Undead Much

  “I know,” I sa­id, trying not to let my ter­ror and con­fu­si­on show. Did we re­al­ly ne­ed to go over this? I knew I was in tro­ub­le, what I didn’t know was how to get out of it.

  “I don’t know what they ha­ve on you, but if it’s eno­ugh to to­tal­ly dis­co­unt the fact that no Set­tler has ever be­en con­vic­ted of-”

  “Not­hing!” I yel­led, then lo­we­red my vo­ice when a co­up­le of guys in front of us tur­ned to sta­re. “Not­hing, I swe­ar. They won’t even tell me what I’m be­ing ac­cu­sed of. I me­an, I know it has to do with ra­ising tho­se zom­bi­es, but I don’t know why I’m the only sus­pect. They’re sup­po­sed to be sen­ding the for­mal char­ge to my ho­use to­day, and ho­pe­ful­ly that will gi­ve me so­met­hing to go on, but-”

  “Well then, who­ever re­al­ly ra­ised them must be a Set­tler, and pro­bably a su­per-po­wer­ful one li­ke you.”

  “Right.” Duh, Mo­ni­ca. I fi­gu­red that one out a whi­le ago.

  “And wha­te­ver fo­ren­sic evi­den­ce they’ve got must pro­ve that.”

  Okay, not so duh. She was pro­bably on to so­met­hing. Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs’ tests must ha­ve imp­li­ca­ted me in so­me way. But how? I knew I hadn’t do­ne anyt­hing. At le­ast… not on pur­po­se, which ma­de me won­der aga­in if the­re was any way I co­uld ha­ve ma­de so­met­hing hap­pen wit­ho­ut even kno­wing it. Of co­ur­se, if that we­re the ca­se, I was in as much tro­ub­le as if I had ra­ised tho­se zom­bi­es on pur­po­se. If SA tho­ught I was ra­ising SRUs with my su­per-Set­tler mo­jo, I’d be stuck in a ma­gi­cal con­ta­in­ment unit and ne­ver set free.

  “I didn’t do it. Not even by ac­ci­dent,” I sa­id, pa­nic ma­king me bab­ble be­fo­re thin­king.

  “Of co­ur­se you didn’t. Don’t be a fre­ak. You can’t ac­ci­den­tal­ly ra­ise zom­bi­es. Be­si­des, tho­se things the ot­her day stank of worm­wo­od. So­me­one ra­ised them on pur­po­se, and we’re go­ing to fi­gu­re out who it was,” she sa­id, ope­ning the do­or for me and let­ting me pass be­fo­re fol­lo­wing me to my loc­ker. “We’ll just ha­ve to fi­gu­re out what kind of evi­den­ce the En­for­cers ha­ve and how it might ma­ke you lo­ok gu­ilty even if-”

  “Hold on a se­cond, I-”

  “I’ll do so­me re­se­arch to­night and let you know if I find anyt­hing in­te­res­ting.”

  “Mo­ni­ca, why are you do­ing this?” I as­ked, unab­le to help myself. I was sus­pi­ci­o­us of ever­yo­ne la­tely. “Why are you hel­ping me?”

  She fro­ze, lo­oking as surp­ri­sed as I felt, as if she’d just re­ali­zed hel­ping was exactly what she was do­ing. She re­co­ve­red qu­ickly, ho­we­ver, and her surp­ri­sed lo­ok tur­ned in­to a gla­re. “Why wo­uldn’t I? You didn’t do this. You’re such a go­ody two-sho­es it’s vo­mit-indu­cing. SA and the En­for­cers are crazy, and I don’t want to see so­me­one in­no­cent go to ja­il.”

  “Even me?”

  Mo­ni­ca coc­ked her he­ad to the si­de, li­ke she was stud­ying so­me stran­ge bug she’d dis­co­ve­red un­der a rock. “I don’t ha­te you. You know that, right? I me­an, I ac­tu­al­ly tho­ught we we­re be­co­ming fri­ends.”

  “Fri­ends,” I re­pe­ated, shoc­ked to the tips of my new Uggs.

  “Fri­ends who cons­tantly rip on each ot­her?”

  “That’s just kid­ding aro­und, Meg. To­ug­hen up. I ma­ke fun of all the sop­ho­mo­res on the squ­ad.” She shrug­ged. “But I don’t want to see anyt­hing bad hap­pen to any of them, and I don’t want to see anyt­hing bad hap­pen to you. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce the En­for­cers are only he­re for you in the first pla­ce. They’ll be go­ne the se­cond you set fo­ot in ja­il.”

