Deadgirl (4 page)

But I wasn’t heading that way. My vector angled for the primary target.

Zack.

I took a deep breath, cinched my backpack up, and sallied forth.

Teenagers flooded into the school like shambling zombies into a mall. I drifted through the sea with practiced ease—dodging other people being the native art form of the average high school student. Through the front gate, past the office, toward the library. I knew where Zack would be—anyone who’d met him knew where he’d be.

I thought about the odd, unbreakable predictability high school forces you into. Something about the immutable routine of classes and bells encourages you to hang out with the same people in the same spot every morning before class, every lunch, and after school. Shifting from one bench to another during lunch would cause bedlam—you’d invade other territories, reshuffle boundaries. Contradict the norm. Mass hysteria, in other words.

I had my school ID out before I even went inside the library—I flashed it to the assistant, who waved me through the turnstile. I took a moment to lament the picture on my sophomore ID—I looked like a cross between a slut and a maniac. Too-low shirt, rat’s-nest hair, abominable make-up, worse lighting. The fact that it had only been two months ago made it all the more depressing. And I had no explanation for the picture, either. It was just a really bad day to take a picture.

Most of the time, the library featured only one or two students wandering quietly through the stacks.

Now, before school, the library bulged with bodies. Students who didn’t do their homework, didn’t do the reading, or never even picked up their needed book in the first place spent their last few desperate minutes before the bell rang buzzing through the library. A press of students milled or sat around, searching or praying or working or all three.

I fit in just fine
. I rushed to the periodical section and tugged a few magazines from the rack. It didn’t take long for the fishy to bite, and that fact alone nearly completed the first leg of the mission. When his hand touched my shoulder I almost jumped out of my sneakers.

“Sorry,” Zack said as I turned toward him, “didn’t mean to spook you.”

Zack looked down at me with azure eyes. His face was handsome, almost boyish, but his bright blue eyes drew my attention every time. They didn’t seem to fit his look—they were too intense for his friendly face, too bright for his tan skin. They begged to be stared at, to be swum in. I obliged without hesitation.

His hair, messy-spiked in the current fashion and deep brown, made him look even taller than he was, I realized. He stood above me by a solid six inches, which was inherently ridiculous—I wasn’t even remotely short.

He wore a solid white short-sleeved button down shirt and jeans. Nothing fancy, but the white shirt made his skin look even darker. His tan couldn’t have been sun-based, I realized—he spent more time indoors than I did. I wondered what ethnicity he was. Then I wondered how long I’d been gawking at him while he asked me the same question over and over.

“Are you okay, Luce?” He asked me, again.

“Fine, fine, sorry,” I said. “You just scared the heck out of me.”

“Heck?” Zack asked, half-smiling.

I frowned, “Being a sailor isn’t cool. I am a lady.”

Zack’s half-smile ripened into a full one. His lop-sided grin made my stomach start doing gymnastics.
Stupid girl. Clamp down
.

“Not wrong there,” Zack said. “Whatcha looking for?”

He gestured to the stack of magazines in my hand. I flipped through them and shrugged.

“Forgot my Journalism assignment,” I said. I hadn’t, of course. “Needed an article to comment on.”

“Ah,” Zack said, and held up a newspaper, “There’s a good one in here about gangs.”

I made a face. “Seriously? Is that still a thing?”

Zack shrugged. “I guess no one’s told them how unfashionable gangs are.”

He wasn’t joking. He actually looked a little annoyed.

“Oh come on,” I said. “It was a joke. I’m just saying you don’t hear about gangs very much anymore.”

Zack nodded. My insides did a triple somersault. A 9.5, I imagine.

“So, uh, what brings you to the ole libraria?” I said in my best Spanish accent, which is also my worst Spanish accent.

I knew the reason he was in the library, but it didn’t hurt to reaffirm. Or to drive over a couple small-talk speed bumps before hitting the scary-talk freeway going eighty.

“
Biblioteque
,” Zack corrected, still smiling. “Just like to catch up on the paper before class.”

He waggled the newspaper in his hand again.

