Venomous

CHAPTER THREE

WE GET HOME, and Lon beelines it for his room while I sit down on the couch in the living room and let my head drop, like it was made of steel. Mom steps out of the kitchen and smiles. “Got everything you needed?”

“Yeah,” says Lon with a sigh.

Mom’s ears seem to twitch as her Mother radar picks up the vibe in the room. “What’s wrong?”

Lon shakes his head and tries to say something nice, but finally just throws his arms out at his sides. He’s like a little adult when he’s angry. It’s almost cute. “Locke flipped out. I’m never going to be able to shop there again.”

“Hey, Lon, I’m really sorry.” I am, too. He’s the last person in the world I want to hurt. But what the hell was I supposed to do, with that woman pulling shit like that? Should I have just shrugged and told him that we’d have to get his books later? How else could I react?

“Whatever,” he says, slamming the door.

My mom slowly ambles over to me and sits. “Dare I ask?”

I shake my head, catching a sob in my throat while I take off my glasses and begin to rub my eyes furiously. I will not cry. I’m a big kid. I will not cry.

She pats my back with the hand that still has the wedding ring on it. “Want to talk?”

I nod, and then whisper, “Um, can I have some chocolate milk?”

Chocolate milk is the antivenom. I have no idea why.

My mom goes to the kitchen and comes back with a big glass of Nesquik, and I toss it down my throat like it could save the world. The cool settles in my stomach, pervades my being, until I’m feeling fit as an athletic fiddle.

Seriously, I have no clue how it works, but it does.

“I’m just really upset about losing it in front of him,” I gasp after swallowing. “He shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

She nods in agreement. “I know, kidlet,” she says, “and I know sometimes the bad stuff just forces its way to the surface, and it’s hard to stay in control. But it’s not just him, y’know? You should be trying not to blow up like you do in front of anybody. It doesn’t help at all. Nothing improves.”

I nod and keep my mouth shut, and it feels like lying. In the past, the venom has always been reliable when it hits me-controlled chaos, a limited outburst of pure rage. But lately there’s been a jagged edge to the venom. There’s no black-and-white anymore. The venom is present all the time; even when I’m feeling okay, there’s a persistent sense of hurt in the background, like a rash that won’t go away. Its voice is clearer and constant. The full-on attacks come closer to the surface every day. The little show I put on at the bookstore wouldn’t have happened a few months ago, but today the venom took over quickly, like it was the most reasonable solution in the world.

What worries me is that the venom is growing restless, like it’s tired of the passenger seat and wants to take the wheel for a while. It’s always been an impulse, but I’m beginning to wonder where Locke ends and the venom begins. This concept terrifies me, sure. But if my mother knows about it, there’ll be more therapy. More long talks, more warnings to my teachers. Plus, Mom might cry. I can’t let that happen.

“You haven’t had an angry in a while.” An “angry.” I used the term maybe once when I was nine or something, and it stuck. Moms. “How’d it feel?”

“Like it always does. Really good and then really, really bad.”

“You know, if you wanted to go back to seeing Dr. Reiner…,” she says softly. That’s a laugh. Dr. Reiner was a shrink I saw, who was convinced that the venom was a product of some sort of sexual repression, a projection of my inner kink. He’d ask me about what I liked “to do” to girls, and whether I ever wanted “to do” things to other boys. When I told him that I knew I was straight and that gay sex never appealed to me, he asked me why I wasted his time by closing my mind. Well, he didn’t say it quite like that, but I’m no moron, and he wasn’t the champion of subtlety. You can always tell with people like that, whose sole purpose in life is to explain away what’s wrong with other people. So I broke one of his windows, and we don’t talk anymore and everyone’s peachier for it.

“Dr. Reiner was a chump, Mom. I think I’ll be okay.”

“Honey, maybe you should just give him another chance-”

“I gave him a chance. It didn’t work.”

She pats my knee again and gets back up to continue fixing dinner. “Whatever you want, honey. I’m just worried about you, is all. No harm meant. Whenever you need me, I’m here.”

I love my mom and my brother more than life itself. It’s not fair that they have to deal with the utter fucking mess that is me. I’m not even sure I could put up with it.

I wake up to the sounds of the doorbell and realize that I’ve fallen asleep. I take a quick look at the clock. Shit. Eight thirty. Randall’s here.

“Mom, I’m going out, okay!” I yell as I yank on my coat. “I’ll make curfew!”

From somewhere in the apartment, there’s a muffled, “Have fun, sweetie!”

I throw open the door and there’s Randall, all spiky blond hair and vintage suit. He has his acoustic slung over his back and a big Cheshire cat smile on his face. He’s shabby but stylish, awkward yet handsome-the kind of boy most skater girls dream of. He could be playing either the owner of a casino or a punk rock troubadour. I envy the whole dichotomy of it all.

