Zombies Don't Cry Page 15

  “Hazel, let’s quit pretending like this is any old school year, okay? Let’s quit pretending like what happened Saturday night never happened, like you don’t know I’m the Living Dead. Now, given that I have a few bigger things on my mind than the Fall Formal right now, do you really think I give one shit about the rest of my junior flippin’ year?”

  She doesn’t answer. At least, not until we’re finally angling for a spot in the student parking lot. Then she says, quietly, calmly, like she’s been giving it a lot of thought, “So what am I supposed to do, Maddy? Sabotage my junior year, too? Just because you’re dead, just because you don’t care about school anymore? It still matters a lot to me. A whole lot, and I can’t …afford …to waste a whole year following you around while you finish learning what it means to be a zombie. I mean, I still have to get into college, find a man, you know …things most human beings care about. So you’re not entirely alone in this, okay? When your best friend turns into a zombie, well, there’s …there’s …collateral damage.”

  I turn to touch her arm, but she’s already clattering the seat belt out of its clasp and grabbing her purse and bolting from the car.

  “I’m sorry, Hazel,” I say, not caring that she’s turned it all around—again—and made it about her; not caring that it hurt me more than she’ll ever know to dump Stamp like that. Just wanting, just needing, my best friend back.

  She pauses before slamming the door, then slams it anyway.

  She takes a step away, pauses, turns back, and leans in. For a second there, I think she’s going to apologize. I mean, I actually believe she’s going to realize becoming a zombie trumps being unpopular.

  But instead she says, “I know you didn’t choose this, Maddy, but for once I wish you could think about how your actions affect me for a change.”

  And instead of blasting her, instead of slamming her, instead of pointing out that all I’ve ever done was think of her—even in the Afterlife—I cave, I whimper, I practically beg. Before she can walk away I ask, hopefully, desperately, “See you in Home Ec?” (Desperate much?)

  She looks at me like I’ve just spoken Farsi or something. “Are you crazy, Maddy? The Fall Formal is tonight, remember? But then, why would you? You only turned down the hottest guy in school. Anyway, the Decorating Committee is in lockdown mode for the next 12 hours. I won’t be in any of my classes today. Sorry.” (Not that she sounds it.)

  She’s clattering away now, waving at some of her stupid new Decorating Committee friends, when I shout, a tad desperately, “So, when will I see you?”

  But she doesn’t answer; doesn’t even turn around. Nice, Maddy. First Stamp, now Hazel. “You’re running out of people to hurt,” I murmur to my Goth reflection in the rearview mirror. Then I fix my black lipstick, shut off my car, down the rest of stupid Tracy Byrd’s stupid coffee, and head into school.

  Homeroom is intolerable. Over the intercom it’s nothing but Fall Formal this, Fall Formal that, Night of a Thousand Stars here, don’t forget to personalize your corsage there. Even after the announcements are over, the whole class is abuzz with talk of tuxedo rentals and dress sizes and hair appointments and the going rate for pedicures down at the Clip ‘N’ Curl.

  I picture Stamp in his tux, looking just about ravishing with hair slicked back, a shy, eager-to-please smile, and a corsage for me. I wonder who he’ll take in my stead—which one of those “dozens” of girls he’s asked since our little tiff—and I’m glad, actually, that I won’t be there to see the two of them walk arm-in-arm.

  Homeroom finally ends, but Civics class is no better. Most of the class must be on the Decorating Committee because they’re nowhere to be found. With so few people, the teacher lets us text whoever we want for 50 full minutes. With no one on my friends list who’s actually still my friend, it’s a long, long 50 minutes.

  Finally, I scuttle through the halls to the Home Ec room, where, surprise, surprise, Bones and Dahlia are leaning against the wall outside. Seeing them standing there, so smugly, I suddenly remember the shovel in my hand, Scurvy’s head at my feet, and I would love nothing better than to shove both of these Zerkers through the wall.

  Instead I shuffle right up to them. “Sorry I missed you guys last night,” I say, the span of the last few days making me angry, coarse, and fearless.

  Dahlia makes big O eyes and says, “Who …us?”

  “Where?” asks Bones.

