Page 22 of The Slug Crystal
“Didn’t realize I was the unsung hero of the biosphere. Thanks, Emma.”
I saw the phrase on a bookmark once, but I feel like I can’t disclose that now. Instead, I raise my cold brew in salute. “To my favorite fungus.”
Jake clinks his water bottle against it, the awkward tension evaporating as fast as it appeared.
Ben drums his pen against the seat. “Okay, next round. What’s your guilty pleasure show?”
Jake looks at me. “You first this time, Emma.”
I consider. “Probably that dating show where they all wear animal prosthetics? Sexy Beast? I’m obsessed with trying to guess if the dolphin is hot or not.”
Ben nods. “Strong choice.”
“I watch reruns of American Gladiators on YouTube,” Jake admits.
“No judgment. I once auditioned for Wipeout. Made it tothe final round, then tore my hamstring falling off a giant rubber ball.”
We all process this for a second.
Ben adds, “It’s not on my resume, but it should be.”
There’s a lull, the road noise filling the gaps, but this time it’s a comfortable sort of quiet. I’m not sure if Ben’s run out of questions or if he’s just taking extensive notes to document everything we’ve said so far. Either way, I realize I don’t hate this dynamic. It’s like we’re all in the same weird foxhole, and the only way out is to make each other laugh enough to forget why we’re here.
Ben doesn’t allow the silence to linger for long. After a few more rounds, including hard hitters like favorite pizza topping, superstitious rituals, and go-to karaoke songs, Ben dials up the stakes.
“Alright, now it gets real,” he says, suddenly solemn. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done for revenge?”
Jake freezes, eyes flicking to the road, then to me, then back. “That’s a loaded question,” he says. “You first.”
Ben sighs, runs a hand through his beard. “Once, in high school, a guy stole my girlfriend. I broke into his car and licked and coughed on every surface, hoping to get him sick. He got mono two months later, and I like to think they’re related.”
“Isn’t that, like, illegal?” Jake asks.
“It’s not not illegal,” Ben responds.
“Did you even have mono when you broke in?” I ask.
“No, I think I manifested it,” Ben responds.
“I don’t know if that’s how manifestation works,” I state flatly. “Mine is pretty obvious. I turned my ex-boyfriend into a snail after he broke my heart.”
“Touche,” Ben says.
Jake looks thoughtful for a long time. “Once, when I was little, my brother punched me for eating the last brownie. Iwaited until he fell asleep, then drew fake mustaches and dicks all over his face in Sharpie. We had family photos the next morning.”
I laugh. I’ve definitely heard this story before. Last year when I had Thanksgiving dinner with Jake’s family. I would feel bad, but his brother is honestly kind of a douche, and he probably deserved much worse.
Ben comments, “Classic.”
“He still brings it up at holidays.”
We’re all grinning now, the old scars of our pasts worn like badges instead of painful secrets. Even the snail, err Alex, seems to be getting into the spirit, glomming onto the side of the plastic and leaving a path of silvery goo that looks, weirdly, like a thumbs-up.
Ben taps his notebook and says, “If I had to categorize us, I’d say we’re all the type to burn down the village to prove a point. Or at least, draw a dick on the side of it.”
“Speak for yourself, man,” Jake says. “I’m more into the peaceful protest.”
“Well, I’m that way at least. It’s my best quality,” Ben says.
