The Lunatics 2: Push Tumble & Fall

Friday Night, Present Day

It was Friday night, and I needed to get to the RedEye Bar like I promised Jonathan I would, before the bouncer shift changed at midnight. The second shift bouncer often gave Jonathan and his underage girlfriend (me) a hard time. Although my fake ID card said I was Leslie Smith, 22, I guess I looked more like a Myla Blackbird Lunatic, 18.

Regardless, I was going to be late for Jonathan.

But there was no way around it. I was running late because Loxi and I were headed to the cemetery to find Tuesday.

Tuesday was one of us.

She was another lucky one that made the grade; if you consider fixing the screwed up a stroke of luck or whatever.

"Jesus H. Why do I always let you talk me into running?" Loxi said trying to catch her breath. She used her angst and attempted to outrun me, but she steady couldn't. I was good at running because it had become my preferred mode of transportation, mostly because I found myself running from someone or to someone many times during any given month.

"We are taking the car next time," said Loxi.

"For a whole four blocks?" I asked.

"All four of them. The whole, the full, the nine-yards," said Loxi.

Loxi and I had shared a room for the past nine months. She had become like my best friend, and I said "like" because that's what I meant. When your heart is compromised the way mine was, it's hard to let anything in other than despair. But I loved Loxi to the best of my ability because she had been there for me the previous year when my life had come apart at the seams.

And she was kind enough never to bring it up.

Kind enough never to ask about it.

Kind enough to be there for me in quietude.

Loxi was also a bit of a liar, but it didn't matter to me. Everyone's got something. Her lies were little ones anyway, and that made it weirdly acceptable. She'd blurt them out to other people steady in front of me—without any care for what I may think of her or any explanation whatever. The words "I know I just lied to that person" were never part of Loxi's dialogue with me, or with anyone for that matter.

But it was her need not to explain herself, with this or with anything else, that made me like her that much more.

We crossed the street right before the light changed.

The Mother Mary statue that guarded the entrance of the cemetery was now in sight. And between New Orleans' above-the-ground graves and the unbearable nighttime heat, the grounds weren't just eerie, but also stank like dead flesh.

"It sounds funny, doesn't it?" Loxi said. "Tuesday crashing our Friday?" Loxi held the bat she carried by its mid-section, making it seem lighter than it probably was. She had it with her most of the time and insisted it was for protection. But I knew it was for shock value.

"Tuesday should be back at the asylum with all the Intakes," I said.

"Her name's not actually Tuesday," said Loxi.

"Well, that's what her shirt says," I said.

"Yes. The one that's in need of a good wash," said Loxi.

The story was that Tuesday was a custom T-shirt enthusiast and she made all her own. Her collection included a set of seven, one for each day of the week. Tuesday was the shirt she'd worn the day her brother died. It was the only one of the seven that made it to Laurels with her—and the only one she wore. For Tuesday, time had stopped on Tuesday.