“Why do you always wear black, Stockenbarrel?” he asks. It’s a Chekhov line; our joke.

“I’m in mourning,” I say dramatically, “for my life.”

He throws his head back and brays, his face all squinting and teeth. I think that’s what gets Randall so much attention-even I can’t deny that smile. When he smiles at you, you feel chosen. “You ready to go?”

I nod and we walk slowly down the stairs and out onto the street. I give him a smoke and light one myself.

“I thought you were quitting.”

“What are you, my mom?” I sigh.

He shrugs. “Just wondering. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sorry. Long day. So remind me of their names again.”

“They’ll be a bunch of folks there, but you’re thinking Casey and Renée. This’ll be nothing big, just hanging out. But they really want to meet you.”

“Well, I’ve heard the names enough, I guess. It’s totally okay that I’m coming, right?”

“A small gathering, dude, nothing more.” I know this tone of his. He’s making sure I don’t get scared away, thinking this is, God forbid, a party. It’s somewhere between sweet and infuriating, but I let it slide. I’ve flaked out on meeting Randall’s outside-of-school friends enough times for it to be unfair. I owe him one. “Anyway. Why was your day long?”

“I had a venom moment in front of Lon today.”

“Ah.” I know what that “Ah” means, too. It means, Ah, you did what you always do, which is embarrass those around you by going apeshit. Randall’s like that: He doesn’t hide how he feels when it comes to me or the venom, so I can’t blame him for expressing those opinions, even if he doesn’t just come out and say them. He knows I can read his tones and movements.

We get down to Riverside, around 84th Street, coming upon the massive rock right next to a playground, what could almost be called a crag if it was a little bigger and sharper. Tonight, the rock and the entire area by it are lined with kids, but not normal kids. Circus kids: punks, mods, Goths, metal heads, indie kids, emo rockers, rude boys, all of that kind of crowd. (Randall uses these terms as though he were compiling a hipster encyclopedia). A bunch of them have guitars out; one or two of them have bongos. Surrounding them are about a hundred candles, all waxed to the ground, lighting up the entire area like a cathedral. These kinds of kids don’t exist in my little Manhattan private school universe. Parents send their kids to my school, hoping we won’t fall in with this crowd, unaware that the rich preppy kids drink and do drugs more than anyone on the planet. Randall refuses to buy it, though. He’ll go to punk shows and the skate park and return with a hundred new friends from all over the city.

Nothing big, indeed: To me this isn’t a party, it’s a fucking gala. The strings in the back of my brain get tightened and pulled; my whole body rides a wave of twitchy anticipation. My teeth chatter a bit. I’m not one of those Music People. Yes, I have my album collection and all that, but I’m not as dedicated as this crowd here. I know what I am when it comes down to it-an awkward, skinny dude with little to nothing in the ways of social skills. What the fuck am I supposed to say to this carnival of pop culture? Lots of people. Lots of activity and talking and necessary interaction. Not my forte.

The venom shifts and itches. It wraps an agitated hand around my nerves and gets ready to explode if it’s needed. An angry venom is bad, but a scared, nervous venom? I’m in trouble.

“I don’t have to be, like, a social butterfly or anything, do I?” I manage through a shaking jaw.

“No, of course not.”

“And I can leave whenever I want to? You won’t be offended?”

“Stockenbarrel,” he says, sighing, “just relax. You can do whatever. This is not a fancy dinner your parents are throwing. Have a drink. Decompress.”

“Of course I’m-No, I just planned on sitting around and trying to feel as miserable as possible.”

Randall raises an eyebrow and gives me another grin. “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Touché.

We get to the rock and start climbing up the side. People are saying hi to Randall left and right; I know he has a lot of friends besides me, but it’s weird to see him in action, working the special handshakes and goofy nicknames (at one point he calls a guy “Brad the Rad” and I almost want to go home right then and there). Finally he gets to the top of the rock and pulls me up next to him, standing in front of everyone, illuminated by the candles as if we had flashlights pointed up at us. It’s actually a nice view of this mass of teenage insanity. This evening might not be so bad.

“Hey, guys!” he calls out.

An assortment of “Hey, Randall”s and “What’s up”s come from out of the crowd of kids.

He slaps a hand on my chest. “This is Locke!”

Randall, you sneaky son of a bitch. You dirty motherfucker.

“He’s new! Everyone say hi!”

A loud chorus of “HI, LOCKE!” shoots from the group.

“Locke, say hello!”

Shit.

I raise my hand as casually and say, “Hiya.” I sound puny and quiet and stupid. Well done, Locke. Fucking genius.

