Page 94 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
The music isn’t on.
The people aren’t moving.
The lights are not shadowing.
All rational thought processes jump out of my head, and like a family running through the Chicago O’Hare airport trying to catch their plane, I sprint around the living and dining room, flipping on switches, turning on music, and making the lights as bright as they can be, casting shadows onto the curtains.
The house is buzzing with a fake party that just so happened to have an uproar when there was a knock at the door.
Fuck, she’s so not going to believe this.
Putting on a brave face, I go to the door, open it slightly, and stick my head out of the parted slot only to find Ansel standing on the other side.
Mother.
Fucker.
“Whoa, what the fuck was that?” he asks. “It’s like someone banged the jukebox and it came back to life. What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing,” I say, closing the door even more.
His brows pinch together. “What are you doing while Mom and Dad are gone?”
“Nothing. Mind your own business. Now... now go away.”
That doesn’t help my cause, because his curiosity is piqued.
“Let me in.”
“No,” I say.
“Atlas, let me in.”
“I said no. Now... leave. You need to be gone, like right now.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything. Therefore, I have nothing to tell.”
“Says the guy who has someone talking to another person with their head off.”
“What?” I pull away from the door. “The fucking head fell off?”
Ansel takes that moment to push inside the house and nearly knocks over one of the fans that’s been meticulously set up.
“Whoa, what the fuck, dude?” He glances around, taking in the half-dressed mannequins, the strings, the lights. “This is some creepy-ass shit.”
I find the head that rolled off the mannequin under the table.
“Get out. I’m doing something, and I can’t have you here.” I snag the head and bring it back to the mannequin. I think about what to do, how to rectify this, and then remember Dad’s gum, which he keeps in his office. Forgetting about Ansel, I run to theback of the house into Dad’s office and then squat down to his trunk. I flip open the top and start digging.
“What are you doing?” Ansel says. “Dad will pound you if he knows you’re looking through his stuff.”
“Pound me? Really? Dad doesn’t even know what a fist is,” I say as I move aside aPlayboyfrom November 1990, thankfully wrapped up in cellophane, and that’s when I find his stocked up Fruit Stripe gum. I pull out three strips, shove them in my mouth, and start chewing. I’ll take care of the trunk later.
I rush back to the dining room and chew like I’ve never chewed before, my jaw growing tired. Ansel simply stares at me. Just when I feel like the gum is ready, there’s a ding from my phone.
Full panic sets in.
