From another senior, but someone I don’t recognize: “Yo, it’s Chris. We know each other from somewhere, right?”
From Blaire, who I meet on the way to the restroom just because I couldn’t stand sitting in class anymore: “I knew before even you knew. I want you to know that. Tell that demon to really mess you up, make it count.”
“Blaire!” I try to talk to her, but yeah, trying and doing are two different things. She’ll come around eventually. I’m not going to bother. This is what usually happens. Since grade school, one thing sets her off and it’s a week of not talking and then, suddenly, it’s back to normal.
I wish things would go back to normal.
From the start of the day, it goes on like this. It’s overwhelming but also kind of cool. But then lunch happens, and that means Brad.
I’m standing in line for food, not making eye contact, while Matthew, a guy from last period, chats with me, but really it’s that he’s chatting to me, and I’m not really listening. I’m not even trying to hold a conversation. He’s talking about music. A local scene or something where there’s a lot of cool basement shows. He’s talking to me about it like he’s trying to sell me on going to one.
“We’re still auditioning members and shit. Maybe you wanna…?”
Know how that goes. I nod but kind of stare at this space between the sign showing today’s “specials” and the back of a person’s head.
And then it’s Brad’s voice from the back of the line, getting closer with every word until he’s slapping me across the shoulder. “Bro, I fucking knew it! You liar. JJ’s going to have your balls chopped off for this. Dude!” But he’s happier than I can be. Same as anyone else, I guess.
“I’ll be all right,” I tell him.
“Jetson had you figured. Bro, animals are better at sensing that shit.”
I don’t want to talk about this so here’s my reply: “Yeah.”
“So, like, is the ‘d’ with you right now?”
The “d.” Only Brad would say that. Ugh. I tell him, “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
Brad looks at the music kid. “Who the hell are you?”
I point at him. “He’s recruiting band members for some band.”
Brad gets in the kid’s face—“Go recruit somewhere else!”—and there he goes, but Brad doesn’t stop. “The demon’s supposed to stick around, bro. You feeling disturbed?”
I turn to him. “Man,” I say, “shut up.”
“Bro, I don’t know why you’re so bummed. This is going to make you. For real, man, you’re golden. Your yearbook bio is going to read ‘Winner like a motherfucking sinner.’”
Not listening. The line is moving. Soon: chicken fingers.
“What about the symptoms?”
Even Brad’s asking about the damn symptoms. “I’m a little annoyed by all the questions, if you want me to be absolutely real.”
But today Brad’s not going to be as big of an asshole. He actually listens to me. I know, it’s crazy. “Fine man. You’re tired. Bet you’re really tired. I bet a lot on the fact that you’re… really tired.”
“Not going to be your next wager,” I tell him.
“Cool, it’s cool,” Brad says. “We got to see JJ.”
“First, chicken fingers.”
“What’s with the chicken fingers, bro? Every day it’s those deep-fried strips. You get sick of those or are you eating for two now?” Brad laughs.
I look at him. He seriously stops, animal shot dead in his tracks. Totally dead mid-laugh, maybe even a little standoffish.
“Hey, bro, just playing.”
“I’m just hungry, okay?”
“Cool, cool.”
We wait in line, I get my order, and we make a beeline right for the exit. I don’t look at anyone because everyone’s busy looking at me. Today of all days, the name on people’s tongues is “Hunter Warden.”
I can’t get past how Brad reacted a second ago. I wasn’t that mad. I mean, I don’t think I was that mad. He’s just obnoxious, that’s all. I can’t stand him. But yeah, he didn’t need to be afraid or something.
We’re talking and people wave. Everyone’s like “Hunter, yo!” and “So awesome” and “What was it like?” It’s what almost everyone wants to know: What’s it like? I mean, it’s a common thing right?
People have demons and then they get rid of them.
I ask Brad and he says, “I dunno anyone that did. But there’ve been a bunch, yeah. Ask JJ. There’s a tally going on.”
Another group of people slow down to congratulate me. It’s the thespian crew, and they’re all like, “You got to be a part of our play before you get rid of it. We’d kill to get some authentic activity onstage.”
Yeah, yeah — everyone wants some part of it.
Brad says, “Bro, you’re a celebrity.”
I can’t take it at face value. I’m too preoccupied with a previous thought. How many people have gotten a demon while running the gauntlet? But anyway…
I like but also hate what’s happening. The reaction. It’s great to see that doing something crazy gets a few likes, but at the same time, I’m like, Do you really care? I know maybe two in every twenty who I’ve talked to, but we don’t have anything in common. Really we don’t. I like the attention — would be kind of weird not to — but it’s also sort of fake. Like Brad being Brad — it’s really fake. If I really said anything to them other than “Thanks” and “It was wild,” they’d shut off and not listen anymore.
It’s all the effect, I guess, of being one of the, like, 5 percent who actually ran.
Jon-Jon looks up from his phone and actually stands up when he sees me. “Well, well, my demonic friend…”
“Hey, about that…” I start to apologize and explain why, but Jon-Jon won’t have anything to do with it. It’s like I’m the guy he’s trying to, I don’t know, swindle… that’s a word, right, “swindle”? I’m the guy who’s being swindled into some new scheme.
“Jetson sniffed it on you after sixty seconds,” Jon-Jon says as he walks back to where he always sits, picking up a growling, sneering Jetson. He tries to get the dog to stop but gripping on to the dog only makes it worse. He tells two girls, “Walk him ’round back.”
They comply.
He adds, “I’ll text you when we’re done.” Jon-Jon turns and grins at me. “First piece of advice — stay away from animals. They go right for the jugular.” Jon-Jon taps the side of his neck.
I ask Jon-Jon what I asked Brad.
“Well”—Jon-Jon looks back down at his phone—“it’s a short list.”
He holds out the phone and I almost don’t want to take it. Jon-Jon rolls his eyes, stands up, and puts it in my right hand, points at the screen: “There’s the list. Twelve names. It was eleven until I added your name.”
There I am, number twelve.
“You keep a list?” I ask Jon-Jon.
He laughs, hands going through his stylized hair. “Like I told you before, I could have made a lot of money on you.”
I sigh. “Well, I’m getting the exorcism.”
Jon-Jon nods. “Naturally. When is it?”
Brad chimes in: “Bro, get it soon, but not before, you know, having some fun.”
What fun?
Jon-Jon with that weird grin of his. “We’ll plan a few… events. A few parties. We’ll make a killing and everyone you know will treat you like a fucking rock star.”
I don’t know what to say.
“You like that?”
I guess I was staring at one of Jon-Jon’s accessories, a ring on his index finger. Jon-Jon’s decked out in a lot of fancy shit. I don’t know where to get half of what he’s got, but the guy’s doing his best to be some character out of a detective flick. I’ve said it before, yeah, and I’ll say it again — every single time I see the guy, he’s trying to look the part of a gangbanger.