And that’s that. Randall and I sit down, and Randall starts talking to this girl next to him about Henry Rollins’s neck. I finish my cigarette and flick it over the edge of the rock and onto the curb a few yards away.

“Hey, watch it!”

I glance over the edge to see a tall, beautiful black kid with a Mohawk staring up at me. It suddenly dawns on me that I’d hit him in the head with my cigarette. He doesn’t look angry, just confused and a little hurt. Man, I just keep getting better and better at this making-a-complete-jackass-of-myself game.

“Oh God, I’m-I’m really sorry, I-”

“Don’t worry about it, Locke. Just be careful.”

I lean over and tap Randall on the shoulder. He looks over at me quizzically. “Who is that?” I say, pointing over the edge. “Tall black kid, Mohawk.”

“Oh, that’s Tollevin the Tower. He’s on lookout tonight.”

“Lookout.”

Randall shrugs. “We’ve had problems with the cops before. The lookout keeps an eye open for them.”

I nod. “And how does he know my name?”

Randall looks puzzled. “I just announced it.”

“And he knows it already?”

Randall slaps my back. “People catch on quickly here, and besides, they’ve heard of you,” he says, and goes back to his conversation before I can ask him what the hell that means. So, to review: Now everyone knows my name, and there’s a kid who’s casually referred to as “the Tower” watching out for the cops, who’ll probably make an appearance tonight. Fantastic.

As I’m sitting there trying to make sense of all of it, a voice beside me says, “Locke? You’re Locke?”

I turn around, and sitting there is an angel. A really, really inappropriate angel.

She’s a Goth girl with a spiky blue fairy cut, her face a light shade of pale with dark patches under her cheekbones and eyes. Her lips are flawless shining black with a single ring piercing her lower lip down the middle. She’s wearing a corsetlike top that pushes her breasts up and outward, vinyl pants, massive death-boots, and a spiked collar. From the bottom of her right eye, an upside-down cross curves down her cheekbone, as though she’s crying evil. She’s beautiful in a way that I can’t describe, but in a way that you can see under all the makeup and buckled-up leather. Her voice, her posture, the curve of her eyes, the way her lip ring makes her full lower lip puff up a little on either side…Jesus. I cannot take my eyes off this girl.

“Um,” I begin, “uh, I, um, yeah. That’s me.”

She bows with a bit of flourish. “Finally, we meet. Randall mentions you constantly, but it seems like every time you’re supposed to come out with us…Well, you tell me.” She smiles. “Sounds like you two are pretty good friends.”

“Best, actually. Best friends.”

“Oooh. Sounds official. Let me know when you guys head up to Brokeback.” My face must turn as red as it feels, because she smiles and scratches lightly at my shoulder with her long black fingernails. The sensation stays on my skin like an aftertaste. “Just messing around. No worries.”

“Sorry,” I say, and then, with all the eloquence of projectile vomit, “I’m just really, really, really not used to meeting new people is all, y’know? I’m a little on edge. This is a lot to take in over, like, five minutes.”

She nods slowly, smiling still. I’m trying to keep my eyes off her cleavage, and I’d be failing miserably if she weren’t so beautiful. “Want a Djarum?” she says, holding out a pack. I’ve heard about these-clove cigarettes, like smoking incense, big in the Goth scene-but I’ve never had the pleasure. I grab one immediately and light it on a nearby candle, an action that seems unspeakably cool to me.

One drag tells me I haven’t been missing out on much. Gag. Ugh. Yech. Medic. If I wanted to inhale potpourri, I would’ve hit up Gracious Home on my way here.

She lights her own and glances over at me. “Good, huh?”

I force a smile. “Great.”

“So, what sort of scene are you a part of?”

Well, shit. This is the music thing I’m so worried about. I have to calm down and not be a fucking nutcase. Maybe a raver? No, that’s moronic, look at yourself, don’t say that. Hip-hop? God, no, you’re about as convincing a hip-hop fan as you are a fucking jellyfish. Classical? Country? Polka?

“Well, I don’t really have a scene.”

Her pointed eyebrows arch. “Really?”

Okay, work it. I’ve gone with the honest answer, so I might as well stick by it. “I’m a music fan, but I like a lot of different stuff. I don’t fall into any scene or category. I listen to a lot of Tom Waits, if that helps.”

To my surprise, she says, “Cool.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, it’s cool that you can stay outside the boundaries of all the scenes in that way. Too many kids just buy the right clothes and go through the motions, so they can be dumped into a category, right? I mean, look at me, all dolled up like Siouxsie. And some of the schmucks here…” She waves her hand, displaying the schmucks. “I’m impressed. Plus, Tom Waits rocks.”

