by Ash Parsons
Also by Ash Parsons
Still Waters
Holding On to You
(previously titled The Falling Between Us)
PHILOMEL BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Philomel,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 by Ash Parsons.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Philomel Books is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Ebook ISBN 9780525515333
Edited by Kelsey Murphy.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
With love for:
AAK! Productions—(Ames, Kel, K-10—
Stay cool and have a great summer! LYLAS!)
Kari Bakken—never forget RAVEN fics.
Thanks for taking me to Dragoncon!
And for Jennifer Taylor—BFFL
2Sweet
2Be
4gotten.
Thank you, friends. xxoo
CONTENTS
Also by Ash Parsons
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
We’re never going to make it. This is it. My life is over.
In the days and months that follow this tragedy, when they speak my name, they’ll say in hushed tones, “She died as she lived: full of complaint and bile, mere inches from her goal.”
Mom twists to smile at me in the back seat.
“See, June? The doors aren’t even open yet!” she says.
My best friend, Imani Choi, is riding shotgun, and it’s good because this way my mom can’t get the full force of my eye roll.
“I know they’re not open yet, Mom. That’s not the point.”
Outside the convention center, there’s already a snaking line along the sidewalk up the street and around the corner. A milling press of hundreds of early birds waiting to get in.
ZombieCon! is the biggest thing this town has ever seen. For the first time, it feels like the new convention center might reach its capacity, at least in the exhibit hall and ballroom. They’re saying up to ten or even fifteen thousand people are projected to attend the con!
“Look at that line,” I moan.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Imani says.
I take a deep breath.
It’s not Imani’s fault we’re not already in line for Zombie-Con! Even though we’d arranged to spend the night together, and said we’d get here before sunrise, and even though I’d texted Siggy last night, to remind her again of the importance of getting here early. And even after I had set two alarms, and set my mom’s alarm as well.
We’re still running late.
It’s Mom’s fault. She laughed this aren’t-you-cute indulgent laugh when I told her to get moving this morning, that the early bird catches the worm, the world isn’t going to wait for you, rise and shine, all those nagging things she says to me every morning to go to obnoxious school. But now the one thing that I really want, the one thing I’d worked for, well, the one fun thing, and Mom had the nerve to say, “Hold your horses, I need coffee.”
Then she moaned and complained, leaning against cabinets and counters, imitating me on school mornings. Paying me back for how hard I am to get going most mornings, and laughing like it was so original.
And as if that wasn’t annoying enough, after coffee, and after Imani finished putting on her makeup (which she doesn’t even need because her brown skin is flawless), on top of all that, I had to listen to Mom ask Imani about the colleges she would apply for if the early decision one didn’t work out. Which, I know, is the single issue that stresses Imani out so much, even if she’s used to parents asking about it because they all ask.
Then Mom continued asking about other scholarships Imani might apply for (she’s already got one sponsored by a local law office) and Mom kept going, Do you know if Siggy is planning to take the SAT again? June is, you know that already, next Saturday, and maybe if there’s time while you’re standing in line, you could help quiz June on the test-prep app . . . on and on and on.
I just kept quiet in the back seat. We were almost there; I’d worked for this day all summer, saving all my summer jobs money that didn’t go toward gas. Between summer school and my jobs, my white skin barely even tanned, because I barely went outside during daylight, it felt like.
So I’m determined. Nothing but nothing is going to ruin today, not even the Math Booster app.
And not the fact that I’m retaking the SAT for the third time next weekend.
And not the fact that I’m not sure any college is going to admit me if I fail math again.
Someone has to let me in, right?
Right?
And not the fact that it doesn’t really matter if I do take the SAT again. My score isn’t going to improve. We all know I have a learning disability. In math and math-y things. So why do I have to keep banging my head against this wall?
And not even the fact that there’s a massive zit in the crease of my right nostril—and it looks horrible and hurts, too—on this day, this one day, when I’m going to take a million pictures and when I even have a coveted photo op with one of the stars of Human Wasteland.
The photo is the pièce de résistance of this, my first con experience.
The car line for the drop-off circle creeps forward, and Mom finally changes the subject from college and the SAT.
“Has your mom had a longer commute with all the protesters?” she asks Imani.