  “You guys know where, you guys know who, and you guys know why. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll never be a Zerker; never.”

  They chortle, and before I barge into class, Bones whispers, “Maybe we don’t need you after all, Maddy.”

  “Yeah,” Dahlia says. “Your friends are so …delicious. Much better-tasting than these pathetic Home Ec losers—”

  I’ve never hit a girl before, or a boy, for that matter, but I have to confess it feels absolutely divine. No, wait; that’s not quite right. What’s the word Dahlia used right before I punched her square in the nose? Delicious. That’s it—delicious!

  “You bitch,” she screams, both hands covering her nose as she squats down to the ground.

  Bones turns to her and gently peels her hands away. Underneath them, her nose looks crooked, like a boxer’s. (Ha! Like a 72-year-old boxer’s.) There’s no blood, of course, but I can tell just by looking I scored a direct hit.

  I glance down at my knuckles, which appear slightly pink but none the worse for wear. I smile, Dahlia whimpers, but Bones stands up to his full six feet four inches and looks down at me with his evil, yellow eyes.

  “Come on,” he says to Dahlia, “I’ll get you to the school nurse. I think Ms. Haskins has Home Ec covered today.”

  The way he says it, so delighted, so thrilled about Home Ec, I can’t imagine what he means. That is, until I walk into class and see Ms. Haskins for myself.

  The class seems oblivious that their teacher is the Living Dead. They murmur amongst themselves, idly cracking eggs and sifting flour as Muffin Month continues. (Today’s flavor? Cranberry raisin.)

  Ms. Haskins, so normally put together, so freshly fashionable, so sexily sophisticated, now looks tired, beat, and thoroughly worn. She’s still dressed to the nines, still presentable (obviously Bones and Dahlia have given her the broad strokes about passing among the Normals), but something has clearly changed. Now I know what Bones meant about my “friends” being so tasty.

  Apparently, Scurvy wasn’t enough; they’ve gotten to Ms. Haskins, too.

  But this is no wild-eyed Scurvy; this is no frenzied Zerker. Whatever they made her, they made her like …them. Her black hair, once so ravenlike and enviable, is now a dusty shade of gray. Her eyes are yellow and dazed, like maybe she’s waiting to wake up from a bad dream. Her clothes are still snug and sexy, just somewhat …off; the hem of her slutty red skirt is crooked, and it looks like she missed a button in her too-tight, too-white blouse. (Hmm, guess now that she’s dead herself, she’s no longer in mourning for her three former students.)

  As the class clusters and mixes, banters and bakes, Ms. Haskins kind of …hovers …around her back desk area, silently pacing from one end of the room to the other like a gear in a groove. I hold my purse close, ignore the other kids, and walk slowly back to where she’s pacing.

  “Ms. Haskins?” I say, tentatively, the marks from Scurvy’s stealth attack still fresh on my mind and, literally, torn into my skin.

  She looks up, eyes and teeth yellow, smile grim between two thin, razor-tight lips. “Yes …Maddy?” She says it like maybe she’s not sure it’s me or, for that matter, who I am or why she should care.

  I clear my throat. “I just was wondering, I mean …are you …okay?”

  She cocks her head, just so, and where her high white blouse collar formerly hid the bite marks, now I see them plain as day. They’re not fresh and bubbling, like Scurvy’s were, but scarred over and pale, like maybe they turned her first—and she’s had all night, or even longer, to calm down, smooth out, and come to what’s left o
f her senses.

  “I’m fine.” Her voice croaks, like maybe overnight she smoked 42 packs of cigarettes nonstop while downing a dozen pints of 100-proof whiskey. She looks somewhere over my shoulder as her eyes refuse to focus. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just …forget it. Listen, I’m not feeling so hot myself. Do you think I could have a hall pass to—”

  Before I can even finish coming up with an excuse, she reaches down to her desk and tosses me the whole pad of her personalized “From the Kitchen of Ms. Haskins” hall passes. I shake my head, take them all, and slip out of class.

  Bones and Dahlia are gone by now, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t go anywhere near the nurse’s station. I imagine them roaming the halls, chomping on anyone I’ve ever known or loved or cared about or borrowed a No. 2 pencil from. I cower in the C-wing girls’ room for as long as I dare, leaning against the busted hand dryer under the window and frantically texting Chloe and Dane: Wher R u guyz?!?!?!

