Undead Much

  “We wo­uld be help­less to pre­vent the cha­os we’ve desc­ri­bed,” anot­her El­der ad­ded. I tho­ught it was El­der Ne­vins, but co­uldn’t be su­re. I’d only se­en the man a co­up­le ti­mes. He was from the Lit­tle Rock co­un­cil and usu­al­ly didn’t bot­her med­dling in our small-town af­fa­irs.

  “We un­ders­tand, sir,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id. “And I think I spe­ak for both of us when I say-”

  “I’d be ca­re­ful of whom I alig­ned myself with, Miss Par­sons.” Ne­vins didn’t bot­her to hi­de his con­tempt for me the way the ot­hers had. I ex­pec­ted Mo­ni­ca to ta­ke the hint, but she didn’t.

  “I’m al­ways ca­re­ful, Mr. Be­vins.” Be­vins, not Ne­vins. I’d be­en clo­se. “Ne­it­her Me­gan nor I ha­ve do­ne anyt­hing wrong.”

  She was eit­her crazy or way mo­re lo­yal than I’d ever dre­amed. Eit­her way, I had to fight the ur­ge to le­an over and hug her. The Mo­nics­ter was stan­ding up for me, and it me­ant a lot. A who­le lot. Et­han hadn’t be­en al­lo­wed in­to the me­eting and had he­aded down to the hos­pi­tal to con­ti­nue his in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, so I wo­uld ha­ve be­en comp­le­tely on my own in hos­ti­le ter­ri­tory wit­ho­ut her.

  “That re­ma­ins to be-”

  “We’ve simply be­en res­pon­ding to hos­ti­le Out-of-Gra­ve Phe­no­me­nons in the way we’ve be­en tra­ined to res­pond,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id, in­ter­rup­ting El­der Cra­ne as tho­ugh she smart-mo­ut­hed Set­tlers’ Af­fa­irs co­un­cil mem­bers on a da­ily ba­sis. “Con­si­de­ring Me­gan hasn’t even pas­sed her third-sta­ge exam yet, I fe­el our work has be­en mo­re than ade­qu­ate and-”

  “That’s eno­ugh, Mo­ni­ca,” El­der Tho­mas sa­id.

  “And I think the mo­ve to con­demn Me­gan be­fo­re she’s even be­en tri­ed,” Mo­ni­ca pres­sed on, ra­ising her vo­ice to be he­ard over the grumb­les of the co­un­cil, “be­fo­re she and her fa­mily ha­ve even be­en ma­de awa­re of the evi­den­ce gat­he­red in the ca­se aga­inst her is-”

  “The evi­den­ce was de­li­ve­red to Miss Berry’s mot­her yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on,” El­der Tho­mas snap­ped, which suc­ce­eded in shut­ting Mo­ni­ca down rat­her ef­fec­ti­vely.

  Oh God, not aga­in. My mom had li­ed to me aga­in. My eyes slid clo­sed and my chest did that hor­rib­le squ­e­ezing thing it did whe­ne­ver my world tur­ned up­si­de down. At this ra­te, you’d think it wo­uld even­tu­al­ly do a comp­le­te three-sixty and be right-si­de up aga­in.

  So far-no such luck.

  “But El­der Tho­mas,” I sa­id, as­ha­med to be con­fes­sing my own fa­mily co­uldn’t be bot­he­red to be ho­nest with me. “I had no idea. I’d re­al­ly li­ke to see the evi­den­ce for myself, sin­ce it is my-”

  “It’s in yo­ur gu­ar­di­an’s hands.” El­der Tho­mas sto­od and the rest of the co­un­cil be­gan to gat­her bri­ef­ca­ses and pur­ses from the flo­or. We we­re all wor­king pe­op­le he­re and had to be at scho­ol or the of­fi­ce in the next half ho­ur. Li­fe con­ti­nu­ed and pe­op­le had pla­ces to be, no mat­ter that a girl was de­ad, or the world might be on the ver­ge of a zom­bie apo­calyp­se, or my en­ti­re li­fe was fal­ling apart. “Whet­her she de­ci­des to sha­re that evi­den­ce with the mi­nor in her char­ge is her con­cern.”

  The mi­nor in her char­ge. Gah!! I ha­ted that phra­se.

  I ha­ted it even mo­re that grown-ups se­emed to ran­domly de­ci­de when to tre­at te­ena­gers li­ke kids and when to tre­at them li­ke adults. Why was it okay for them to ex­pect me to hold a full-ti­me job and put my li­fe on the li­ne when we­ird zom­bi­es star­ted at­tac­king Ca­rol, but then turn aro­und and deny me in­for­ma­ti­on li­ke I was so­me stu­pid in­fant? It ma­de me fu­ri­o­us, and for a split se­cond that ra­bid lust for re­ven­ge sur­ged in­si­de of me on­ce mo­re.

