“Well,” I say, using my frustration at Hazel’s unreasonableness to mix the lumps right out of our muffins, “I am the coroner’s daughter, and I like to think I would know if our Home Ec class was …cursed. There, I said it, but only because it’s true, Hazel.”
And it was. Back in August, Amy Jaspers fell into a ditch and broke her neck on the way to school one morning. Coroner’s determination? Accident. Then, in September, Sally Kellogg choked on a chicken leg. Coroner’s determination? Accident. And finally, last week, poor Missy Cunningham fell asleep while driving home after work late one night and drove into a light pole. Coroner’s determination? Accident. It just so happened, all three girls were in our junior Home Ec class. (Emphasis on were.)
Hence, Hazel’s new fascination with the fabled Curse of Third Period Home Ec.
“Girls?” Ms. Haskins nods toward our oven timer, which indicates 15 minutes left. “Cutting it a little close this morning, aren’t we?”
You know that one teacher in school who’s cool enough to be your best friend? Who’s hot enough to be your girl crush? Who’s fashionable enough to be a guest judge on Project Runway? Who’s smart enough to make Alex Trebek look like one of those clowns from Jackass? Well, at Barracuda Bay High School, that role is currently being played by none other than our Third Period Home Ec teacher, Ms. Haskins.
Ms. Haskins still has one of those young girl voices, a little throaty, a little scratchy, like maybe she could be a VJ on MTV or a spokesperson for a young, hip bikini company.
I mumble something about “stubborn lumps in our batter,” and Ms. Haskins winks knowingly before moving on to the next table. The perfume wafting from her sultry departure quails on anything we could ever bake for her.
I look at Ms. Haskins as she walks away.
Hazel does, too. “At least Ms. Haskins is still in mourning,” she says. “You could learn a thing or two about sensitivity for your fallen classmates from her.”
I have to admit, ever since her Third Period Home Ec class became “cursed,” Ms. Haskins’ wardrobe has shifted from the fun, funky, vibrant red tones she wore the first week of school to a dowdier black-and-white and black-and-gray and black ensemble.
Today she has on sensible but stylish black pumps, a semitight gray skirt, a black beaded tank top under a matching gray, summer-weight blazer with black buttons. She always wears her hair up on cooking days, and today it’s held in place with two black wooden chopsticks. And, of course, her glasses are black with sleek, stylish rectangular rims.
At last the muffins are done, and I open the oven to reveal a bubbling tin full of soft, crusty Mexican corn bread hissing steam and oozing another fresh A for dear old Table 2. The smell is enough to rouse even Hazel from her staring match with Missy’s barren stool. She and I split the first muffin and share our approval.
Then I slice them, plate them, and promptly hand them over to Hazel. It’s a tradition during “share time,” the last 10 minutes or so of class when we go around the room sampling each other’s mostly delectable muffin creations, that Hazel does the presenting.
Forget the fact that I did all the work, that I beat the eggs and sifted the flour and poured the batter and Hazel’s done nothing but stare at Missy’s stool all morning. This is Hazel’s show, and I’m merely the assistant chef. After all, this isn’t about Hazel getting us another A or Hazel pleasing Ms. Haskins or even Hazel helping me. As usual, this is all about Hazel.
Not that I mind all that much. In the 11 years since we’ve been best friends, ever since she walked up to me in my backyard one summer day and said, “I’m your new neighbor; we’re going to be best friends. Any questions?” it’s always been about Hazel.
Hazel the Girl Scout.
Hazel the wannabe fashion designer.
Hazel the head of Cheer Club.
Hazel the class secretary.
But that works for me. Hazel likes to be out front; I’m happy hanging in the back. Hazel likes to talk; I like to listen. Hazel likes bright pink; I like faded khaki. Hazel likes to make the introductions; I’m happy being quickly forgotten.
It’s not that I’m a wallflower, per se. Far from it. I have my own style, low-key as it is, my own friends (okay, my own friend), my own passions, my own pursuits. It’s just that, well, none of them are quite as interesting—or quite so obvious—as Hazel’s.
