Nazanin

"Naz," I said.

"Yeah?" She finished her text, looked up, and unconsciously tucked a tumble of curls behind her ear. One of the creeps behind her bit his lip at this innocuous habit of hers. "What, sorry?"

"I said that's not cool. He was our brother. And I have a-" I felt especially weird having this conversation in front of these assholes, "-soul."

"Maybe you do," Naz shrugged, and finally zipped her phone away into her purse. "But I dream about him all the time."

"Right," I sighed, and pushed the cart away from the assholes as she led us further on.

We moved on to the cookie section. Each of us had our different favorites. The ghoul troop moved along with us, now pretending to deliberate over oatmeal flavors.

"I don't know," she mused. "He just shows up, and it's nice. It's like, he's dead, and we both know it, but it's not a big deal."

"Hmkay," I frowned. She was really committed to this line of dialog. Everything about this moment needed to leave me alone right now. I tried pushing the cart along, even as she contemplated what thickness of Oreo to indulge in.

"Stop." Naz halted me. "What's your deal today, Leo?"

"What?"

"What is: this," she waved at my whole person.

"Can we just drop it," I tried again.

Our shitty spectators were staring at us with growing amusement.

One of them who might have been their leader made a face at me like you gonna just let this bitch talk to you like this? I would never talk like that. But his face did.

Seeing the cowardly grimace I was making at whatever was behind her, Naz finally acknowledged the elephant in the aisle with us. She turned, stepped toward the snickering trio of fuckwits, and spoke.

"Hellooo boys!" she purred in her most disarming voice. "You know. If you're having trouble figuring out which oatmeal you want, you can always just get the fucking variety pack."

Two of the goons burst into covered-mouth guffaws of "Ohhh!"

The one who didn't guffaw stayed dead still. He called Naz something racist. Because of course he did.

And he threw a little "What?" at me, too.

Then he grabbed a box of the strawberries 'n' cream without looking at what he was grabbing and led his giggling minions out of the aisle.

"Actually, oatmeal's a good idea," Naz said and tossed a couple boxes into our cart. "We can't just eat at Waffle House every day."

"Shucks," I awed at my big sister's composure, a little disoriented again, but this time by the way my heart was feeling. "Can't we?"

The thought of waking up every day in a different Waffle House parking lot, of going inside with Naz in our pajamas to enjoy buttered waffles, loaded hash browns, and truck stop coffee, and of simply basking in earthy roadside goodness with my fearless protector, positively stirred my soul.

Chapter 5

We said goodbye to Mom and Dad the night before we left. We'd planned to hit the road before they woke up. The four of us hugged and kissed, all of us in different stages of bedtime dress, and promised the adults we'd be safe. We swore to call every time we got to our next destination. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure we never did.

But then we stayed up late shooting the shit, and both slept in past noon. We ate cereal at the kitchen counter while Mom did dishes and talked to us about old road trips we used to go on, and while Dad got an early start on dinner.

Naz and I stocked our camper's fridge and cabinets with the bonkers array of junk food we'd brought home.

She stashed her luggage in the "bedroom" at the back of the camper. I tucked my bag under the bench in the "living room" right across from the door where you came in. We agreed I'd be sleeping on the pull-out that this bench turned into.

When I saw she'd placed brought her big creepy dream catcher with us, and perched it on the shelf above her bed, I shivered a little, and pretended to give her shit for it. She punched me in the chest. I made an internal note to simply ignore the awful thing. I had no reason to go near her tiny, low-ceiling bedroom compartment, anyway.

And just like that we were buckled in and staring quietly out the windshield at our childhood driveway. Naz found Cy's key on her giant jingly keychain and slotted it into the ignition.

"You ready?" she bit her lip. She started up the engine.

"Yup," I patted an anxious little beat on my thigh. "You sure you know how to drive this thing?"

Naz made a show of confidently donning a pair of aviators.

"And you know where we're going?"

She jiggled her phone at me. It was plugged into the dash through a circus-train of adapters. The directions were already pulled up and ready to go.

"And we have tunes?"

"More than we could listen to in a thousand, thousand years," she promised.

"Then shit," I shrugged, "I guess we're good."

"Well, as good as we can be," she jeered at me. "You still need to figure out what we're doing for our grand finale."

"Yeah," I shook my head no. "I'll let you know when I think of something."

