Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  Then, I kid you not, that hor­rib­le “Walk the Di­no­sa­ur” song from the 1980s bo­omed out of our new sta­te-of-the-art so­und system, and all twel­ve che­er­le­aders burst thro­ugh the bre­akth­ro­ugh sign dres­sed in… ca­ve­man cos­tu­mes. We’re tal­king che­etah hal­ter tops, big mal­lets, and furry pelt di­apers. Yes. Di­apers. Ma­de of fur.

  The­ir pony­ta­ils we­re as blond and perky as al­ways and the­ir ma­ke­up tas­te­ful­ly ap­pli­ed, but not­hing co­uld ma­ke up for the fact that they we­re dan­cing aro­und to one of the worst songs of all ti­me in di­apers. (Ha­ve I men­ti­oned the di­apers? The fur di­apers?)

  It to­ok the la­ugh­ter a few mi­nu­tes to re­al­ly get star­ted-pro­bably be­ca­use we we­re all figh­ting off symptoms of cli­ni­cal shock af­ter le­ar­ning that our fa­bu­lo­us, fi­er­ce Co­ugars had be­en rep­la­ced by Ca­ve­men-but on­ce it did, it was lo­ud eno­ugh to drown out the mu­sic comp­le­tely. One by one, the che­er­le­aders lost the be­at and the­ir pla­ce in the ro­uti­ne and star­ted bum­ping in­to each ot­her, tur­ning the­ir pi­ti­ab­le per­for­man­ce in­to a true tra­vesty.

  “This is pa­in­ful to watch,” I mumb­led to Dad.

  “Ye­ah. I think I’ll go hit the men’s ro­om un­til it’s over,” Dad sa­id. “You co­uld vi­sit yo­ur mom at the snack tab­le, or I think I saw Et­han he­ad out­si­de a se­cond ago.”

  “What?!” He’d se­en Et­han a se­cond ago and had wa­ited un­til now to tell me?

  “He isn’t a smo­ker, is he? I don’t want you da­ting a smo-”

  I was on my fe­et be­fo­re he co­uld fi­nish his sen­ten­ce. “He’s not a smo­ker-he was pro­bably le­aving!” I bit my lip as I re­ali­zed how crazy I must so­und. I’d go­ne from ze­ro to mo­urn­ful in two po­int two se­conds. If I didn’t watch it, Dad was go­ing to re­ali­ze so­met­hing was up. “I’m go­ing to go try to catch him. Be back in a few.”

  “Okay, but call my cell if he’s gi­ving you a ri­de ho­me.”

  I ack­now­led­ged his or­der with a wa­ve and ma­de a re­la­ti­vely dig­ni­fi­ed dash to the front do­ors and out in­to the co­ol night air, even tho­ugh my he­art was ra­cing a tho­usand mi­les a mi­nu­te.

  No mat­ter what I’d felt for Cliff, no mat­ter how strong the pa­ra­nor­mal con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en us, Et­han was the one for me. He was my ho­me ba­se, my best fri­end, and the only per­son who I trus­ted with my li­fe but who ter­ri­fi­ed me at the sa­me ti­me.

  But the ter­ri­fi­ed part was okay. Be­ca­use that was part of what lo­ve was abo­ut: fe­eling so­met­hing so po­wer­ful it was scary, but sta­ying and fe­eling it any­way. That’s what my dad and mom had do­ne. They’d sta­yed and fo­ught for each ot­her, for­gi­ven each ot­her, and-

  “And you’re su­re you’re re­ady?” Kitty as­ked. She and Et­han we­re stan­ding by Kitty’s enor­mo­us truck, lo­oking de­ci­dedly chummy. “You’ll ha­ve to le­ave Ar­kan­sas. The clo­sest cer­ti­fi­ca­ti­on prog­ram is in Nash­vil­le.”

  “My bags are al­re­ady pac­ked. I’m just wa­iting for the word,” Et­han sa­id, sen­ding my he­art cras­hing in­to my sto­mach whe­re the wrec­ka­ge burst in­to fla­mes. He was le­aving? To go to Nash­vil­le? And his bags we­re al­re­ady pac­ked?

