A Living Dead Love Story Series (6 page)

She doesn't do well when the spotlight shines on me, which it rarely does, but …still. Like when Mr. Humphries, our History teacher and the guy who runs the school elections every year, misunderstood us sophomore year and printed
my
name on the ballot for class secretary instead of Hazel's.

Now, a
true
best friend would have laughed it off and cheered me on because it's not like we were running for secretary of state or something, right? But not Hazel; she flat-out
demanded
Mr. Humphries print all new ballots and threatened to write a letter to the editor of the local paper called “Voter Fraud Dampens Barracuda Bay Class Elections” if he didn't.

He did, I bowed out, and …that was pretty much that.

So ever since then, the small things in life that
do
happen to go my way—an A+ on a term paper (especially when Hazel gets a B), a free video at Mega Movies, an extra $20 in my birthday card from Aunt Maggie in Texas, the hottest boy asking me out to a party Hazel doesn't even
know
about—I tend to keep all to myself. Hazel has enough good things in her own life; she doesn't need to horn in on mine.

And this party tonight? If Hazel heard about it? Please. She'd be there with bells on, making a scene, taking things over, bending Stamp's ear, and then it would no longer be
my
little thing but Hazel's Big Show—and we'd all be the audience. No, thanks; not this time; not tonight.
Not this one night
.

I mean, you don't understand; things like this don't happen. Not. To. Me. I'm the girl hot new guys jump over to bump into
other
girls on their first day of school. I'm the girl guys ask to a party just so I'll bring Hazel along. I'm the girl who misses bumping into the hot new guy a second time by a millisecond and then watches, helplessly, as the girl he
did
bump into becomes his hot new girlfriend for the rest of junior year.

But for some reason, today of all days,
I
was the one who got to bump into him; not once, but twice.
I
was the one who got to walk up the hill with him, flirt a little, and get asked to a party.

Soon enough he'll realize I'm not the kind of girl he should date, that I'm not hot enough or popular enough or easy enough or sexy enough. But for now, for this one night, for this moment, Stamp just doesn't know that yet.

For whatever reason—the peach scarf belt, the sparkling conversation, the bending of time to make this my lucky day—he thinks good old Maddy Swift is good enough to invite to a party, and if that's all I've got before he finds out differently, well, I'll be damned if I'm going to waste the time turning it into the Hazel Hour.

Several thousand questions later, she shakes her head, disbelieving, as I follow her down the stairs. Dad is puttering around the kitchen, eating from an open pint of ice cream with a clean spoon, as we enter the foyer. He smiles, caught.

“What'd I tell you about that after-dinner snacking, Mr. Swift?” Hazel says, patting his tiny potbelly.

He says, in his own defense, “But it's reduced fat, dear.”

She frowns teasingly, hijacks the scoop, and eats the bite of ice cream. (Hey, as a strict vegetarian, she's definitely got ice cream on her list.)

He pats her on the shoulder, steals his spoon back, and resumes snacking, fat and Hazel be damned.

We leave Dad to his dessert and I shoo Hazel out the front door. She waves over her shoulder, her thick red pigtails bouncing as she walks down the hill toward her house. It's a nearly nightly event, but who's complaining?

I slip back inside and see Dad's made us two bowls of ice cream. I have a few bites but am already wondering how I'm going to fit into that pleather skirt I'm planning to wear to Aaron's party, so I shove my serving over his way. He scoops it up greedily in three big bites and says, “So, Maddy, should I be as worried as Hazel is about your new beau?”

I blush. “Dad, seriously, he's
not
my boyfriend. We were just …talking …that's all.”

“You know,” he says, peering over his bifocals at me with those insightful green eyes, “having a boyfriend is one thing, but I've never seen you so giddy before. You know I love Hazel; she's one of the family. But if she were in my family, I might not be as forgiving.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“It's just, Maddy, you're a good girl. You've always been a good girl. Hazel is a different animal altogether. I know her parents run a little looser ship over there, and I don't often remind you of it, dear, but when you turned sixteen, I only gave you three house rules, remember?”