  Ah. Now it ma­de sen­se. “And you won’t ha­ve a leg up on yo­ur com­pe­ti­ti­on if you don’t ke­ep tra­ining with them. Ni­ce to know yo­ur mo­ti­va­ti­ons are sel­fish, as al­ways.”

  Mo­ni­ca rol­led her eyes, but the­re was a smi­le on her fa­ce. “Wha­te­ver, Berry. I’ll text you af­ter lunch to let you know what I find out at the che­er tab­le.” Then she tur­ned to flo­un­ce away down the hall.

  “Dit­to.” I grab­bed my Eng­lish no­te­bo­ok and slam­med my loc­ker shut with a smi­le. I didn’t want to ad­mit it, but I was glad Mo­ni­ca tho­ught we we­re be­co­ming fri­ends. I co­uld use a few fri­ends, even ones who cons­tantly in­sul­ted my lack of fas­hi­on sen­se and tho­ught I was a vo­mit-indu­cing go­ody two-sho­es.

  Hey, beg­gars can’t be cho­osers.

  I was in luck at lunch. Only fo­ur of the twel­ve che­er clo­nes had first lunch, so I wasn’t ne­arly as in­ti­mi­da­ted as I had tho­ught I’d be. Still, it was awk­ward fi­gu­ring out exactly how to in­si­nu­ate myself with pe­op­le I’d ne­ver da­red-or de­si­red-to hang with be­fo­re. Luc­kily, I trip­ped over my own fe­et and spil­led spag­het­ti all over the­ir tab­le be­fo­re I had a chan­ce to get too angsty abo­ut my met­hod of ap­pro­ach.

  “Oh my God, ew!” Kim­berly sho­ved her cha­ir back just in ti­me to avo­id a red-sa­uce splat­ter, whi­le her twin, Ka­te, dod­ged a ro­gue me­at­ball. Lee Chin just sta­red at me, her al­mond eyes cle­arly unimp­res­sed.

  “I’m so sorry!” I blus­hed as I plun­ked down my now-spag­het­ti­less tray and grab­bed a bunch of nap­kins from the dis­pen­ser at the cen­ter of the tab­le. “I just trip­ped and I-”

  “You did that on pur­po­se.” Ka­te gla­red at me and snatc­hed the nap­kins from my hand. “Are you pom lo­sers so des­pe­ra­te to ma­ke us lo­ok bad that-”

  “It was an ac­ci­dent, Kay. Re­lax.” Aaron, the lo­ne boy on the squ­ad and the only per­son still smi­ling, grab­bed so­me nap­kins and mop­ped up the no­od­les on his si­de of the tab­le. “Hey, I’m Aaron. Me­gan, right?”

  I re­tur­ned his smi­le, tho­ugh I was al­re­ady a lit­tle un­com­for­tab­le with the flirt fac­tor of his grin. What was with me and boy-type at­ten­ti­on la­tely? First Cliff and now Aaron. Of the two, most wo­uld say Aaron was the mo­re temp­ting-what with the who­le all-Ame­ri­can hot­tie thing and be­ing ali­ve and all that-but he didn’t tempt me for a se­cond. In fact, he kind of ga­ve me a mild ca­se of the “ews.” Now Cliff, on the ot­her hand…

  No­pe. Not go­ing to think abo­ut that. Fo­cus, Me­gan!

  “Ye­ah. I’ve se­en you at the Ho­nor So­ci­ety me­etings,” I sa­id as I ca­su­al­ly slid in­to the only se­at not splat­te­red with sa­uce, which hap­pe­ned to be right next to Aaron.

  “I’m vi­ce pre­si­dent. Pi­er­ce usu­al­ly in­sists on me be­ing the­re,”he sa­id. It was a smart-ass re­mark, but it was im­pos­sib­le to get my fe­elings hurt with the way he was lo­oking at me. Aaron was ob­vi­o­usly in­te­res­ted. Le­aning-clo­se-and-sta­ring-into-my-eyes in­te­res­ted. How we­ird and un­com­for­tab­le was that?