  “It pro­bably won’t be for a month or two. We’ve got to get yo­ur pa­per­work and backg­ro­und check thro­ugh the system. But I don’t an­ti­ci­pa­te any prob­lems,” Kitty sa­id, grin­ning up at her la­test protйgй. “You’ve do­ne so­me gre­at work. Ever­yo­ne’s re­al­ly ex­ci­ted to see you jo­in the te­am.”

  “It’s what I’ve wan­ted to do for aw­hi­le.” Et­han was prac­ti­cal­ly glo­wing as he sho­ok Kitty’s tiny hand. “Thanks for the re­com­men­da­ti­on.”

  “No thanks ne­ces­sary. You ear­ned it.” Kitty hop­ped up in­to the dri­ver’s se­at. “Co­me by the tra­ining of­fi­ce on Mon­day and we’ll get everyt­hing star­ted.”

  Ethan sa­id go­odb­ye and Kitty dro­ve away, and I knew I sho­uld scram. But ins­te­ad I lin­ge­red in the sha­dows ne­ar the do­or, watc­hing as Et­han wal­ked to­ward his car, snif­fling in con­fu­si­on as he wal­ked right past it and ma­de a be­eli­ne to whe­re I was hi­ding a do­zen fe­et from the gym exit. I ob­vi­o­usly ne­eded to work on my su­per-sec­ret-eavesd­rop­ping skills. As he clo­sed the last few fe­et bet­we­en us, I de­ba­ted ma­king a run for the sa­fety of the girls’ ro­om but de­ci­ded aga­inst it. I ne­eded to talk to him, and this might be my last chan­ce.

  I had to let him know how sorry I was, and that I’d al­ways ca­re abo­ut him no mat­ter what. I had to be strong and ra­ti­onal and not turn this in­to so­me sort of Me­gan blub­ber-fest.

  “So you’re le­aving and you we­ren’t even go­ing to tell me?” I blub­be­red, ope­ning my mo­uth and in­ser­ting my de­ci­dedly we­ak and ir­ra­ti­onal fo­ot.

  “You’ve do­ne a lot of things la­tely wit­ho­ut tel­ling me. So I gu­ess we’re even, huh?” he as­ked, in that de­ep, sexy vo­ice he al­ways had when he was angry or up­set. I won­de­red which it was right now? Pro­bably angry, if the scowl on his per­fect, kis­sab­le lips was any in­di­ca­ti­on.

  I flinc­hed but didn’t lo­ok away. This was it. Ti­me to ta­ke my me­di­ci­ne. “Ye­ah. I gu­ess. I’m still sorry, you know. Re­al­ly, re­al­ly sorry. This past we­ek has be­en… re­al­ly hard. I’m not sa­ying that’s a va­lid ex­cu­se, but I… ”

  His scowl sof­te­ned for a se­cond. “I know. Kitty told me everyt­hing last night. I can’t be­li­eve yo­ur mom ne­ver told you abo­ut yo­ur re­al dad.”

  “I was ke­eping sec­rets from myself too,” I sa­id, re­fu­sing to gi­ve in­to the temp­ta­ti­on to bask in the warm glow of Et­han’s sympathy. It was ti­me to get re­al, with him and myself. “Everyt­hing that has hap­pe­ned sin­ce Sep­tem­ber had me re­al­ly mi­xed up. My po­wers re­tur­ning and the zom­bie at­tacks and Jess. Even the go­od stuff, li­ke En­for­cer tra­ining and us-it was just a lot to hand­le in a re­al­ly short amo­unt of ti­me.”

  He step­ped clo­ser and I felt the in­vi­sib­le wall bet­we­en us start to crumb­le. “Then why didn’t you just say so­met­hing? I co­uld ha­ve un­ders­to­od if you ne­eded ti­me or-”

  “I didn’t un­ders­tand it myself un­til last night.” I lo­oked up in­to his eyes, wil­ling him to see how much I ca­red abo­ut him. “I was su­re I was go­ing to die, and all I co­uld think abo­ut was you. That I was stu­pid to ha­ve be­en so sca­red.”

  Ethan’s hand to­uc­hed mi­ne, just the ba­rest brush of his fin­gers, but it was eno­ugh to ma­ke my en­ti­re self ac­he. “It wasn’t stu­pid. I know you’ve ne­ver be­en in a se­ri­o­us re­la­ti­ons­hip be­fo­re.”

