Homecoming Queen by Adam Dorsheimer

Concerning Boys and Men

Shirley was eavesdropping one night when she heard her mother say that lonely people can’t help but do terrible things. She was bedridden, her mother, laid up with a debilitating melancholy after her latest episode. Her father was in there with her. Shirley imagined him to be glowering over the bed, hands on his hips, but she couldn’t be sure.

Her mother continued. It was like being awake for her own funeral. She could hear the muffled voices of the ones she loved, mourning and bargaining, but no matter how much she called out, they couldn’t hear her through the heavy coffin lid. So they lowered her and lowered her some more, leaving her lying six feet under the garden.

And all the while, the $64,000 Question remained: what was it about them? You know, the ones whose flesh clung taught and sinewy to angular bones, or otherwise hung limp and flabby over uncultivated muscle; whose brains were utterly uninteresting, incapable of imagination, filled with the normalest of neurons; whose hearts were calcified beyond a point of stoicism, never mind kindness. Why them? And why her? And why us? And so on.

Anyway, that was how Shirley learned her mom had fucked the HVAC man.

Her dad, for his part, was fed up. He’d come to regard his wife as a dying star, and more than anything, he feared that he and Shirley might get caught up in the supernova. So he found a new job, a new house, and for his daughter, a new school, in a desirable suburb.

Like her mother, Shirley had her own stellar quality; the world seemed to orbit around her. In the early days at her new school, Shirley was granted a coveted spot on the cheerleading team, never mind that she’d skipped tryouts. With seemingly no effort on her part, she ascended to the highest social stratum, becoming an object of admiration and envy for her new community. Yes, thought her father, things were looking good for Shirley White.

Had he consulted his daughter on the matter, however, he might’ve arrived at a different conclusion, for Shirley didn’t feel like a star. In fact, had she been asked to submit her own celestial metaphor, she might’ve described herself as a space cadet, detached from and rather confused by the terrestrial world. But deep down, in a part of her mind that lay carefully unexamined, she regarded herself as more of a sentient black hole, for Shirley couldn’t remember the last time she felt much of anything. While her thoughts were clear, they existed against a stark backdrop of emotionless television static. Naturally, she kept this to herself, or from herself, but made a quiet vow to stop making eye contact with the mirror; she’d grown to dislike the glassy, taxidermic stare looking back at her.

Somehow, this did little to diminish her mystique. The football boys in particular had become obsessed. With homecoming on the horizon, Shirley was a challenge to conquer, and it seemed that every day brought some new athlete to her locker—at least, Shirley presumed they were different individuals, though each was indistinguishable from the last. They asked, then they begged, all in the hopes of winning her company to the dance.

Meanwhile, Shirley had made the acquaintance of Patrick, a pimple-faced boy from her social studies class. He drew landscapes in his notebook: idyllic, photorealistic scenes of trees, rivers, the occasional deer. She complimented his talent and, before she could have a say in the matter, he made her his friend. They passed time in a manner that was neither romantic nor distinctly unromantic, and their talks were bland and insipid; he liked to tell her shot-by-shot descriptions of his favorite science fiction movies, regardless of whether she’d already seen them.

He was walking her home from cheerleading practice, the only time the complex high school social organism would allow them to meet, when he asked her to the dance. He was flushed and bashful, his usual boldness conspicuously absent. She said yes and still she felt nothing.

Making Friends

It was the night of the dance. Their football team had won the homecoming game, and the air carried an electric charge. Even Patrick, who was unaware of sports as a concept, was in a chipper mood when he arrived at Shirley’s house. He ignored—or, more likely, never detected—the contempt on her father’s face and shook his hand with a cocky grin. He and Shirley lingered for a handful of photos before heading into the night.

Shirley started down her usual route to school, but Patrick took her hand and led her in a different direction, towards a path she’d never noticed. “Come on,” he said, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”

At first, the path was paved, a concrete sidewalk that weaved behind backyards, lit softly by bluish television lights shining through the windows. But soon, the homes faded into the distance, and the terrain became rugged. The pair passed over a meadow and a brook, and before she knew it, they were swallowed by trees, inhabiting a wild, untamed area that seemed an unlikely contradiction to their suburban neighborhood.

Every now and then, Patrick would mumble to himself about them being almost there; once, the pair was startled by a deer jumping out of the underbrush. But mostly they just walked, silently and single file, into the impossible woods, until they reached their destination: a small, almost gingerbread-like cabin. Patrick held the door for her, gesturing for Shirley to enter first.

The inside proved to be just as peculiar as the woods. First, it was much larger than seemed logical given the external appearance of the structure. But more shocking were the things, the items, the stuff. Piles of books, board games, and children’s toys formed the walls of a grand labyrinth. Patrick gave a not-so-gentle nudge, forcing her to begin shuffling through the candy wrappers and stray puzzle pieces that covered the floor.

He guided her through the maze, and she became aware that the things, the items, and the stuff were changing as they made their way deeper. The walls now consisted of newspapers, magazines, softcore pornography with the faces gone, all scratched out or colored in. And she trudged through clothing and rags with dark stains on them. These clung to her legs like monstrous tendrils.