Locke, you are an accidental genius. You are the fucking moron Mozart.

Suddenly “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” comes tinkling out of her pocket. She reaches in and yanks out a cell phone, which she flips open. “Just a second. Hello?…Yeah…Well, no, we’re just hanging out… Okay…one song? Okay…one song…okay, bye.” She snaps it shut and pouts. “I have to go home after the first song, dammit. How bogus is that?”

“Utterly bogus. There is none more bogus.” Wow, Locke. Just…wow.

She laughs. “Well said, Locke.”

I repeat: moron Mozart. Idiot Einstein.

Before I can continue charming the pants off this dark angel, Randall whips his guitar out and starts a-plucking. I recognize the tune as “El Scorcho” by Weezer (him and his fucking Weezer). Suddenly the whole crowd yells out, “El Scorcho! Aye caramba!” and a frenzy begins. We sway, banging our heads, screaming the lyrics we remember and garbling the ones we don’t. Kids begin dancing; soon the entire rock is a whirlwind of spikes, parkas, checkered ties, purple hair, and smiles. I’ve never been a part of something like this before; this is only supposed to happen in nineties teen comedies. These people, these candles, Randall as the host…It’s like a dream. A weird, unexpected, magnificent dream.

The Goth pixie taps me on the shoulder as the last chorus becomes one huge joyous scream. Before I know it, there are soft hands cradling my cheeks, and she kisses me-she, her, this girl, kisses me, Locke, poisoned boy. Our arms work their way around each other (I have to do that damn awkward scoot, where you sort of hop over to someone while sitting), and soon we’re in what a Victorian novelist would call a “passionate embrace.” It’s airtight. I want every possible part of her on me.

She pulls back and says, with her inky lips only millimeters from mine, “I’m Renée, by the way.”

This is Renée?

Her breath smells like a church after dark, like the graveyard in Candyland. “I’m Locke.”

She giggles. “I know.” And with that, she leaps down off the rock, gives Tollevin a hug, and trots uptown while I stare after her and make a mental note to crown myself King of the Universe.

The feeling of eyes on me jostles me out of my girl-scented world, and I turn to see Randall giving me the ultimate shit-eating grin. He leans in like a mom and pulls his thumb across my face, then gives me a thumbs-up smeared black. Again, I swell with glee.

“You could’ve told me,” I growl sidelong at Randall, “that that was Renée.”

“And miss your suave-ass moves? No dice. Besides, getting between Renée and her food is incredibly hazardous to my health, and you obviously weren’t expecting that kind of girl-Well, it was too perfect.”

“Did you set that up?” I ask, riding the adrenaline.

“Not exactly, but I was damn sure hoping for it.” There’s a moment of good vibrations between us; then, with spider-like grace, his fingers go slowly across the strings of his Gibson and leap to life. And this time, there’s no garbling.

“‘When the night…has come…’”

The kids with the bongos howl in approval and pound on their skins, like their lives depended on it. Guitars all over the rock wake up, and pretty soon we’ve managed to start the biggest, coolest camp singalong I’ve ever heard. Kumbaya.

“‘No, I won’t…be afraid…No, I-eee-I won’t…shed a tear…’”

And as I’m sitting there feeling truly cool for the first time in ages, I see this guy sitting off to one side of the crowd, with a bottle of something or other, facing toward the river. He’s all curled up into a fetal position and sort of rocking back and forth, taking a swig from his bottle, and then rocking back and forth again. And his demeanor, the way his shoulders hunch and his head hangs, sets off a buzzer in the back of my head: familiarity. This kid hits me with a two-ton sack of déjà vu.

I tap Randall on the shoulder as the song draws to a loud finish. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing.

Randall follows my finger and frowns. “That’s Casey. He’s the Emperor of our little group.”

“I thought you were the Emperor.”

“Oh no,” he says, “I’m the Fool. Casey’s the Emperor.” He hikes his finger back toward uptown. “Renée’s the Hierophant.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I’d be a little weirded out if you did, to be honest.”

“I want go talk to him. I’ll be back, okay?”

Randall nods like he understands. “He’s in one of his funks, though. Don’t push him.”

“Why, what are his funks like?”

Randall opens his mouth to explain, but then gets this thoughtful look in his eyes. “Y’know what? Go find out. It’d be good if he tells you himself.”

I get up and start walking through the crowd. The closer I get to Casey, the more I see that he’s dressed quite nicely. He’s wearing a white collared shirt and black slacks, and his hair is all slicked back and shiny. He looks very dapper, and I begin to wonder what he’s doing with a crowd like this. He has a round face with chubby cheeks and the tiniest hint of a double chin, but also has very dark patches under his eyes, only they aren’t painted on like Renée’s, they’re earned. As I stare at him, he takes another slug of whatever and holds the bottle out to me. I take it and take a very tiny sip, which burns nicely on the way down. I glance at the bottle. Jack Daniels. I’ve never had whiskey before.

