Tempting Fate

I will be the first to admit that I am a boring person. I don't have any royal ancestry, phenomenal cosmic powers, or even amnesia. Just warning you in case you thought you were going to be reading about a caped messiah destined to bring the downfall of some evil empire. Nope, I'm a certified ordinary high school student. Custom dictates that I begin with a day in my unremarkable life. You know, introduce you to my quirky but lovable posse, swoon over some boy, angst about how no one understands me. All that jazz. But that would be boring. So let's just skip to the fun part. The moment when I say those five magic words that, for the sake of irony, tempts fate to prove me so, so wrong.

“Nothing exciting ever happens here.”

I tighten my grip on my umbrella, hair writhing like snakes as wind and rain slap me across the face. My cheeks are flushed and numb, my nose is tickled with congestion, my body is soaked to the core. These sensations are familiar to me. It's just another day at high school, another day waiting for life to begin.

Strangers in suits pass me in flurries, businessmen hurrying into their shiny sky scrapers and sports cars. They're too scared of the tempest of downtown, of the puddles and the grey and the men in rags begging for spare change. But this is my city, and I walk at a decidedly slower pace. If I'm lucky I'll get sick, then I can take a day off from school. If I'm really lucky I'll get mugged, then I'll have an excuse for not doing the homework.

I sit down at the bus stop, paying no mind to the water seeping into the seat of my jeans. I'm already drenched anyway. At the far end of the bench, a man with a frayed overcoat and trembling fingers lights up a blunt, the wind sending waves of sweet smoke onto my tongue. Damn, how long has it been? I wrap my arms around my torso and force myself to think of other things.

As I sit there, shivering and feverish, a black figure dances at the edge of my vision. I look up just in time to see yellow eyes and the glint of teeth as the stranger takes a seat right next to me. Uncomfortably close, actually. I glance from side to side, furrowing my brows. The rest of the bench is empty, aside from my fellow pot smoker. Why then must this man insist on knocking knees with me? Social faux pas? Prelude to a rape scene? I can only speculate.

As discreetly as possible, I sneak a peek at the presumptuous stranger. A smug grin, a Greek nose, and two gleaming, lethargic eyes leer back at me.

He just said, “I'm gonna rape you,” with his eyes.

And he's wearing a tuxedo and top hat.

My heart slams against its rib cage. Dear god, this man is a pimp and he is going to recruit me as a sex worker. Or a drug dealer, in which case he's not selling anything I want to huff if those clothes are any indication. My leg rocks back and forth nervously as I search the bustling streets for my bus. I can still feel his eyes on me, dark and amused. Note to self: make sure to stock up on pepper spray and pocket knives next time I stop by Bonfare.

Finally, I spot an “11” amongst the headlights. The bus attached steadily makes its approach. With a grin of relief, I spring to my feet and sling my Gir messenger bag over my shoulder...

... just as the bus speeds right past me.

“You have to be f*****g kidding me.”

I turn to the bus stop, meeting eyes with the drug-dealing-mad-hatter-rapist. His slasher smile remains constant, as if daring me to make a move. Then I look back out into the street, where the bus has stopped at a red light about a block down. I don't allow myself more than two milliseconds of inner-debate before charging after it.

Pedestrians and poles and garbage cans alike fly into my vision, faded by fog and rain. Splashing through shallow rivers and tripping over crags in the concrete, my breath comes in short wheezes. To quote Mulan: 'Boy, was I a fool in school for cutting gym.' Good times. I can vaguely feel the sensation of snot trickling down my upper lip, but my face is so drenched and numb that I really can't be sure at this point.

Suddenly, someone yanks me from behind. I reluctantly twist around, finding myself in the grips of the drug-dealing-mad-hatter-rapist. Surprise. He silently looms over me, bony fingers searing my wrist. I open my mouth and, with all the eloquence of a person who has had over a decade of compulsory education, say:

“Come any closer and I swear to God I'm gonna go Carrie on your a*s."

The man's smirk widens.

“You don't make a very convincing case as a psycho prom queen with phenomenal cosmic powers.”

“I wish I could say the same about you.” Ooh, burn! Look at me, making playful banter and pop culture references with my kidnapper. Juno would be proud.