Imani’s mom, Naomi, is a civilian contractor on the nearby army arsenal test range. There’s been talk recently that USAMRIID (the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) has established a field office at our arsenal, which would make sense if it’s true, because Senoybia is also within an easy commute of the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.
But a lot of people don’t like the idea of the army medical research field office on a test range, and so there’s been an influx of protestors outside the arsenal gates.
“No, Mom says the drive time is about the same,” Imani answers. “But last week she dropped off two boxes of donuts on her way in: one for the protestors, and one for the military police at the gate.”
“I just love that,” Mom says. “So diplomatic and thoughtful.”
Imani quirks a smile at Mom.
“Well, everyone also waves and gets out of the way for her now,” Imani says.
Mom laughs and turns onto the road that runs along the front of the convention center drop-off circle. She whistles low. “Wow. That’s a lot of people.”
“I told you it was a big deal,” I say, the words snapping between my teeth sharper than I mean, but would you look at that line?
“I know,” Mom says. “I mean, I knew. But still. Wow.”
Outside the car window, the rising sun tinges the silhouette of the convention center a pinkish gray, like a Hollywood backdrop only not in LA but here, in basic, boring, nice-place-to-raise-kids Senoybia, Georgia.
I’m not joking, they actually put that in the tourism brochures and on, like, the town website and stuff. Not that it’s dull, just that it’s a great “family town!” And stuff like “Slow down! Give Senoybia a try!”
It’s a nice place, sure. But I can’t blame anyone, Imani especially, for looking forward to graduation and college. Our high school is like only 10 percent students of color. It’s embarrassing how white it is.
So, I am excited for Imani next year, no matter where she goes, or how far away, because I know she’s really looking forward to a larger city, and being around more people like her, black or Asian or biracial, and being in a town that isn’t quite so Mayberry.
I mean, I’m looking forward to that, too! For my own self. It’s just . . . I’m not entirely sure I’m graduating. Or getting into a college.
Anyway, it’s a miracle that ZombieCon! is even here. I’m serious, it’s like a gift from the fandom gods just to me. ZombieCon! travels around the country, but it usually only hits the really big cities. Your Los Angeleses, your Houstons, your Chicagos, your New Yorks. Not my Senoybia. But there had been a contest, with the tagline: “Is your city A WASTELAND?” that encouraged fans to petition the fanfest, and tell them why ZombieCon! should come to their town. I boosted the posts nominating Senoybia, and so did Imani, and Siggy. Blair did, too, back before I learned about what she did. When I still thought she was my friend.
Even thinking of her name summons a particular pain. Still new. Betrayal. This is what it feels like: shame, anger, and hurt, like sandpaper made of shattered glass, rubbing under your skin.
I shake my head to stop thinking about her.
Anyway, Senoybia won the contest, and our convention center was approved as the location. It’s big enough, and new enough, and there’s even a luxury hotel attached to the convention center by a skyway. I mean, they want you to call it a skyway, but really, it’s a bridge-tube like the kind hamsters use. Ridiculous to even have it, of course, because on most days the traffic in downtown Senoybia is downright sleepy, sluggish, and otherwise nonexistent. A child could literally play on the street and be fine, most days.
Mom turns into the convention center drop-off circle and puts the van in park.
I have my safety belt off and the door open before Imani can finish saying, “Thanks for the ride and the spend-the-night, Mrs. Blue.”
Imani and I get out onto the sidewalk. I adjust the neckline of my favorite olive green shirt. It’s just the right amount of slouchy-and-stylish, with a wide scoop neckline that falls off one shoulder, so I always wear a wide-strapped black tank top underneath. Plus the olive color looks nice against my brownish-reddish hair. So that’s a plus.
“You’re welcome, sweet girl!” Mom puts the passenger window down and leans over to call to us. “Have fun! Stick together! See you at midnight!”
Imani gives a big nod and a little salute.
It’s not Mom’s fault she’s hopelessly uncool. Or that she likes my friends and spends entirely too much time talking to them. I mean, I like talking to them, too, they’re my friends.
Okay, but it was nice of her to offer to drop us off so we wouldn’t have to spend an extra ten bucks on parking.
“Thanks, Mom!” I yell, and wave.
She blows me a kiss and eases back onto the street.
Imani smooths her crisp white tunic. She’s so cool. She looks like a fashion blogger or something, her legs long and slender in black leggings, with sparkly black sneakers and a coral cropped jacket that matches her nails.
