“Wow,” Norman said. He picked up the Buttmaster, turning it in his hands. “What’s this for?”
“I’ll get that,” I said, grabbing it from him. For the entire trip down I’d imagined myself in Colby as mysterious, different; the dark stranger, answering no one’s questions. This image was significantly harder to maintain while lugging a Buttmaster in front of the only boy I’d seen in the last year who didn’t automatically assume I was a slut.
“Car’s over here,” he said, and I followed him to a battered old Ford station wagon parked in the empty lot. He put my bags in the back and held the door as I threw in the Buttmaster, which landed with a clunk on the floor. We had to make a second trip for the rest of the Kikicrap.
“So how was the train ride?” he asked. The car smelled like old leaves and was full of junk, except for the front, which had obviously been cleared out just recently. In the backseat were four mannequins, all of them headless. One was missing an arm, another a hand, but they were lined up neatly, as if they’d piled in for the ride.
“Fine,” I said, wondering what kind of weirdo Mira had sent for me. I got in and slammed the door, then caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. In all the confusion I had forgotten about my hair. It was so black that for a second I didn’t recognize myself.
Norman started up the car with a little coaxing, and we pulled out into the empty intersection.
“So,” he said, “did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?”
He looked over at me and touched the right corner of his upper lip. “That,” he said. “Did it hurt, or what?”
I ran my tongue along the inside of my lip, feeling the small metal hoop there. I’d had it done only months earlier, but it felt like it had always been part of me, my touchstone. “No,” I said.
“Wow,” he said. The light turned green; we chugged slowly forward. “Looks like it would.”
“It didn’t.” I said it flatly, so he wouldn’t ask again.
We didn’t talk as we drove. Norman’s car was downright strange; besides our headless fellow passengers there were about twenty tiny plastic animals glued to the dashboard, lined up carefully, and a huge pair of fuzzy red dice bouncing from the rearview mirror.
“Nice car,” I said under my breath. He had to be some kind of art freak.
“Thanks,” he replied cheerfully, reaching up to adjust a red giraffe by the air vent. He obviously thought I was serious. “It’s a work in progress.”
We turned on to a dirt road and passed a few houses with glimpses of water just beyond. We went all the way to the very end, finally turning in to park right in front of a big white house. Around the porch, I could see the beach and the sound. There were little boats out there, bobbing.
Norman honked the horn twice and cut the engine. “She’s expecting you,” he said. He got out and went around to the back door, unloading my stuff and piling it on the front steps. He put the Buttmaster on the very top, arranging it just so. I couldn’t tell if he was being a smartass or what.
“Thanks,” I said under my breath, deciding he was.
Mira’s porch was the old southern kind: wide and long, running the entire length of the house, and I noticed two things about it right away. First, an old bicycle leaning against a front window. It had Cadillac-style fins over the back wheel and was spray-painted bright red, with a few rust spots showing through. In the metal basket on the front was a pair of sunglasses with big black frames.
The second thing I noticed was a small sign posted over the doorbell, an index card that read, in simple block letters, BELL. For the truly moronic, there was an arrow as well.
I was beginning to wonder what kind of world I had landed in.
“Norman?” A woman’s voice came from inside, filtering through the screen door. “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” Norman called back, walking up the steps and leaning in close against the screen, shielding his eyes with his hand. “The train was right on time, for once.”
“I can’t find him again,” said the woman, who I assumed must be my aunt Mira. She sounded like she was moving quickly, her voice strong at first and then fading. “He was here this morning but then I just lost track of him. . . .”
“I’ll look for him,” Norman said, already glancing down the porch and into the yard. “He never goes far. He’s probably just having issues with that dog again.”
“Issues?” I said.
“Big ones,” he said under his breath, still looking.
“Is Colie with you?” she said, her voice rising as she came closer.
“Yep,” Norman said. “She’s right here.”
I kept waiting for the door to open. It didn’t.
“I can’t stand it when he does this,” Mira said, her voice fading again. I looked at Norman, who was pacing the porch, peering over the rail to check under the house.
“We’ll find him,” Norman said. “Don’t worry.”
I just stood there. Obviously my aunt was as excited to see me as I was to come here.
I sat down next to my bag and pulled my knees to my chest. There was a rustle in the bushes, and the fattest tabby cat I’d ever seen poked his head out to look at me. He wound himself through the handrail, almost getting stuck, and brushed against me, leaving about an inch of cat hair on my black pants, jacket, and shirt. Then he climbed into my lap, clawed me for a second, and settled in.