Life on Mars (5 page)

Anyway, so they chained Andromeda to a rock and she would have been sea monster supper had Perseus not come along and seen how amazingly stunning and soft she was and fallen in love. Long story short, Perseus saved Andromeda and they got married.

Sometimes, when I thought about that story, and about the beautiful and gentle Andromeda, I thought of Priya.

And that was a new thing, believe me. And, no, I didn't know where it came from, either.

But I couldn't help it. Priya started wearing these bracelets that clinked and clanked on her arm, and sometimes she bit her lip when she was thinking hard about an algebra problem, and all of it was very … Andromeda-like.

But if you tell Tripp I said that, I'll kill you.

Priya lived across the street and two houses down, and her mom and my mom were best friends. Priya was also in our preschool class. She was the one who picked me up out of the sandpit and wiped the sand off the front of my shirt. And then she helped Tripp get up. And then she let us both share her juice box so we could get the sand out of our mouths.

Tripp was so into licking the cookie crumbs off his fingers, he forgot to look up and stubbed his toe on Priya's front porch step, pitching him forward into the door. So instead of knocking like normal people, we knocked like
ka-thud boom!
But Priya was every bit as used to opening her front door to a just-tripped Tripp as I was, so she didn't notice.

“What's up?” she asked. She was holding a marker and had a smudge of orange across the bridge of her nose.

I pointed to the moving van. “We got new neighbors,” I said.

“So?”

“So, I have to tell you guys something. Come on.”

They didn't ask, just followed me across the street and back down to my house, where we went up to CICM-HQ (minus CICM, since it was technically broken and Comet had probably peed on the magnifying glass by now, because Comet peed on everything unusual he found in the backyard).

I told them all about what I'd seen the night before—the old man in the black hoodie. The bag of body parts he was carrying. The box of more body parts or perhaps implements of torture of seventh-grade children. The way he scowled at me from beneath his hood, his eyes all shadowy like a vampire's.

“So you think he's a vampire,” Priya said disbelievingly.

“No.” (Maybe.)

“A monster?”

“Definitely not.” (Definitely maybe.)

She rolled her eyes. “So you think he's a … what? Serial killer?”

I forced out a laugh. (Yes. Yes, yes, absolutely, definitely, without a doubt yes.) “No.”

“I know what he is,” Tripp said. “He's a zombie. The undead. And inside that box was a shovel for him to dig himself out of his grave. And the bag was full of human faces.”

“Exactly,” I said, because sometimes my mouth moves before my brain can catch up.

“One, that's disgusting,” Priya said, holding up a finger. You
never wanted to argue with Priya when she started listing points in one-two-threes, because usually by the time she got to four, your argument was cooked. She held up a second finger. “Two, why would he need to carry around the shovel when he's already outside of the grave?”

“To pull the dirt back in on himself when he's done eating the faces. Duh,” Tripp said.

“And three, zombies don't eat faces, they eat brains.”

“How do you know?” Tripp challenged. “You've never even seen a zombie.”

“And you have?” Priya asked.

“Yeah, in like a hundred movies and stuff.”

I slapped my hand over my forehead. You always knew Tripp was going to lose an argument when he started adding “and stuff” to the end of his sentences.

“Seriously, Tripp, you watch way too much TV.” She turned to me. “But you can't possibly really believe he's a zombie.”

“All I know is he was very creepy. I'm pretty sure he's related to the Grim Reaper. His name is probably Mr. Death. And he wasn't just holding the box and bag, he was
taking
them somewhere. Out there.” I pointed toward the tree line. Priya's forehead scrunched up as she considered it.

“Maybe it was just trash and he was littering,” she said. “He is moving in, after all. When my aunt moved, she had tons of trash.”

“Still a criminal,” Tripp said triumphantly. “Just like I was saying.”

Priya held up a finger. “One, a litterbug is not exactly the same kind of criminal as a murderer. And two, you weren't saying he was a criminal, you were saying he's a zombie.”

“I'm pretty sure it's illegal to eat people's faces, Priya,” Tripp said.

“Brains! Brains, not faces!”

They continued to argue, but I tuned them out, concentrating instead on Mr. Death's house. I saw movement behind the curtains in one of the back rooms. I knew that room from going in and helping Widow Feldman move a TV once. Mrs. Feldman had always hung sheer white curtains back there, and when the weather was nice she'd open the window and you could see the curtain fluttering in the breeze. But now the window was covered with heavy curtains, and they were pulled together tightly.

But there was definitely movement behind them.

“You guys,” I whispered. But they didn't stop arguing, so I said it louder. “You guys! Look!”

They both stopped, and all of our eyes were glued to the curtains as they went from slight fluttering to more notable rippling.

“Do you think he's watching us?” Priya asked.

“What are you scared of, Priya, if he's not a zombie?” Tripp asked, but you could hear it in his voice—he was totally scared, too.

“Shut up, Tripp,” I said. I squinted harder. Harder. Harder.

And then suddenly the curtain was yanked back
completely, and Mr. Death's pale face and penetrating eyes were staring right out at us.

We all screamed and grabbed at one another, then scrambled back through my bedroom window.

Well, Priya and I scrambled. Tripp … tripped.