“Hi,” I manage to say very quietly. “You’re Casey, right?”

“I’d prefer you not take the guidance-counselor tone with me, Locke,” he says in a deep baritone voice. “Locke Vinetti, the school friend, Randall’s cohort. Lovely night, isn’t it?”

I nod. “It’d be nicer if you join us, sir.” What the hell? Where did that come from? Maybe it was the whole “Emperor” thing.

He finds it funny enough to laugh a little. “‘Sir’? Call me Casey. Or ‘Emperor,’ if you’re into that thing.”

“Thing?”

He waves his hand back to the crowd. “Locke, Tarot. Tarot, Locke.” He takes another deep slug of whiskey. “It’s something Randall and I came up with, which all these kids have taken a little too far. There are even gangs now.” I look confused, and he sighs and continues. “The punks and rude boys are the Swords, the hippies and emo rockers are the Wands, the mods and indie kids are the Cups, and the metalheads and Goths are the Pentagrams. Mind you, in the original tarot it’s actually Pentacles or Coins, but they changed it to Pentagrams, what with the Satan-loving and the angry music, and the…Ah, whatever, you know what I’m talking about.” He spits like the idea has left a bad taste in his mouth. “The creators get to be the Major Arcana. Tollevin, Randall, Renée, myself, two or three others.”

I’m absolutely amazed. I’ve never in my entire life heard something so incredibly wonderful. Tarot gangs. Tarot get-togethers. A youth network based on magical cards from medieval times. I couldn’t have come up with that in a million years. It’s all too great. This kid is fucking brilliant. “That’s insane. You did all this?”

Surprisingly, he looks enraged. “They did it,” he snaps. “I just came up with the whole idea one day after school with Randall, and it became this THING. Fucking…look at them. It’s kind of pathetic, right?” I fidget a bit. Well, this is awkward. Randall’s warning echoes in my head. Okay. One more question, then I’m done.

“Is that why you’re sitting off to the side?”

“No, this is different. This is the heaviest shit you’ve ever known.”

I’m about to go against my plan and ask him what that means when Tollevin leaps up onto the rock and yells, “PO-PO!”

The what now?

And like lightning, the candles are blown out and snatched up, the instruments are packed away, and the kids are running, like stampeding cows. One kid, a hardcore-looking punk rock chick, comes running backward past us. “Didn’tyoufuckinghearhimmanhesaidthepo-poareherefucking-RUN!LaterCasey!”

Casey waves drunkenly. “Later, Ivy.”

I spy two policemen wriggling their fat asses over the edge of the rock, grunting stuff about permits and big trouble. A couple of the punks and metal heads start throwing rocks and bottles, which isn’t helping. Suddenly there are two night-sticks in two chubby Irish hands, ready to beat some counter-culture ass. Randall shoots me a frantic look, nods, and bolts into the park.

“Shit! Casey, c’mon!”

Casey slowly gets up and nearly falls to the ground in the process. “Shit,” he says, giggling. “Fucking whiskey…”

One of the cops sees us and points to the other one. Two words come ringing out over the din that make my blood drop a couple degrees: “HEY, YOU!” I’ve never had a run-in with the cops before, and personally I don’t want to. Getting picked up downtown by my mom would suck. Even worse, I don’t want to start an argument with people who won’t listen, which is exactly what these two fat, badged, on-edge pieces of shit look like. If the venom breaks out, there would be less Partying without a Permit and more He Must Be on PCP. So I do the only thing I can think of: I hook one of Casey’s arms around my shoulder and we start running.

I expect the cops to leave us be when we sprint away, but no dice. They’re on our asses from the moment we hightail it. Zigzagging, ducking through bushes, nothing works; I glance over my shoulder and they’re behind me, stumbling through the park and swearing under their breath. The 72nd Street stairs come into view, and I begin panicking, because our options are down to Riverside or the Trump Pier, both of which are gonna be packed on a Saturday-

Something catches my eye. The venom twitches nervously, assuring me that it won’t work, that confrontation’s the only option. I swallow it down and go with the only glimmer of hope I have.

I wheel Casey like a sack of potatoes under the picnic table by the park’s baseball diamond, and duck underneath it, squeezed in next to him, our breath quick and purposefully shallow.

“So gentle,” he slurs.

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss.

Through the opening between the bench and the table, I see the cops, their silhouettes distinguishable only by their cute little hats. They stop, the fatter of the two leaning over on his own knees, panting.

“You see ’em? Did you see where they went?”

