Zit

It looked like an ordinary whitehead. Bright, inflamed pink, with a plug of pus in the center. It was right in the crevice on the left side of my nose. I popped it in the second-floor bathroom before my fourth period history class. My fingers squeezed gently on either side, coaxing out the semi-hardened white grease. Had to be gentle, because I didn’t want to accidentally scratch or bruise myself. Early last week, I’d gone for one on my forehead and my index fingernail had pressed too hard and left a little bloody crescent moon right in the middle of my face. Worse still, my mom had noticed and made me put a bandage over it so it wouldn’t get infected. We’d been out of all but the large size, and she wouldn’t go to the store, so I’d had to go to school with this huge square of tan fabric stuck on my head.

Apart from the acne, I figured, staring at myself in the mirror, I was a good-looking guy. That was the only thing holding me back. It wasn’t too bad, but it was persistent. I’d tried everything. Soaps, gels, creams. It just kept cropping up, blemishes blooming like dandelions on a lawn. Finally, I made some progress on the pimple. The plug started to move, then slid out all at once. I held it on the tip of my finger, looking at how long it was, amazed that it had been so deep in my skin. Then, a funny thing happened. I heard a whisper.

“Put me in your ear.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t wipe me off or wash me down the drain. Stick me in your ear, I want to talk.”

I looked around, swept my eyes across the bottoms of the stalls to make sure I was alone. Nothing, nobody. In that case, I could be certain I was losing my mind.

“You aren’t crazy.”

“A popped zit is talking to me.”

“Fair point. Come on kid, stick me in your ear.”

“Why? That’s disgusting.”

“So I don’t have to keep yelling. I know it’s gross, but it’s better than carrying me around. Come on, I have stuff to tell you.”

A single drop of blood was pooling in the spot where I’d squeezed him out. I wiped it away with my other hand, then held him up to my face and got a close look. Upon inspection, the pus had segments, just like a worm, like a maggot. It had a face too. A tiny face, one you had to squint to see. A human face, and ugly. One with deep beady eyes, a little stub of a nose, and long jowls hanging by its mouth.

“Okay,” I said. I raised my finger to the side of my head and let him crawl into my ear. If I was losing it, I was so far off the rails already that it probably couldn’t hurt. Plus, I didn’t want to stand around arguing with him when the bell was about to ring.

“That’s better,” the pus maggot said. His voice was clearer now, low and raspy.

In History, we had a surprise test. Not just a pop quiz, but a full-length test, a packet of papers about a quarter inch thick.

“This should take you the whole period,” Mr. Dawes said. “I know it’s a lot but it’s only a shadow of what’s to come. We’re nearing midterms and I can’t say I’m happy with your performances here. You should take this test as a wake-up call, a sign to shape up or ship out.”

“Don’t listen to that bullshit,” the pus maggot said. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. Don’t bother with a single question. Flip to the second page and write ‘I know you’re fucking Ms. Stephenson, pass me or I tell your wife.’ Then sit back and relax.”

“Are you sure?” I whispered. Ms. Stephenson was the Spanish teacher. I remembered a couple weeks ago I’d gone to pick up a takeout order at the new sushi place downtown and seen the two of them there together, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. Neither one had spotted me. I’d gone in and out quick, because I was already running late for the delivery.

“Of course I’m sure. I know everything. Just write it, then you can take a nap the rest of the period.”

I opened the packet and scrawled the words as instructed. Then I flipped back to the first page and filled it out as best I could, just so Dawes wouldn’t notice anything strange when he picked it up. After that, I rested my head on my folded arms and slept. I dreamed about being cradled in someplace warm and comfortable and red. I didn’t wake up until class was over.

“I trust you put in your best effort, Alex,” Dawes said, sneering down at me as he held out an expectant hand for the test.

“I most certainly did.”

In the hallway, as I went to grab my lunch from my locker, I passed Anne Peterman. She had this whole art school thing going with her ironic shirt and old ripped up jeans and big round glasses. She looked stunning, as always, but I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t dare. Once she was out of sight, the pus maggot piped up.

“She thinks you’re cute, you know.”

“Really?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods? Look, her favorite band is in town next weekend. She’s going to wear their T-shirt tomorrow, and you’re going to tell her you like the shirt, and that you listen to them too, and that you have an extra ticket. Tonight, we’re stopping by the record store to buy the tickets and one of their old albums so that you know some songs and don’t look like a poser. Got it?”

“I don’t have any money though.”

“You’re a delivery boy, right? Run some extra orders tonight, I’ll make sure you get a nice big tip.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem, kid.”

The pus maggot stayed quiet for the rest of the school day. I could feel him moving around, though. It tickled. He slithered deeper into my ear and nestled in a little corner along the canal. It seemed like he was sleeping. He woke up on the final bell, and just in time. When I came out of my last class, Dawes was waiting for me in the hall.

“Alex,” he said, “Come with me to my classroom. We need to have a talk.”

“Shit,” I whispered under my breath.

“Don’t worry,” the pus maggot replied. “I planned for this, too.”

The history room door closed behind me and Dawes slunk down behind his desk.

“I have to say I’m severely disappointed. You weren’t my best student, but you were a cut above the rest. To see your lack of effort on the test today was a letdown, but when I discovered your message on the second page, I actually felt sick. I hope you know you’ve decided to throw away every chance you might have had. I’m not going to tolerate blackmail.”

“We’ll show him blackmail,” the maggot said. “Punch yourself in the face as hard as you can.”

“What?” I said out loud.

“On the second page of your test. I won’t repeat it, but you can read it if you need to jog your memory.”