  “No, it’s not just that. It’s not even sex, so much,” I sa­id, blus­hing un­til my che­eks bur­ned. May­be I wasn’t so jaded and dark af­ter all. I co­uld still get em­bar­ras­sed sa­ying the s word. “It’s just… you me­an so much to me. I’ve ne­ver felt this way abo­ut an­yo­ne el­se. I’ve ne­ver lo­ved so­me­one-”

  “Then why the thing with the zom­bie, Me­gan?” Et­han as­ked, the hurt cle­ar in his eyes, tho­ugh he didn’t step away. “If you lo­ve me so much, why we­re you ma­king out with anot­her guy?”

  “I don’t know,” I sa­id, figh­ting te­ars for the zil­li­onth ti­me in the past few days. “I think it was be­ca­use I was so con­fu­sed abo­ut us and he was sa­fe.”

  “Sa­fe?” He was mad aga­in. “And what am I? A se­ri­al kil­ler?”

  “I don’t lo­ve him,” I sa­id, scramb­ling to exp­la­in myself. “Cliff is a su­per-ni­ce guy, but he isn’t even ali­ve, so the­re’s no way he co­uld hurt me the way you co­uld.”

  “I’d ne­ver hurt you. Don’t you re­ali­ze that by-”

/>   “May­be not on pur­po­se, but what if you just fell out of lo­ve with me one day?” I as­ked, ig­no­ring the sta­res we we­re get­ting from pe­op­le he­aded back in­to the ga­me. “Or got ti­red of me be­ing yo­un­ger? Or met so­me­one you li­ked mo­re?”

  “What if I got hit by a bus, or you got kil­led du­ring one of the­se fre­akish Un­de­ad outb­re­aks you se­em to at­tract li­ke it’s go­ing out of style?” he as­ked, squ­e­ezing my hand in his. “Don’t you think that sca­res me? Thin­king abo­ut all the pe­op­le who are go­ing to want a pi­ece of you if they find out what you are? So­met­hing bad co­uld al­ways hap­pen, but if you’re too af­ra­id of the bad, you can’t ever enj­oy the go­od.”

  “I know!” God, Et­han to­tal­ly got it. Of co­ur­se he did. He was way smar­ter than I was when it ca­me to stuff li­ke this. “I fi­nal­ly fi­gu­red that out. It just to­ok me a whi­le. I’m sorry. But I…” Okay, he­re it was, this was the BIG mo­ment. I might ha­ve tho­ught Et­han and I had be­en he­re be­fo­re, but we hadn’t, not li­ke this.

  “But you what?”

  “But I lo­ve you. I re­al­ly lo­ve you.” My he­art ra­ced and I sud­denly felt li­ke I was go­ing to throw up, but I didn’t let myself stop or lo­ok away from Et­han’s eyes. “If you can’t for­gi­ve me, I un­ders­tand, but I re­al­ly wish you wo­uld be­ca­use I… I think things wo­uld be a lot bet­ter.”

  “You think?” The hand not hol­ding mi­ne snuck up to play at the back of my neck, ma­king me shi­ver for re­asons that had not­hing to do with the cold night air.

  “I know.” I le­aned clo­ser, wan­ting to be in Et­han’s arms mo­re than I ha­ve ever wan­ted anyt­hing. I wan­ted to fe­el his lips on mi­ne, to kiss him and kiss him and let tho­se kis­ses ta­ke us whe­re­ver they wo­uld. I didn’t want to hold back any­mo­re, didn’t want to worry abo­ut anyt­hing, just wan­ted to be as clo­se to him as I co­uld get. I was fi­nal­ly re­ady. Comp­le­tely re­ady. Too bad it had ta­ken anot­her ne­ar-de­ath ex­pe­ri­en­ce to ma­ke me re­ali­ze that truth.

  He sta­red down at me and I co­uld tell that he was thin­king the sa­me thing. But in the end, when he le­aned down, his lips lan­ded on my fo­re­he­ad, not my lips. “I lo­ve you, and it’s okay.”

  “You for­gi­ve me?”

  “I do.”

  “You do?” I as­ked.

