FEVERCHAIN 1

Lesbian werewolves, et cetera. FEVERCHAIN is a contemporary horror-romance serial set in the fictional Pinetown, New Jersey.

Emily S Hurricane was generous enough to provide STELLAR narration. Through her voice I’m experiencing this story in a totally fresh way. Give it a listen!

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“Bianca” is stitched over my left tit in scarlet. Mom gave me a too-small button down to squeeze my boobs, my twin curses since middle school. Every day she hopes they’re enough for someone to stop and spend two dollars on coffee, plus tip. I smack my lipstick lips.

In the morning, it’s always better. The sun pours through the windows and glass door of the diner, drowning out the fluorescents and allowing me to eliminate every crumb and smear. Usually the red laminate counter with the rainbow fiesta bits drives me crazy because I don’t know what’s a piece of food or drop of soda or just part of the design.

Behind me, Mom is whipping up the kitchen’s fog of savory scents and steam. The ancient coffee makers are dripping the best they can, the crates of eggs, meat, and cheese are shoved into the fridge that forever smells of onion. Now she’s chopping up the vegetables for coleslaw. She doesn’t like the way I chop things, especially after I severed the tip of my right pinky finger. We’d put it in milk, so the doctor wouldn’t sow it back on. One less nail to paint, but that’s never gotten me a discount.

No patrons yet but Emilio scribbling violently into his composition book, stabbing the pages to get my attention. He’s almost done with his Fanta and wants a refill. I rub out a coffee stain before vindicating him.

When I snatch his empty glass he flinches. I add fresh ice, crispy pop. It’s the brightest color in the room. Electric OJ.

He frowns at his page before murmuring thanks.

“Algebra?”

“No way,” he chuffs. He needs a haircut. “You think I do homework?”

I shrug and turn away, checking again to make sure I got that coffee stain off the counter. Yup. Shiny.

“You should if you want to get out of here.” God, I’ll be here after he’s gone. Mom’s knife beats and scrapes the cutting board.

Emilio slurps air through his straw. Jesus, that was fast. “I’m writing a screenplay.”

I laugh a little. Not at him, but. “What about?”

“The Jersey Devil.”

“Good luck.”

“The pictures online make it look like the baby from Eraserhead.”

“Eraser-what?”

“Wow.” He taps his glass. “Just wow.”

Always something with this kid. “You’ll start shaking if I give you another soda.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He slaps down four crumbled dollar bills, slides from his barstool, and slings his backpack over one shoulder. His notebook is held at his chest as he ambles to the door with hand-me-down jeans and scuffed elbows. “Wait til I get a camera, Binks. I got some ideas… like the Blair Witch Project but on drugs.”

“Don’t record me.”

“I’mma professional.” The door chimes as he leaves.

The usual crowd drifts in and out. Schmidt. Thornton. Sheriff. “Pork roll egg and cheese, saltpepperketchup.” I don’t write anything down with these people, it’s beautiful. Like clockwork. I’m pretty sure they shit at the same time every day. Fantastic.

There aren’t many strangers in mid winter. Sometimes people’s families come for the holidays but now it’s January 21st. Thornton would be back for lunch and dinner. He has a veteran retirement pension and spends all of it here or on cigarettes. In the warmer months, if no one else is around, we let him smoke inside by the open door.

I’m swiping scraps from Thornton’s spot when the chimes sound with a blast of cool air. The mayor’s son waltzes in, and my heart rate skyrockets. Wade fucking Dyer. Wade Dyer who cummed on my tits in high school ten years ago, the very tits he is staring at now.

“Sup, Binny.”

Binks. Binny. Bianca. I can’t control what people call me. At least he didn’t call me Bunny.

“Your mom here?”

“Sh-she’s out back. On the phone.” Christ. I’m strangling my rag. No clue where this is going and I can’t ask because I’ll stutter again.

“Alright.” Wade moves to lean over the counter, restless.

I finish cleaning the table. It takes me a while, I’m trying to calm myself with every wax on, wax off.

“Hey Bianca,” he greets me a second time, louder. “This is random, but how well did you know my sister?”

I round the counter’s corner and turn away, close my eyes very hard while I pretend to check on the coffee machine, and face him. “Gwen?”

“Yeah.” He offers me nothing. There’s sort of a sympathetic, puppy dog look on his face. I see his greasy blond hair and I do not trust him.

“Gwen on the soccer team?”

He grins. “Yeah, Gwen on the soccer team.”

I squint at his eyes. Bloodshot. Is he high? “I mean, I knew of her, obviously.”

“Well, she’s been staying with me, you know.” I did not know. “She’s been here for about a month, you know.” I did not know. “She’s like really in a bad place. Look, I don’t want to burden you, but there’s no other… girls in town her age. I don’t know. I told her to meet me here today, and she said she would, but she’s not.” He sighs, looks at his hands. “Don’t tell anyone about this, please. With my dad and all. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, uh. Shit. Can I give you her number? You guys can text or something?” Wade shakes his head. “I didn’t really think about this. Sorry. What do you think?”

My glasses slip down my nose. The amount I’m sweating is unnatural.

“Sure.” I take out my phone, clenching it so I don’t tremble.

