A Nightmare's Fate

Summer of '16

Chapter Thirty: Summer of '16

Xavior scratches his brown head, looking perplexed. “What about the seating arrangements?” After meeting him for the fourth time, he doesn’t seem like he’s the sharpest tool in the shed. So how the hell is he a doctor? Maybe he could just be too smart so he acts dumb to us, but it sounds like the other way around. He could also be an organizing freak like I used to be.

            “I’ll take Errik and Periwinkle, you can take Jessie and Freddy,” I mandate. “That way there is three people per car.”

He nods in understanding and picks up a suitcase and goes to his car to put it in his trunk.

Periwinkle comes out of her house with a pair of sunglasses upon her blonde head with a smile plastered across her face. “I’m ready!” she shouts as she’s dragging a suitcase behind her. As she comes to me, she hands me the suitcase as if I’m a butler.

            “Stop being a child, Peri. I’m your best friend, not your servant.” I stifle a soft chuckle and I give it back to her before getting in the front seat to start up the convertible.

            “You’re such a little bitch,” she says in the most girlish voice I have ever heard from her while moving her hand down to show off her pink and zebra-striped nails.

            Errik laughs. “Now that’s hilarious!”

            “Oh shut up and get in,” I yell and he does so. Periwinkle takes the backseat as Errik gets in the passenger side. “Got the walkie-talkie?”

            He nods, turning it on and pressing the button. “Crr—this is Rubberduckie to Chuck—crr. Over,” he says. Putting the car in drive, we head out onto the road.

            “Sit, girl. Sit . . .” I hear Periwinkle say, commanding the dog to lie down or at least not get up and wander around the backseat. “Oh jeeze; does this dog even listen?”

            “To me yes, to you no.” Errik slyly smiles at her. “Inkspot, sit!” He rolls his eyes and demands the dog to sit. The dog does what he says and Periwinkle just looks dumbfounded, like he did a magnificent magic trick.

            The walkie-talkie goes on and Xavior says, “Dude, my name is Xavior. Not Chuck.”

            “Oh God, this is going to be a long summer.” Errik sighs and we chuckle a little bit before he gets back on the radio. “Fine . . . you party-pooper . . . crr—this is Captain Sweat-a-Lot to Party-Pooper Joe—crr. Over,” he says.

            “Yes, this is Party-Pooper Joe to Captain Rubber-Sweat,” Xavior answers.

            “Seriously, dude? He answered to that?” Errik complains, shaking his head in dismay. “Yer supposed to say ‘crr’ and ‘over.’ Over.” He laughs.

            “Why should I say ‘over’? Crr,” Xavior asks.

            Heading into traffic, the car stops and Errik replies, “No—you say ‘Crr’ first and second to last, and then say ‘over.’ You don’t say ‘over. Crr.’” He looks to be on the verge of disaster, like a terrible storm is coming and smoke bursts from each ear.

            “Huh?” Xavior’s voice seems so flummoxed that we all just laugh. I hold out my hand in front of Errik for him to give me the device.

            Taking it in my palms, I rise it to my lips and say, “Yo, Flappy, where’s my flapjacks?” After waiting for a few seconds, the silence is too quiet and I swear that somewhere in the distance are crickets that are buzzing. Errik tries to take away the walkie-talkie but I refuse to let go of it. “Hang on,” I snap; wanting to do another truck-driver joke. “You’re Carl-That-Kills-People! Oh, oh . . . no, Al Pacca! You’re so fat, your name is Fat Johnson, you Big Turkey, you.” The moment that the words spill out of my mouth, Errik looks at me like I’m on drugs. “So . . . Joe-Bob Itchybutt, how’s it with the Fredster and Jessie-nator?”