Spoiler Alert

13 - Romancing The Tone

Sopping wet and dripping dry, we spent a half hour eating the Walmart spoils and watching Tony—newly infused with Hot Pocket strength and vigor—defeat Robotnik's Red Mech from Sonic the Hedgehog 2. Marnia didn't partake, noting that she'd rather eat the tires off her own car than deign to put something that was once frozen between her lips.

I wondered why she hadn't left yet. After all, it was what she always did. Whenever I would invite her in, she would refuse, or stay for half a second, or flat out run in the opposite direction. She never slept over, she never watched movies with us on Saturday nights, she never shared a meal around our 1960's atomic-era dinette set. If we hung out at all, it was in weird restaurants and cruddy used cars.

It was no secret that I always took her unwillingness to stay over as an insult, no matter how much she backpedaled and explained, "What I really mean is, I have stuff to do; I'm busy," and "I hope you're not taking it personally."

Of course I took it personally. This apartment was the one thing, the only thing keeping that gossamer mesh of safety secured around my cold and terrified heart. Comfort zone, anyone? This was mine! This was the only place in this world where I truly felt free, and felt  . . . me! It was the only place where I didn't have to read people and see one horror show after another. It was the only place where I could close my eyes at night, and for eight (okay, five) blissful hours of sleep, forget the world.

Marina didn't get it, and I wondered sometimes if that meant we really couldn't be friends after all. Maybe that's why I would someday triumph over her death. Maybe, in some dark twist of fate, we would someday become bitter rivals. And it would all begin by her refusing a girl's night with me and my favorite DVD collection: all ten seasons of Friends.

But not today. To my utter amazement, Marina stayed that whole half hour, cheering Tony on, throwing compliments at him every time he dodged Robotnik's missile arm. Was it possible—dare I whisper the sentence—that Marina might like Tony too?

I looked back and forth between them. My slovenly, bearded, Neanderthal of a brother and my stylish, sleek, yet portly friend. The thought made me excited and pukey all at once, kind of how I feel when I locate a sweet vintage Adidas track suit, only to take a whiff and realize it probably carried decades of Richard Simmons' body juices.

I gulped. No. Marina can't like Tony. She wouldn't allow herself to like him. She was going to die soon and that was simply that. She knew it. I knew it.

But then, just as Robotnik dissolved into a blooming ball of fire, heaving his last digital breath--I saw her hand lightly touch Tony's shoulder and whisper "Great one, Tone."

Tone?

Tone?!!

What the bloody lint roller?

Tony looked at her and shyly grinned, saying nothing. I had never seen that grin before. I demanded to know where he even found such a grin. It looked totally wrong on him! Didn't they both know that I had not okayed this? Didn't they both realize the carnage they were heading toward?

"Um, should I go?" I said, pointing my thumb toward the stairs. The comment was meant to take their gooey, liquid chocolate moment and put it through the wash. I wanted them to know I knew what was going on and that I did not approve. Marina knows every dark detail of Tony went through when mom died. She wouldn't do it to him again, she wouldn't hurt him like that? Hurt me like that. After all, it would be me picking up the pieces of their shattered Hallmark moments.

"No, I should," Marina said, hopping up from the worn leather sofa. She was all business now, as if nothing had happened. Tony sat grinning dumbly at the screen.

I stared at Marina, eyes on fire. I wanted her to see how angry I was, to read my mind.

Then she smiled at me in that kind, loving, easy way. The same kind of smile mom used to give me. All my resentment and anger shattered like old grandma candy between my teeth.

Her hand touched my shoulder. "Listen, I am going to drive around a bit and see if I can sense any more reapers. Whatever you do, don't leave the house until I give the okay. I am not sure what this is, but it could be big."

I nodded, not really listening. When she'd touched me, without meaning to, I had read her. Again. I was assaulted—again—with the ugly scene of her death. The concerned faces of the ambulance drivers. Her lifeless body tossing back and forth to the movement of the vehicle. My glee-filled face in the corner of the ambulance.

"Promise me!" she said—I think for the second time. I hadn't heard the first.

I was in a mental tail spin, finally falling down that deep dark hole of despair that I sometimes visited. And what pushed me down this hole? The encounter with the Reapers, the fight with Tony, the gross display of romantic nincompoopery in the living room, seeing my twentieth death for the day, being out of cash, being alone in this world, being cursed with this stupid, stupid knowledge that no—things won't be happier ever after! No, you won't sail off into the sunset. You and everyone you know are meant to lie in graves and in crematoriums and—

"Lydia! Promise me!" Marina shouted, shaking me back to the present.

"Okay, okay! Yes, I promise!"

But I was lying. As soon as she was gone, I was going somewhere I shouldn't.