“Do it.” He must have been right up against my eardrum because his voice came through so loud it was like God speaking from the heavens. I raised my fist and whipped it back against my nose. There was a brilliant, hot burst of pain and cherry red sprayed onto the desk. “Good, now repeat after me.”

The pus maggot and I spoke in perfect unison: “If you don’t forget about this shit and just give me a B, I’m going to scream ‘why did you hit me’ at the top of my lungs, and Mrs. Carver is going to hear from her classroom across the hall, and you’re going to be fired and charged with aggravated assault on a minor.”

“Alex, stop it.” Dawes spoke from between gritted teeth.

“He needs convincing. Do it again, then smack the back of his hand so his knuckles are bruised.”

I threw another punch at myself, straight to the nose again. I felt blood spilling on my shirt. The sharpness of the pain had gone away and been replaced with a dull swollen ache. Then I reached across the desk and slapped the knuckles of Dawes’s right hand, hard. The skin on his middle finger split. Just for good measure, I blew my nose and sprayed blood at him. It made tiny red stipples on his nice white button-down shirt. Again, I spoke together with the pus maggot.

“Now there’s physical evidence. Give it up. Rachel is already going to find out you’re cheating. Do you really want her to think you beat kids too? You got five seconds until I start yelling.”

“Fine. You little fucking psychopath.”

“B average for the rest of the year,” I heard myself say. “Try any of this again, and it’ll only get worse.”

With my smashed nose throbbing, I got up, left the building, and went to my car. Luckily, there was a sweatshirt in the back. Overhead, the sun beamed down bright without warmth.

“Great,” the maggot said, “now let’s get you some cash.”

“Will I have to hit myself for that, too?”

“The Peterman girl will like that you’re a little roughed up. It gives you an air of classic James Dean type masculinity, while simultaneously making you seem vulnerable. Come on, let’s do those deliveries. There’s a guy on Front Street who wants some hot wings.”

Sitting down in the driver’s seat, I slid my phone from my pocket and pulled up the app.

“Don’t bother. I’ll give you directions. Pull out of the lot and take a left.”

The thing in my ear guided me to the restaurant, then to the house. It was a dingy place with peeling white paint. I undid my seatbelt and reached across the console for the wings.

“Now,” the pus maggot’s raspy old voice said, “there is a little extra work involved here. You know the sawed-off baseball bat you keep under the seat?”

“Oh no. I can’t do that. You said you know everything, why don’t you tell me some good stocks or something?”

“This is faster. I do know everything. I know you won’t ever get caught, and I know this guy just cashed his paycheck and his wallet has six Franklins and a fifty in it. If it makes you feel better, I also know that he’ll be perfectly fine apart from a minor concussion. Quit worrying so much and trust me.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath and reached under my seat. “Okay.”

I bashed the guy as soon as he opened the door. Swung the short bat and struck him square in the temple. The noise it made was almost funny, a cartoonish “plop” like a drop of water falling from a leaky faucet. He went straight down. He was older than I expected, with an unkempt greying beard and a hairline shaped like a quadratic curve. When he fell, he’d gone into a fetal position across the threshold of his home, and he looked so weak and pathetic I could’ve cried. I started rummaging through his pockets. The wallet was in the back one. At first, I started to take the whole thing, but then I felt bad, because he’d probably need to get checked out at the ER, and he’d need his ID and insurance card and everything. I pulled all the cash out and stuffed it into my pocket, then stuck his wallet back in his khakis. I left the bag with his meal next to his crumpled form on the front step.

“That’s got to be the politest robbery I’ve ever seen,” the pus maggot said. “If it was me, I would’ve taken his debit card. He’s got a hefty savings account and I could’ve told you the PIN.”

“I don’t need to ruin his life.” I started back towards the car.

“Where do you think you’re going? We aren’t done yet.”

“I’m not taking his card.”

“That’s not what I mean. There’s just one more thing I need you to do here.”

“What?” Lukewarm beads of sweat rolled down my back, from the nape of my neck down to my waistband.

“I’ve done a lot for you already, and I’ll do more. I’ll get you into any college you want, I’ll get you more money, hell, I’ll even clear up your face for you. I just need this one thing. Hold your hand up to your ear.”

“Okay.” I did as I was told, and I felt something warm drip out. Sitting in my palm was a clump of tiny orbs, no bigger than poppyseeds, and coated in a thin clear jelly.

“Tip his head back and pour those into his nose.”

“What are they?”

“Babies.”

“What are they going to do in his nose?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

I knelt down, cupping my hand. There must have been dozens of those eggs floating in their ooze in my palm. Gently, I held the man’s chin. As I approached his nose, I noticed no air was coming out. No warmth. I started to cry then, all at once, complete blubbering.

“He isn’t breathing.”

“He’ll be fine. Put the eggs in.”

“I think…” I sputtered, sniffed a long strand of mucus back into my nose, “oh fuck, I think I killed him.”

“They’ll never catch you. The eggs. Hurry.”

I poured the fluid with the pus maggot’s eggs into the dead man’s nostrils. A couple of them landed on his septum, but gradually they slipped in, too. I didn’t ask any more questions. I didn’t want to know. I stopped by the record store on my way home to get the album and the tickets. That night, I had a strange dream. I was someplace dark and safe, surrounded by a thousand brothers and sisters, and we ate, and ate, and ate.

I asked Anne to the concert towards the end of our lunch period the next day, after rehearsing in the bathroom mirror. Right away she said yes, and smiled, and her face glowed with excitement. She was blushing just a little. Then I noticed it. A pale-yellow seed pearl perched on her right cheekbone. It looked like an ordinary whitehead.

Max Firehammer is a writer living in Saint Paul. In his spare time he tends to his shrimp and plays the drums.