seen her father and tomorrow she’d bring him home. What could be better than that?

“Zoe?” Her mother was sitting on the living room sofa. The room smelled of cigarettes and blue-gray smoke curled from the fresh butt in a saucer on the floor. Her mother looked as tired as she felt, Zoe thought.

“Hi. Sorry I’m home so late.” She leaned against the wall on the other side of the room, trying to look relaxed, like nothing had been going on.

“Where have you been?”

“Nowhere. Out walking around.”

“Don’t lie to me. Where have you been?”

Zoe stood up straight as a familiar old tension filled the room.

“At a record store,” she said.

“Till eight at night? What record store?”

“This used place in North Beach. They have a lot of old punk vinyl. I even saw a couple of covers you did.” She should have seen this coming. The buzzkill and her mother’s seemingly magical ability to start in on her just when she was feeling good. Zoe stared down at her shoes.

“Don’t change the subject,” barked her mother. “Your school called me today. You’ve been cutting classes.”

Zoe closed her eyes and tried not to groan. The scene they were starting was way too familiar.

“Just a couple,” she said.

“More than that, according to your school.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” Zoe shouted. “No one knows me here. They wouldn’t know if I was there or not.”

“So, you don’t answer when they take roll?”

“Not always,” said Zoe, hating how stupid she sounded telling such a feeble lie.

“I don’t believe you.”

Even though she knew she had no right to be angry, Zoe couldn’t help herself. Why did this have to happen now, just when things were getting better? “Believe what you want. Nothing I say matters around here, anyway.”

“What does that mean?” her mother asked, her voice getting low, her tone wary.

“You brought us here. This apartment. The new school. This whole stupid life we’re living was your idea.”

“It’s starting again, isn’t it? The lies. The disappearing.” Her mother reached for the cigarettes, caught herself, and dropped them to the floor.

“Nothing is starting again,” mumbled Zoe. She pressed the palms of her hands to her forehead, trying to force down the headache that was building behind her eyes. “Why are you acting like this?”

Zoe’s mother stood and tried to grab her. “Let me see your arms.”

Zoe crossed them tightly over her chest. “No!”

“What are you hiding?” Her mother grabbed again, caught Zoe’s sleeve, and pulled. Zoe twisted away, got loose, and backed into the hall.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Zoe said. “But I don’t want to be examined when you say it like that.”

Her mother came closer, red-faced and furious. “How the hell am I supposed to say it, Zoe? ‘Please, dear, if you don’t mind, let me see if you’ve decided to start mutilating yourself again.’ How’s that?”

“I don’t do that stuff anymore, I swear,” Zoe said, her voice small and childlike, a tone she hated.

“Then show me.”

“Not when you’re like this!” she yelled.

“I want to believe you,” said her mother, turning away. She walked back into the living room and stood with her back to Zoe. She seemed to be thinking. “What about all the classes you’ve been missing?” she asked.

Zoe sighed. “The school sucks. My teachers are jerks. The only decent one I have is Mr. Danvers. Sometimes I cut after his class.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, the other day this stupid bitch snuck some vodka into the lunchroom and spilled it all over me.”

“You were drinking at school?”

“No!” shouted Zoe. “Will you listen to me?” Exhaustion and the pointlessness of an argument she knew she couldn’t win left her with the overwhelming desire just to give up and lie down on the floor. Let her mother yell until her voice was gone. Maybe, if she stayed on the floor long enough, she’d turn to stone like one of Mr. Danvers’s fossils.

“I didn’t even know this girl,” Zoe said. “She pulled out this vodka and spilled it all over. I was angry and I smelled like a wino, so I came home. What was I supposed to do? They don’t know me there. Should I go to class smelling like booze and get expelled? If you don’t believe me, the shirt is still on the roof. I wanted to see if I could get the smell out.”

“Which shirt was it?”

“The Germs.”