Page 37 of Cookout Carnage
“Thanks for being here, Tris.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” He squeezes my shoulder. I’m not sure how, but he’s become one of my most trusted friends.
16
JULIET
Ipark out front of the church and hotfoot it inside. I’m ducking behind banners and stuff. I don’t know what the hell to do or what’s happening, but either Tanya or Jonathan will have the answers. I sneak down to Fellowship Hall and its tacky-ass decorations almost knock me on my ass. She really thinks he’s going to marry her. I hear noises in the kitchen—sadly it’s the familiar sound of porcine tribbing. How the fuck did the ladies beat me here?
Has Squeakers gone without all these years? She’s certainly making up for lost time. I go into the kitchen and spy my phone. As I’m crossing the room to get it, the pigs start running around and knocking into the legs of the center table. Squeakers keeps ramming them, and trays and food go flying as they fall from the edges of the silver table. I try and avoid the mess, but there are tiny open faced egg salad sandwiches flinging and sticking to cabinets. Now the pigs are eating anything they can. Shit. Another tray gets knocked off and flips cream cheese cucumber discs. This time I’m trapped and can’t avoid being hit directly in the stomach. I wipe off the cream cheese and cuke mess, then slip on an odd mini quiche.
As I hold the industrial fridge handle, so I don’t fall, it jerks open. Before I can react, watermelons begin rolling out as if they’re the bulls in Pamplona waiting to ravage the streets and leave carnage in their wake. It’s like slow motion watching the first one drop and explode on impact. I try to close the door to stop the pink and green grenades from falling.
The pigs go fucking nuts, and another cucumber sandwich launches into my face. I clear the cream cheese from my left eye, but the watermelons keep coming. Crash, split, mush. Exploding all around me. I’m covered in watermelon squishing. They splashed all the way up to my cheeks. There’s pink liquid everywhere. I’m a sticky sweet mess.
I slam the door closed with my back. I don’t know how many more are in there. But I count six cracked watermelons, and there’s a ton of sticky-ass juice puddled on the ground. I keep slipping, trying to get traction to get the fuck out of here. The pigs are lapping it up.
Then the smell hits me. It could be vodka, could be Everclear. I lick a spot on my forearm. They were filled with alcohol. Oh shit. I should have known. Everyone does that for the Fourth. Stick a spigot in and tap it, and it’s an instant watermelon cocktail keg.
I clap to get their attention. “NO. Gandalf, no! Squeakers, no! Stop.” I slip and slide over to the pigs and hold their collars until I can shove them out of the kitchen and close the door. I’m close enough to grab my phone, but now I need to find a bathroom. I’m not braving the kitchen again to clean up.
I’m a walking resort drink. I look back on the damage, and there’s no salvaging this. The entire room stinks like a frat party on hunch punch night. I walk away. Not my wedding. Not my mess. Whoops.
The pigs are nowhere to be seen. I try and open my phone with face recognition, but it’s too covered in happy hour slime. I wipe a finger and see I have a shit-ton of messages and very little battery.
I text him.
JULES: I’m at the church. Where are you? Are you ok? What is going on? Please tell me how to find you.
And with that, the phone dies. But if he’s here, at least he knows I’m here.
I pull some watermelon seeds out of my hair and off my dress and legs. I slick my hair back, pulling it into a very sticky ponytail. I raise my shoulders back and prepare to unleash all of my anxiety, frustration, and anger at the one person I know can take it. Fuck. I’m going in.
17
JONATHAN
JONATHAN: JULES! I’m here. I’m near a library. Where are you? I’m only here to find you.
JONATHAN: Tristan. She’s here somewhere. She texted, but now she’s not answering.
TRISTAN: Hold, please. There’s someone who looks a bit like a sewer rat ducking behind a tapestry.
TRISTAN: {Picture of Juliet and Tristan}.
TABI: Holy shit. What the hell happened to her?
TRISTAN: Her phone is dead, and she smells like a Pimm’s Cup. But she’s ok. Where are you?
RORY: Is that a watermelon seed on her cheek?
SABRINA: I have that dress! It looks super cute on her, aside from the mud, assorted green bits, red stain on her chest, and what appears to be hay in her hair.
JONATHAN: THANK FUCKING GOD. Don’t move. Or better yet, tell her to come down the west hallway.
TRISTAN: I should have a cool code name.
BEN: 004 of July.