So we go around the classroom, mostly deserted now, the dozen or so students still brave, or stupid, or desperate, enough to sit in Third Period Home Ec sharing hooded smiles and muffin slices while Hazel works the room.
“Like the crusty tops?” she asks Table 4 with a flourish. “I added butter for the last five minutes.”
Complete lie!
Mimicking pouring a can with her bubblegum-pink-painted fingers, she stage-whispers to Table 6, “The secret to the fluffy innards is leaving in just a little juice from the can of Mexican corn.”
Also an utter fabrication.
At last we find ourselves lingering a few steps away from the darkest, coldest, emptiest corner of the room, and Hazel’s show abruptly, unapologetically ends.
“Good luck,” she whispers, already backing away from the dreaded Table 9.
“Come on, Hazel,” I say. “Don’t do this to me again. Just once it’d be nice if you came with me back here and had my back.”
“No way,” she says, inching back, back toward the safety of Table 2 and our own little neck of the Home Ec class woods. “I tried that the first week of school, and he practically spit my pig-in-a-blanket back on the serving tray.”
“Just …Hazel …please.” My back is turned to Table 9. It’s all to no avail. Already she’s perched her ample rump on her tiny stool, arms crossed tightly across her chest and texting God-knows-who to keep from looking guilty (it’s not working). And so it’s up to me again to face Table 9 all by my lonesome.
Not that I blame Hazel, of course.
After all, it is here that Bones sits. Bones, he of the gangly six feet four, 160-pound frame, of the ever present white ski cap, even in Florida’s trademark 90-degree weather, the shiny white track suit, and the spotless white sneakers.
But it’s not his height or even his weight that earned him the nickname Bones. (Come to think of it, I don’t even know his real name.) It’s his nearly skeletal face. Pale as the white plate on which only a few slivers of our Mexican corn bread muffins now remain, his cheeks are hollow, his eyes shrunken, his lips razor thin and pulled back from his large, almost horselike teeth.
And his eyes—ugghh—they’re this kind of filmy yellow, like maybe he hasn’t quite gotten over some rare disease or something. I mean, I know I shouldn’t make fun of a diseased person, and normally I wouldn’t, but there’s something so inherently unlikable about Bones that it’s impossible to have any charity in my heart for him what. So. Ever.
I would skip Bones’ corner altogether and get right back to explaining to Hazel why our Home Ec class isn’t cursed, but it’s not only how the muffins taste that affects our grade. Presentation is a big part as well. (Hence Hazel’s weekly “come taste my world-famous muffins” tour.)
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ms. Haskins watching my performance, so I stride right up to Bones who, high atop a stool at his station, subtly looks down on me. “Care for a nibble, Bones?” I don’t know why I say it; it just comes out. Abject fear will do that to a person.
He snickers. “Anytime, Maddy. After all, you do look good enough to eat.” His voice is deep, like black-hole deep, and dry; we’re talking fall-leaf dry.
“Of the corn bread,” I insist, deadpan, holding out the plate for emphasis.
He shakes his head.
“Your loss,” I say under my breath as I turn around. I’m thinking, Phew, at least that’s over with for the week!
Then he reaches his hand out to grab me, and it’s like my arm’s being dipped in ice water up to the elbow. The cold from his skin is jarring, not just unsettling or flinchworthy but actually jarring, and his grip
is like a steel bear trap on my arm.
“Let …me …go,” I whisper, struggling to break free. On my fourth or fifth yank, he finally unhands me and I would be sailing across the room if his better half, Dahlia Caruthers, weren’t standing right there to catch me.
“Watch it!” She shoves me off of her and back into Bones.
I shiver again. It’s like bouncing from one glacier to another. Gheez, they really need to work on the ventilation back here; these kids are freezing to death. (Maybe that’s why they’re so mean all the time.)
“Sorry. I was just offering Bones a taste of our corn bread.”
Dahlia smiles, inching forward, her own plate held high. Whereas my plate is mostly empty, hers is almost completely full. I can see why. While, thanks to Hazel—or so she would have the class believe—our corn bread is fluffy and moist, tender and juicy, theirs is dry and thin, almost like Mexican biscotti left out for a month.
“Try a little of this,” Dahlia says.
