Bulletproof Heart

Chapter 8

The next morning, I wake with sunlight streaming in through the window, highlighting the little dust moats floating in the air. It's later than I expected, probably well past ten o'clock. Fun's little pallet is deserted, as is the couch. I assume that my new friends are either downstairs or out doing whatever it is they do.

I untangle myself from the wad of blankets wrapped snakelike around my legs and stumble out of the room and down the stairs, rubbing my sore back.

The kitchen is deserted.

"Anyone here?" I call.

Someone answers from the dining area. I push past the swinging green door and pad into the large room. The walls are littered with graffiti and posters, a torn American flag emblazoned with the same spider that's spray-painted on the Trans Am hangs haphazardly from the ceiling. A single radio on the breakfast bar burbles more static than song, but I can still pick up a tune. Fun was right, the room is practically empty, except for a few booths pressed up against the colorful walls.

Sitting at one booth eating from a tin can is Party Poison.

I clear my throat, and he glances up.

"Hey there, Motorbaby," he greets, returning to his can.

"Not a Motorbaby," I say, sliding into the seat across from him. "Where's everyone else?"

His eyes widen mockingly. "What? Am I not good enough for you?"

"Not what I meant."

He shrugs. "They left about an hour ago to go check on Dr. D.," he says, stirring his plastic spoon around in the contents of his can that I recognize by the sweet smell as persevered peaches. His hazel eyes meet mine. "You do know who Dr. D. is, right?"

"Yes, of course," I say, mildly offended. "I'm not stupid."

"Just checking."

I scowl. "What's wrong with Dr. D.?"

He points his spoon at the radio on the bar. I watch as a drop of peach juice falls from the spoon and splashes onto the table. "His station's been coming in worse than usual. Mostly static."

"I noticed." I say. "Do you think he could be in trouble?"

"Doubt it. Could just be the reception's shit. But it's always good to check."

I nod, then frown. "Why aren't you with them?"

He cocks his head towards his shoulder. "I'm an invalid. Expelled from adventuring and saving the day until further notice."

"I think Kobra mentioned something about that." I reply.

Just then, my stomach growls audibly, and I remember that I haven't eaten in two days-- I must have been running on pure adrenaline.

Party grins. "Hungry?" He asks.

"Yes." I answer, crossing my arms over my stomach.

He slides his half-full can of peaches over to me and hands me his spoon. "Bon appetit."

"Thanks," I say as he gets up and starts walking towards the door to the kitchen.

"Remember," he says, turning back to me. "The water's back on today." Then, as if he thinks he's been too nice to me today, he adds, "I recommend the shower, because frankly, my dear, you stink."

I flip him off, and he walks away laughing. I roll my eyes and scoop a peach slice into my mouth.

Asshole.

***

Once the last of the peach juice has been drained, I decide to venture back upstairs to take Party's rude, but honest advice.

The bathroom is small and cramped, with a cracked porcelain sink, a toilet, and a huge bathtub, the kind with bronze faucets and clawed feet. The shower curtain, which was probably snow white at one time, is now a dull yellow flecked with spots of mildew.

I strip out of my clothes and turn on the water, pulling up the stopper so the water comes streaming out of the ancient showerhead. As I wait for it to heat up, I turn to the mirror, inspecting myself.

The first thing I notice is my hair: long, tangled, and morning-sky blue, with my dishwater blonde roots just starting to come in. Next, I look at my face, all the lines and edges bird-like, sharp and odd and twitching. My lips, while petal pink, are scabbed over from the sun and heat.

My eyes move lower. I'm tanned and freckled, all knobby knees and pointy elbows with barely any curves to soften things up.

Tragic.

I look and look until the steam from the shower coats the mirror. Then, I turn away.

The shower is hot, hot enough to turn my skin pink. It should feel awful, it should feel suffocating in the already powerful desert heat, but instead it's invigorating, detoxifying.

There's a single sliver of soap on the edge of the tub, and I snatch it up, rubbing it into a rich lather on my skin until I'm one massive soap bubble. I work it into my hair too, trying to combat weeks of built-up oil. I scrub and scrub until it feels like I've peeled off an entire layer skin along with the grime of the zones.

As I rinse off, I look down, and watch the dirt and soap swirl down the drain.