I look cute, too, and actually feel it. I’m short compared to Imani, and I’m not model-slender like her. I’m average, I think. Normal. Rounded. Some days I don’t feel so good about my shape, but today I feel lush and curvy, wearing my favorite shirt, ripped skinny jeans, and red high-top Converse.
Imani gives me a smile, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing.
We look good.
Now it’s really starting. I have a whole day to spend with my friends, with my fellow fans, with zombie and apocalyptic horror lovers from all over.
ZombieCon! The Ultimate in Undead Entertainment starts now!
2
ZombieCon! The Ultimate in Undead Entertainment will start once we get inside. Now we’re walking along the massive line of people already waiting for the doors to open.
“Sorry about all the college questions,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
But when I glance at her face, a frown has stitched in between her eyebrows.
“You’re totally getting in. You know that, right?” I say.
“Harvard has a five percent acceptance rate, June.” Her voice is gentle, but resigned. “Less, actually.”
“Well, if they don’t take you, they don’t deserve you!”
Imani smiles a little.
“Seriously, Imani!” I loop my arm through hers. “You’re so badass. You’re going to get in somewhere amazing, and they’re going to pay you for the honor of having you as a student.”
Imani lets out a tight breath, almost like she’s been holding part of it, holding a slight catch of breath deep inside her lungs, holding it inside forever, waiting, waiting, just waiting and hoping.
She gets straight A’s. She kicked the SAT’s butt so hard it couldn’t sit right for a week.
And school can still sometimes make her so anxious she calls me in tears or on the verge of them. When that happens we end up watching Bob Ross paint some happy trees together while we talk about life after college. What different places we might live. What kind of pets we might have. What we might name our pets or our kids, if we have them. Places we might travel. People we might know. People we might become.
The whole wide world outside of school.
The weird thing is, Imani actually loves school, loves learning, loves working on projects and papers. It’s just grades and class rankings that make her miserable.
“Listen, let’s take the day off from it,” I suggest.
Imani’s eyebrows lift, but she’s got an amused look in her eyes.
Since we almost always know what the other is thinking, I can see she’s already there with me.
“The day off from college applications and acceptance stress. Imagine.” Her eyebrow quirks up
like a punctuation.
We smile at each other, these huge Cheshire grins.
“Deal.”
We shake hands to seal it.
“There’s the end of the line, I think,” Imani says, pointing with a coral-colored nail.
Did I mention she’s gorgeous? While our relationship is purely platonic, it doesn’t keep me from admiring how beautiful she is. Beauty is just beauty.
And Imani is every bit as beautiful on the inside.
By which I mean she’s a really sweet, wonderful person.
Not that her insides themselves are beautiful. Which sounds weird and serial-killer-y when you think about it.
Imani hooks her arm with mine again. “This is going to be so much fun, June.”
I smile back, even though we’re still walking to the end of the line.
“Everyone coming to Senoybia for the con, it’ll be like our town has imported a town!” Imani says.
“A town full of zombie fans!” I chirp back. I can’t help it, I give a little jump of joy.
“And just look at this line!” Imani murmurs, squeezing my arm.
“It’s long,” I groan.
“No, I mean, it’s diverse!”
She’s right, and I can’t believe I didn’t notice before. The line is full of all different kinds of people: all different skin tones, all different body types.
I smile at Imani and her happiness just beams into me. I feel like I could levitate from it.
There’s a whole wide world, waiting out there, and for today it’s almost like there’s a whole wide world here, too.
We’ve passed a million or so people, it feels like, and at least half of them are cosplaying. Some of them are dressed like characters from Human Wasteland, but there are plenty of other horror movie characters, and zombies galore; I’ve counted at least three zombie Spider-Men.
It’s going to be the perfect day. First and foremost: I have always loved zombies. If there’s a zombie movie, I’ve probably seen it, and if they make a new one, I’m going to see it.
It all started with the first zombie movie I ever saw. It was on TV late at night on Halloween, and my mom definitely didn’t know I was watching it. Mom hates scary things. I think it’s kind of linked to how she’s a kindergarten teacher, like everything is optimism and respect and fairness and love with her, which is nice, but you know. There’s more out there, right? Good and bad. We can’t stay in kindergarten forever. Generally speaking. I guess my mom found a way.