  But at le­ast it ga­ve me an ex­cu­se to hang aro­und the tab­le, so­met­hing that wo­uld ha­ve be­en dif­fi­cult wit­ho­ut him, gi­ven the gla­res of the three ot­her che­er­le­aders at the tab­le. The “you’re not wan­ted he­re” vi­bes we­re pretty in­ten­se. I was go­ing to ha­ve to think fast if I was go­ing to fi­gu­re out a way to ca­su­al­ly find out whe­re the­se fo­ur had be­en Tu­es­day night just be­fo­re dusk.

  “So, how has the fund-ra­ising be­en go­ing? I he­ard you all had a gre­at tur­no­ut Tu­es­day night,” I sa­id, my he­art ra­cing. I was such a bad li­ar! I didn’t even know if they’d do­ne anyt­hing Tu­es­day night, let alo­ne how the tur­no­ut was.

  “It’s no­ne of yo­ur-”

  “It was pretty go­od.” Aaron in­ter­rup­ted Kim­berly be­fo­re she co­uld tell me to mind my own bu­si­ness. “But not­hing li­ke that top­less car wash.” He la­ug­hed and le­aned even clo­ser, un­til I co­uld smell the pe­anut but­ter on his
bre­ath. It wasn’t a bad smell per se, but hel­lo? Had the du­de ne­ver he­ard of per­so­nal spa­ce? “You don’t know how many guys we­re di­sap­po­in­ted to find top­less me­ant you we­ren’t was­hing the tops of the cars.”

  “Ye­ah, well, my dad wasn’t di­sap­po­in­ted. I tho­ught he was go­ing to bust so­met­hing un­til I told him what was re­al­ly go­ing on.”

  “So you we­re the­re?” Aaron as­ked, ob­vi­o­usly not get­ting my “back away from me” vi­bes. He sco­oted his cha­ir even clo­ser. “I ca­me by but didn’t see you.”

  “Ye­ah, Aaron left us high and dry at our Pa­rents’ Night Out to go gi­ve his hard-ear­ned mo­ney to the com­pe­ti­ti­on.” Kim­berly sho­ok her he­ad in di­sap­po­int­ment whi­le her twin snif­fed her di­sap­pro­val.

  “He’s a boy. He can’t re­sist the pull of the Slut Squ­ad.” Lee Chin smir­ked.

  “I was the­re, but I had to le­ave early for a… fa­mily thing,” I sa­id. “What abo­ut you guys, how long did you work Tu­es­day night?”

  “From fi­ve thirty to al­most mid­night. So­me of tho­se pa­rents re­al­ly to­ok that night-out stuff se­ri­o­usly. I co­uldn’t be­li­eve it. We still had two fi­ve-ye­ar-olds at ele­ven thirty,” Ka­te sa­id, war­ming up as the whi­ning abo­ut kids en­su­ed.

  “It was crazy. I had no idea kids we­re so much work,” her twin ag­re­ed.

  “I’m ne­ver ha­ving child­ren.” Lee Chin shud­de­red. “They’re so… chil­dish. And they smell funny.”

  I did my best not to la­ugh, but al­most lost it when I ca­ught Aaron rol­ling his eyes. He tho­ught the girls at his tab­le we­re crazy too. May­be he wasn’t so bad. May­be he had no depth per­cep­ti­on or so­met­hing, or the­re was so­me ot­her re­aso­nab­le exp­la­na­ti­on for his we­ird clo­se­ness.

  “And the who­le squ­ad was the­re the en­ti­re ti­me, ex­cept Aaron?” I as­ked.

  “Why do you want to know?” Lee Chin gla­red in my di­rec­ti­on. “We­re you sent he­re to spy on us or so­met­hing?”

  “No! No way, I me­an, what wo­uld be the po­int, right?” I shrug­ged and to­ok a bi­te of my ca­ke. Just act ca­su­al and they’ll calm down, and not­hing’s mo­re ca­su­al than ca­ke eating. “Who­ever has the most mo­ney Fri­day wins, so it do­esn’t re­al­ly mat­ter-”

  “It mat­ters if you’re trying to psych us out. And if that’s the ca­se, you’d bet­ter back off.” Kim­berly ad­ded her gla­re to Lee Chin’s.

  “La­di­es, chill out. Me­gan he­re is co­ol.” Aaron wrap­ped his arm aro­und the back of my cha­ir and squ­e­ezed my fa­ce with his free hand. “Lo­ok at the­se chubby lit­tle che­eks. Is this the fa­ce of a spy?”