One night, a few weeks later, I was up in CICM alone. I'd come up with an idea about refracting the light off a closer mirror in order to get a brighter flash, and I wanted to try it out. I strapped a couple of old compact mirrors that Mom donated to CICM onto the sides of the flashlight and clicked the button a couple of times. I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like the beam got brighter.

And that's when I heard noise coming from around the side of the house again. Quickly, I snapped off the light and shimmied backward. Now that Mr. Death definitely knew about CICM, I was afraid that he'd use his superhuman zombie climbing powers to scale the side of my house and eat my face off before I could even cry for help.

Not really.

Okay, yeah, really.

The point was, I didn't want to get caught.

I held my breath and prayed that he couldn't hear my heartbeat. I watched until my vision got grainy and I wasn't sure if he was moving or if I was just seeing things. There were more noises and maybe a meaty smell, but I couldn't be sure, and then just as he rounded the corner and our eyes met …

“Arty!”

It was Cassi and her constant companion: her giant mouth.

“Ar-teee!” My bedroom light flipped on, bathing the backyard in light. “I know you're out there, you creeper. You need to come downstairs. Now! Family meeting! Dad said!”

I glanced back at Mr. Death just as he turned and walked into the woods.

“Arty!” she shouted again. “I know you hear me!”

I swiveled in through the window, yanked it shut, and dropped to my hands and knees. “Shhh! Do you want to get us both killed?” I crawled over to the light switch, reaching up only enough to paw it off.

“You. Are. So. Embarrassing,” Cassi said, then turned and tromped downstairs.

Once upon a time, we had family meetings often. Mom said it would make us all closer so that when we were grown up and they weren't around anymore, my sisters and I would still have each other's backs. We'd had dozens of family meetings, and while I didn't feel any closer to Vega or Cassi, I did like the board games we sometimes played.

We hadn't had a family meeting at all since Dad lost his job.

So why were we having one now?

Suddenly, I was more worried about what awaited me in the family den than about Mr. Death wandering around outside looking for a place to bury his dead bodies or eat faces. Slowly, I crept downstairs.

Dad was sitting in his recliner; his hair tufts, for once, were flat against his head. Vega was parked on the sofa, with her hand glued to the Bacteria. Cassi was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Comet, doing some sort of cheerleader stretch. Mom placed a plate of still-steaming banana nut bread on the coffee table. The Bacteria immediately leaned forward and swiped a piece.

Warily, I kneeled next to the table.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Family meeting,” Mom said brightly, perching on the arm of Dad's chair.

“But why are we—?”

“No raisins,” Vega interrupted, pointing at the last crumb of bread in the Bacteria's hand. She whipped around to Mom. “You didn't put raisins in this bread.”

Mom shrugged. “I got tired of them.”

Vega and I exchanged glances. Dad's tufts were combed down and Mom was tired of raisins?

She gasped. “You got a job!”

Dad smiled. “Well, I was hoping to be the one to break the news, but … yes, I did.”

Cassi squealed and clapped her hands. I let out a cheer. Vega's eye roll was a little less rolly than usual (which, trust me,
is as close to cheering as Vega comes). Even the Bacteria let out a whoop (a one-syllable whoop, of course).

“Congratulations, Daddy,” Cassi said. “Can I get a phone?”

“Well, before you …,” Dad began.

“No way you're getting a phone. I had to wait until sixth grade to get one,” Vega shot to Cassi, overriding Dad.

“So what? You weren't in cheer. I need a phone. Mom said …”

Dad tried again. “Listen, before anyone gets anything …”

“What? Mom!” Vega yelled. “You can't get her a phone. I was, like, the last person in the entire middle school to get one, and it was so humiliating, and you said …”

“Nobody's getting a phone,” Mom said, holding her hands out toward my sisters like she was directing traffic.

Cassi yelped. “You said I could get one. Not fair! It's none of Vega's—”

“It's totally fair. Armpit should get one before you do, and he doesn't even have one yet,” Vega yelled.

Technically, she had a point. I should have gotten a phone before Cassi, just by sheer seniority. However, I had no desire for a phone, so it didn't really matter to me if Cassi got one or not.

“No way! If I have to wait for Armpit, I'll never get one. He has, like, zero friends to call anyway.”

Whoa. Not true. What were Tripp and Priya—chopped liver? Also? My name is not Armpit. Just reminding everyone.

“Now, Cassiopeia,” Mom said, which got Cassi bellowing.

“You called me that name again! I can't believe after you said you would stop calling me that …”

And Vega started yelling at the Bacteria about how horrible her life was in fifth grade without a phone, and the Bacteria nodded with big eyes and just kept saying, “Totes,” his one-syllable way of saying “totally.” And Mom was apologizing, which was doing no good because when Cassi started really wailing, Comet began howling right along with her, the same way he sometimes did when a fire truck drove down the street.

And me? I watched, wishing I had some popcorn for this special family bonding moment and considered running into the kitchen real quick to pop a bag.

Until right in the middle of it all, Dad gave his hair tufts one mighty yank with both fists and yelled out,
“We're moving! The job is in Las Vegas!”

And just like that, everyone fell totally silent.