Though Bones is a decade out of style and centuries out of touch, Dahlia is on the cutting edge fashionwise, her violet bangs cut clipper-straight across her powdered white forehead, her lashes thick and black, her maroon lip gloss creamy and sparkly at the same time.
The weird thing is, and maybe this is why they’re a couple but …she has yellow eyes, too. Don’t get me wrong. They’re much easier to take on Dahlia than they are on Bones, but who’da thunk the only two folks in Barracuda Bay High School with yellow eyes would hook up?
Her look is somewhere between Goth and glam, with a heavy dose of glitter and gloss for good measure. Today she has on high-heeled black wedges, burgundy hose, a leather miniskirt, and a sheer platinum bustier under a white leather jacket. Barely five feet five, she is Mutt to Bones’ Jeff (or is it Jeff to his Mutt)? Either way, even though she’s actually an inch shorter than me, she seems a foot taller, thanks, no doubt, to her brass balls and titanium confidence.
I notice that somehow Dahlia has managed to nudge me even closer to Bones. So now, with an oven on one side and a row of fake kitchen cabinets on the other, I am effectively hemmed into their dark little corner of our Home Ec universe. Over Dahlia’s head I see Ms. Haskins bent over her grade book, her back to me, so I turn to Dahlia and grab a biscotti-slash-corn bread plank and take a bite to keep the peace and get out of this cold, dark corner alive.
Wow, it’s bad. Deathly bad. Just …awful.
“Well?” she says.
I hear the stool slide out from beneath Bones. I can feel his eyes on my back as he stands to his full height; if we were outside, he might block out the sun.
I cough, then swallow dryly. “Not bad. I’m thinking maybe next time, less flour and more butter …you know, to make it a smidge flakier.” (Did I just say smidge? I did, didn’t I?)
I’m stammering, trying to find anything nice to say, when the bell finally rings. I smile, thinking, Saved by the bell, but Bones and Dahlia hardly budge. If anything, they move closer.
“Guys, seriously, didn’t you hear? The bell. I’ll be late to Art class.”
Dahlia and Bones snicker as they gather up their books and stand to one side. Dahlia’s yellow eyes grow small and suddenly cruel. The room grows ten degrees cooler, but between the two of them I might as well be standing in a walk-in freezer, so there’s not much farther down the Celsius scale we can go here.
“Well,” Dahlia says, “we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
“Quite right,” Bones says. “The world needs more artists.”
Dahlia looks around the room and settles her glare on me. “Yeah, Bones. Kind of like this class needs more warm bodies.”
The laughter oozes out of them, like steam from fresh-baked Mexican corn bread (only colder, and deader, and not quite so steamy).
I open my mouth to say something, to defend my fallen classmates—Missy, Sally, and Amy—to preserve their honor against these, these …creeps …and they’re practically daring me to. Like they want to talk about the Curse of Third Period Home Ec, like they can’t wait to tell me something, anything, I don’t already know.
It’s something about their eyes, their beady yellow eyes, practically drooling (wait, can eyes drool?) over the chance to dredge up the Curse. But I don’t let them. I won’t let them; won’t give them that satisfaction.
Instead I shrug and start to back away, not realizing Bones has slipped a foot in the path of my retreat. I trip over it instantly, my hands instinctively dropping the plate.
The white plastic clatters across the floor, the noise sending Bones and Dahlia scurrying out of the room before Ms. Haskins can reach me. The last thing I see as they walk through the door is Bones bending down to low-five Dahlia’s precious, perfect, pale little hand.
“Madison?” Ms. Haskins asks as I wipe corn-bread crumbs off my khaki skirt and put as many pieces as possible back onto the white plate before adjusting my peach scarf belt. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I lie, flustered, eager to get to Art class, to stand up, to leave this chilly, dark corner of a room that, come to think of it, really does feel cursed. At least, at this very moment. “Clumsy, I guess.”
She helps me clean up and we stand. I see the clock and rush past her. “I’ll be late,” I say, leaving her the dirty plate.
“I can write you a pass,” she says, but I’ve already grabbed my denim backpack and am steaming out of class, head lowered, when I go down for the second time in less than an hour.