  Neither one answers right away, and I’m scared of getting trapped in some small space alone, so I wander over to the biggest place I know: the gym. I’ve never been honored enough to be asked to decorate for the Fall Formal (let alone attend), so it’s quite something to see the auditorium in frantic, festive behind-the-scenes mode.

  The posters around school have been touting the “Night of a Thousand Stars” theme (real original, guys) for weeks now, and when I walk into the gym and see the preparations for myself, it’s like they’re taking the theme literally. Okay, so maybe there aren’t technically a thousand, but there are hundreds and hundreds of cardboard stars slathered with glitter spread out across the entire gym floor.

  Rows of Decorating Committee members loop fishing string through the holes in the tops of stars for hanging later; they look like they’re picking strawberries or something, bent over and focused, moving shoulder-to-shoulder, step by step, row by row.

  I hear Hazel’s voice before I see her. She’s laughing, naturally; with a boy, double naturally. Only, it’s not just any boy. In the middle of the gym, surrounded by shiny cardboard stars at my frozen feet, I watch as Stamp makes Hazel giggle, as Hazel reaches up to toy with his Superman curl, as Stamp reaches back to move a wisp of red hair from her face, as he leans in with googly eyes, puckers up, ready to plant one on Hazel’s—

  “Hey,” someone shouts. “Look where you’re going.”

  But I can’t look where I’m going. I can’t even see what I’m doing as I’m backing out of the gym, crunching stars beneath my feet left and right, glue and glitter stuck to the soles of my new army boots, desperate to leave the auditorium and never, ever look back.

  26

  Eternally Yours

  GRADUALLY, THROUGHOUT THE rest of that endless day, order breaks down at Barracuda Bay High School. Whether it’s the four or five people missing from each class to paint and glitter and hang stars in the gym, or the two or three more who simply skipped school to alter their dresses or get their hair done, or the lazy teachers handing out word searches and crossword puzzles to the kids unpopular or lame enough to actually come to class, the whole school has that lazy, do-nothing, care-about-nothing, day-before-summer feel.

  Anticipation fills the halls, kids are abuzz, and even the teachers—at least, the ones the Zerkers haven’t turned into zombies, that is—are in a festive mood. I make it a habit as I enter each class to address each teacher. If their clothes are all buttoned properly, their eyes aren’t yellow, and they respond promptly with my name, I smile and say, “Oh, never mind.” So far, so good.

  All except for Ms. Haskins, that is.

  I walk into Art class prepared for the worst, but Mrs. Witherspoon is bright-eyed and the class is nearly deserted. The Art Chicks who actually bothered to show up for class are hanging out together at one of the long, black drawing tables in the back, flipping through a new copy of Elle and ignoring me with their droll expressions and knowing eyes and whispering mouths.

  Stamp is there, fuming in the back, arms crossed, lips tight—not zombie tight, just …pissed tight—waiting for me. With so many empty seats available, I skip the one beside him and sit in front of him instead.

  “Real mature,” he says. I hear his chair scooting and then, just like that, he’s right next to me.

  “Back off,” I say, forgetting my new zombie strength and shoving him away. His chair scoots literally to the next table over.

  Mrs. Witherspoon cocks an eyebrow above her big goofy glasses. The Art Chicks giggle and one says, “Lover’s spat,” in a singsong voice, but Stamp just picks up his chair, walks back across the room, and sets it down even closer to me.

  “Bench-press much?” he asks, face red from being flung across the room by, of all things, a girl.

  “A little,” I lie. The Guide said I’d get stronger over time, but this? First I’m beheading gravediggers with a single swing; next I’m breaking Zerker nose from the standing position; then I’m tossing 200-pound jock hunks halfway across the room? A girl could really get used to this.

  “So …you know about me and …Hazel?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” I say, playing it innocent.

  Stamp frowns. “We saw you in the gym, Maddy. Everyone saw you in the gym.”

  When I don’t answer, he adds, “I didn’t want you to …find out …that way.”

