“ …then I told him, I’m not drinking out of that beer bong unless you fill it with two cans. None of this wussy one-beer crap for me.”
And, oh, the girls do laugh—and laugh and laugh and laugh.
I sneer, open my pad, and begin sketching (for some odd reason) two beer cans sprung to life and attacking a certain tall, dark, and handsome football kicker.
“So who was there?” one of the Art Chicks asks, loudly enough for them to hear in the cafeteria (three schools away).
“Oh, everybody,” he says as loudly. “Just …everybody.” He looks my way, which I promptly ignore. “You know, I mean, everybody who’s anybody.”
And the Art Chicks sigh knowingly, even though none of them were there (probably) and could care less that he’s doing this for show, only to make me jealous (I’m assuming-slash-hoping). And Stamp just talks, and they just laugh and laugh, and I sit and fume and fume, thinking how abruptly your fortunes can change when you’re 17, lonely, and undead.
I mean, yesterday the world was my oyster. Best friend, hot guy asking me to parties, sneaking out of the window, Dad none the wiser, two blocks away from snogging with the new kicker for the football team, and then—whack, zap, whammo—game over. Do not kiss hot new guy, do not have understanding best friend, do not have heartbeat, go straight to Zombieville and stay there permanently.
And today? My best friend won’t talk to me, Stamp obviously thinks I blew him off and won’t give me the time of day so I can explain what really happened (well, a sanitized version of what really happened, anyway), clearly Bones and Dahlia want to add me to the long list of victims from Third Period Home Ec, and Ms. Haskins thinks I look grody enough to send home—four periods early.
As the laughter continues and Stamp brags about how cool the party was and how hot all the girls were and how rockin’ the music was and how flowin’ the beer was, I carefully fold my drawing into fourths, then eights, then sixteenths, then keep folding until I can’t fold it anymore. And when I’m done folding it, I slip it in my pocket and sit there until the bell rings.
It seems to take forever, and in that time all my hopes of getting with Stamp are dashed one phony, breathy Art Chick giggle at a time. Twenty-four short hours ago my future was bright, and it seemed a given Stamp would wrap that big white bicep around my shoulder and seal the deal. Today it’s like I hardly know him.
He seemed so …sweet …yesterday, handing me my books after we ran into each other in the hall, molding his little clay figures at this very table, walking me back up the hill from the graveyard when I needed someone the most. And now?
He might as well be a stranger. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, telling his stories, drowning in his fans, and think about what could have been. As one of the Art Chicks carefully moves his little Superman curl aside and flirts ruthlessly, I blink away a few more nontears and stare at the clock, willing it to move forward one second, one tick, at a time.
Maybe it’s for the best he turned out to be a jerk, after all. I mean, what kind of future did we have? Me, the Living Dead; and him, Drop-Dead Gorgeous? Did I think he was going to keep asking me to parties once he felt my cold skin, kissed my cold lips, felt my dead, nonbeating heart? Did I really think he was the kind of guy who was up for a little interzombie dating?
Finally the bell rings, but it doesn’t bring the relief I’m looking for. Stamp is up and out in a heartbeat, never looking back, not even when his harem of Art Chicks scurry after him beckoning, “Stamp! Wait up, Stamp!”
I stand listlessly and walk past the sub, enduring the openmouthed stares and finger points of my fellow classmates as I wander through the halls, the loneliest zombie on the planet.
I’ve got my head down, and I’m not really looking where I’m going, or very much caring, when somebody bumps into me. I look up, but the person is already past, and even from behind I could swear it’s Dane shuffling off down the hallway in his black hoodie and grody sneakers. Oh well, easy come, easy go; just another guy who can’t be bothered to give me the time of day now that I literally look like death warmed over.
Believe it or not, the highlight of my day is emptying the shavings from Mr. Harvey’s pencil sharpeners during sixth period. No, not because I’m addicted to the particular, peculiar, and quite powerful smell of pencil shavings (you know what I’m talking about). It’s because after being cooped up for six straight periods, I finally get some fresh air and freedom.
