A Living Dead Love Story Series (13 page)

I thank her, embarrassed, thoroughly, and get up to walk out. I'm watching Ms. Haskins walk back to her desk, wanting her to turn around so I can thank her again, to let her know I appreciate her honesty, when I spot Bones and Dahlia lounging in their own little corner of the room.

I've seen hundreds of stares this morning, but this is a first: smiles. Bones and Dahlia are
smiling
as I catch their eyes. I shiver. What with their pale skin, pronounced cheekbones, and those spooky yellow eyes, it's not a good look on them.

And suddenly I remember their threat: “Sooner or later, you're going to have to face us alone.”

So I make a simple plan for the day:
Stay close to people you know
.

U
NFORTUNATELY, THAT'S NOT
so easy. First Hazel thought I was lying to her and brushed me off in Home Ec. Then, the minute I walk into Art class, strike number two is pretty clear: Stamp has turned on me as well.

How do I know? Well, it starts when the sub for Mrs. Witherspoon greets me with a hearty “Hello there. Mrs. Witherspoon's judging an art show in Tallahassee this weekend, so we'll be having a ‘free day' in art this morning. Why don't you grab a seat and sit wherever you like? You can thank me later.”

Then I see that Stamp's already gotten the message, given that he's surrounded himself with no less than five slobbering Art Chicks who are hanging on his every word. He's talking about last night's party (natch) when I sit down—alone—a few tables away.

“ …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, and 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.”

A
ND, 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.