  “I do, but I don’t think we sho­uld jump right back in­to anyt­hing. You’re right-you’ve be­en thro­ugh a lot, and it’s not over yet. You and yo­ur pa­rents ha­ve a lot to de­al with, the En­for­cers are go­ing to be iso­la­ting you for spe­ci­al tra­ining, and I he­ard Kitty tal­king abo­ut full-ti­me body­gu­ards for at le­ast a few months, un­til they see who knows abo­ut you ha­ving witch blo­od. So… I think we sho­uld ta­ke our ti­me.”

  I sig­hed, a part of me wan­ting to burst in­to full-blown sobs at the idea of “ta­king ti­me,” but anot­her part of me a lit­tle re­li­eved. I wan­ted to be with Et­han mo­re than anyt­hing, but I was al­so re­al­ly, re­al­ly ti­red. No mat­ter how much I wan­ted my li­fe back on track right now, it was go­ing to ta­ke so­me adj­ust­ment to get used to the new lay of the land.

  “So what do you think? Fri­ends for now?” he as­ked, still pla­ying with my ha­ir in a way that wasn’t re­al­ly strictly fri­endly-not that I was go­ing to comp­la­in.

  “Fri­ends who hug.” I threw my arms aro­und his wa­ist and hug­ged him tight.

  “I can do hugs.” He wrap­ped his arms aro­und me in a mostly pla­to­nic way, but I felt his lips brush the top of my he­ad and he­ard the tel­lta­le sniff as he in­ha­led the scent of my sham­poo. He’d told me a do­zen ti­mes how just smel­ling that sham­poo ma­de him want to drag me in­to a dark cor­ner and ne­ver let me go. “And may­be a kiss or two. If you’ll put yo­ur Fris­bee hat back on.”

  “It’s cal­led a be­ret, which so­unds a lot co­oler than ‘Fris­bee hat.’”

  “Right, wha­te­ver,” he sa­id, drop­ping anot­her kiss on my fo­re­he­ad.

  I smi­led, and a sen­se of calm set­tled in my usu­al­ly angst-rid­den guts. Et­han and I we­re go­ing to be fi­ne. We’d ta­ke our ti­me, but in the end, when I was re­ady and he was re­ady, we’d be us aga­in. I was su­re of it.

  “So, you want to go get so­me ice cre­am? I he­ard you’re sup­po­sed to be po­un­ding back the ca­lo­ri­es to help you he­al,” he as­ked, pul­ling away from our hug.

  “I tho­ught all de­ta­ils re­la­ting to my con­di­ti­on we­re sup­po­sed to be top sec­ret?”

  “Ye­ah, they are, but Kitty ga­ve Mo­ni­ca and me the sco­op. I gu­ess she fi­gu­red we’d ear­ned in­si­der in­for­ma­ti­on for be­ing the only two pe­op­le smart eno­ugh to know you we­re in­no­cent from the start.” He grin­ned, ple­ased with him­self. “And I’m re­al­ly cra­ving a hot fud­ge sun­dae.”

  “How can you cra­ve ice cre­am when it’s this cold?” I as­ked, hol­ding on to the hand he pla­ced in mi­ne and fol­lo­wing him to his car.

  “Not just ice cre­am, a hot fud­ge sun­dae. The fud­ge is hot, co­un­te­ring the cold­ness of the ice cre­am and ma­king it the per­fect all-we­at­her snack fo­od.”

  “Oh, I see.” I la­ug­hed and dug aro­und in my co­at poc­ket for my cell to call my pa­rents, let­ting Et­han open the do­or for me. “I gu­ess I can’t ar­gue with-Oh, Et­han, what did you do?”

  “What?” he as­ked, ac­ting li­ke he didn’t know what I was tal­king abo­ut.

  “This.” I grab­bed the ele­gantly wrap­ped black box with the sil­ver rib­bon from the pas­sen­ger’s se­at, mar­ve­ling at the fact that Et­han had go­ne to the tro­ub­le to spell out my na­me on the gift tag with glit­ter. “It’s not anyw­he­re clo­se to my birth­day.”

  “Me­gan, I didn’t-”

  But I was al­re­ady te­aring in­to the pa­per, re­ve­aling the car­ved wo­oden box in­si­de. Im­pa­ti­ently, I fumb­led with the or­na­te latch. I’m not one of tho­se ta­ke-yo­ur-ti­me-and-sa­vor-it kind of unw­rap­pers. I want to know what’s in­si­de, and I want to know now.