  How fa­bu­lo­us wo­uld it fe­el to wi­pe the smug, con­des­cen­ding, con­dem­ning lo­oks from all the­se pe­op­le’s fa­ces? How vin­di­ca­ting to show them what it felt li­ke to be fal­sely ac­cu­sed? I co­uld find a way to show them. I co­uld-

  “Co­me on, let’s get out of he­re. We still ha­ve ti­me for do­nuts be­fo­re scho­ol if we hurry.” Mo­ni­ca grab­bed my hand and squ­e­ezed be­fo­re re­ac­hing for her own bag. “I don’t know abo­ut you, but I’m fe­eling the ne­ed for so­me ma­j­or French crul­ler the­rapy.”

  “I think йcla­ir the­rapy is mo­re up my al­ley,” I sa­id, so­un­ding as shaky as I felt.

  That was the third ti­me in less than twel­ve ho­urs that I’d had a pas­sing fan­tasy abo­ut using black ma­gic. First with Cliff, then with Mom, and now with the en­ti­re SA co­un­cil of El­ders. It was in­sa­ne, es­pe­ci­al­ly con­si­de­ring I knew very lit­tle abo­ut the black arts.

  Whe­re was the ur­ge co­ming from?

  I me­an, I was angry, but I wasn’t that angry. Black ma­gic was so­ul-dest­ro­ying, kar­mic su­ici­de, and body tem­pe­ra­tu­res in­du­ced by cas­ting with wic­ked in­tent ca­used per­ma­nent bra­in da­ma­ge. Jess and her se­izu­res we­re li­ving pro­of of that. We­re the­se lo­sers and the­ir sus­pi­ci­ons-which I knew wo­uld be pro­ven fal­se no mat­ter what evi­den­ce Mom was with­hol­ding-re­al­ly worth bra­in da­ma­ge?

  The lo­gi­cal ans­wer was no, but the­re was still that… temp­ta­ti­on, which ma­de me de­ter­mi­ned to get to the bot­tom of this ASAP.

  Which me­ant I had to re­fo­cus my pri­ori­ti­es…

  “Lis­ten, I’m not go­ing to be ab­le to sell tic­kets for the fund-ra­iser at lunch to­day,” I sa­id, hunc­hing in­si­de my co­at as I fol­lo­wed Mo­ni­ca out in­to the par­king lot and ac­ross the stre­et. “I ne­ed to talk to Kitty and find out what my pa­rents ha­ve be­en hi­ding and-”

  “And you’ll ha­ve bet­ter luck sno­oping aro­und whi­le they’re at work.” She held out her hand. “Gi­ve me the tic­kets. I’ll try to sell them for you. Wor­se co­mes to worst, we can put you to work or­ga­ni­zing ever­yo­ne el­se’s sche­du­le and fetc­hing co­coa.”

  “Wor­se co­mes to worst, I’m not the­re at all. Mo­ni­ca, I ha­ve to ma­ke pro­ving my in­no­cen­ce my first pri­ority. I might not ha­ve ti­me to go ice-ska­ting to­night. You know what I’m sa­ying?”

  She stop­ped at the cor­ner and spun to fa­ce me af­ter pus­hing the but­ton for the cros­swalk. “You’ll ma­ke ti­me. No mat­ter what’s go­ing on, you’ve got to ma­ke ti­me for nor­mal li­fe.”

  “But I-”

  “No. Mat­ter. What. Even when it se­ems stu­pid. Be­ca­use the se­cond you let the Set­tler stuff ta­ke over, you’re not fully ali­ve any­mo­re.”

  “I won’t be fully ali­ve if I’m in ja­il, eit­her.”

  She grab­bed my sle­eve and pul­led me ac­ross the stre­et, lec­tu­ring the en­ti­re way. “We’re not nor­mal and we ne­ver will be, but we ha­ve to hold on to our hu­man li­ves. Ot­her­wi­se, the de­ad will ta­ke you over. And on­ce that hap­pens, it be­co­mes easi­er not to ca­re so much abo­ut the li­ving.” She didn’t say it in so many words, but I re­ad the sa­me temp­ta­ti­on I’d be­en fe­eling in the glan­ce she threw over her sho­ul­der. I wasn’t the only one drawn to the mo­re si­nis­ter as­pect of our gifts.

  The re­li­ef that dum­ped in­to my ve­ins was the most ama­zing thing Mo­ni­ca had ever gi­ven me, and that was sa­ying so­met­hing af­ter the past few days. I owed her, big-ti­me, and if she tho­ught ice-ska­ting wo­uld ke­ep me from the dark si­de of the for­ce, I wo­uld be the­re.

  “Okay. I’ll ma­ke ti­me.”

  “No mat­ter what.”

