Eric Puchner - Model Home

“His real one got stolen,” Dustin explained.

“Sucky,” Brent said.

Mr. Shackney seemed relieved. “I’m betting that’s why your dad seems a bit… on edge.”

Dustin felt a vague tremor of alarm, as though his dad’s car loss was suckier than he’d realized, but he was too worried about Taz to investigate it. He was still clinging to some small shred of hope that she wouldn’t surface. His heart sank when they sat down to eat in the dining room and he noticed six place settings at the table. Plunging his heart further was Taz herself, who emerged from the kitchen in a hooded sweatshirt and black jeans shredded at both knees, yawning as though she’d just woken up from a nap. The rips in her jeans opened and closed, like little mouths, when she walked. She flopped into her chair at the table and smirked when her eyes reached Dustin’s. The witch’s forelock was still there, dangling between her eyes; Dustin was hoping it would have miraculously disappeared.

He stared at his plate, focusing on the giant molar of salmon in front of him. He wanted to wipe her smirk away with his napkin.

“So Kira tells me your music is really taking off,” Mrs. Shackney said, two fingers pressed to her neck. She was a marathon runner and constantly checked her pulse. “What’s the name of your band?”

“Toxic Shock Syndrome,” Dustin said.

Taz laughed. “That’s the name of your band?”

Kira looked at her. “So what?”

“Don’t you get that from tampons?”

“It’s a very serious disease,” Kira said. She smoothed the napkin in her lap. “People die from it. Don’t they, Dust?”

Dustin nodded, staring at his salmon. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, but he did nothing to wipe it from his face. He’d decided the only way to survive the evening would be to talk — to move — as little as possible.

Mr. Shackney looked at him suspiciously. “So it’s, like, a public service sort of thing? Raising awareness?”

“Well, I think it’s terrific,” Mrs. Shackney said. “Everyone should know about these problems. Have you been playing at the public schools?”

“It’s not really about that,” Dustin explained. “I mean, we’re socially conscious — but it’s more about conspicuous consumption. Stuff like that.”

“What’s conspicuous consumption?” Brent asked with his mouth full.

“You know. How everything’s about shopping and stuff you don’t need.” Dustin happened to glance at the brightly lacquered didgeridoo balanced on a stand in the corner, a souvenir from one of the Shackneys’ “little trips.” Hanging on the wall nearby was the branding iron that Mr. Shackney used to monogram his steaks. Dustin’s eyes caught Taz’s: her smirk widened, as though he had a blob of salmon stuck to his chin. “Not just shopping. Everything. Like, we have a song about Mandy Rogers.”

Mr. Shackney dropped his fork. “It disgusts me. These perverts. We should send them all to an island, castrate the bastards.”

“Mitch, please. Can we not be so graphic?”

“I just think if it was one of my own kids. That poor girl being raped.”

“You don’t know that’s what happened,” Taz said, picking at her food. “Anyway, what if she went off with some guy on purpose?”

“Oh please,” Kira said. “She’s mentally retarded.”

“What? Retards don’t like to get laid?”

“Taz! I swear, I’m about at my limit.” Mrs. Shackney checked her pulse. “Even if she weren’t disabled. She’s just a girl.”

Taz snorted. “She’s the same age as me.”

“That’s young enough!” Mr. Shackney said. He wiped his mouth. “If I ever got my hands on one of these sickos, I’d cut his balls off myself.”

“Mitch!”

“Could I help, Dad?” Brent asked.

“Sure. It’d teach you a thing about justice.”

“Are you okay?” Kira said, looking at Dustin. “Your face is all sweaty.”

“I’m just going to use the bathroom,” Dustin said.

He walked down the telepathically brightening hallway and locked the door behind him, inspecting himself in the mirror above the sink. His face was redder than usual. Slapping it with cold water, he closed his eyes and pictured Taz’s sneering lips, the stupid smirk that seemed to accentuate the little mole on her lip. Why did it piss him off so much? It made him feel like a loser. A fraud . But he wasn’t a fraud. He was a talented guitarist who would one day make her extremely sorry, when Toxic Shock Syndrome — or maybe Viet-Nun, they could still change their name — became a household word. The Shackneys were right: she was a nutcase, mentally unstable. Probably she was tortured with jealousy over Kira’s beauty. She wasn’t worth wasting a second’s thought over.

There were some bars of soap lined up in a dish on the sink, blue and speckled and identical except that each one was larger than the one before, as though laid out for the Three Bears. He thought of the lobster wandering through the party in San Pedro. He rearranged the soaps, putting the smallest one in the middle, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

After a while, he gathered his courage again and opened the door. Taz was standing in the hallway in front of her room. She was frowning, her bangs covering her eyes. She saw Dustin and the smirk returned, as if of its own accord.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“They sent me to my room.”

“Why? Did you try to eat your glass?”

The smirk didn’t change. “Actually, I told them I thought you were an alcoholic.”

You’re completely insane, Dustin thought. Ignoring her, he brushed past and walked down the still-bright hall and took his place serenely at the table. Or rather, he did this in his mind. In reality, he grabbed Taz by the arms and mashed his lips into her smirk, leaning her against the wall in a noisy, unpleasant kiss. He could taste the lemony glaze of salmon on her tongue. He half-expected some witchy thing, sharp and hazardous, to end up in his mouth. The light down the hall flicked off. Before he could stop himself, they began to press together with their hips, a slow, Legolike push, his breath thinning to a shiver, the promised snap eluding them as they stumbled sideways and the light went on again, reminding them — or Dustin, at least — where they were.

He let go. She was no longer smirking. A dribble of blood rolled down her neck, seeping from her earlobe. She wasn’t a witch, of course, but a miserably lost girl.

He rushed past her for real this time and returned to the dining room. The Shackneys were hunched over their plates, talking in low tones, involved in a conversation they’d clearly had before. He could tell it was about Taz. When they saw him return to his seat, everyone straightened. Dustin realized he had no idea how he looked.

“ There he is,” Mr. Shackney said, winking. “Better watch your drinks.”

“Feeling better?” Mrs. Shackney asked.

Dustin nodded, surprised to discover that he actually was. Kira put her hand on his leg. Her smile was so different from her sister’s smirk, so affectionate and admiring and filled with love, that he felt indecent. He ate the rest of his salmon, trying to forget what had happened in the hall. Kira told her parents about some of his songs, gushing about how talented he was, but Dustin was having a hard time looking her in the eye. It was only partly out of guilt — there was something, too, about the way she sat there, all dressed up and polite and at home with the didgeridoo standing behind her.

“Why are you looking at my ears?” she asked, blushing.

“I’m not.”

“Ugh. They stick out, I know.”

Mrs. Shackney patted her hand. “You have beautiful ears, honey. They’re perfect.”