"Good," she nodded cockishly, now one with her aviators. "Let's rock."

Naz commenced to back us awkwardly, uncertainly, and with much serpentine effort out of the driveway and into our slim suburban street. I dared not say a word as her temper rose to meet the challenge. She drew long, testy inhalations through pursed lips as she glared murderously into the driver's side rear view out her window, glancing occasionally with pony-whipping urgency out the window on my side, too, before wincing at whatever she saw there, braking, looking at how much room she had in front of us, shifting gears, cranking the steering wheel all the way around, lurching forward and to the side a bit, braking again, etc.

Eventually, we were on our way to ... someplace.

"Hey, so," I started us off. "Where are we headed?"

"You want to know? Or do you want me to keep it a surprise?"

"I ... think I want to know?"

"Suit yourself!" She gave me a bizarre look. "We're going to see a shaman."

"Wait, we're going to see a what?"

"A shaman," my sister reiterated giddily.

"Like a ... shaman?"

"Yep. Shan said he's legit."

Shan: Naz's childhood friend and chronic textee, my lifelong crush.

"What even is a shaman?"

"I'm not sure! But we're going to find out, aren't we!" Naz whooped, and reached over and patted my thigh.

"Can I ask why?"

"Nope."

"Can I ask where the shaman is?"

"Sure."

I waited for her to tell me. She kept on driving.

"Right. Where is the shaman?"

"Nebraska."

"Nebraska?"

"The Cornhusker State, brother," she chewed, suddenly affecting a drawl. "Why don't you sit back and relax? Enjoy the tunage. It's going to be a, uh, bit of a drive."

A few lights later, we climbed up the westbound on-ramp, managed to slot ourselves into the left-most lane, and worked our way up to a steady 72 mph. At this speed, the wind buffeting my eardrums became a little crazy-making, so I started to roll up my window.

"Ehhh, you'll want to leave that open," Naz shouted above the wind.

"Why?" I shouted.

She pointed to one of the A/C vents, shook her head no, and shrugged.

I rejected this information and fiddled with the A/C dial myself. I pressed buttons that looked like they might pertain. I held my fingers to one of the vents.

"WOW, I didn't realize you needed to turn it ON," Naz gaped in pretend awe.

I stared at my non-air-conditioned fingers. It was June. We were under a near nationwide heat advisory for the next week. People were dying in their homes from heat exhaustion. And we were on a road trip with no A/C.

"You get used to it," Naz hollered indifferently, and turned the music up until it rivaled the thunder of the wind.

I glared at her.

Her aviators were too big for her face. And before the oversized dash and steering wheel, she was puny, childlike: tennis shoes, spandex shorts, her tye-dye long-sleeved hoodie flapping crazily. She was snacking on rainbow-colored candy and drinking from a neon water bottle plastered with stickers.

Naz loved that hoodie in particular. She sucked chronically at its drawcords. Their tips were frayed and off-color. The light, fluttery trunk of the garment was cut short, coming down to only just above her navel.

But the elastic of her spandex came up to nearly the same point, so this evened things out, thankfully.

Thankfully?

Listen. The spandex shorts were going to be an issue. The first time we stopped for gas, I hopped out at her insistence, to learn from her how to refuel. If she was looking at me, I was listening. If she was not, I was not. The spandex did not merely hug her cheeks, it ate them up. They looked uncomfortable. They looked delicious.

The next time we stopped for gas, I had to ask for another tutorial.

Chapter 6

We got to Nebraska sweat-stained and sedate, having been pummeled into hypnogogic submission by the wind and noise and heat, and feeling at last like we had arrived at a point at infinity. Our stay for the night would be a remote state park outside of Omaha. It was dark and sleepy and positively ringing with horny crickets.

Where we parked, there were a few other RVs, one or two with their lights on and their patio accouterments still set up, plus a smattering of city vehicles with big fancy glowy tents set up nearby. Different shapes and flavors of families tribed about in various modes of late night, heat-induced stupor.

Once we'd jacked into the park's electricity, the A/C inside the camper miraculously kicked on. We could scarcely believe it.

"Oh, ohhh," Naz blissed out below the big vent in the center of the ceiling. I peeled off my shirt and laid my bare sweaty back down on the cool cushion that would eventually be my pullout bed.

