a pretty girl smile.” He checks my name badge. “Angela. I’m Billy Beecham. I’m a Beast collector, with the—”
“Have a miserable day,” I tell him, except that miserable is not the word I use. I use a rather more explosive word, a word we all know is a breach of protocol, but he’s breaching too. Billy Beecham leans over the Plexiglas barrier, and tries to kiss me.
He’s facedown in a tub of Peppy Ripple before I even know what I’ve done. Every girl in Bastardville takes a semester of self-defense in second grade. I hadn’t realized the neck-pinch skill was still part of my physical vocabulary.
“What do you mean, Beast collector?” I ask him, but he doesn’t answer. His face is covered in melt. His pith helmet—yes, he’s wearing a pith helmet—has sprinkles stuck to the top. He grins, licks the ice cream from around his lips, and walks out of the Dreamy Creamy like he’s done nothing wrong.
“There’s only one Beast here,” I yell after him. “And that Beast isn’t collectible. Just so you know.”
It’s not my fault. I’m doing a good deed. I’m trying to save him. People are stupid sometimes.
“I’ll see you later, Angela,” the collector tosses over his shoulder. I’m apprehended by my supervisor, Phil, who drags me into the supply closet and says, “No swearing, Andrea. Bastardville is a family town.”
Phil can’t remember my name, even though he’s my age, and has known me since kindergarten.
“All towns are family towns, Phil,” I say.
“You’re not a nice person,” says Phil. “You shouldn’t be around the ice cream.” He backs out of the supply closet. “Stay in here and think about the error of your ways.”
“I don’t have to be a nice person,” I tell Phil. “This isn’t a nice place.”
My town started about a hundred years ago as a Utopian community in a beautiful forest. The forest got littler, and we got bigger, and the whole Utopia thing began to melt down. By the time people realized that the woods were shrinking, we’d become a town surrounding a one-block by one-block mini-forest. But obviously, by that point, we’d figured some things out, and it was necessary to stay.
The Chamber of Commerce sent out a survey nine years ago in an attempt at attracting tourists, and that was when we renamed ourselves Bastardville. Second runner up was Awfulton, and third, the under-twenty-one favorite, was simply Suck. We weren’t allowed to name ourselves any real swear words, because maps are G-rated. Now, we’re visited by adventure backpackers, and the occasional Japanese vacationer. Some of them decide to stay. Some of them stay forever. The Beast stayed too.
Bastardville, USA: population 465, plus one Beast.
The mini-forest is the only place in town you can find any trees. Plant one elsewhere, it uproots and runs down Main Street and into the mini-forest. The Beast can be heard to roar from its confines every night. The whole thing is surrounded by houses on all sides.
We manage things.
At home, my Mother is, for the second time this week, baking cream pies and smashing them into her own face. The streets belong to the Mothers at night, and they like it that way. In the mornings they make eggs, and you want to think you’ll never be poisoned, but you never really know for sure. My own Mother is no different. In Bastardville, you marry whomever the Mothers think you ought to marry. They get together, and draw names out of a hat. It’s about that time for me. I’m sixteen, but my Mother hasn’t done anything about it. I’m supposed to move forward into my role, but in truth? I want a different role.
I don’t want to get married at all. If I thought I’d really have to, I’d walk into the mini-forest. I think the Beast might be preferable to Phil. Or anyone else I know. My Mother tried this too, but the Beast didn’t take her, and so she married my Father. Now we’re the only Family in Bastardville whose Father hunts the Beast full-time. My Father moved into the mini-forest about three years ago, with his pup tent and a few cans of tomatoes. He passed me a book called Survivalism: A Primer, shook my hand, and walked into the trees without once looking back. The Beast needs to be hunted. It doesn’t feel satisfied unless it engages in conflict. Sometimes someone fully commits. Not women. Men only.
I don’t see Billy Beecham again until Saturday night. My friends and I