There’s nothing else for me to do as library aide by this point in the day anyway; all the books have been reshelved by Mr. Harvey’s previous five aides of the day, and Mr. Harvey is sequestered in the computer lab Googling himself. The only thing left to do is empty all 12 pencil sharpeners (one at the end of every other row of books), collect them in a plastic garbage bag, and spend the last 20 minutes of class out on a perfectly good, teacher-approved Library Aide Hall Pass.
“Write yourself a pass,” he mouths behind the computer lab window.
I start to but can’t find a pen on the reception desk. I’m digging through my pockets for one when I find a crumpled piece of paper that I know I didn’t put there.
I open it up. It’s a triangle of lined paper, roughly torn on two edges, like whoever did the tearing was angry, or in a hurry—or both.
So that’s what the whole bumper cars imitation in front of Art Class was about? Shoving a piece of scrap paper down my pocket? I shake my head, throw away the note, and then empty out the pencil shavings in the same trash. I hold up the bag toward Mr. Harvey on my way out the library doors, but he’s engrossed in some astronomy website, so I just walk out.
I’m tempted to throw the shavings out somewhere else, Dane’s note be damned. I mean, who is he to demand exactly where I dump my pencil shavings during sixth period? By the same token, I’m vaguely curious as well. I mean, if Zombie Number 2 is going to all this trouble to pass me some stupid note, well, maybe it’s worth checking out after all.
The Dumpster’s behind D-wing, between the cafeteria and the hard Art classes, Remedial Auto Shop, Rocket Building 101, Power Soldering, ROTC—that kind of thing. I take the long way there, past the vending machines in B-wing, past the boys’ locker room over by A-wing (you know, in case there’s a sudden fire alarm and 30 wet, naked guys have to come rushing out the rusted double doors and suddenly feel the need to be rubbed down with pencil shavings), and out through C-wing to get a little fresh air.
Not that the air is always so fresh next to the Dumpster, but it beats sitting in the library listening to underclassmen giggle over the dirty parts in Judy Blume’s Forever for 50 straight minutes.
By this time of day, most of the school is on autopilot. The jocks are saving up energy for after-school practice; the thugs have already been sent home, suspended, or expelled for the rest of the year; even the mean girls are cruising until their afternoon pedicures and spa treatments. So I walk in silence out the doors, round the corner toward the Dumpster, and find Dane Fields halfway through a sizzling Marlboro Light as he lingers a few feet outside the back door to Shop class.
The yard is full of scrap metal, rusty car doors, old oil drums, and dozens of other hiding places perfect for the sixth period smoker. And, with all that’s going on in my life right now—no best friend; no boyfriend; and, oh yeah, I’m dead—this is my very first thought: I didn’t know Dane Fields smoked. Interesting.
He’s walking right up to me. “What took you so long?”
“Back off, Dane. You know how long it takes to empty out all the pencil sharpeners in the library?”
“You mean all twelve? Like three and a half minutes max.”
I shake my head and dump the shavings in the Dumpster, practically one shaving at a time, just to make him wait another minute or two. I don’t know why Dane is pissing me off so much today, but he …just …is.
I guess it’s not Dane, per se, and it’s not even Chloe so much. It’s the way they’ve forced me into this unholy little family of theirs, hook, line, a
nd zombie. I mean, of all the kids in this town who could be zombies, and I get stuck with …them?
He fumes. “Listen, Maddy, we have some serious shit to talk about, and you need to start taking me seriously.”
“I get that, Dane. Really, I do.” I look around for witnesses and, finding none, continue. “But you need to give me some time to get used to this, okay? I mean, I’ve been a …zombie …for, like, 48 hours, okay? Cut me some slack. I’m up all hours of the night, running around my room like it’s a prison cell. I’ve got my dad eating brains by accident and thinking they’re sushi. Now Hazel won’t talk to me; she thinks I’m lying to her about something. Gee, what could that be? Every kid in this school is staring at me like I’ve got ‘zombie’ written on my forehead. I mean, I’m doing the best I can here, all right? Just …back …off.”