  Of co­ur­se, that might chan­ge. Af­ter this par­ti­cu­lar gift, I didn’t know if I’d ever lo­ok at wrap­ping pa­per the sa­me way aga­in.

  “Ohmygod!” I drop­ped the box as fast as I’d pic­ked it up, which was my se­cond mis­ta­ke, be­ca­use drop­ping it ma­de the se­ve­red hand in­si­de co­me rol­ling out.

  “What the heck?” Et­han cro­uc­hed down to get a bet­ter lo­ok at the thing, wi­sely not to­uc­hing it. He was in Pro­to­col mo­de now. He wo­uldn’t to­uch evi­den­ce and risk lo­sing fin­gerp­rints or any ma­gi­cal rem­nants that might be stuck to the skin. “The­re’s a no­te.”

  Ethan pul­led a tis­sue from his poc­ket and used it to ca­re­ful­ly pry open the ed­ge of the crisply fol­ded pa­per that had be­en res­ting be­ne­ath the hand.

  De­arest Me­gan,

  I he­ard from a lit­tle bird you’d ta­ken yo­ur first he­art. Don’t you know a go­od witch al­ways starts with a hand? He­re’s one to hold you over un­til yo­ur tra­ining can truly be­gin. All the best, lo­ve, Yo­ur fat­her

  Ethan sto­od up fast and scan­ned the par­king lot even as he grab­bed his pho­ne and di­aled for bac­kup, but I sta­yed whe­re I was. If I sto­od up, if I spo­ke, then this wo­uld be re­al, and I didn’t want it to be re­al. Not yet. Not ever.

  Just when I’d tho­ught it was over, it was re­al­ly only be­gin­ning. My bi­olo­gi­cal fat­her had fo­und me and sca­red me mo­re than an­yo­ne ever had. All that, and I didn’t even know his na­me.

  I do. His na­me is Ad­di­son Stra­in. He’s not he­re yet, but he will be. So­on. I jo­ined Et­han, spin­ning in a wild circ­le, se­arc­hing for any sign of the boy who ow­ned that vo­ice. It was Cliff, spe­aking in my mind, just li­ke he had
when we’d sha­red a body for tho­se bri­ef mo­ments last night.

  Whe­re are you? Did you see who-

  I didn’t see who put it the­re, but I’ll ke­ep my eyes open. And I’ll be he­re when you ne­ed me. Be ca­re­ful, Me­gan. Out of the cor­ner of my eye I ca­ught a flash of a dark gre­en swe­ater and sho­ul­der-length brown ha­ir at the ed­ge of the par­king lot. It was Cliff, but a very pa­le Cliff, with a hu­ge ban­da­ge wrap­ped aro­und his neck.

  My sto­mach tur­ned as I re­mem­be­red the way his thro­at had be­en rip­ped open, then tur­ned aga­in as Cliff va­nis­hed and my ga­ze drop­ped to the hand. “I think I’m go­ing to be sick.”

  “Right, we’ll see you in fi­ve.” Et­han snap­ped his pho­ne shut and wrap­ped his arms aro­und me. “Just ta­ke de­ep bre­aths. Kitty’s on her way back, and Mo­ni­ca is go­ing to grab yo­ur pa­rents and be right out. We’ll find out who did this and ma­ke su­re you’re sa­fe. Don’t worry.”

  I bu­ri­ed my fa­ce in Et­han’s chest and to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, pul­ling the com­for­ting smell of him in­to my so­ul, se­arc­hing for the calm I’d felt only a few mi­nu­tes ago. Surp­ri­singly, I fo­und it was still the­re, bu­ri­ed be­ne­ath the fe­ar and an­xi­ety, wa­iting for me to call it to the sur­fa­ce.

  “Okay. I’m go­ing to be okay.” I pul­led away from Et­han and sto­od up a lit­tle stra­igh­ter. What had just hap­pe­ned was crazy and hor­rib­le, but that se­emed li­ke it was the story of my li­fe. This ti­me, ho­we­ver, I was de­ter­mi­ned to be the one wri­ting the next chap­ter.

  Ethan smi­led, that spe­ci­al smi­le he only sho­wed me. “Of co­ur­se you are. I ne­ver do­ub­ted it.” He to­ok my hand in his and squ­e­ezed as we tur­ned to watch the gym do­ors, re­ady for wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned next.