Pant, pant. “I think”-pant, pant-“I think we lost ’em back”-pant, pant. Goddammit, just leave-“by the restrooms.”

“Ah, shit.” The less fat one whips back and forth, hoping to catch a blur of frightened teenager, but no dice. “Unbelievable.”

“Long.” Pant. “Coat.” Pant. “Couldn’t’a gone far.”

“Fucking kids. Let’s head back, clean up.” The thinner one stalks back to the rock. The fatter one follows, gulping and gasping as he goes.

A full minute after they disappear, I start breathing again. Casey and I duck out from under the picnic table. We somehow drag our carcasses up the stairs to the tunnel leading out to Riverside Drive. My brain is bobbing in a sea of adrenaline. I can barely hold the cigarette I jam into my face. The night air was never this refreshing before.

Casey laughs like a terrified madman, head back, brow glistening. “I can’t believe…we…that was inten-” Before the word ends, his body lurches like it shouldn’t, and a seemingly endless stream of whiskey-infused horrible gray shit comes pouring out of his mouth and over the edge of the stone balcony, down onto the grass below. The smell hits my nostrils like acid. I smoke harder.

When he’s done puking, Casey sits up on the ledge a little ways from me and says, “Thanks. I owe you one for that.” His torso hangs like an unused marionette.

I just nod and light my smoke. “Why do the cops hate you guys so much?”

He shrugs. “We leave candle wax and trash everywhere. That and, y’know, the drinking and pot smoking. Mostly, it’s just our healthy disrespect for authority.”

I nod again, still a little miffed. “I don’t think I like the police.”

“Good job being a teenager there,” he snorts.

My mind catches up with the rest of my system, and my train of thought comes chugging back to life. “Is that the heavy shit you were talking about?”

His head wheels upward, face scrunched. “Pardon?”

“You said you were dealing with ‘heavy shit.’ Organizing this get-together, the cops-that it?”

His body shakes with lazy chuckles. “No, no, I have…sort of personal issues.”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes focus on some point in the air, and he opens and closes his mouth, like a fish, before he hooks onto the words he needs. “Have you ever just…have you ever gotten angry to, like, the point where it takes you over?”

Wham. I’m interested. “Yes.”

“Well, I have that, but not…not like, tantrums. I have this…this uncontrollable thing in me that just cuts loose when I get angry or depressed enough, like this violent…beast inside of me. Like my Mr. Hyde, only worse, only it’s not just evil, it’s me, it’s got my morals and intelligence. I don’t become someone else. I just become a perverted version of myself.” He shrugs and snorts out a shoelace of vomit-snot. “I know this doesn’t make any sense. It’s named the black… Well, that’s what I call it, anyway. And it sort of took over my life tonight, and so I tried to drown it in booze. That normally works.” He looks at me as though he’s explained this too many times, and he’s used to the standard response. “It’s okay if you don’t get it.”

“No,” I say softly, “no, no, wait.”

My confession ends around the same time the smokes run out. I’ve told him things I realize I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t in my control. I told him about my father, about the few girls I’d tried to be with, and about the violence. The violence was the meat of it, the part full of yelling and swearing and pulling at my hair. But he listened. He heard me, and not like Randall. There wasn’t a lot of “sure” and “yuh-huh.” None of the wise, thoughtful nods that suggested he was thinking deeply on the subject. He listened to me like I was telling him about himself, and then he described his problem, his situation, which was my own. For the first time, both problems were the same. For the first time in…in forever, I guess, I was talking to somebody who thought of the venom as a reality. Imagine that. Imagine what it’s like to finally find somebody who understands not what you’re getting at, but exactly what you’re talking about, after eleven fucking years of people either not giving a shit or screwing up the message along the way. It’s like everyone on Earth has always been blind except for you, and then one day, someone walks up to you and asks you how you feel about the color blue. I couldn’t not talk.

And now we’re sitting on the ledge and looking out at the tunnel. We’ve both gone silent now; we have been for about ten, fifteen minutes; a little embarrassed on top of all our massive relief. It’s as though we’re naked for the first time in our lives, proud of each other for facing up to ourselves. I feel more comfortable than I’ve felt with anyone else in a long time, except maybe my mom, but that’s different, because with my mom, even though she doesn’t understand, she loves me. And while I don’t really know this guy, he understands.

When I turn to look at him, I realize that he’s staring straight at me. He’s got something slightly resembling a smile on his face, and I’m not quite sure what is going on.

