Bad Kid by David Crabb Page A

noticed Daphne putting a cigarette out in a cup of honey-mustard sauce.
    â€œEwww,” Lisette cackled, pointing the freaks out to her friends. “Smoking is so gross!”
    Seemingly unfazed, Daphne stood up in front of the group and swept her hair back from her face, revealing a terrifying moonscape of foundation-caked acne. She locked eyes with Lisette as the Bowheads stopped laughing and froze. Daphne let out a shrill scream and ripped away her prosthetic nose, exposing a wet cavity of soft pink tissue that throbbed and flexed with each sirenlike wail.
    The Bowheads attempted to escape all at once, tripping one another as woven leather belts and stonewashed shorts spilled from their shopping bags. Scrambling to get up or crawl away, they stepped on each other’s fingers and fell over each other’s legs. Their screams sounded like the ones you hear in recorded 911 calls. One by one, they ran toward the Macy’s entrance as Daphne shuffled forward like a zombie. Lisette finally regained her footing and ran the length of the second-floor balcony, yelling until she was out of sight.
    A hundred shoppers looked on in horror, afraid to approach or reprimand the deformed girl in the Nosferatu T-shirt. In their wake, the Bowheads had left a small pile of shopping bags and scattered beads from one of their broken necklaces. Daphne hunched over the mess and made a great snorting sound as she plugged the false nose back onto her face. Two friends joined her and they picked every last bead off the tiled floor, even stopping an oncoming shopper with a stroller.
    â€œCareful, lady!” Daphne warned, picking up the remnants of jewelry.
    As Daphne sat back down with the freaks to model some of the abandoned clothes, Greg leaned into my ear and whispered, “Who wouldn’t want to be friends with them?”
    We had to infiltrate their lair.
    On the way home Greg played our favorite Book of Love cassette from the boom box in his lap as we jerked away from stop-lights, causing melees at every intersection. Pulling up to Greg’s house as he ejected the tape, we noticed something strange in the driveway. Right behind Johnny, who was doing power push-ups in a pair of tiny onionskin shorts, was a bright-red convertible Cabriolet.
    â€œSurprise!” yelled Georgia as we walked up the driveway. “Christmas is early!”
    Greg screamed with delight. “Get in, David!” he yelled, jumping into the driver’s seat. I sat down beside him in the beautiful beige interior and relished the rich leather smell of brand-new seats.
    â€œLook! A real stereo!” Greg yelled, pointing to the removable-front tape deck.
    â€œAnd I installed a CD changer in the back,” said Johnny, dripping sweat over me as he reached in to pop the trunk. “You can load it with a dozen discs. It’s fuckin’ awesome.”
    â€œDavid,” Greg exclaimed, “we can listen to music the normal way now!”
    â€œYeah, normal,” I repeated, noticing the automatic transmission stick between us.
    â€œNow you both have cars!” smiled Georgia, momentarily staring across the street at my ugly, azure death trap. In the rearviewmirror it looked so decrepit—boxy and boring, with a thin layer of midautumn Texas pollen covering its sides.
    Georgia kissed Greg’s cheek and went inside as Johnny excitedly told Greg all about the Cabriolet, a car that felt more like the one I should be driving but that I knew was so much more expensive than anything my family could afford.
    â€œHere’s the best part,” Johnny said, punching a button on the dash.
    As the top of the car opened over our heads, we looked up to the cloudless sky. Greg started the car and popped our favorite cassette into the Cabriolet’s stereo system. Book of Love’s “Boy” blasted from speakers all around us.
    â€œThose are special subwoofers you’re listening to, boys,” yelled Johnny over the