Finally, the pair arrived in a small clearing, encircled on all sides by mountains of blades—carving knives, hatchets, even some Medieval weapons that Shirley couldn’t identify. In the center sat a black cauldron, which bubbled and smoked even in the absence of a flame. It stank of rotten meat.

“Is this my new friend?”

Shirley didn’t see her arrive, but there she was, standing over the cauldron. She was old, certainly, but in a manner that felt unfamiliar. Old, to Shirley, meant wrinkles, Butter Rum Lifesavers, Efferdent smell. Often kindness, sometimes intolerance, but all the wisdom and folly of a life lived. This woman was not old as Shirley understood the term. She was horror, past and present. Colonial conquest, emaciated children, politicians waging war on the innocent and the guilty, but especially the innocent. She was opioid addiction, global warming, and the burning of art and literature; the wolf in grandmother’s nightgown and the feeling that, despite being surrounded by people who love you, you will never truly be understood.

“Yeah,” said Patrick. “This is Shirley, the one I told you about.”

“Shirley,” she echoed. “Yes, a beautiful name.”

She advanced, forcing Shirley to back away.

“I don’t have a name anymore. I lost mine a long time ago. I miss it. Can you imagine anything worse than a life without a name?” She moved ever closer until Shirley was pressed against the blades, nicking her elbow on the teeth of a large chainsaw. “I must apologize for the ruse, dear. I really am sorry. I know you don’t understand, and it’s not your fault. You grow up with perfect parents and perfect little friends and then one day you’re all alone. And it tears you apart, you know? It rips your heart out. No one should have to be alone. He understands…”
Patrick’s eyes were cast downward, but he nodded along.

“Yes, Patrick knows. That’s why he brings me new friends.” The one without a name stooped to pick up a sickle. “Now, here’s the thing, Shirley. This will hurt, yes yes. But it won’t hurt nearly as much as being alone. And it’ll be over so much quicker, too. We won’t drag it out. Five minutes to cut you up, and another ten to boil. And Patrick and I are fast eaters, so say twenty-five minutes before it’s all over. Thirty tops.”

But something was happening inside Shirley right then, and though it defied succinct description, it may have been closest related to the feeling of trying and failing to hold in laughter. This something, whatever it may have been, took over her body and spirit until she found herself quivering not from fear, but from the ebullient delight of misbehavior. So she reached out her shaky hands and picked up the chainsaw.

“Now, you listen to me,” said Shirley, mustering her best action-hero impression. “I don’t care who or what you are. I’m John fucking Wayne, I’m Clint fucking Eastwood, and I’m gonna clean your fucking clock.”

Shirley revved the chainsaw with manic glee, a sensation that briefly, joyously pierced her ubiquitous fog of unfeeling. She plunged the sawblade into the one without a name, becoming cocooned in the gentle warmth of her blood and innards. Shirley howled, and they all howled, and it was terrible and wonderful. Then the woman fell, her sickle clattered to the ground.

Shirley turned to Patrick. He stood, rooted in place, entreating her to spare him, to please forgive him for what he’d done. Shirley did not.

When it was all over, she puzzled over the husks of her captors, each leaking ribbons of viscera onto the cabin floor. This being a novel experience for her, Shirley was uncertain as to the quantity of entrails that might be considered normal for one to have, yet she noticed that the woman’s body appeared to contain much more in the way of guts, as though everyone she’d ever consumed had caused her insides to multiply until her body was a twisting cornucopia of meat.

Shirley pondered this a while, until she noticed that her joy had faded back into dull nothingness. She was somewhat sleepy. Must be time to leave, she thought. After all, she still had a dance to get to.

Homecoming Queen

Oh my God, shut up, I love your dress! I never would’ve thought to add guts to my outfit like that! You’re so crafty! Hey, where’s that Patrick guy? Oh, you ditched him? Good for you. He was just holding you back. Ooh, look at that chainsaw! It’s sooo you! You’re so good at accessorizing—I want one just like it! Shh, be quiet. They’re about to announce it. Without further ado, this year’s homecoming queen is… Shirley White! Congrats, Shirley! You earned it. Big surprise there. She was a shoo-in. Oh, don’t be like that. You’re just jealous. Doesn’t she look so beautiful? You just want to fuck Shirley, don’t you? You just want to take her home, pin her legs back, and fuck her brains out. Don’t even try to deny it. Maybe if I covered myself in blood you’d want to fuck me too. But right now, you don’t care about me. It’s all about Shirley White. Shirley White. Shirley Shirley Shirley Shirley Shirley Shirley Shirley—

Shirley got home after midnight. She left the chainsaw in the yard and entered the house to the sound of a tinny laugh track. Her dad was asleep in his recliner, passed out in front of a sitcom rerun. She wanted a bath.

She made her way up to the bathroom and stripped off her mottled, bloody dress. She turned on the taps and sat on the edge of the tub, lazily watching the water collect in the basin. Her attention drifted until she caught her gaze in the mirror. She stared a while.

Then she turned off the taps, leaving the tub half full, and went to call her mom.

Adam Dorsheimer

Imge: A Chain saw on the ground from Pixabay.com