  I nod­ded, and fol­lo­wed her in­to the dingy do­nut shop next to the 7-Ele­ven. It had rank cof­fee, but the fri­ed do­ugh was to die for. “As long as I still ha­ve legs by se­ven o’clock.”

&nbsp
; “Eh, you don’t ne­ed legs to sell co­coa. We can just prop you up be­hind the tab­le or so­met­hing.” She tos­sed her ha­ir over her sho­ul­der and I saw the CHS ver­si­on of Mo­ni­ca Par­sons co­me ali­ve.

  The­re we­re a lot of ot­her pe­op­le from our scho­ol aro­und and she was get­ting in­to cha­rac­ter. It was we­ird that I’d ne­ver no­ti­ced that abo­ut her be­fo­re. Still, she wasn’t tre­ating me li­ke the an­no­ying un­derc­las­sman with po­or fas­hi­on sen­se just yet. May­be we’d fi­nal­ly cros­sed so­me brid­ge and be­gun a fri­ends­hip in the re­al world… or may­be it was the fact that I was we­aring her clot­hes.

  “What do you want? I’m bu­ying,” she sa­id, as we shuf­fled clo­ser to the co­un­ter.

  I didn’t know whet­her to la­ugh or cry. She was just be­ing so gre­at. “Two cho­co­la­te йcla­irs, ple­ase. And thanks. So much. For everyt­hing. I re­al­ly-”

  “God, don’t. Ple­ase.” Mo­ni­ca’s no­se wrink­led li­ke I’d just far­ted on her leg. “Bet­we­en the lo­ve-fest this mor­ning and yo­ur pup­py-dog eyes, I’m re­al­ly go­ing to be sick.”

  “I li­ke pup­py-dog eyes.” I tur­ned to see Aaron in li­ne di­rectly be­hind us with Da­na and the twins. “Espe­ci­al­ly Me­gan’s.”

  “Cut it out, Aaron,” Da­na snap­ped, gla­ring at me. “This isn’t the ti­me to be flir­ting with the enemy. Ha­ve so­me res­pect for Ta­bit­ha. She’s go­ing to be in the hos­pi­tal for li­ke, ever.”

  Kim­berly and Ka­te jo­ined in the gla­re-fest, the­ir eyes puffy, as tho­ugh they’d be­en crying all night. Pro­bably mo­ur­ning the loss of the­ir te­am’s flyer. The­ir stunts just wo­uldn’t be the sa­me wit­ho­ut the lit­tle turd on top. But at le­ast Ta­bit­ha was still ali­ve. We co­uldn’t say the sa­me for po­or Bob­bie Jane. Still, thin­king abo­ut Ta­bit­ha be­ing rol­led out of the swamp on a stretc­her ma­de me want to of­fer so­me sort of sympathy. Luc­kily, Mo­ni­ca ope­ned her mo­uth first.

  “Right, Da­na, li­ke the res­pect you sho­wed last night.” Mo­ni­ca tur­ned aro­und and na­iled Da­na with her best “what kind of oozing so­re did you le­ak out of?” lo­ok.

  “I don’t know what you’re tal­king abo­ut.”

  “You we­re on the pho­ne lo­oking for fresh che­er me­at be­fo­re the am­bu­lan­ce had even pul­led out of Piz­za Pie,” Mo­ni­ca sne­ered. “I he­ard you got that new girl, Ni­na Ale­xan­der, to ag­ree to ta­ke Ta­bit­ha’s spot on the te­am. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  “We had to! Ta­bit­ha was a flyer! We had to find so­me­one el­se small eno­ugh to-”

  Da­na stop­ped Ka­te with a hand on her arm. “For­get abo­ut it. We don’t ha­ve to exp­la­in our­sel­ves to the Slut Squ­ad. They don’t ca­re abo­ut Ta­bit­ha any­way-all they ca­re abo­ut is win­ning the right to roll aro­und on the gym flo­or li­ke cats in he­at at half­ti­me this Sa­tur­day.”

  “Da­na, that’s not true,” I sa­id. “Last night was hor­rib­le, and I think we sho­uld just-”

  “Wha­te­ver,” Ka­te sa­id.

  “No one ca­res what you think, Berry,” her twin snap­ped.

  “I do.” Aaron smi­led, a swe­et grin that was out of pla­ce in the sea of scowls.

  “Oh, shut up, Aaron.” Da­na rol­led her eyes. “Co­me on, girls, I’ve sud­denly lost my ap­pe­ti­te. Let’s le­ave the ca­lo­rie bin­ge to tho­se with mo­re ex­pe­ri­en­ce.”