He looks at me and says, more softly this time, “Okay, okay, I get that, Maddy. I do. I know it can’t be easy for you right now, and trust me, I get that you’d rather hang out with your Normal friends like Hazel than Chloe and me, but you’ve got to start doing a better job of passing. This …look …you’re sporting isn’t cutting it.”
I hang my head. Now even the zombies think I look like crap. I mean, talk about the pot calling the kettle dead. “I’m trying my best, Dane. I had Hazel give me a makeover before school, and she’s practically a makeup expert.”
Dane cracks a crooked smile. “Sure, with Normals, maybe, but helping a zombie pass takes a very particular skill set.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “Well, I guess I haven’t acquired that one yet.”
The bell rings, and we look at each other with a kind of resigned frustration, like maybe I’m still a little peeved at him and he’s still a little pissed at me but we’re stuck with each other, so somehow we’ll find a way around it.
Anyway, as we part, he says over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, Maddy. I’ve made an appointment with someone who’s an expert at passing. She’ll be waiting for you after school.”
“Yeah.” I laugh on my way past the Dumpster. “If I make it that long.”
17
Jock-Blocked
AND, AMAZINGLY SOMEHOW, I do. By the time the final bell of the school day rings, I’ve basically forgotten all about Dane and his unsolicited makeover advice. My mind is on about 1,001 other, more important things, like, you know, how I’m going to keep Dad out of my brains supply and keep Hazel in the dark about my zombie status when she is literally up in my business 24/7/365. So I’m halfway to the junior/senior parking lot, letting it all flood my brain, when I see Stamp waving me down.
I get a jolt as I see him standing there outside the boys’ locker room, ready for Friday night’s big game. He’s in his football pants—short, tight little things that start just below his belly button and end right below his knees. But then he’s also wearing this little half-shirt thing, I guess to go under his shoulder pads? So above his belly button he’s got, like, two full feet of bare skin.
I’m staring at both of them when he says, uber-casually, “What’s up?”
You know, like he didn’t ditch me at some party the night before, like he didn’t not come looking for me the next morning, like he didn’t completely diss me in Art class. What’s up? That’s rich.
So, of course, I respond appropriately, really letting him have it. “Nothing. I just …I wanted to apologize for not making it to the party last night.” (Okay, so I didn’t let him have it, but you’d do the same damn thing if you were looking at the same two feet of naked man skin I’m drinking in.)
“Please.” He snorts, waving it off. “I just figured you stood me up. You know, playing hard to get is all. No biggie.”
“Really?” So that’s why he didn’t come looking for me the next morning. “I dunno, Stamp, I’d be pretty peeved if somebody did that to me.”
He gives me that funny Stamp look. “Water under the bridge, Maddy, really. But listen, I’ve got a few more minutes until coach starts bitching about warming up for tonight’s game. Hey, you coming, by the way? Anyway, I wanted to ask you something …”
In the back of my mind I’m thinking, Fall Formal, Fall Formal, but I don’t want to jinx it, so I say, “Yeah, what?” as casually as possible. Which is pretty hard to do when you’re already mentally making hair and nail appointments and predicting the color of his tux so you can match your eye shadow.
He blushes, looks away, spots something over my shoulder, and frowns.
I figure maybe it’s the school PDA Police coming up from behind but turn to see Hazel slinking up instead.
Great. Where before there were merely half pants and six-pack abs and Stamp’s stammering question, suddenly there’s Hazel and her flowing red hair and her ample, man-magnet booty …and a dreadful, awkward silence.
After what seem like 10 full minutes, I look at her and ask, flat out, “What’s up?” Girl talk, of course, for, Back up off my man, biotch.
“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to let you know Ms. Peppercorn asked me to be on the Decorating Committee for the Fall Formal. She wanted some male input, and since I don’t trust any of the other guys in this school, I figured maybe I’d invite some new blood to participate.”
“Me?” asks Stamp.
“Stamp?” asks me.
Hazel rolls her eyes. “Yeah.” Then, she shoos me off. “This is a formal invitation, and I have to do it right, so …scram.”