"Does the shower in this thing work?" I asked dryly, zomboid.

Naz popped open the fridge. I heard clinking, then grunting, then popping. She handed me a frosty bottle of root beer.

"I don't know," she proclaimed with discrepant merriment, and cheersed me before taking a lusty swig.

Still holding her root beer, she kicked off her sneakers, peeled off her socklets one-handed, and plopped down on the floor criss-cross applesauce in front of me. The bottoms of her sweaty feet, freshly freed from their confines, were bright pink tan.

I watched her, hypnotized by the foot massage she gave herself. She tugged at and popped her toes one by one. She kneaded her arches with her thumbs and the knuckles of her fist. She gently rolled around, pounded at, and massaged the weary gristle inside her driving ankle.

We were quiet like this for a lovely, lazy while.

I held the icy butt of my root beer bottle to my forehead, my cheeks, the sides of my ears, my temples. It felt dewy and incredible.

"We should say hi to our neighbors," Naz finally broke the silence.

I groaned in belligerent disagreement.

"Yes we should," she repeated.

She hopped up through a sort of crab-walk pose and into a stand. She adjusted a wedgie. She checked herself in the inky black window behind me. She grabbed my wrist and yanked.

"Come on," she grunted. "Up."

"Nooo," I croaked.

"We're in. Nuh. Braska," she heaved, jerking me nearly off the edge of the bench. "We have to be neighborly!"

And with a final tug I felt myself roll off the side of the bench and into a heap on the carpet. I managed not to spill any root beer. Naz kicked me in the ribs with her bare toes.

I emitted a low rumble of discontent.

"Okay, fine," she stomped my upturned butt. "Suit yourself."

I watched out of the corner of my eye as she stepped into her flip-flops and then down into the stairwell of the door.

I stared at the angry, sweaty physics of my sister's butt with delirious, helpless intent. As Naz shifted her weight from one small foot to the other descending the stairs, a crease disappeared beneath one butt cheek and reappeared under the other. Each cheek retained its bubbly form, but only one smiled at a time.

Then the camper door opened, and slapped shut.

I sat up. I leaned back against the bench. I sipped root beer. I stared at my sister's smelly shoes and socklets on the floor.

Sanity, sweet and despairing, came crawling back to me. Did I want to keep staring at my sister's body? No. Did I want to be a normal brother? Yes. Did I sort of want to stick my nose inside her disgusting shoes, just to see how gross they smelled? Let's not talk about it.

Without standing, I dug my luggage out from under the pullout bench and pulled my laptop out.

The dark, intense, overwrought artwork I'd been struggling with for days was the first thing I saw when the screen woke up. I recoiled viscerally. Sorry Miss Kidman, but I could not work on this tonight. My laptop was almost dead anyway. Stupid battery.

I fished out my charger and looked around for an electrical outlet. One in the kitchenette. One just above the "dining room" table. Doable. I slid into the booth, set my laptop on the table, and plugged the charger in.

But my laptop didn't make the little sound it makes when it's been plugged in. I tried the other socket on that same outlet. No luck.

Sighing, I slid my laptop to the edge of the table and then carried the plug-end of the charger across the cabin to the outlet in the kitchenette. The wire, including its heavy little box thing, dangled at shin-level across the divide. But it did reach. I plugged in.

I still didn't hear the plugged-in sound. I went back to my laptop.

"What the heck?" I asked the camper.

I took an angry slug of root beer. I unplugged and gathered up the charging cable, shut the laptop, and took all of it and my root beer further back into the camper, looking anywhere else for an outlet.

There was, unfortunately, one in the bathroom. I tried it. It worked. Well. Great. At least one outlet in this godforsaken relic still functioned. But let's keep looking.

I found two more outlets in the bedroom Naz was using. My sister wasn't here to tell me not to, so I kicked my shoes off and crawled onto her bed. I tried both outlets. One socket in one outlet worked. I left my laptop plugged in, got comfortable, and reopened my screen.

I truly didn't have it in me to work on my art project right now, but I did feel like doing something else. Heck, I needed it. I had a day's worth of toxic, confusing, sexual angst canned up inside me. This was going to be for my health.

But I wasn't sure when Naz might come bursting in through the door again, so I kept my shorts all the way on, and remained on top of the covers. I could just sort of grope myself to orgasm through the soft fabric of my shorts. No biggie.

