Cool City After Dark (Part Two)
What's a dance without delinquents? Fantasy/Short Fiction
(Part two—Veronica Avagyan, Kennett High’s golden girl, arrives at prom with a date no one saw coming: the school’s infamous “paranormal phenomenon,” Ian Troyer. As whispers turn to stares, an even darker threat emerges from the parking lot—one that forces Ian to confront his past, and his curse.)
Kathleen had a sudden, strange thought. It couldn’t possibly be true—but it was too juicy not to entertain.
“Dan,” she said, “think about this, right? Veronica dated Troyer before he got all... messed up. Before the ‘cancer treatment’ or whatever that turned him into a lizard. What are the odds she’s actually trying to date him again? What if this isn’t just pity?”
“Not a chance,” Dan scoffed, shaking his head. “She’s just trying to show off or something. She probably wrote about it on her college apps—‘I befriended a handicapped freak.’ And I bet it’ll work.”
“You think Poppy knows about this?” Kathleen asked.
“Poppy who?”
Jesus Christ, she thought. You cannot be this dense.
“Poppy Greer. She dated Ian from eighth grade to freshman year. Before him and Veronica got together sophomore year. She moved to Branson. I wonder if anyone’s still in touch with her? I wonder if she knows Ian turned into a literal monster.”
“I dunno,” he said. “It was on the news for a while.”
Kathleen’s train of thought was broken by a screech from the wild.
“The party don’t start ’til Kei$ha walks in!” cried Tammy Jackson to no one in particular, swaying her hips and arms with manic enthusiasm.
Never mind that the DJ was currently playing Lady Antebellum.
Tammy strutted past Kathleen and Dan’s table like she owned the place, squealing with glee when she spotted Neil—who was busy clowning around with Caroline Smith.
“Geez,” Kathleen muttered. “I never liked Tammy Jackson. I think this is gonna be a long night.”
“Yep,” Dan agreed.
And weirdly, that agreement made Kathleen feel... something. Not romance—there was none of that in the air. But maybe the shared sense of how lame this all was, how dumb, was bringing her and Dan back together on some other level. Like fellow inmates in the asylum.
“Veronica’s probably gonna pull something,” Dan added. “Like make the whole night about her. It’s gonna be overblown and cringe. That’ll be the highlight. Maybe it’ll go wrong.”
Kathleen smirked. “Let’s hope so.”
They didn’t have to wait long.
From the table behind them, Perry Mitchell stood up and let out an “Ooooooooohhh shit!” in the thickest Southern drawl anyone at Kennett High could produce.
And there they were.
The gym doors swung open. For a heartbeat, the music faltered—just like it had the day Ian first returned to school. Veronica stood framed in the doorway, her oil-slick dress shimmering like a wound under the strobe lights. And beside her, hunched and scaly, Ian Troyer flinched as a hundred eyes locked onto him. The room held its breath.
“Shit!” Kathleen hissed. “The bitch overdid it. She looks like queen vampire! This isn’t Halloween!”
But she’d done it. She’d gotten everyone’s attention. And that, no doubt, was the point.
Veronica’s dress shimmered like oil in water—burgundy, onyx, and a metallic rose gold that shifted under the lights. It looked like the petals of some dark, genetically engineered rose. The back trailed a five-foot translucent cape, embroidered with snakes—or maybe dragons—in copper thread. Her black hair fell in waves, her olive skin glowing. Her makeup was dramatic: smoky eyes, blood-red lips, glitter stardust at the corners of her eyes.
Dan blinked in disbelief. “Is she planning to marry him? This is... overkill.”
All that effort—for him?
Ian hadn’t even gotten a haircut. His wild, anime-black hair stuck out in messy tufts. Unlike Veronica, whose expression radiated cool dominance and smug thrill, Ian looked sheepish. Apologetic. As well he should.
If anyone besides Veronica actually wanted him here, they hadn’t told Kathleen.