2
“Oooomph”
“OOOOMPH.” THIS IS what I say when I run into that yummy new kid on the way out of Home Ec. “Oooomph.” Not “Excuse me.” Not “Here’s my number.” Not even “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Not something charming, clever, or sexy. Just …“Oooomph.”
But that’s okay because as we both watch our books, papers, folders, and notebooks tumble to the ground in a whirling spiral of college-ruled paper and No. 2 pencils, he stands there helplessly and murmurs something like “Murrumph.”
I look for Hazel for some help, but she’s already on the way to Cheer Club practice by now. We’re jostled by other kids a good dozen times as I watch the new guy’s big, pale hands carefully separate his papers from mine. Not that he has many; I mean, the kid did just transfer here from Wyoming or Washington or some godforsaken place.
“I’m usually not so clumsy,” I lie as he hands me my Home Ec handbook.
“My fault entirely,” he says while I hold out his Barracuda Bay High schedule sheet. “I’ve been doing this all day.”
“Really?” I quip before I can clamp my mouth shut. “And here I thought I was special.”
He snorts, then looks self-consciously down at his ratty size-jumbo sneakers. Even though we’re kneeling, snatching up and separating the last of our loose-leaf papers, he’s tall; not Bones tall, but then who is?
He’s slender but tight, like he’s coiled to pounce on something—or someone—nearby. (She wishes.) His skin is pale and smooth but hard like marble, with a faint dusting of hair across the backs of his hands. He smells like cologne; something good but not too good.
He’s dressed down for his first day: faded jeans and a rugby shirt with brown and blue stripes. It’s tight across the chest but loose around the waist, and I only realize I’m staring when it’s been silent for awhile and the halls are practically empty.
“Shit!” I stand at attention.
He follows me as I stand to my full height, but then he keeps going, a head or so higher once he’s finally stopped unfolding.
“I’m going to be late.” He looks stranded, helpless, the walls of Barracuda Bay High suddenly a maze, his books all stacked wrong and his schedule knotted.
I take pity and say, somewhat irritated (though trying to hide it), “Where’s your next class?”
He frowns, unraveling his ruined schedule from between two teetering textbooks. “Art,” he says without enthusiasm.
“Really?” I ask, tugging on his sleeve and steerin
g him toward C-wing before falling into stride with his long, thin legs. “Me too.”
“Not by choice,” he adds defensively.
“Don’t worry.” I sigh. “Your heterosexuality is still very much intact.”
“No, I just mean …you know what I mean.”
“Art’s not too big in Wyoming?” I say, rounding the corner.
“Nothing’s too big in Wisconsin,” he says, correcting me without formally correcting me, “except hunting, fishing, and …more fishing.”
I smile and rush into class, dragging him across the threshold right before the final bell rings. Mrs. Witherspoon raises one gray eyebrow above her ridiculously round, incredibly red tortoiseshell glasses, until she sees the big kid lumbering behind me.
Then she winks, clears her throat, and announces theatrically (her default setting), “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, Maddy dear? Well, since you and your new friend are so late, I’m afraid you’ll have to take the two last seats in the house. I hope you won’t …mind.”
As I walk past, I try to avoid the jealous stares of all the other Art Chicks shooting me daggers, but there’s something about walking into a class full of frustrated feminists with a big, tall, strapping jock by your side that makes me want to jump up on one of the black lab tables and shout, “In your face! In your face!” I restrain myself and slide into my chair.
The new kid sits stiffly to my left as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. His chiseled face is Midwest pale above his weathered collar, and I notice as he blinks rapidly that his eyes are an almost chocolate brown. Between that and the thick black hair, he might as well be a giant chocolate chip cookie. He fiddles with his books as Mrs. Witherspoon calls roll, and when she gets to the Cs and calls out “Crosby, Stamp,” I can literally see the blush creep from his throat to his taut Wisconsin cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says politely, eliciting twitters from the tough artsy crowd.
She smiles and corrects him. “My mother is called ‘ma’am,’ Mr. Crosby. So you shall call me Mrs. Witherspoon. Stamp, I’m sure you know the drill by now. Please stand and introduce yourself.”
Zombies Don't Cry Page 2