Oh God, Dad's three house rules. How could I forget? He reminds me every other day or so. “Rule Number 1: no dating unless you've been formally introduced to the boy.” I add, “Or girl, whatever,” just to keep him on his toes.

He smiles, but only begrudgingly.

“Rule Number 2: my curfew is now and forever shall be 11 p.m. And Rule Number 3?” I sigh. “No sneaking out. Ever.”

Dad smiles but adds forebodingly, “I love you, Maddy. That's why I want to protect you. If you were a coroner, if you saw the way the world treats people—so cruelly, day after day—you'd want these rules for your daughter, too. They're simple, really. And, of course, no need for me to remind you that the penalty for breaking any of these house rules is no talking to Hazel for 72 hours and no driving for a week.”

I nod grimly. He's only caught me once, but it was brutal. Not the no-driving part so much, although when he says a week he means a full 7-day, 168-hour week. Not 6 days because I've learned my lesson or 167.5 hours because he's feeling generous, but one entire week. What was worse, believe it or not, was the no-talking-to-Hazel punishment. That was the longest 72 hours of my life.

I gulp a little, thinking ahead to breaking
all three house rules
in one single night. “Any particular reason you're reminding me of these rules tonight, Dad?”

He chuckles. “No, dear, other than the fact that you haven't heard a word I've said all night.”

D
AD'S LAST-MINUTE
warning echoes in my mind long after he's finally fallen asleep and I'm slipping into that snug little skirt that's been hanging in the back of my closet since, well, forever. Sure, I heard everything he said, and yet I'm still breaking all his rules.

Well, what would
you
do? (Yeah, that's what I thought.)

Even though I'm practically palpitating at the thought of Stamp at the party, I take it nice and slow, not wanting to get caught and lose my car or contact with Hazel for any extended period of time. I creep downstairs, hovering around Dad's bedroom door to make sure he's snoring. I'm so careful about this that even though he
is
snoring, and loudly, in a way that is almost un-fake-able, I tiptoe away and then sneak right back, just in case he's faking. He isn't.

Back upstairs I fold up a five-dollar bill (you know, in case there's some kind of cover charge) and slip it into a black cocktail purse I bought for last year's Fall Formal but never used (for reasons we don't need to go into here). I add my house keys, a compact, and some lipstick and slip the purse's long handle over my shoulder, messenger bag style. Then I slide open my well-oiled window (thanks to a can of WD-40 tucked under my bathroom sink behind a bag of cotton balls and a wall of Noxzema jars), and I climb stiffly down the old oak tree.

It's not something I do often, thanks to Dad's Three House Rules, but when your dad works the night shift and you've got a popular best friend like Hazel, well, let's just say I've found it's good to be prepared—just in case. Outside, the street is dark, solemn, and deserted, and the stiff breeze makes me happy I wore my black hair up in a simple ponytail.

It sucks that I lied to Dad, straight to his face. It sucks even more to be breaking his house rules behind his back, but when life sends you messages in the form of running into a six-foot-tall hunk twice in one day, it's best to start listening. (And better still to start acting.) Maybe Stamp is playing me, maybe this is all some big prank, but I don't think so. He seems sincere and friendly, and even if nothing at all happens tonight—not a single kiss or snuggle or peck on the cheek—at least I'll have something to tell Hazel tomorrow morning for a change.

I hug the curb, taking a left from Marlin Way onto Palm Street, where in the distance, another six blocks or so away, I can see Aaron's house high on the hill, overlooking Bluefish Bay and all lit up like a Christmas tree. I use it as a beacon, walking as the crow flies and taking shortcuts through backstreets and the occasional alley to save myself some time, not to mention the wear and tear on my white stockings.

The first jangling thrum of thunder sounds as I'm creeping through Mullet Manor, but by now I'm so fixated on the twinkling lights of Aaron's house that I can't be stopped. The road feels cool and slick beneath my sensible flats (thank God I didn't grab the heels I bought to go with the skirt). Whenever I feel like I've lost my way, I look up and the lights on the hill lead me ever onward.

The moon is still high, the cloud cover intermittently blocking out the huge silver orb, but by this point I'm too close to Aaron's house to turn back now. Only a few more blocks and I'll be at the foot of his hill.