  “Thanks.” I la­ug­hed and ac­ted li­ke I was com­for­tab­le with the to­uchy-fe­ely stuff, but was re­li­eved when Aaron let go.

  Until he star­ted run­ning his fin­ger along my lips, of co­ur­se.

  “You had a crumb,” he sa­id, hol­ding the fin­ger with sa­id crumb on it up bet­we­en us.

  “Oh, thanks. Well… gu­ess I sho­uld go get so­me mo­re spag­het­ti be­fo­re they clo­se the li­ne.” Aaron was star­ting to ske­eve me out, and it se­emed I’d got­ten as far as I was go­ing to get with the che­er­le­aders any­way. “See you guys to­night.” I grab­bed my back­pack and ma­de a be­eli­ne for the ent­ran­ce to the hot li­ne, pre­ten­ding I didn’t he­ar Kim­berly call that I’d for­got­ten my lunch tray and bet­ter co­me back and put it away be­ca­use she wasn’t in char­ge of cle­aning up my mes­ses.

  After all the crap the che­er­le­aders had pul­led la­tely, le­aving them at a spag­het­ti-splat­te­red tab­le se­emed the very le­ast I co­uld do.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I’ll pick you up aro­und ni­ne,” Et­han sa­id as we pul­led up in front of Piz­za Pie just be­fo­re the din­ner rush. “I think I fo­und so­me­one at the hos­pi­tal who’s wil­ling to gi­ve us the fo­ur-one-one on why the cops we­re the­re. She gets off her shift at ni­ne thirty. So­und go­od?”

  “So­unds per­fect, I’ll see you then.”

  “Bye, lo­ve you.”

  Sigh. He­aring tho­se words co­ming from his lips still ma­de my he­art flip over and do a can­non­ball in­to my sto­mach. In the go­od way.

  “Lo­ve you too,” I sa­id, smi­ling as I ope­ned the car do­or. I re­al­ly had the best boyf­ri­end ever. He had skip­ped all his col­le­ge clas­ses, got­ten so­me­one to co­ver his Pro­to­col shift, and de­vo­ted him­self comp­le­tely to ke­eping me out of ja­il.

  God. Ja­il. It se­emed mo­re li­kely with every pas­sing se­cond.

  I wa­ved go­odb­ye and trot­ted ac­ross the par­king lot to­ward the ent­ran­ce, trying not to think abo­ut the de­ep poo I was in. Tho­ugh, af­ter the past two days, it wasn’t easy.

  “You lo­ok li­ke heck. Did you eat anyt­hing to­day?” Mo­ni­ca lo­oked me up and down with a cri­ti­cal eye as I jo­ined her and the ot­her girls at the re­ar of the piz­za jo­int. Ge­ez, it al­most ma­de me wish I’d he­aded to the op­po­si­te cor­ner to hang with the che­er­le­aders. “You didn’t, did you?”

  “Ye­ah, I did,” I sa­id, tho­ugh I ho­nestly co­uldn’t re­mem­ber con­su­ming anyt­hing ot­her than a few bi­tes of oat­me­al and one nib­ble of ca­ke. They we­re out of spag­het­ti by the ti­me I re­ac­hed the lunch co­un­ter, and I’d be­en too fre­aked to think any furt­her abo­ut fo­od, which was sa­ying so­met­hing. I was usu­al­ly a stress eater. Gi­ve me Do­ri­tos and so­ur cre­am and oni­on dip in a ti­me of cri­sis and I can usu­al­ly find a way to li­ve anot­her day.

  “Fi­ne, but you’re get­ting too skinny. It’s not at­trac­ti­ve.”

  “Li­ke you’re one to talk.” I gla­red po­in­tedly at Mo­ni­ca’s si­ze-two body, which was way skin­ni­er than my si­ze-fo­ur or six-de­pen­ding on the brand.

  “Ho­nestly, you ha­ve no butt any­mo­re. Not that I ca­re, but it’s not a go­od lo­ok for you.”

  “Thanks, Mo­ni­ca,” I sa­id, unab­le to think of a smart res­pon­se. She was re­al­ly star­ting to hurt my fe­elings with the cons­tant cri­ti­cism.