“You know,” I said, “I don’t know anyone our age that reads the newspaper.”

“Besides me?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, besides you.”

Zack smirked. “Well, I’m special.”

I agreed, but I wasn’t exactly going to admit it then and there. Maybe it was a little old-school, but I preferred to be the chased, not the chaser. Still, it was hard with him looking into my eyes like that not to just blurt out “I love you,” sling my arms around him, and tear his lips off with mine.

I took a deep breath.
Whoa, girl
.

“Does your mom tell you you’re special?”

“Constantly,” Zack said. “So, worst-segue-ever, by the way, are you going to the movies tonight? With us, I mean.”

My well-arranged cocky/flirty smile disintegrated. I was ready to play cat and mouse, and he was playing, well, dog.
Straight to the point
. I gathered myself together as fast as I could and gave a non-committal shrug. I’d been ready to play out his intentions, to see if he really wanted me to go or just wanted someone to go. The eager look on his face blew my spy attempts out of the water.

Raw excitement shot through my body like an electrical current.
Calm down, Lucy. Play it coolish.

“Well, I want to,” I said. “But Morgan is technically grounded. We’re still scheming a way out of it.”

Zack frowned, “She’s grounded? Wasn’t she at your house last night?”

Warning, warning. Why the hell did I bring up Morgan?
When trying to flirt with dream guy, mentioning goddess-like, super-hot, best friend is off-limits. Now he was thinking of her. Hell, I was thinking of her.
Brilliant.

“Well, yeah,” I said. “But she was
studying
. She had to call her mom from my house phone every hour.”

“Every hour?” Zack whistled. “Did she hit a nun with a shovel or something?”

I explained her situation. He nodded along and finally gave that long low whistle again.

“Well, that’s not so tough,” Zack said. “If you have a crazy friend.”

I had Daphne.
No one crazier
.

“Okay,” Zack said, and glanced around. “Sit with me and I’ll tell you my idea.”

My heart did a drum roll on my ribcage. But right as I opened my mouth to accept his invitation with whole-hearted glee, the loud electronic wail of the bell blasted through the library, through the school. Turned my excitement into ash.

“Crap,” Zack said. “What about lunch? Meet me at lunch?”

I swooned. I didn’t even know I was capable of swooning. In fact, my grasp of swooning mechanics might be described as
loose
. Still, I felt something that seemed to fit into that category pretty well
. Wow.
Just since yesterday I’d gone from cynical teenage girl-about-town to dumb-struck, marble-mouthed puppy dog.
I hate hormones
.

I nodded my affirmation, mostly because I didn’t come close to trusting my mouth. It might have spazzed and said “your eyes are like blue fire,” or “do you mind if I nibble your earlobe?” and then I would have to kill myself.

“Okay,” Zack said. “You still sit by the statue?”

I nodded again. It was too early in the day for making a fool of myself.

“All right, peace.”

Zack turned and bolted through the turnstile and out of the library. The Devil would show up for Sunday mass before Zack would be late to class. I realized by all technical definitions Zack was either a nerd or a goody-goody, but his casual confidence, not to mention boyish good looks, seemed to make him label-proof. I couldn’t call him a geek and make it stick anymore then I could call him a saucepan or a lima bean.

I went to Journalism with a spring in my step and my books clenched tight to my chest. I know I looked like an idiot, but no power I possessed could scrape the atomic grin from my lips. I think it was visible from space.

I didn’t have any article in Journalism to comment on—in fact, I’d already finished both of my articles for the school paper that month. As was usually the case, the fast writers finished up within days and sat around playing Text Twist or surfing the internet while the slower or lazier writers stared at their monitors in either terror or apathy.

I spent most of the period thinking about either Zack, the movies, or Zack at the movies. In other words, I was disgusting.

I went through second period World History with a slightly more active mindset. I enjoyed history because it was real life without all the boring parts. Edited for maximum excitement.

I left the class feeling even springier.

I met Morgan on the way to English. She swept up next to me on one side while Wanda angled in from the other. We joined together like any veteran flock of birds.

“So?” Morgan asked. Her eyes were wide in excitement.