The rain starts as I'm slinking through the back alley behind the vegetable stand. It starts slowly at first, little pebbles falling on my new white top that I hope will just go away. That happens in Florida: the sky can suddenly open up and dump an inch of rain in five minutes and then, just as rapidly, go back to being beautifully blue and scrumptiously dry.

It's clear this isn't that kind of storm as the rain goes from a sprinkle to a steady, fine drizzle. It's not splat-in-your-eye or knock-you-down heavy, but the drumming monotony is almost even
more
annoying. Even with the sensible ponytail, my hair goes from frizzy to split ends to drenched, my flats start picking up and putting down in toe-high puddles that get longer, and deeper, with every step.

The thunder is heavy and hard now, much too hard to be out in, but the first sign of lightning seems so far away I'm positive I'll be at the top of Aaron's hill, safe and dry, before it gets here. Wrong again. Thunderclap by rumble-boom, puddle by pond, the lightning keeps getting closer and closer.

Still, it's either keep going or turn back, and I'm much closer to Aaron's house than my own if I just …keep …going, so that's what I do. The funny thing is I'm almost there, rounding the thickest part of Crescent Cove and within spitting distance of Aaron's street when the lights go out. All the way. I hear the thunder, see the lightning, and then—
zap
—no picture, no sound, no …nothing.

Now, I've lived in Florida all of my life, gone swimming in the rain, watched lightning from the bay window, and never flinched; heard it flash and sizzle close enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up, but I've never had it strike so …close …before.

I wake up a few minutes later, facedown in a puddle (gross), shake the muddy water off my chin, and sit up. The rain is a slight mist now, the Florida air still thick with humidity but barely a cloud in sight. The moon is high, and I look at my hands in the shimmering silver light: muddy. The sleeves of my blouse? Even muddier. I look down at my chest. Not only is it muddy, but it's completely see-through, straight through to my push-up and vital cushion bra, and I can only imagine myself showing up at Aaron's party in a wet T-shirt. (Okay, wet peasant blouse, but …still.)

My heart sinks. I grab the compact out of my little black purse and open it to stare back at my pale, expressionless face, struggling not to cry. I look like death warmed over. I'm not kidding.

The mud is the least of it. My hair is limp, my makeup is obliterated, my lipstick is completely faded, there are big circles under my eyes, and is that? Is that …
really?
Why, yes it is—there is the slightest whiff of …smoke …coming from the top of my head. I groan, stand up, and straighten myself out. There's no way I can go to Aaron's party looking like the Little, Wet T-shirted Engine That Could.

I think of the party, the red cups, the beer, the lights, the house music, and that beautiful, glistening bicep attached to that beautiful, glistening Stamp, and I slowly turn for home.

I mean, what would
you
do? Run straight up the hill anyway, all wet and muddy, and shout Stamp's name over and over? Trust me, I'd love nothing better than to do just that, but desperate as I am, even I have (some) standards. By now it's late, I'm wet, I'm cold, I don't know how long I've been out, and I want to get home and sort things out before lightning strikes and I go down again.

That's the thing, though. The dark, brooding sky's not spewing lightning anymore; it's not even thundering. What's more, the moon was overhead when the storm started; now it's nearly halfway across the horizon. I must be imagining things, or maybe it's the cloud cover getting in the way.

Then I look up to Aaron's house on the hill and it's completely dark. Not dimly lit, like in a romantic way, but bleak, lights-out, everybody-go-home dark. Great. The party gets canceled, I walk for half an hour in the rain, and nobody bothers to tell me?

It's still raining as I head for home, and I'm kind of starting to wonder what that “hissing” sound on the top of my head is. It doesn't hurt at all, just sounds a little like fresh burger meat sizzling on a hot summertime grill.

I can tell I'm a little stiff. Okay, but who wouldn't be after a nighttime jaunt in a tsunami? I mean, lightning strikes nearby, you get knocked on your butt, you're gonna feel a little bad, right? It isn't until I get home and check my heart rate that I realize I'm not just stiff; I
am
a stiff.