I tugged my arm free from the grasp of naked Steven Kemple, who made the wise decision to not chase me through the crowded living room dance floor and upstairs to my bedroom.
So, after being scolded not to cut ahead by the half-dozen girls waiting in line outside my bathroom, after walking in on Indistinguishable Grunting Couple having sex in my bedroom, where nobody had ever had sex as a couple (Hair dryer short-circuit, grain silo mishap), I managed to get to my parents’ thankfully unoccupied room and call the state troopers to shut down the party.
I put my face in my hands.
There was a knock on the door.
Denic came in.
He sat next to me on my parents’ bed.
“Dude. I am so sorry about all this.”
“Why are you still in your boxers?”
“Two reasons. First, I didn’t lose, and second, because Steven Kemple put everyone’s clothes in the bonfire.”
“There’s a bonfire?”
“It’s outside, at least,” Denic said.
“That was thoughtful of them.”
Denic nodded. “Yeah.”
“Is Steven Kemple still naked?”
“Totally.”
“I fucking hate Steven Kemple.”
“Dude. Totally.”
When the state troopers arrived at my front door, I answered it, still in my pajamas and soggy, mismatched socks. Unfortunately for me, the responding officer was Trooper Clayton Axelrod, who had kind of adopted me since the day he saved me from Crazy Hat Lady’s dog and then stared at my ass while I got a tetanus shot.
He actually scruffed my hair and smiled when he saw me at the door. It was disgusting. Nobody is allowed to scruff my hair, no matter what size gun you’re carrying.
“Hey, Julian! How are you? How’s your arm doing?”
Every time Trooper Axelrod saw me, he’d ask about my arm, as though it had been miraculously surgically reattached or something.
“Oh. Fine, fine, Trooper Axelrod,” I said.
Animalistic screams rose from the backyard, and the house seemed to be belching out the combined smells of urine, pot, beer, and cigarettes, carried on wave after wave of pulsing EDM, right into Trooper Axelrod’s face.
Trooper Axelrod looked behind me at Denic, who was standing there in his boxers.
“Looks like you boys are having a slumber party!” Trooper Axelrod said.
“No, Trooper Axelrod. Kids are drinking. They’re smoking pot. They’re totally out of control and they need to go home,” I said.
“Ha-ha!” Trooper Axelrod chuckled. “You never do anything wrong, Julian! Just have fun, and don’t stay up too late! What a jokester!”
Then Trooper Axelrod spun around and walked back to his patrol vehicle. He called out over his shoulder as he got inside, “Just let me know if you want me to phone in an order to Stan’s for you boys, Julian!”
Then he drove away.
“How do you do that?” Denic asked.
“I fucking hate myself.”
Sunrises are all about foreshadowing.
The party did not empty out until four in the morning, just when the sky in the east began to pale to a yellowish grey that reminded me of all the vomit in the backyard.
Well, the party didn’t totally empty out. Disgusting Twelfth-Grade Back-Hair Guy in Tighty-Whities had passed out on the floor beneath the dining room table (Unattended open manhole cover). I had to actually touch him to wake him up, and then lie by saying everyone was waiting for him at the Pancake House over on Kimber Drive, and that walking there in his underwear was totally fine with all concerned parties.
He thanked me and said I was the best friend he’d ever had in the world.
Denic and I walked through a minefield of crushed beer cans on the floor of the living room. Outside, in the piss-swamp of my backyard, it looked like we’d been struck by a meteor where the bonfire still smoldered.
Denic stood at the edge of the crater and shook his head. “Those were really nice clothes.”
“They were so nice I wanted to punch you in the face,” I pointed out.
“Well, admit it: you know you’re not going to get in trouble for any of this when your parents come home tomorrow.”
I said, “Yeah. Probably not.”
Denic yawned. “You want to go in and play BQTNP?”
“Sure.”
I’m sorry if this disappoints you, but as much as you and I both may hate him, Steven Kemple did not die that day.
Neither did Kathryn Huxley, who probably deserved to die for blowing up a party that was only supposed to be me and Denic, and maybe those two girls, too—but that was it. Definitely not naked Steven Kemple, who would not die, and whose naked image is now permanently seared into the flesh of my tormented brain.
My parents came home on Sunday. Denic and I had managed to clean everything up, and except for the smell of pee and the big burned circle in the backyard, things were pretty much just as they’d always been.
And Mom and Dad believed our story about the giant meteor that smelled like a urinal, but everyone knew they would. After all, Ealing Iowa’s Little Angel of Death could break any rule he wanted—he could even try to turn himself in to the cops—and nobody would ever blame him for anything.
But Steven Kemple just would not die. And sometimes even Little Angels of Death need to resort to more worldly methods and take matters of the flesh and bone into their own hands. It’s a dirty business, balancing the ledgers of the universe, but somebody’s got to do it.
I know where Steven Kemple lives.
And this is major foreshadowing.
RAELEEN LEMAY’S VILLAIN CHALLENGE TO ANDREW SMITH:
A Psychopath in a Futuristic Setting
JULIAN POWELL: TEEN PSYCHO EXTRAORDINAIRE
BY RAELEEN LEMAY
I love psychopaths.
Okay, that came out wrong. What I mean to say is, I love watching and reading about fictional psychopaths because they’re so complex. What are their reasons for doing the things they do? Sometimes they have a moral code and actually feel what they’re doing is right (such as Dexter Morgan killing murderers—what a good guy!), and other times they’re just straight-up psycho.
Also, what makes psychopaths so terrifying is that they’re real. Maybe there aren’t actually dark wizards mass-murdering innocent Muggles in this world, but psychopaths are very much a reality, and they could be anybody. I bet Julian Powell’s friends, teachers, schoolmates, and neighbors had no idea about the messed-up tornado swirling around in his head.
So maybe I should rephrase that first line. I love Julian Powell.
My favorite things about “Julian Breaks Every Rule”:
?How straightforward Julian is. He never lies to you about what he’s done or what he’s thinking, which made him feel like a way more reliable narrator than you typically get with psychopaths. But it also begged the question of whether he was telling the truth, which caused me to have a bit of a crisis. WHAT IF HE WAS LYING THE WHOLE TIME? I got very into it, not gonna lie.