Dark Arts by Randolph Lalonde

before gently continuing with his story. He had to
start twice to get Zachary’s attention back, repeating; “The desk
clerk was very nice to me because she thought I had an interesting
accent,” clearly and slowly, leaning on his English accent.
    “I heard you, Max,” Zachary said.
    “All right,” Max said, smiling. “She said
Jeeves had a rare condition, where his skin was turning
orange.”
    “No,” Zachary said skeptically.
    “It’s true,” Bernie said. “I was there.”
    “No shit?” Zachary asked.
    “Absolutely,” Bernie reassured.
    “But poor Jeeves,” Max continued. “It didn’t
stop at a little orange. Soon, he started looking about as orange
as you do,” he said, nodding at Zack’s bare chest, where the
reflection from the old yellow paint on the ceiling was tinting his
skin bright orange thanks to a mild sunburn.
    Zack looked down at his chest and seemed a
little concerned. “Nope,” he said quietly to himself. “Nope,” he
repeated in an urgent, hushed whisper.
    “In fact, everything he saw started to look
orangey-yellow,” Max said. “So I have to ask, are we looking a
little off color to you?”
    Zack’s eyes darted to Miranda and Bernie
then back to Max, alarmed.
    “See, Jeeves went to see his doctor, and he
told him that he’s fine, but there was only one solution for his
condition,” Max said as though he was breaking the most serious of
news, but gently. “You have to sleep a whole night through to the
dawn. There’s no other way. Oh, and stay well watered if you can,
because your skin needs the water to recover.”
    “You’re lying, you’re, there’s no way,” Zack
said, looking at his chest, poking it.
    “You can’t pick it! That’s
the worst thing for this condition,” Max said. “Because there’s
people out there who don’t understand, they don’t like people who
see everything in orange, who look orange.”
    “Oh, my God,” Miranda whispered, hiding her
face in Bernie’s back, trying as hard as she could not to
laugh.
    “There are people who walk around, watching
for the orange skinned.” Max whipped the orange peeler out of his
pocket and brandished it between them like a deadly weapon. “Who
will want to peel you!”
    Zachary shrieked, tossed the plastic cup,
retreated into the back corner of the bunk and pulled the sheet up
between him and Maxwell. “Stay away!”
    “Do you want to get better?” Maxwell
asked.
    “Yes!”
    “Good! Then sleep, drink water! Stay on the
bus where you’re safe,” he said, standing up and slowly backing
towards the front of the bus. “There are a lot of people out
there.”
    “You’re such a fucker, Max! Don’t peel me!”
Zachary cried.
    “I’m going to leave this with whoever guards
that door, and if you try to leave, they’re going to peel you like
an orange,” Max said in a matter-of-fact manner.
    “I won’t leave,” Zachary whimpered.
    “Good, you know the rules: no picking, drink
water, no leaving the bus, and sleep.”
    “I know the rules,” Zachary repeated.
    They made it off the bus, and Miranda buried
her face in Max’s T-Shirt and laughed so hard she could barely
breathe. “I can’t believe that worked,” she whispered after the
hysterics passed, and she leaned on Max with an arm around his
waist.
    Max pointed at their backup guitarist and
crooked his finger. The guitarist walked over. “You got the acid
for him, you guard the bus.” Max planted the orange peeler firmly
in his hand.
    “I didn’t buy it,” he replied.
    “I know you’re lying,” Maxwell said. “Zack
there is too spazzy to deal with bikers when he’s sober, and I know
no one else would get it for him, so it’s you. You stay here ‘till
Zack’s back and don’t let him out.”
    “What do I do with this?” Darren asked,
holding up the orange peeler.
    “Threaten him with it if he tries to get
out,” Maxwell said, causing Miranda to snicker. “Trust me, should
keep him under control for a couple hours if