We both fall silent as we glare at one another in a Mexican standoff. Well, I'm the one doing all the glaring, but that slasher smile of his is creepy enough to count. In a half-hearted attempt to free myself, I smack him in the face with my umbrella. This doesn't exactly produce the desired results; I'd hoped he'd double over in pain and, in the process of clutching his wound in agony, release me, but as it is he shows no response to my attack aside from the slightest twitch in his left eye. D****t, I couldn't even manage to knock his hat off. I suppose I should aim lower. But before I can utter a battle cry and kick my captor in the crotch, the drug-dealing-mad-hatter-rapist makes his move. I flinch, expecting to be flung over his shoulder and carried off into his evil lair. Instead, he simply checks his watch.

“Just a few more moments of your time, Miss Lolita.”

Before I can make another brilliant remark about his intentions, the shrill scrape of metal brings my attention back to rush hour traffic. Something stirs in the slick, densely populated streets, and it reeks of brake fluid. I squint, trying to make sense of the chaos through the fog and the rain.

Suddenly, not more than ten feet in front of me, a truck smashes into a brick wall with a deafening crunch.

“Time's up,” my captor announces, hat casting a dim shadow on my face. He lets go of my wrist and merrily skulks off into the rain, leaving me to gawk at the car that once was. It looks like a coke can flattened against the forehead of a sweaty teenage boy, and I can tell you that the brick wall is no better off. I happen to be choking on its dust.

Was that truck going to hit me?

The streets echo with the sound of car alarms, awed spectators and torrential rain. A few phones are pointed in my direction, presumably to take photos. Down the block, the light turns green and my bus turns the corner, splashing an elderly couple with muddy water.

“Creepy b*****d made me miss my bus,” I mumble, pretending to care.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and flee the scene of the crime, a giving a chunk of brick a good kick.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I'm home,” I announce to no one in particular.

I shake off my umbrella, walk into my room with the gait of a zombie, and belly flop onto my bed with a great sigh. Next to me, my obese backpack spews sheaves of paper, homework my sadistic teachers said would only take me an hour and a half at most. Right. A pale square of sky illuminates the murky darkness of my room, raindrops like quarters on my windowsill. Something splashes onto my forearm, and I shudder. Damn that mother of mine, never fixing that leak in the roof. It's right above my head when I sleep, too. I snore, you know-- all that water could collect in my mouth and--

I shiver.

It's no big deal. Not at all.

I could've died, but I didn't.

That's all there is to it.

End of story.

I curl into the fetal position, wondering how anyone could possibly live on without me. Well, without a kid to weigh her down, Mom would probably travel the world, collect exotic lovers, get into shenanigans. And my friends would- heh, who am I kidding? What friends?

My mother makes her entrance, interrupting my angst-fest.

“I'M HOO-OOOME!” she sings, slamming the front door. There is a series of loud thuds, progressively growing louder as she skips down the hall.

“You are never going to guess what Tony did today.” she exclaims, flinging my door open. The slim brunette clings to the door frame, drink in hand, head lolling about. “You remember that sexy beast Adam? Well, ya see, me and Tony were walking, trying to find someplace to eat, and we saw this man dressed up as a taco on the street corner--”

“Go away, Mom. I'm trying to sulk.” I roll over, burying my face in my pillow.

“Aw.” She hops onto my bed, the smell of alcohol permeating the air. “What happened, hon?”

I sit up, bangs matted to my forehead in a most unattractive fashion. “Well, this crazy dude in a tux and top hat tried to kidnap me but then we started bantering and making pop culture references and then this huge truck came out of nowhere and crashed into a wall right next to us and the crazy top hat man skipped away in the rain.”

My mother stares at me for a moment, swaying, deep in thought. She purses her lips. “I thought you were going to wait so we could both try LSD together.”

“Mom! This was not drug-induced!”

“Sure it was.” She slides off my bed.

“You were just talking about a man dressed up as a taco! What makes a crazy top hat man that unbelievable?!”

“You know what, Lolita, you really hurt my feelings. And as punishment, I don't think I'll let you choose any toppings on the pizza I'm about to order.” The bottle fairy pauses, smiling and stroking an invisible goatee as if to praise herself for coming up with such a cruel and unusual punishment. “Mm-hm. That's right. You'd best think about that next time you break a promise to your mother, young lady.”

And with that, my mother prances out of my room and slams the door behind her.

“Ugh!” I kick my desk in frustration, only to severely bruise my big toenail. After writhing on the floor in agony for several minutes, I finally compose myself enough to climb into my office chair and check my email.

Stupid woman! I'm the one who should be mad-- who the hell names their kid after some twelve-year-old w***e that seduces middle-aged men?! That's just setting me up for necrophilia!

I furiously click on the Firefox icon, smacking my laptop when it takes too long to load the page.

“You got mail!”