“Thanks, Bin. I know this is weird but it’s like a suicide hotline. But better. Not that she’s suicidal. I don’t think… Big breakup.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

So Gwen is back from Kelo or Keno or wherever rural Oregon. No, I don’t know her at all. All she ever did in high school, middle school, elementary school was play soccer. She was a D1 athlete and got a scholarship to some university in LA, Northridge, I think. Go Matadors. Yeah. Mister and Misses Mayor spoke about it incessantly for a couple years.

I’m thinking about all this while he reads out her number. I don’t want to ask for it again so I just tap with my thumbs to make it look like I’m getting something down. I’m going to pretend I need to use the bathroom to calm myself, and when I return he better be gone. “Sorry, can I pop in the restroom real quick?”

“Oh, yeah. And seriously, thanks.”

I try not to run. I lock the door and my head pounds as I force out a trickle of piss. Holy shit. What just happened? Wade has ignored me for years. He and his friends who peaked in high school only talk about me to remind themselves of their glory days. Bianca big-boobs became Bianca jizz-tits. Every guy came to expect the same from me. But I had actually really liked Wade Dyer and was stupid enough to think he cared. Now he wants to use me again, not as a joke but as a free therapist for his suicidal sister who I haven’t spoken a sentence to since fifth grade. Fuck.

Plus, I didn’t write her number down. I can probably find it online later—whatever. I check my bun in the mirror, clean my glasses. Enough time has passed. If he’s still there, I need to hurry. Any longer and he will assume I took a massive shit.

I dry my hands, see my nail polish is chipping. I should stop getting them done and save for a car.

I close the door, glance, freeze. There’s another guy with Wade now, and I don’t recognize him at all. A passerthrough? A tourist? They’re standing close yet not speaking. A cloud must pass over the sun, because I notice that the fluorescent closest to me is flickering for the first time.

Exhaling, I step as if I’ve just landed on another planet. The alien guy looks attractive, more attractive than Wade Dyer, and I feel nauseous out here with my goofy tits, bun, and lipstick. I probably smell like pork grease. The guy looks my way, unhunches his shoulders a little. His brows unknit, and his eyes—

I trip, grip a barstool.

“Hey!” Wade calls. “Gwen showed up after all.”

I blink behind my glasses. Oh my god. It is Gwen. But her hair is ear-length and she’s wearing a flannel totally dressed like a dude. Hiking boots that look expensive but caked in muck. Her mouth is in a line and it looks like she’s in pain, her wisps of light hair catching like fire in the afternoon sun, but eyes welcoming, the color of an Amish oakwood table. I sorta want to cry. Her veiny hands are gripping her barstool and I’m gripping mine like holy shit I’m gonna puncture this cherry pleather.

“Hi,” Gwen says. Sounds parched. Or sick.

I think I say hi back but I’m not sure as I rush to get her a glass, I think I say watercoffeesodaanything and I’m pretty sure she says water no ice. Please.

“So,” Wade begins, “I gave her your number.”

Gwen takes the water. Drinks. She’s still standing, gaze flitting from the windows to Wade to me to the kitchen and back again. She sets the glass down when it’s empty. I move to refill it instantly, and she thanks me.

Gwen’s voice is now lubricated and level: “I think I’ll come here.”

What? I give water, I offer food.

“No food, please.” She picks up a menu. “I’m vegan, and there’s nothing on here that…”

“I have a stash of Oreos in the back.”

That earns me a peep over the menu. Serious, playful, nothing at all behind her eyes? I can’t tell. I feel like I’ve been shot.

“Are kaiser rolls vegan?” Wade suggests.

“Egg wash,” Gwen and I say. She smiles at me. “Are you vegan?”

“No.” I swallow. “But I know what vegan is. As a waitress.”

“You know the ingredients of everything?”

I nod. “All the spices too.”

“Damn. I wish every server was like you.”

“Ha.” I shrug; I have to look elsewhere. Red is almost certainly spreading on my cheeks and chest—rosacea flare. I need to dunk my head in ice. “Just family recipes, I mean, my mom is the Elena Panco of Panco’s Diner.”

“And you’re the Bianca Panco.”

“Yup!” Never knew my voice could squeak so high. No one has ever said my name like that, sweartogod. Wade’s maintained a dumbass grin. Is this real? Should I grab a kitchen knife, stab myself, and end it all, right here, right now? Maybe that would save me from drowning in this heat.

Gwen sets down the menu. Her gaze meets mine, and I turn to dry the three spoons by the sink that I already dried. She’s still staring at me, my legs, hips, stomach, chest, neck, face, hair, everything—I am impaled, glance up. Gwen licks her lips, sniffs. Her nose is red, either from the cold outside or she has a cold of her own. Finally, her jaw relaxes, and I can make out the shape of her wide mouth.

“Do you have any peanut butter?”

“No.” I sense dampness between my thighs as I shift my weight. “No, but I’ll bring some tomorrow.” God, just dip me in it.

Her smile spreads slow and thick across her face and it’s perfect. “Great.”

Never handed her a check so I’m mortified when Gwen leaves cash on the counter. It’s warm and too plentiful. A tip. She says see you, and leaves with Wade before I can catch my breath.