Ali puts the bottle back on the table and slides it over to me. “Your turn, Clay.”
I take a deep breath and give the bottle a hard spin. I can’t take my eyes off her mouth. And she knows it. She licks a corner of her lip and I find myself getting sucked in to every movement, like I’m disappearing into her, into her skin.
Everyone groans as the bottle points to Ali.
“Lucky bastard,” Ben sighs. “You know what that means.”
“Seven minutes in heaven,” Tammy whispers as she slips her dress back on.
“This is bullshit.” Tyler snatches the bottle from the table to inspect it.
Ben’s cracking up as he yanks the bottle from him, taking a deep swig. “Game on. Just like old times.”
I’m excited and nervous. The last time I played spin the bottle with her—ninth grade—this same thing happened. Seven minutes in heaven. We sat in Jane Rodgers’s closet and I ended up talking to her about turtles or some stupid shit like that. I told her we didn’t have to do anything. I wanted her to tell me that she wanted to, but she never did.
“It’s not like anything’s going to happen.” Ben slaps Tyler on the back. “It’s Virgin Clay with Virgin Ali.”
I perk up. Virgin Ali. All this time I thought she and Tyler … but obviously, that’s not the case. I try and play it cool, but I feel a million times lighter. I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does. She’s still … Ali. And I’m still me. I breathe easier. There’s still a chance.
“You have seven minutes.” Tyler glares at us. “Don’t make me come find you.”
Ali grabs my hand and we slip out the door.
22
ALI AND I run down the front steps, spilling onto the lawn. I want to pull her into the hay maze and kiss her like I should’ve done years ago, but she leads me toward the Hell House.
“They won’t be able to find us in here.”
“But the line is huge and Tyler said we only have seven minutes—”
“Forget Tyler. If he wants to try and find us … let him.”
We head to the front of the line where Ali says something to Mandy Johnson, the girl working the entrance.
“Official Hell House business,” Mandy announces as she pulls back the rope to let us in.
The crowd groans behind us.
The first tent is packed with a group of twenty or so people huddled around a bunch of medical equipment. Laura Ridgefield’s weeping on a gurney with bloody blankets stuffed between her legs. “My baby … my baby … what have I done?” she howls into the spotlight.
Ali takes my hand, squeezing it tight, like she’s scared.
“Hey, are you okay?” I wrap my arm around her.
“I don’t like this,” she says.
“Do you want to move on?”
She nods and we sneak into the next tent, full of crazy zombies.
I know this one—they do the same thing every year. Meth.
Ali screams as some scrawny guy in a ripped-up flannel, waxy flesh dripping down his chin, darts forward to tickle her.
“Back off.” I push him away. Ali clings to me a little tighter, nestling her face into my chest.
“Dude, it’s just me.” Dale laughs. “You’ve really got to lighten up.”
“Call me” he mouths as we duck into the next tent and find ourselves standing in the middle of a makeshift rave. “Oh, crud, is it time already?” Mr. Brett, our seventh-grade math teacher, yells out over the techno music. “They were supposed to walkie-talkie us before they sent in the next group.”
“No, we’re just passing through. It’s Ali … and Clay,” she says as she squeezes my hand.
“Thank the good lord,” Mr. Brett says as he continues oiling up one of the Pine twins. He looks a little too enthusiastic about the whole thing.
“The next group’s still in abortion. You’ve probably got another four minutes until they catch up,” Ali adds.
The Pine twins, Charlie or Chip, I can never tell them apart, are wearing matching speedos, but the one who steps forward’s got fake sores all over his body and a set of rotting teeth.
“Tate? Is that really you?” He shields his eyes from the glare of the disco ball. “It’s Charlie.”
“Yeah, hey.” I let out a nervous laugh. “What are you supposed to be, anyway?”
He shrugs. “AIDS, man.”
“That’s seriously not right,” I say. “You know, you don’t have to—”
“Red rover in three,” a voice spits over the walkie-talkie.
“Showtime, boys.” Mr. Brett rubs his hands together and puts on his leather cap.
“I can’t watch this,” I say to Ali.
We back into the next tent where we catch up to one of the tours. The room is dark except for the flashlights the choir members are shining up on their faces while they chant some kind of made-up Latin. An over-the-top goth kid pulls a normal-looking kid out of the choir and into the spotlight.
“Come over to my house, Jerry,” the one with the fake green Mohawk says stiffly. “We can play violent video games and listen to heavy metal music. It’ll be fun.”
“But isn’t that dangerous?” The normal-looking one gives an exaggerated shrug.