But was I prepared to cum inside my shorts? I didn't know exactly what our laundry situation was going to look like on this trip. I'd packed about a week's worth of simple, heat-friendly outfits. Most of this was shirts, socks, and underwear. But I hadn't packed enough shorts to be ejaculating in them every day, or even every other day. Or at all, really. I'd packed like two pairs of shorts, and a swimsuit with one of those awful mesh liners.

I had an idea. I got up and fetched a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom, took my semi-hard cock out, and mummy-wrapped it. Then I tucked it back into my shorts. I smirked at myself in the mirror over the sink. I'd invented the dick diaper!

I returned to Naz's bed. I logged into my favorite porn site. I browsed around, queuing up a tasty batch of tabs.

Was I still being a creepy little brother?

The woman in this first video had her shirt off and was squeezing her naked tits at the camera. Her face looked kind of like Miss Kidman's. Drawn, but pretty; unself-conscious. The woman's pale fingers splayed against her tits, pinched her rosy nipples, tugged at them symmetrically.

I started rubbing myself through my pants and toilet paper. It felt okay. It felt doable.

Just then, the door to the camper swung open. I interrupted the woman just as she began squirting breast milk into her own mouth. I reopened my awful art project. Naz seemed momentarily puzzled by my absence from the front room.

"Ah," she said, finding me a second later. She gazed judgmentally at my laptop. "So this is why you didn't want to come out?" She offered me a slender white can with fruit drawn on it. "Here," she insisted. "Drink."

"Is this alcohol?" I asked after I'd taken a sip. It was delicious.

"Reportedly," she shrugged. "It was what they had."

"They?"

"Our neighbors. They're sweet."

She crawled onto the bed with me. We sipped our fruity drinks.

"They told me about one of their friends who just died. I told them about Jules."

"You told them about Jules?"

"The one, Bob I think, said he'd lost a brother when he was little. But apparently Marv doesn't like to talk about it." She sipped a little puzzledly. "See I couldn't figure out if they're brothers or what."

"Maybe they're lovers?"

Naz shook her head and chugged the last little bit of sweet red juice from her can.

"Nah-w-w," she burped, and set the empty can on the shelf in front of the dreamcatcher. "They stay in separate campers."

"They live here?"

"NO," she sighed exasperatedly, suddenly sick of me. She laid back noisily onto the mattress and kicked her legs out in front of her in a wide V. She shoved my legs out of the way, doing this. "Alright, well. I'm here now. Can I kick you out of my bed?"

"Are you going to sleep already?"

"Yes," she rolled her eyes. "Maybe. I don't know. Hey, what were you doing in here anyway?"

"Electricity," I said, pointing to the plug in the wall. "The outlets out there don't work. I'm plugged into literally the only socket that works in here."

"Oh," she grumbled. "Well I need to plug in. Phone died."

"There's ... also a working outlet in the bathroom."

She looked to where I pointed.

"Seriously?" she scowled. Then she smiled. "Actually, you know what, that's perfect. I can charge my phone in here, and you can go watch porn in there."

"I-what?"

"Leo," she pinched the legs of her spandex, tugged and adjusted the stretchy fabric, then crossed one leg over the other. "I know you have needs. Just not in my bed, please? That's," she did a sort of you-know-what-I-mean thing with her hand, "crossing a line, you know? Go do that in your own bed. Or in the bathroom!"

"I was working on my project," I persisted.

"That?" she said, grimacing at the image in my lap. "That's even worse."

"What?"

"Dude," she said, and pushed my laptop so the screen was facing away from her. "It's not good. I'm sorry."

"Damn," I said. "You're really on one tonight, huh."

But I also knew that Naz was saying what Mom had been afraid to, and what I had been refusing to admit to myself for weeks.

"Little Bro. Level with me. You know it sucks, right?" she said.

"..." I sighed.

"So why are you working on it?"

"I'm ... well. I'm not, actually." I zoomed in and out of the image, looking at all the misspent hours I'd dumped in. "Fuck. I really do need to start over."

"So you were jerking off? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Sorry." She had me dead to rights.

"Ha!" she snatched my laptop out of my hands. "Lemme see!"

"H-hey-" I gasped. "You can't just grab my-"

"Fuck you," she laughed. "If you didn't want to share with the class, then you shouldn't have brought any at all!"