I click on my inbox and start sifting through all three hundred and sixty-seven of my messages. Once I delete all the newsletters, male enhancement ads, and notices from colleges that are apparently desperate for my application, I'm left with twenty-seven facebook alerts and a letter from my grandma. I open the letter.

“Dear Lolita,

I am shocked and appalled at your behavior during Thanksgiving. Do you know how long it took to clean up all the soda cans, ashes, and unidentifiable gooey substances? Well, me neither, but we had to pay Theresa THRICE her salary to clean it up! (Speaking of Theresa, did you know that her son is a carpenter? Maybe he can give you a good deal for fixing that leak in your roof.) You're seventeen. You should know by now that in the state of California animals are banned from mating publicly within 1,500 feet of a tavern, school, or place of worship. I don't care if your mother says that they were in love, it's just wrong. And for the last time, Riley does NOT belong in the dryer. It really pisses me off, and I hope that you see the error of your ways by Christmas.

Love,
Grandma

BTW tell your mother that if she doesn't get rent to me by Wednesday she can suck my big, hairy balls.”

Grandma, Grandma, Grandma. I delete the message and then click on the “compose” button. I tap my foot, searching for words.

“Dear Grandma,

I sincerely apologize for the events that took place during Thanksgiving. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to whip your underpaid illegal immigrant maid into submission and force her to clean up my mess. I know that you had so many more important things to do, like eating toast. You're right, I AM seventeen. I should already be well-versed in every absurd, hypocritical law in California. I really need to get on that. And I'll be sure to think twice next time I put that licentious little t**d Riley in the dryer. I'm really trying to see the error in my ways, and to prove it I'm going to shave my head and adopt Buddhism. Hopefully you can find it in your heart to forgive me by Christmas.

Love,
Lolita

BTW I'll be sure to pass on the message that you have spontaneously sprouted testicles and you want your daughter to lick them.”

Send!

I sigh, spinning around in my chair. What now? Well, I could get started on that research paper due tomorrow. You know, the one that's worth one third of my English grade. Or I could surf Youtube, the site that brought us timeless classics like “Charlie the Unicorn”, “Leave Britney Alone” and “It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time.”

I make a new tab.

Ping! My computer alerts me of new mail just as I begin browsing through the newest stream of webcam footage, music videos, flash animations, and pure comedy gold. I ignore it in favor of checking out a particularly promising SNL skit.

The page loads rather slowly, screen flickering with static. Hm, that's strange. I click on the URL and slam down the “enter” button until a video player pops up.

The skit opens up with the grainy image of an abandoned city street, slowly fading in from black. Everything is in shades of gray, from the bleached sky to the dark pavement to the glittering streaks of rain. The only hint of color is in a rusty brown stain on the cement, mingling with puddles and grime. A girl lies face down in said stain, head dented and leg bent at an unnaturally obtuse angle.

Boy, SNL sure is morbid. This had damn well better be a fake commercial for car insurance.

Suddenly, the body stirs. Bones snap and grind as she struggles to her feet, her tangled mane dripping with blood. A face emerges, smiles. Her skin is cold and milky, blemished with bruises and red smears. Her eyes are the same rusty color as the stain, drained of vivacity and luster. Hungry.

She is me.

The dead girl rakes her fingernails across the pavement, dragging her broken body out of the dark pool.

“Lolita!”

I jolt, slamming my laptop shut. My mother enters. “Lolly, pizza's here!”

“Just a minute.”

“Okay. I got anchovies and pineapple, yum!” She charges down the hall, slamming the door behind her.

Trembling, I slump in my chair. Was that the “me” who got hit by that truck earlier? I stare at my laptop and, in a sudden burst of courage, reopen it. It hums and whirs, pulling up my email. I have one new message from a sender addressed as “TheUnderworldCommunity”, the subject being “Enrollment Deadline”.

It takes three tries to get my limp fingers to press “enter” with sufficient force.

“Dear Lolita Channing:

I regret to inform you that you no longer have a place amongst the living.

Although there is no way for me to lessen the disappointment, I would like to point out that the Committee's decisions have been difficult. It is evident that many humans enjoy breathing and sunlight. However, there is a design that must be followed. You are three hours and seventeen minutes overdue for death. If you do not die within the next forty-eight hours, I will be forced to take your life via a horribly painful freak accident.

Thank you for your cooperation, and I am sorry that you have to die a virgin. The Underworld Community looks forward to meeting you this coming week.

Sincerely,
The Guy Downstairs”

Talk about tempting fate.