Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

I guess the real reason I went over to his house, though, was because of his paintings. Not a lot of people knew he painted. And he was really good.

No. I mean he was really, really good. His paintings were incredible. They were the kind of paintings that made you wish you could look at them all day long. It was like they’d hypnotize you. Like you just wanted to step inside and get lost in the paint.

I told him he should show them to people. I told him he could probably sell them if he wanted to. Why he didn’t take any art classes is beyond me. And each one of his paintings was different.

I thought of asking his parents if I could have some of them. After all the crap dies down, of course. There are still reporters at their house all day long. Why can’t they leave it alone? They seem to get off on the fact that he died in such a public place and in such a gross way.

I’ve gone back to the mall about a million times since he died. At first, just to see where it happened. Then to try getting over my fear.

I almost always take the stairs right next to the escalators. Sometimes, I can’t even stand the stairs, because it’s like my eyes are always pulled to the escalator, to the steps being pulled along until they disappear under those sharp metal teeth. Where do the steps go after that? I wonder if they got all the pieces of Bobby out of there.

I never told anyone this next part, Mr. Anderson, not even the police, and I hope you don’t read this aloud in class. I’d get pretty embarrassed, I think.

The last time I was at his house, he asked if I wanted to see something different, and I said, sure. So he disappears into his bedroom for a minute, and comes out with his hand behind his back.

“What do you got for me, Bobby?” I asked, all flirtatious. I reached out and brushed his bangs out of his eyes. “What do you got behind that back of yours?”

I thought it would be a new painting, so I was kind of excited, but then he smiles, and pulls out a jar from behind his back.

“What is it?” I asked him.

His voice got real low. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, let me see.”

So he opened it — it was an old peanut butter jar, not even cleaned out very well, because there were spots of dried peanut butter stuck to the sides — and he holds the thing under my nose.

“What is that?” I asked. There were all these little dirty white-yellow things in there, like pieces of shredded Barbie doll. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and held them closer. The smell that wafted up from them was kind of familiar. Like b.o. or something.

And then I realized what it was. It was a jar full of clippings. Fingernail and toenail clippings. The jar was full, Mr. Anderson. Right to the top.

“Eeeew,” I said. “Where’d you get all those?”

And he said, “I save them.”

“For what?”

He looked at me like I was a total idiot, and said, “They inspire me.”

“Are you crazy?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he pinched a few between his fingers, opened his mouth, and shoved them between his cheek and gum, like it was chewing tobacco.

You can bet, I was pretty grossed out. I mean, I can see maybe an eight year old doing something like that to impress a friend, but a sixteen year old boy doing it in front of a sixteen year old girl? Was I supposed to be impressed? I mean, I’m almost seventeen, which is very close to being an adult, Mr. Anderson. So I just kind of gagged, and told him it was time for me to leave. Then he got all sorry-like, and closed the jar back up and hid them behind his back again and asked me if I wanted to see a new painting. I didn’t know what to do, because I really did want to see a new painting, but on the other hand, I wanted to get out of there, since I was getting a little creeped out.

But so I said, “Sure, if you get it fast.”

He disappeared into his bedroom and came out a few minutes later looking a little sick. I think it was probably from the nail clippings and all.

And then I saw his new painting.

Mr. Anderson, I cannot begin to tell you how cool it was. It was so full of amazing colors. And the oil was still wet and shiny. There were coffee pots and roses and books all swirling around in this cool wild room, as if a tornado was tearing through it.

“Wow,” I said.

“You like it?”

I just nodded. I was numb.

“What do you like about it?” he asked.

I had trouble thinking of ways to describe my feelings. The words got jumbled around in my head. “Everything,” I finally said. “Just everything.”

Then he leaned over and kissed me. Right on the mouth. I was so stunned, I just let him. I let him keep on kissing me until I felt his hand on my chest and his tongue darting between my teeth. I pulled away, because I remembered what had just been in his mouth, and I thought I could kind of taste them on his tongue.

“Please don’t go away,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not ready for this,” I told him.

I was just so taken off guard and everything. I felt kind of nauseous, and I thought I better get out of there before I threw up on everything. But then Bobby started crying. Can you believe it, Mr. Anderson? He started crying, and part of me wanted to stay and tell him to stop crying, but the other part of me was still feeling like throwing up all over the place, and the crying just made me want to throw up more. So I let myself out the door.

Then the next thing I hear, he’s dead.

That very next night at the mall.

Well, everyone knows what happened there. How could anyone not know? It’s still being talked about in the papers. It’s already been three days. Can’t they get on to something new?

But there is one thing the papers haven’t mentioned, and I don’t even know if this is true or not, and maybe I shouldn’t even be mentioning this, but Marsha told me Deanna Fredericks was there at the mall when he killed himself on the escalator, and she saw the whole thing.

She was going down on the escalator at the same time he was going up. What she told Marsha was that when he pulled out the knife, all of these little things fell out of his pocket, little pieces of plastic, she said, and when he stuck the knife into his chest, he leaned over the railing and all the blood began to spill onto the white tiles below. She said he was swaying back and forth, leaning this way and that, almost like he was trying to get the blood to spill in a certain way. And when she passed him, he was saying my name. Over and over. Just whispering my name.

I think she’s making that part up. She’s probably just jealous because I’m your favorite student, not her.

At least I hope I’m still your favorite.

You said we should tell you how we feel about Bobby’s death, and I’m not sure if I really have said it very clearly, but whenever I go to the mall, and I’m on the balcony overlooking the escalators, I look at the spot where his guts spilled on the floor, and I know they washed the floors and all, but I think I can see something, Mr. Anderson.

I think I know what he was trying to paint.

Maybe I’m going crazy, but I think it was me he was trying to paint on the floor. And I can see it, I really can, and it’s really the most amazing painting I’ve ever seen.

I’m still afraid to use the escalator, though. I’ve tried a few times, but each time I start looking over the railing at the floor below, at the painting Bobby left for me, and it’s hard to look away. Each time I forget where I am and get closer to the sharp metal teeth waiting for me at the top. I think it’s Bobby waiting for me. I think he liked that kiss a little too much. I think he wants more.

He wants me to forget where I am and be pulled into the same place he was pulled into.