“I know, right?” I say, nodding. “Incredible.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

And then he reaches up and takes my glasses off, and my vision gets blurry, and I start to get nervous, because I know that movement and I know what it could mean, and it begins to worry me, because if it turns out that I’m right, I’ll be dealing with the most ridiculous, ass-backward thing I could ever imagine, which, given the context of the night (partying, kissing Goth girl, drinking a little bit, running from the cops, and finally releasing my demons to a kindred spirit), would be appropriate while at the same time really, really harrowing. And it means exactly what I think it means, because Casey leans over and kisses me really softly, on the lips.

The first thing I think is, Mmm. Vomit. Then I wonder if I should elbow him in the stomach and knock him off the ledge, but that’s the venom talking. I’m not really pissed at him anyway. I’m just…surprised. And uncomfortable, sure, horribly uncomfortable. But the weird thing is, I let him do it. I sort of sit there and…get kissed. Not because I enjoy it or because I’m attracted to him, just ’cause…Well, honestly, I feel like I owe him one for hearing me out and understanding, for making me feel anything but crazy. Which feels cheap. And wrong. And easy. But I don’t know…This is new. Everything is new. Tonight has been a series of firsts; this is just the worst one of them so far.

He breaks the kiss and I say, “Casey. Casey. Hey.”

“Mmm,” he purrs tipsily, “that was nice.”

“Casey. Wait.” He doesn’t back off. Not good. This has to stop before my owing him one turns into him taking it as a go-ahead or a come-on. “No, we can’t. No.”

“No one’s stopping us,” he says slowly, leaning his face toward mine again. His breath blows hot on my face; it reeks of puke and dude.

My senses slingshot back to reality, and my hand snaps onto his shoulder and shoves him back. I snatch my glasses back and fumble putting them on.

“I’m stopping us,” I say solidly. “I’m not…y’know. I’m not.”

He stares at me for a second, dumbfounded, like a little kid. All of a sudden, I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. That was wrong. I should have pushed him away the minute he tried. But no, like a timid little idiot, I let him go ahead and expect something of me that I-

And then it happens. I notice a cord on his neck stick out and a vein near his forehead bulge a bit. His face goes tight. The mouth curls into an oyster of resentment while the eyes stay bugged and hard. Something inside of him goes away; what replaces it is hate. Not rage or passion but hate-cold, dead, twisted hate.

I can see the black rising inside his eyes.

“Hey, wait. Casey. Wait.”

“Fuck you.”

He’s not listening. He shoves me hard, throwing me off the ledge and onto the concrete. My shoulder blade screams in pain, but I manage to start lifting myself up slowly, just as he leaps down from the edge. Something registers that I’m lucky he didn’t throw me off the edge of the stairs. There’s no good end to this.

“You’re not what?” he snarls, pushing his face in front of mine. By now, all the cords on his neck are taut, like wires, and there are little flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not a faggot, huh? You’re not a cocksucker, is that it?”

“No, hey, c’mon man, that’s not what I meant-”

“Then why not fucking say it, huh? Why even talk to me about all this if you’re just going to freak out and gawk at the queer? Jesus, most guys don’t fucking KISS ME if they’re not at least a little interested. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“That’s a really good ques-”

“Save it, shithead!” A gob of saliva wheels off his lower lip and dangles. His eyes are glowing white, surrounded by a road map of creased skin. “I don’t want to hear any more of your BULLSHIT. I don’t have TIME for people as worthless as you. Wow, no wonder Randall never brought you around. He must be hard-pressed for friends at your fucking school.”

In the back of my skull, the venom starts buzzing, vibrating my teeth, my eyes. Asking for it, it almost whispers, he’s asking for it. Go ahead. Simple solutions are often the best ones, Locke. No, no, no. There has to be a painless way out of this.

“Look, I didn’t mean that at all,” I say pleadingly. “I was just surprised and scared. Please don’t-”

“Oh, fuck you, Locke. Fuck. YOU. You tell me all this stuff about yourself, and I think, ‘Wow, here’s someone who’s different, who understands!’ But you’re just like everyone else. You don’t know anything. You don’t know about the black. I’ve had to deal with bullshit from people like you for as long as I can remember, and just because you got teased, or your daddy ran away, or life didn’t hand you a bouquet of peonies, you think you’re fucking Hamlet. Shouldn’t you be off cutting yourself somewhere?”

Part of me starts saying that he’s drunk and he’s got the black in him and he doesn’t mean all this (and that peonies are sort of an odd choice), but it’s all white noise to the Locke that’s standing here. I can feel my pupils dilate and my veins wash over with emotional poison. The muscles flex. The dam breaks.

He understands, my mind pleads, he cares. He’s just in a mood. There’s no need to be too hard on him for it. He’s confused and hurt. This can’t happen.

You tried, you failed. Fuck off. My turn.