Ian had the same dead-yellow eyes with slitted pupils. Scales where his eyebrows used to be. More scales rising over his cheekbones. His tux was lime green—somehow, it didn’t clash with the olive-green undertones his skin sometimes erupted with.
They posed for pictures.
He gingerly put an arm around her waist. Veronica leaned in—like she belonged there. Like she wanted to.
Kathleen’s eyebrows shot up. Shit. Is she really trying to get back together with the human skink?
Ian smiled. From this distance, his incisors looked like harmless little nubs.
Kathleen knew better.
Those “nubs” were the folded bases of his fangs—elongated venom injectors that retracted into the roof of his mouth, like a rattlesnake’s.
She suppressed a shudder.
“What do you think her big surprise is gonna be?” Dan asked.
Kathleen stared ahead. “I think we’ve already seen it.”
It was hard to tell what was happening. It didn’t make sense. None of this did.
“This’ll be one for the ages if they crown them prom king and queen,” Dan said. “I mean, surely not... but you never know.”
“I think that rich bitch just committed social suicide,” Kathleen said.
But she didn’t sound entirely sure.
She glanced over at Chaquille.
Even he just shrugged and shook his head—speechless, for once.
Ish Patel suddenly materialized at Dan’s side, slapping his shoulder to get his attention. He was short, round-faced, increasingly chubby, and East Indian. His parents ran the Motel 8. He was a freshman and wouldn’t have been anywhere near this event if Dora McIntyre hadn’t needed a date.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Ish said, barely containing his grin. “Someone just texted me—Terrapin’s trashing Doug Sullivan’s motorcycle.”
Dan blinked. Ish just smiled wider, like he knew he was full of it—but wasn’t entirely sure he was.
“I mean, that’s what I heard.”
Dora loomed up behind him, a good six inches taller and twice as solid.
“It’s true,” she said. “Tony Benza sent him the text.”
“C’mon, let’s check it out,” Ish said eagerly.
Dan glanced at Kathleen. She scowled, but there was curiosity behind it.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she muttered, standing. “But it doesn’t hurt to look.”
The four of them stepped outside. A small crowd had gathered near the parking lot—students of various grades, and a few rough-looking locals. At the center of it all stood Doug Sullivan, hunched in his leather jacket, looking both furious and helpless. His motorcycle was surrounded.
Jeff Axlander was there, hatchet-faced and hulking, a dropout with a reputation for breaking things. Beside him stood a tall, lean Black guy Kathleen didn’t recognize. And near the front—looming over the bike like a vulture—was a shorter figure in combat boots, a black trench coat, and a glossy, featureless motorcycle helmet.
He had his fists pressed against the sides of the helmet, as if channeling some invisible force.
“I’m using my telekinesis on your bike, Sullivan-scum!” the figure intoned theatrically.
Kathleen squinted. The voice was familiar. That posture, that swagger. Jared Arnold. Of course. He’d been expelled last year for theft and attempted arson. No one had heard much from him since. Apparently now he ran with this crowd.
Axlander slid his boot under the kickstand. When Jared performed his “telekinetic” gesture, the big guy gave the bike a subtle nudge, tilting it dangerously.
“You tip my bike over, you’ll pay for the damage!” Doug barked.
“How you gonna make us? You and what army?” said the Black kid. “You a little bitch. Gonna be you and your little bitch army.”
“Somebody call the cops, geez!” Grace Bauer whined. She stood a few feet behind Doug, her tiny frame swallowed up in tulle and rhinestones.
“Gimme what you owe me, Sullivan,” Jared said through the helmet. “Or this piece of crap’s gonna be junk.”
He was dressed like the Terrapin—some low-budget version. The real Terrapin was a known quantity: one of the Midwest’s more infamous paranormals. Moody, intense, often skirting the law, but real. Kathleen didn’t follow that stuff, but she remembered the basics. Some weird childhood disease—progeria, maybe?—and then a miraculous cure from his scientist dad involving some kind of turtle-derived serum. That was years ago.
