6

WORST EVER

I grab a free newspaper from a stack on the street. I open and drape it over my head to hide the fact that my hair is a buzzing, swarming mass of bees.

I keep moving toward the duplex, trying to distract myself with other things, one hand on my newspaper hat at all times.

Blue mailbox. Bees.

Big truck. Bees.

Billboard. Bees.

Black hat. Bees, bees, bees!

Finally, I spot the oleander hedge on the sidewalk, and beyond it Dr. Flossdrop’s yard of drought-tolerant plants. Lou, who lives next door to us in the other half of the duplex, is using the pull-up bar in his door frame. Wiry gray hairs peek out of his V-neck T-shirt, which is wet with sweat. He’s squinting from the effort of his pull-up.

Lou is an ergonomic coach. I’ve seen countless clients slump up the steps and into his hallway only to march their way back down. The sign on Lou’s door, which is only visible when it’s actually closed because he’s not using the pull-up bar, reads ERGONOMICALLY CORRECT.

But now is not the time to watch Lou do a pull-up. I take advantage of his squint by slithering up the steps to the front stoop, hoping he won’t see me or my newspaper hat or the bees underneath it.

“Hey, Zinny! How are ya?”

I stop. Lou sees me.

“Fine, Lou,” I reply, hoping the conversation will end there.

His eyes are fully open now, even though his feet are still off the ground, the rest of him suspended in midair. His biceps are twitching, but he keeps talking to me.

“How many times do we have to go over this, kiddo? Call me Coach.” Lou winks and laughs, and in doing so, lets his elbows release. His athletic-shoed feet fall to his welcome mat.

“OK, Lou. I mean — sorry.”

“You sure you’re fine?” he asks. “Because you’ve got an Eastside Weekly on your head, and it’s not raining. It is solid sun protection, though.”

“Yup! All fine here. Have a good workout!”

Whoosh!

I’m through the door before Lou can say anything else. I run to the bathroom, wishing desperately that Adam were here so he could tell me if this is really happening. I’m sure he’d know just what to do. He’d have some idea that would be part performance art, part solution. Adam can do anything.

But Adam’s not here.

I shut my eyes in front of the bathroom mirror and release the newspaper down to my side. I stand there like I’m at a sleepover back in the day when Nikki, Margot, Lupita, and I used to play those Bloody Mary games way back when we were still NMLZ. I spin around slowly three times and prepare for what I may or may not see when I pop open my eyes.

There I am reflected in the mirror.

My hair looks like it’s in an old-timey beehive hairdo. Except this hairdo is a real beehive composed of real, live bees that are constantly moving and shifting and scurrying.

I can’t see my hair at all except for the slight dip of the widow’s peak on my forehead and the curly strands that hang below my ears. Everything else is a moving, itchy, disgusting, insectian mess.

I open the bathroom window and stand next to it, hoping the fresh air will convince the bees to flee.

Nothing happens.

I flutter my hands around above me.

Still nothing.

I shake my head in a way that hurts my brain. I dance around. I scream.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

I try to coax a bee onto a Q-tip, the way you would if you were rescuing one from a pool or something.

It will not be coaxed.

I thought my summer was doomed with Adam’s departure, but now this… this is truly the worst ever.

I picture growing old with a zillion bees as my only companions. Knitting alone, rocking-chair shoulders hunched from my helmet of creepy crawly creatures, their small dental drill drone buzzing in my ears.

It’s not a soothing image.

Since I don’t think bees can swim, I decide to take a bath and count the tiles on the ceiling. There’s nothing else I can do but wait and see what happens next.