Chapter 37
The show is back on, we've got two months to rehearse, and Felix and I are one step closer to our California dreams. Dinah and Clint's stupid podcast is crashing and burning.
Unfortunately, I have to get through Christmas first.
On Christmas Eve, I'm practically overdosing on Tetris.
My eyes are bleached out from hours of playing, so I take a break.
Since Dinah is busy making mulled wine, I drank all her Tuscan Sun.
Now I'm in my room spinning in my chair while listening to the Suspiria score by Goblin and wondering how Felix is doing in Argentina.
Clint knocks on my door. He coughs, surrounded by a cloud of vapor.
“Look what your aunt got me!” he says, proudly holding up a vape pen.
“Now is really not a good time, Clint.”
“Why are you hiding in your bedroom on Christmas Eve? Come see what Santa put in your stocking.”
He yanks me into the living room, which looks like a misty nightclub rave now that we've got two vapes in the house.
Dinah is on the couch watching Flashdance, which she'll probably follow up with her millionth viewing of Mannequin.
Everybody else at school is probably doing stupid family traditions like holiday pajamas, baking cookies, and watching A Christmas Story or Elf. Not that I'm jealous.
“Go check your stocking, Wade,” Clint says.
I trudge over to the fireplace, where our three stockings hang. I have to dig through a mound of Plutonium Cactus pills in mine until I pull out a tattered copy of The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger.
“Context?” I ask.
“Now that I'm the man of the house, I feel responsible for how you turn out.
J. D. Salinger's the perfect tutor for the journey to your male prime,” he says as vape escapes from his nose.
“The whole system is fake and full of phonies.
You'll see that Holden Caulfield knew how to sniff them out. It was him against the world.”
“Sure, okay,” I say.
“Can I tell you something serious?” he whispers into my ear. “I am Holden Caulfield.”
Dinah sees my face and bristles. “I can't think of a better gift than a book! Aren't you even going to say thank you?” she demands. I manage to squeeze out a reluctant thanks, and Clint places his hand on my shoulder.
“I worry about you, brother. Lot of negative influences out there. Lots of phonies. I'd like to spend more time with you. Your dad ever take you fishing?”
I push his hand away. How dare he even mention my dad. My dad was the epitome of kindness. He didn't spend his days cowering in fear over imaginary threats or worrying about the entire world being instrumental in conspiracies against him. He never had a bad thing to say about anybody.
“Of course he did. And don't even put yourself in the same sentence as my dad. He was a better person than you any day.”
The doorbell rings before Clint can say anything else.
“So negative,” Dinah mutters as she leaves the room for the front door. She rushes back in and puts her phone in my hands.
“There's a reporter at the door. They're coming for me and Clint. I need you to record me clapping back. And pull your socks down! You look like Alice in Wonderland.”
Hey, I feel like Alice in Wonderland every moment of the day in this hell house.
Dinah quickly fixes her hair and pulls the front door wide open, revealing her bossy side with her hands on her hips.
“So! We meet at last!”
“Does Wade Mader live at this address?” the reporter says.
Dinah's face drops. “Excuse me?”
“Um,” I say as I record. The reporter immediately recognizes me.
“Ah, there you are! I'm doing a segment for our evening show and wanted to ask you a few questions about the footage of you with the gay Sasquatch in the woods.”
Dinah hunches over, her knees sinking. “The what?”
“I'm not giving interviews,” I say. “I'm too traumatized.”
Dinah shushes me. “Whatever the case,” she says to the reporter, “I've been ready for you corporate media parasites, and you chose Christmas Eve of all days! Who sent you? Which one of my episodes set them off?”
But the reporter keeps his eyes on me. “Wade, why do you think the gay Sasquatch is here in Oyster Pit? And who was recording the video?”
Dinah takes an aggressive puff from her vape and bristles. “Don't change the subject! I know you're here because of my show. I'm blowing the lid off your lies and globalist designs. I'm your worst nightmare!”
“Pecos!” Clint shouts from behind.
Still, the reporter's eyes are locked on mine. “Are you afraid it's going to come after you now that you've revealed its existence?”
I stay mute. Dinah sticks her vape in her mouth and shoves the reporter back with both her hands.
“Enough! Get off my property, media scum! We won't let you stop us. You're not real!” she says, then turns to me and whispers, “Are you recording this?” before spinning back to the camera. “Everybody tune in to Dinahmite! instead. Listen to my podcast on your commutes or watch us streaming online!”
The reporter rebounds to his original position and yells about calling the police. Dinah slams the door right in his face and slowly turns back to me, bristling.
“Wade?”
I explain everything to her except the part about the fundraiser and stealing her customer list.
“You butterfingered little butt plug,” she says. “You're supposed to be promoting my podcast, and your stupid forest prank is getting more media attention? You're like the Hitler of selfishness. I'd fire you, but I'm already letting you work for free!”
“Wait a damn minute—where is my Bigfoot costume?” Clint asks.
“Brandon Barton Buckley stole it,” I say, hoping they'll go beat him up for it.
“That casino-looking goofball?” he asks.
Dinah shakes like a volcano. “You ruined Christmas, you Grinch!” She storms off to her bedroom, Clint following behind her.
Oh well. I can take this. As long as they don't find out about the fundraiser.