Terrapin hadn’t ended up disfigured or warped like Ian, though. And unlike Ian, he’d embraced the darkness. Or at least postured with it. The kind of figure that attracted cosplay wannabes like Jared.
“If the real Terrapin showed up, Jared, you’d wet yourself,” Dora said, arms crossed.
“Shut up,” Jared snapped. “I’d use my telekinesis to throw you through the school, but you might be too much to lift.”
Dora, outraged, turned to her date.
“Did you hear what he said? Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
Ish, five-four and fourteen, glanced around nervously.
“What did he say? I don’t think I heard him.”
And then—without fanfare—Ian Troyer arrived. He was moving fast across the parking lot, head down, shoulders hunched. He didn’t look at anyone. His body language screamed rejection and shame. Something had happened. Veronica must’ve done something. Maybe she dumped him in front of everyone. Maybe she went back to Neil.
Ian stopped a few feet from the commotion. His words came thick and hard through his warped mouth.
“Id’s brom,” he said. “Whadever you thing you’re doing, just doun. Id’s brom. Ged oud of here.”
The Black kid glanced at Axlander, then at Doug, then back to Ian, visibly thrown off.
“‘It’s brom, get out of here,’” he repeated mockingly. “You the Snakeboy, for real? We heard of you out in Hayti.”
“I’m him,” Ian said. “Nod the time for dis.”
He never raised his voice. Didn’t posture. But Jared began backing away anyway. He knew. They all did. Even Axlander hesitated before stepping back. The Black kid held out the longest, maybe not understanding what everyone else already did. Being from out of town, he hadn’t lived through the Snakeboy rumors. He didn’t get it.
“This ain’t over, Sullivan,” Jared said, retreating. “You still owe me for them parts and that laptop.”
Ian didn’t stick around. He just kept walking, straight across Washington Street. Heading south, toward the Mexican place. Maybe the 84 West Motel. He didn’t look back.
Jared waited until Ian was halfway across the street, then shouted after him:
“You’re gonna kill a lot of kids, you know that, right?”
Axlander turned, confused. “How’s Freaky Friday over there gonna kill a bunch of kids?”
Jared didn’t look away from Ian’s retreating form. “He’s a walking PSA. Any kid with cancer’s gonna die in this town now. Maybe the whole state. Their parents will skip chemo. They’ll choose a coffin over having their kids end up like him.”
Dora stared down at the pavement. Even Ish looked rattled.
“You ain’t no miracle cure, Snakeboy,” Jared yelled out into the darkness. “You’re a warning!”
Doug crouched beside his bike, inspecting it like it had just been returned from a kidnapping.
“Doug?” Grace mewed. “Can we maybe go to prom now? Is this crap over?”
Dan turned to Kathleen.
“Kinda civic-minded, isn’t he? Troyer, I mean. Still shutting Jared down after everything.”
Kathleen didn’t answer at first. She was watching Ian vanish into the dark, his scales catching the streetlight.
A part of her wanted to follow him. Out of pity, maybe. Or guilt.
She finally said, “Yeah. Guess there’s still a heart in there, under all the—”
“All the what?” Dan asked.
“All the whatever,” she said, brushing it off.
“You think Veronica did something to him?” Dora asked, speaking what they were all thinking.
Back inside, the gym had resumed its forced cheer. Veronica sat alone near the punchbowl, arms crossed tightly over her dress, her face stony. She was texting furiously. Julie Hendricks and Jill Brouillette and their little clique danced in a smug circle nearby, laughing too loudly.
Mr. Davies was talking with Mrs. Collins, who kept insisting, “I didn’t see anything,” while Davies looked unconvinced.
“Veronica actually looks… upset,” Dora said.
“Shit,” Kathleen muttered. “Guess Queen Bitch might’ve been on the level after all.”
Kathleen watched Veronica’s fists clench around her phone. What had they missed? What had happened here?
“Still doesn’t mean it wasn’t a pity date,” Dan replied, already back on his Blackberry.
(to be continued…)