Page 40 of Creep
It’s as if he’s removing all the cobwebs off my body and replacing them with cotton candy. Is it too early to plan our life together? My mind knows it is, I’m not stupid, but my heart is already too far ahead in this race and won’t listen to reason, no matter how loud I yell.
Rooster eyes me with a smirk and joins us. It’s probably obvious that we’re headed for the canteen. “Okay, okay. Can I get a haircut that makesmea ten?”
Angel smirks and squeezes my hand as he leaps off the fence. “No. We already have a ten in this group. I can make you a nine tops.”
What is he saying? That he finds me this handsome?
My heart feels light as it flutters in my chest. Surely, he’s just trying to be nice.
But that doesn’t make me any less proud.
Rooster sighs. “And when Creep leaves to eat on the roof, or wherever he likes to hide, will you then give me a ten-worthy haircut?”
I squint at him. He’s lucky he’s holding a child. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Angel grins. “Exactly. He needs to keep me company,” he says, pulling me toward the open doors.
A guitar tune flows from the speakers as we enter the large hall that hasn’t changed that much since its days as the canteen at Camp Happy Bird. We still eat at long tables, one always reserved for patches, and choose our meals at the counter. I doubt the angry graffiti warning everyone toEat your vegetables or DIE WEAKwould have been acceptable at the kids’ camp, though. It always smells of bacon here, no matter the time of day, ashtrays decorate the table closest to the widedouble doors, and the busted old jukebox only plays Elvis or Black Sabbath, with no in-between.
The posters aimed at kids have been replaced by photos from community events. They hang under a stuffed vulture Prophet dubbedBeaky. We used to have a taxidermist in the village, and she made this ungodly creation that’s meant to represent our club logo. The bird’s permanently frozen in a scream and surrounded by a collection of knives attached to it with wires. Brigid puts a Santa hat on it each December.
I hate it.
My gaze strays to the photos hung beneath the feathery abomination. I like to check if any new pictures have joined the ones I’m already familiar with.
Prophet jumping over a bonfire during solstice.
Road arm-wrestling his handsome husband. They’re like two flames of a different color—both strong and ready for action, but while Road is rough around the edges, Clyde looks like he belongs on a romance novel cover with his long blond hair and chiseled jawline. I would have stared at the photo a bit longer, but with the way they’re watching each other, it seems they’re engaged in foreplay, so I end up moving on to the next frame.
Someone’s kid wearing a helmet too big for his head.
Harvey posing with his massive family.
Rooster blackout drunk in a haystack, hugging Cabbage the chicken.
There’s many more and I don’t feature in a single one.
For years, I’ve despised being seen. I was happy in the shadows. But I can’t hide when the bright rays of Angel’s sunshine illuminate my face. Maybe I’m ready to even join the photo wall if I can have him for company.
I clock at least a few phones discreetly pointed my way. My gut tightens, instincts screaming to shrink, to slouch, to vanish into the wood-paneled walls like I’ve trained myself to do sinceI was a kid warned I wouldn’t get to eat if I showed my face to anyone. But Angel’s hand is warm in mine, reminding me I’m worth looking at, worth standing next to.
I’m nervous, yeah. But also… proud. For the first time in my tragic life I’ve met my reflection’s gaze in the mirror and thought I might not becompletelyunlovable.
“Looking good, Creep!” Rhonda yells before we even reach the counter, which makes more people glance my way, and for once, I don’t dread their attention.
Prophet, who sits at the usual club members’ table across the hall, leans back with a disbelieving smile. “Look at that! You have a face, Creep!”
Several fists hit the table in exaggerated celebration while my friends holler as if I’ve just come back from the dead, not tied back my hair. There are too many eyes on me, too much noise, too much smiling. DoesAngelwish for all this attention?
“Should we take the food to go?”
“Do you want to? I’d love to sit with the guys.” My sweet boy doesn’t seem at all bothered and grabs one of the trays before approaching Rhonda, who’s grinning at us from behind the counter.
“I really didn’t do much,” he tells her, picking some eggs for his plate. “Just look at that bone structure. I could cut my toast on his cheeks.”
It’s a joke. Obviously. I’m used to being seen as a threat, a guy who’s fucked in the head, a maniac, a cave-dwelling creature, a monster from your nightmares. But the way Angel looks at me with eyes soft like butter gives me goosebumps. He sees under all the freaky shit, under my Vulture patches, and isn’t even a little bit afraid. As if I couldn't scare him if I tried.
I grab my favorite, a cream cheese sandwich with raisins, and after a moment of hesitation, an extra muffin, just in case Angel would like to try one.