  “Are you li­ke… ” Mo­ni­ca tra­iled off with a sha­ke of her he­ad, then grab­bed my arm be­fo­re tur­ning back to Lon­don. “Get ever­yo­ne as­sig­ned to schmo­oze a sec­ti­on of the res­ta­urant. I’m go­ing to fe­ed Me­gan and I’ll be right back.”

  “Wa­it. I’m not hungry. I-”

  “I don’t ca­re, you’re eating so­met­hing. We all ate when we got he­re and you ob­vi­o­usly ne­ed so­me fo­od.” She pul­led me thro­ugh a ho­le in an ac­cor­di­on par­ti­ti­on se­pa­ra­ting the ma­in res­ta­urant from the party ro­om and back to­ward a tab­le lit­te­red with the re­ma­ins of a piz­za fe­ast. “Now eat. At le­ast two pi­eces, pre­fe­rably three.”

  “Lis­ten, I ap­pre­ci­ate the fact that you think I lo­ok li­ke crap,” I sa­id, cros­sing my arms and re­fu­sing to ta­ke a step to­ward the tab­le. I felt sick to my sto­mach and the­re was no way I was let­ting Mo­ni­ca bully me in­to eating gre­asy piz­za that wo­uld no do­ubt ma­ke me yack. “But you’re not go­ing to fat­ten me up in one sit­ting. So let’s just go help the ot­hers set-”

  “You lo­oked li­ke you we­re go­ing to cry back the­re,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id, her vo­ice soft. “And you re­al­ly are get­ting too thin.”

  “Ye­ah, I got that the first fi­ve ti­mes,” I sa­id, get­ting angry. “Co­uld you just lay off? It’s pretty me­an to ke­ep-”

  “I’m not trying to be me­an. You’re usu­al­ly gor­ge­o­us, you know that.”

  My mo­uth fell open in pu­re shock. Mo­ni­ca tel­ling me I was gor­ge­o­us? And se­eming to me­an it? Whe­re was the punch li­ne?

  “Even worn out you lo­ok ten ti­mes bet­ter than most pe­op­le,” she con­ti
­nu­ed, “but you’re cle­arly not a hund­red per­cent. You ne­ed to rest and ta­ke ca­re of yo­ur­self.”

  “Right, in all my spa­re ti­me.”

  “Ta­king ca­re of yo­ur­self isn’t so­met­hing you do in yo­ur spa­re ti­me.” With a de­ter­mi­ned stri­de, she he­aded for the piz­za tab­le and star­ted lo­ading a pla­te with che­ese sli­ces. “It’s so­met­hing you ma­ke a pri­ority, es­pe­ci­al­ly in our li­ne of work. You can’t af­ford to be run-down-it co­uld get you or so­me­one el­se kil­led if this black-ma­gic crap ke­eps hap­pe­ning.”

  “I’m do­ing the best I can.” I blin­ked back the te­ars stin­ging the backs of my eyes. “Sorry if that’s not go­od eno­ugh.”

  Mo­ni­ca sho­ok her he­ad and tur­ned back to me with a sigh. “I’m not sa­ying you’re not go­od eno­ugh. I’m trying to tell you I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Be­ca­use it wo­uld screw up yo­ur fu­tu­re?” I snif­fed.

  “No, be­ca­use I’m wor­ri­ed and I ca­re abo­ut you, idi­ot,” she sa­id, not a tra­ce of sar­casm in her to­ne. “Now eat so­met­hing.”

  Mo­ni­ca was be­ing ni­ce to me, not be­ca­use she wan­ted so­met­hing or was af­ra­id I’d screw up her plans, but be­ca­use I was such a wreck she felt sorry for me. Mo­ni­ca, who was easily the le­ast em­pat­he­tic per­son I’d ever met. How low must I ha­ve sunk to ha­ve ear­ned her pity?

  Very, very low in­de­ed.

  Swal­lo­wing the lump in my thro­at, I re­ac­hed for the piz­za. “Okay. I’ll-”

  Sud­denly the­re was a lo­ud crash from the do­or le­ading in­to the kitc­hen and so­me­one scre­amed. Then so­me­one el­se cur­sed, then a few mo­re pe­op­le scre­amed, then the do­or flew open and a wild-eyed girl with brown corksc­rew curls das­hed in­to the ro­om.

  “Co­uld I get so­me help he­re, y’all?” she as­ked, as bre­ath­less as if she’d run a fifty-me­ter dash. “I’ve got two OOGPs in he­re, and they’re fre­aking we­ird.”