Rest Stop

by Nat Cassidy

Then the biggest spider he’s ever seen falls, as if pushed, out of the vent and drops to the floor.

“This is how I know you’re a child, boychik,” she said. “Your monsters are ridiculous. They are circus clowns. When evil comes, Abraham, it does not wear a mask. It looks as plain as day. I was a little girl when I learned that. The Hairlip Man. . .”

When evil comes, Abraham, it won’t be wearing a mask. . .

The kid’s hand feels so small against Abe’s arm. So light. So desperate for Abe to be selfish. To be like his goddamn, awful grandmother. But what’s the point of surviving if he sacrifices his damned humanity to do it? “Hey,” Abe says, breaking free of the kid’s grip without difficulty and holding up his glass shard. “I can defend myself.” He gives the kid a pained grin. “Or didn’t you notice?”

“Talk about what? She’s a person, not a PlayStation controller. She likes you. That’s awesome. You’re dumb and handsome, she’s smart and beautiful, it’s great. Good for the gene pool. Here.”

Again, Ty deflected the effort. “We can’t play a show with you pissed at me,” he said. “I’m not pissed at you.” “You’re totally pissed at me.” And the thing was, Abe had never been more furious in his life. But it was a fury tinged with sadness. And it was a sadness tinged with fear. His heart was breaking at the prospect of losing this girl he’d developed overwhelming feelings for.

Suddenly, Ty’s eyes lit up. “Do you want to hit me?” “No, I don’t want to hit you.” “Because you can. I’ll allow it.” That made Abe laugh, a short, sharp snort. “What’s the point of hitting someone if they allow it?” “So you do want to hit me!” “No! I want to get out of here and forget this fucking conversation.”

Abe threw the second one at Ty’s shoulder. “Look how fucking cheap these things are, asshole! Condoms shouldn’t break like that!” Ty didn’t hear him; he was too busy mourning over his soaked outfit, too busy grabbing another condom and filling it up under the other sink. “You fucking dick!” He was, of course, far more athletic than Abe, and his aim was unsurprisingly truer. He hit Abe square in the mouth with his balloon. The fight immediately paused—a moment common in every boyfight; breath-holding combatants waiting to see how serious a potential injury might be, if the action needed to be halted or if things were about to get really nuts. Then Abe growled, “I’m gonna fucking murder you,” and the battle was on. They got through almost half the condoms, turning the bathroom into a legitimately dangerous water hazard, before a bartender came in to see what the ruckus was.