And, just like that, suddenly I’m the third wheel in my own conversation. I kind of stand there for a second, disbelieving, but Hazel is obviously serious, to the point of kind of turning her back halfway on me and forcing Stamp to look at her.
I say, “Okay, well, I’m going now. Bye!”
Stamp smiles helpfully, unsure whether to take any of this seriously, until Hazel snaps. “Focus, Stamp. Now, as I was saying …”
I stumble away, head down, taking little looks over my shoulders to see Stamp gazing forlornly after me and Hazel reeling him back in with a hand on his cheek. Her hand. On his cheek. Meanwhile, the question he’s been meaning to ask hangs unanswered in the air.
I’m confused, hurt, hopeful, and embarrassed, all at the same time. I mean, what if he wasn’t going to ask me to the Fall Formal after all? What if he was only asking, “Hey, what’s up?”
I’ve never dated a jock before. What if that’s just what jocks do? Hang their landing strips out to dry in front of the boys’ locker room every day and see what sticks? What if it was all innocent and what I think happened didn’t really happen?
But it did; I know it did. It doesn’t take my superhuman zombie senses to figure out I was about to get asked to Fall Formal and Hazel just …just …yock-blocked me. I’m halfway through the parking lot, kicking every stone and blacktop pebble in my path, when I realize someone’s leaning against my car.
Chloe Kildare.
“Get in,” she says when I get close enough to the driver’s side to hear her.
“Yeah,” I say with my new zombie comeback cool, already pissed from Hazel’s jock-block and in no mood for any other chicks I can’t stand messing with the rest of my afternoon. “I plan on it. It’s my car, remember?”
Ignoring her, I bend down, get in, and slam my door to avoid seeing her any further. Unfortunately, the electric keychain has unlocked all four doors, and before I can protest, Chloe is already riding shotgun.
I sigh. “Chloe, seriously, I don’t have time for … this …today.”
“Girl,” she says without a trace of irony as she looks from my pale skin to the dark circles under my eyes, “you literally have all the time in the world.”
“I may be immortal, but that doesn’t mean my schedule’s any lighter these days. My dad’s been working all week and wants me to have dinner with him tonight, I’ve got a Sociology paper due next Thursday, and I still don’t have a date to the Fall Formal, thanks to my best friend, so I have absolutely less than zero time for you to sit in my car and bully me around, and—”
“That’s fine.”
She reaches for the door and pushes it open. From the seated position, she calls out to Stamp, now leaning against the wall outside the locker room as Hazel flanks him like a one-woman she-wolf pack licking her lips before dinner. “Hey, Stamp,” Chloe cries out. From here, I can’t tell if he can hear her or not. “I wanted to tell you a little secret about your girlfriend.”
“Get in here,” I shout, grabbing Chloe by the arm and yanking her halfway across the seat toward me.
As I fire up the Honda and peel out of the parking lot, she says, “God, you’re so easy. Did you really think I was going to break about three dozen zombie laws and squeal your secret to Stamp? Right there, in broad daylight?” “I dunno.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t.”
I sigh, my head not exactly hurting, but my brain feeling like it’s caught in a vise. “So, what is this, Chloe, some kind of zombie intervention or something? First Dane corners me in sixth period to tell me I’m not living up to my full zombie potential or whatever, and now you’re staking out my car after school? What gives?”
“What gives,” Chloe says as she looks me up and down in the unforgiving sunlight streaming through my windshield, “is that you look like 10 pounds of crap shoved in a 5-pound bag—and we can’t have that. Dane and I have a rep to protect, you know, and now that you’re one of us, well, we can’t have you giving death a bad name.”
I look at Chloe with her pancake makeup and pierced nose and cringe. “So you’re the makeup expert Dane was talking about earlier?” I ask, unconvinced.
“What?” Chloe says. “You were expecting maybe Heidi Klum?”
I frown, but it’s hard when I want to laugh. Who’da thunk it? Chloe Kildare? Cracking jokes? Giving me makeup advice? Riding shotgun like she owns the car, feet up on the dashboard and all? The world truly is upside down. Or, at least, my world is.
A Living Dead Love Story Series Page 10