I’m not sure whether his throat feels soft or if my hand feels oddly strong, but soon one’s around the other. His face goes from hardened to clueless; he should have considered that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the guy to piss off. Just like his little outburst took me off guard, he’s never met anyone else who’s felt the venom before, he’s only experienced it firsthand.

Let’s see just how fucking well he enjoys a fistful of his own medicine.

“How dare you,” I growl, “how fucking dare you, you presumptuous piece of dog shit. Just because I don’t want your tongue in my fucking mouth doesn’t mean I’m a goddamn bigot, you hear me? DO YOU?”

The twitch his head makes is, I’m pretty sure, a nod. It’s worn off for him, so now it’s my show.

“I just wanted someone to talk to! I never told you I wanted you to fuck me, now did I? DID I? Now I realize you were only in it for a quick fuck, huh? You’re just like the rest of ’em, you fucking ASSHOLE. All you want is to get your way and feel good about yourself for it. I don’t need to take shit from anyone, but especially not from a poor, lonely queen like you.”

My hand snaps open, and he thuds to the ground with a gasp. He’s so little to look down on. Not even worth the strain of a good kick in the ribs.

“I hope you fucking DIE,” I hiss. “And if you ever mention my father again, I’ll see to it you DO.” There’s a swirl of my overcoat, and I’m walking uptown.

By the time I get to 79th Street, the venom has gone out for drinks, and I’m left sobbing. I didn’t mean to hurt Casey, but it just happened. Why’d he have to treat me like the enemy? I didn’t even know he was gay. It didn’t matter. I’d finally met somebody who really, truly understood the way I felt, and it all went to shit. When you’re a fucking monster, not even the other monsters will be there for you.

Once I’m home, I walk slowly to my room, hoping to just get there and fall right asleep. No such luck: My mom, waiting up for me as always, sees me and motions for me to sit next to her on the couch. Once I’m up close, it’s obvious that things aren’t okay. She claps her book shut and sits up attentively.

“Hey,” I say, focusing on my hands.

“What’s up, honey?” my mom says. Her head ducks to try and make eye contact.

I shrug. “Nothing. We hung out in the park. Played some music.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah, I had a pretty good night. I dunno, something weird happened, though. I had an…angry.”

“Are you all right?” Her eyes narrow. “Did you get high?”

“Mom…no.” Every so often, I forget my mom is A Mom, and then she busts out with a gem like that. “Someone made…improper advances toward me.” Wow. Just about as stupid as it sounds.

My mom puts on this really sly smile. “Must’ve been one pushy girl.”

I glance back. “Wasn’t a girl.”

Her smile disappears. We start talking.

T HE ALLEYWAYS whipped past me as I flew through the narrow passages between buildings. The creature from the other night had preempted me three more times, but I had finally managed to surprise it as it was finished squeezing the life out of some dirtbag with a gun and an ego. Now I was rushing after it, barely keeping up with its lopes and bounds. All I could tell of its figure was that it was huge, twice the size of a normal man, that it had tentacles of some sort hanging from its body, and that its presence felt…familiar. For some reason, the city’s song grew in me when I neared it, as if in recognition.

The massive silhouette grunted as it began leaping over a chain-link fence separating two alleyways. I pushed myself, forcing my body to fly faster, putting my fists out in front of me and charging my body with dark energy.

“STOP!” I called as I slammed into its back. The creature bellowed, and we exploded through the fence, crashing among newspapers and other wretched detritus. I was on my feet in a second, shaking the impact from my brain.

The being appeared like a huge octopus, a lump trailing a mass of black, slimy tentacles.

“Can you speak?” I whispered. No answer. Tentatively I reached out my hand to touch the lump-

The thing roared and reared back, showing me its full form. Horror filled my heart.

It was hard to describe what it was. It distinctly had the form of a human-arms, legs, eyes-but its attributes were hideously bestial. From its face, fingers, chest, knees, there came huge twisting masses of black tentacles, pulsating and grappling-a sewer anemone, if you will. Its face was almost like an insect’s: Two huge segmented eyes stared vacantly at me from a round head, another wriggling mess of black feelers where its mouth should have been. Its form was muscular, but it bent and turned as though it had millions of joints in every part of its body. There was nothing fluid about its posture or movement; it seemed to twitch its way around things rather than actually walk or crawl. As a being, an existing entity, it was just not right.

“My God…,” I whispered.

The monster responded by sending one of its massive claws smashing into my head. I felt my body, limp and helpless, hit a brick wall. Red dust and blinding light filled my vision, and I stumbled, trying to regain my footing. When I looked up, the thing had disappeared into the night.

Whatever the monster was, it was dangerous. And if it could hurt me, something was wrong. Somehow it had found a way to access the city’s negative energy as well. It had powers similar to mine.

Next time. Next time I would be ready for it.