  I groan and roll my eyes. “How did you want me to find out, Stamp? Were you and Hazel going to rent out one of those sign planes and announce it to all of Barracuda Bay at once so my humiliation could be complete?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who turned me down, remember?”

  “Okay, fine, but then you have to turn right around and run and ask Hazel? Hazel? Really? My best friend? What happened to those three dozen other chicks you were going to ask first?”

  He’s quiet, looking down at his shoes, not defending himself, and suddenly I get it. Hazel and her moody ways lately, Hazel jock-blocking me the day Chloe took me shopping, Hazel ditching our before- and after-school rides all week, the frustrated look on her face this morning as she was getting out of my car, as if she wanted to say something but then, at the very last minute, thought better of it.

  “You didn’t ask her, did you, Stamp? She asked you.”

  He doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t nod, but I know.

  Suddenly a thought occurs to me. “Just tell me this, Stamp. Did she ask you before you asked me …or after?”

  Stamp blushes, opens his mouth to answer, then stops himself. “I …I can’t answer that, Maddy.” “You just did.”

  Then the door bursts open and suddenly Hazel storms in.

  “Hazel,” we shout, halfway out of our seats by the time she starts marching down the aisles.

  She looks …bad. My stomach drops. Even from across the room, I can see the fresh bite marks on her shoulder where her rapid pace makes her roomy peasant blouse bunch and gather, then unbunch and ungather.

  Oh God; oh God, no. Not Hazel; not my Hazel.

  “Get away from him, Maddy,” she shouts, spittle flying, eyes wide, cold and—yellow. Flashlight-in-the-dark yellow. Black-cat’s-eye yellow. Zerker yellow.

  Oh God, not her, too.

  In a flash, everything is gone. All of it. Everything we’ve built together—wasted, utterly and truly abandoned. I picture Hazel as I first met her: pigtails then, pigtails now; a little frilly pink dress as we drew on the sidewalk with pink and blue chalk. (Guess which color she chose?)

  I think of all the firsts we’ve shared since then: first day of junior high, first locker combinations, first periods (and not the kind you go to when the bell rings, either), first kisses, first crushes, first sips of beer at Rob Blonsky’s pool party, first driver’s license exams, first—everything.

  I can’t imagine a time when Hazel and I weren’t sharing firsts together; I’ve known her for most of the years I’ve been alive—and now neither of us is alive. And even now, suddenly, I can’t stand the sight of her.

  Knowi
ng what she is, knowing what Bones and Dahlia have done to her, what they’ve made her, how—ugly—they’ve made her, the sight of her clenching white jaws and glowing yellow eyes makes me want to look away, to deny her, to deny all those firsts.

  But I can’t. Even now, she’s still my best friend.

  Stamp stands up, his chair flying back into the table behind us with a clattering explosion of plastic and metal. As Mrs. Witherspoon and the Art Chicks watch on in amazement, Hazel launches herself across the table at me. (I mean, this is some serious soap opera shit right here.)

  Stamp is fast but not fast enough. I am, though. With my new strength, I grab her wrists with one hand and the back of her neck with the other, slamming her—hard—into the table. With her face hanging down off the table, I lean in and whisper into her ear, “I know what you’ve done; I know what they did to you. Back off, Hazel; you’re not up to this.”

  She hisses, spits, and I stand up, inch away so she’s out of range before releasing her. Then I shove Stamp out of the way as she bolts upright and wheels around. It feels wrong, unnatural, taking sides with Stamp against my best friend, but I’ve already seen what the Zerker strain did to Scurvy. If it’s going to do that to Hazel, she’s already gone. But then a strange thing happens. Suddenly a little of the old Hazel is back—the popular one, the one who takes extracurricular activities to round out her college applications, the people pleaser, the teacher pleaser.

  With Stamp safe behind me and the Art Chicks clustered in the other corner of the room protected by a quivering Mrs. Witherspoon, Hazel stands up, straightens her frilly dress, tucks a strand of red hair behind her pink ear, and says, “I’m sorry about that little …display …Mrs. Witherspoon. I don’t know what got into me. Stamp, if you’ll be so kind, the Decorating Committee needs your …help.”