“Well...” I said, enjoying the moment. “Let’s just say it was not a blanket invitation.”

“You think he digs you?” Wanda asked.

“Outlook is good,” I said.

My grin split even wider. I felt like the top of my head was going to hinge off of that smile and I’d be looking upside-down behind me.

I have weird thoughts
.

Ms. Fleece was already scribbling on the whiteboard when the three of us swept into English as nearly one entity.

“What about Benny?” I asked. “Any info there?”

“Mostly confirmation,” Morgan said. “Zack seems to have gotten over
The Weirdness
last year.”

The Weirdness
was our codename for the awkward, hot-and-cold, non-relationship Zack and I had last year. It was everything bad about a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship with none of the good. Mostly just idiosyncratic jealousy, territoriality, and longing glances. No one asked anyone out—we never really held hands or touched each other. We weren’t technically anything.
Blah. The Weirdness
haunted my dreams.

Still, if
The Weirdness
really had ended…

Daphne and Sara were in their usual seats, just beside ours. Sara—black, pretty, perfect-skinned—possessed the sort of annoying physique that went with being an avid softball player. Daphne was wearing a floral-print dress that complimented her olive skin and a pair of black combat boots that did not. She must have been mid-rant when we entered—a circle of students were turned to face her, but she
shooed
them off and looked up at me. A smile transformed her face into something heart-shaped and vaguely adorable.

“Did I hear
Zack
?” Daphne said, and I groaned.

Sara sat up, “Can we talk about Zack again?”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” Morgan said, and I made a real concerted effort not to strangle her.
Judas.

Morgan filled them in on the details about the sudden and inexplicable intrusion of Zack back into my life. As soon as they heard about
The Plan
, they clamored for a resolution.

“Well,” Morgan said, “Benny caught on pretty quickly to my intentions. He said Zack loves when your hair is down and also when you wear boots.”

“Thanks, but I don’t take fashion advice from Benny,” I said. “He wears all black and skinny jeans.”

“Technically it’s fashion advice from Zack,” Wanda corrected.

I flashed her a betrayed look.

“Skinny jeans are
in
, you know—” Sarah began.

“No,” Daphne snapped. “They make your feet huge and your butt enormous.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said.

“Swell,” Ms. Fleece said.

When I looked up, I realized Ms. Fleece had been standing in front of Daphne’s desk for some time, listening in. I clamped my mouth closed and felt my face go bright red.

“Sorry, Ms. Fleece,” Morgan whispered.

Ms. Fleece stared down at Daphne, who flashed her thousand-watt smile.

“Cute,” Ms. Fleece said. “Get your book out, Ms. Karras. You do remember books, right? English?”

I laughed, but Ms. Fleece turned her glare on me and I pulled out
Lord of the Flies
like I was a gunslinger at high noon.

“Good, good,” Ms. Fleece said, “Page fifty-six. Ms. Karras and Ms. Day can trade reading out loud for the rest of the class.”

I groaned and slumped in my chair.
This was going to be a long fifty-five minutes
.

Fourth period Art went more smoothly than English, but it was just me and Wanda and I can’t imagine I was great company. My brain vibrated in my skull, half-formed thoughts and hopes zinging through it. The static made thinking impossible—thirty minutes into the class my sketch of a fruit bowl consisted of a half-circle and a straight line. My pencil ticked back and forth in my hand, in time with the clicking of the broken cog in my mind that turned all of my engines back toward Zack. I knew how repulsive I was being, but I couldn’t help it.

I hadn’t thought of Zack in so long, the breaking of my Zack-embargo was like driving a metal spike through a dam. All the built up water exploded through the tiny crack and drowned me in a river of stupid.

The lunch bell bleated too quickly. I looked up, stunned, sporting what had to be cow-face. Wanda transmitted quiet annoyance on all channels.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t apologize so much,” Wanda said, mimicking my own words to her. It wasn’t terribly funny.

“Cute,” I said. “Walk me to lunch and tell me something inflammatory. I mean really piss me off.”

“Why?”

“You know, like, an emotional slap in the face. To wake me.”