Chapter 55
MARCH
Iget a text the next morning from Byron.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!
Digital confetti explodes all over my screen.
I completely forgot—I'm eighteen today. I should be pumped, but all my thoughts are on opening night tonight.
When I step into the kitchen for a light bite, Clint is in the living room, staring into the terrarium.
He's face-to-face with the spider, which is in his usual “die motherfucker” pose.
“I AM A MAN. YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU CANNOT CONTROL ME.”
“Maybe you didn't know this, but the spider doesn't speak English,” I tell him.
“I should thank you after all, Wade. I realized this is a divine test. If I can't overcome my fear, I'm not a real man. That's why I'm on this earth. To conquer. And what can I conquer if I'm bound by my own phobia?”
“So you're getting into a staring contest with an arachnid. Gotcha,” I say.
“No. I'm recording a segment for my new premium content video tomorrow. I'm gonna hold the spider in my own damn hand.”
“Please don't.”
“God as my witness, I will!”
“He's deadly. The poster boy of dangerous spiders. A serial killer with eight legs,” I say.
“Danger is a state of mind. Ratings aren't. Think of the subscriptions my new segments would get!”
“How can I put this in terms you understand? If he bites you, your dick is going to fall off.”
“He's made up his mind already,” Dinah says from her bedroom door. “He already told a bunch of people. They're going to come over and watch. No taking that back now.”
“I WILL NOT FEAR YOU. YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME.”
I can't handle this right now. I grab an untoasted Pop-Tart and run back to my room.
Visions of Clint keeling over and vomiting with a giant hard-on before dropping dead hit me at warp speed.
Maybe the spider will die first from smelling Clint's body odor.
There's no guarantee who will come out of this alive.
If Clint kills the spider for whatever stupid reason, Kidtal's going to find out and murder me.
I lock myself in my room and practice my death roll for the rest of the day. The magic of last night has worn off, and only a quarter of my attempts are successful.
As I take a short break, a new email pops up on my phone. It's from Ms. Easterling.