  “La­ter, swe­etie,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id, her to­ne oozing sac­cha­ri­ne. When she tur­ned back to me, ho­we­ver, her whis­per was ri­pe with ve­nom. “You’d bet­ter ma­ke su­re you’re at prac­ti­ce this af­ter­no­on. We ne­ed to be re­ady to show the bo­os­ters so­met­hing ama­zing on Sa­tur­day and put an end to the qu­es­ti­on of who owns half­ti­me on­ce and for all.”

  “I’ll be the­re,” I sa­id, the ghost of my old com­pe­ti­ti­ve spi­rit re­aring its he­ad.

  No mat­ter what el­se was hap­pe­ning, or how my mom had tri­ed to ma­ke me fe­el stu­pid for ca­ring so much abo­ut pom squ­ad, I did still ca­re abo­ut dan­cing the rest of the ga­mes. Of all the things in my li­fe, dan­cing was one of the things I tre­asu­red the most. At no ot­her ti­me did I fe­el so happy and nor­mal, and the­re was no way I was gi­ving that up wit­ho­ut a fight.

  “You lo­ok pis­sed,” Aaron pi­ped up from be­hind me. “I ho­pe not at me.”

  “No, not at you. It’s just a bunch of stuff.” I tur­ned aro­und in ti­me to see Josh Pick­le-a se­ni­or I’d had a very bri­ef not-qu­ite-thing with last fall be­fo­re Et­han and I dis­co­ve­red our true and und­ying lo­ve-and his fri­end Andy get­ting in li­ne be­hind Aaron. They we­re eye­ing him with thinly dis­gu­ised sus­pi­ci­on and ig­no­ring me. Which was mo­re than fi­ne. Josh had gre­atly exag­ge­ra­ted how far our physi­cal con­tact went the night of our one da­te and had be­en on my de­ad-to­me list for qu­ite so­me ti­me.

  He’d got­ten the mes­sa­ge and cho­sen a new lab part­ner, but that didn’t stop him from be­ing way too in­te­res­ted in who was flir­ting with me. Of co­ur­se, it co­uld be that he was simply shoc­ked to see Aaron trying to get his ga­me on. Most pe­op­le as­su­med Aaron was gay just be­ca­use he was on the che­er­le­ading squ­ad. I, on the ot­her hand, as­su­med a guy who wo­uld en­du­re se­ve­re so­ci­al stig­ma in the na­me of get­ting his hands un­der a bunch of girls’ skirts when he lif­ted them in­to the air was pro­bably per­vi­er than yo­ur ave­ra­ge be­ar.

  And he se­emed to ha­ve a thing for me. Co­uld I not catch a bre­ak this we­ek?

  “Thanks.” I smi­led, trying to for­ce myself in­to nor­mal mo­de.

  “Hey, I’m so sorry abo­ut last night.” His smi­le fa­ded and one lar­ge hand ca­me to rest fa­mi­li­arly on my sho­ul­der. “Re­al­ly, no mat­ter what Da­na says, all of us are to­tal­ly fre­aked out that Ta­bit­ha is hurt and that ot­her girl di­ed. It’s just aw­ful.”

  “Ye­ah, it was one of the worst nights of my li­fe.”

  “I’m just glad you’re okay. I he­ard you we­re hurt trying to fight the gang or so­met­hing?”

  “Not re­al­ly.” My eyes slid over to Mo­ni­ca, se­eking sup­port, but she was busy or­de­ring do­nuts. “It was mo­re li­ke Mo­ni­ca and I got in the way. We we­re in the back ro­om when they ca­me out of the kitc­hen.”

  “But you didn’t get bit­ten or anyt­hing? I he­ard they we­re bi­ting pe­op­le?”

  “No, no bi­tes,” I sa­id, pra­ying for a su­bj­ect chan­ge.

  “Scary,” he sa­id. “I wish I’d be­en the­re.”

  “Pro­bably bet­ter you we­ren’t.” I grab­bed the bag Mo­ni­ca sho­ved in my hands, and mo­ved away from the co­un­ter. Aaron ca­me too, not even pre­ten­ding he was in li­ne for any ot­her re­ason than to talk to me.

  “It’s ab­so­lu­tely bet­ter he wasn’t. What we­re you go­ing to do, Aaron? Be­at the crac­ked-out cult mem­bers to de­ath with a spi­rit stick?” Mo­ni­ca rol­led her eyes and stal­ked ac­ross the ro­om to­ward the do­or, bo­ots clic­king on the fa­ded flo­wer ti­les. The bitch was back, as El­ton John wo­uld say. “I’d bet­ter see yo­ur ass this af­ter­no­on at prac­ti­ce and to­night, Me­gan.”

  “You will,” I cal­led af­ter her, my che­eks gro­wing hot when Josh and Andy snic­ke­red over the Mo­nics­ter’s par­ting re­mark.

  “And you hang out with that girl of yo­ur own free will?” Aaron as­ked, his flat de­li­very ac­tu­al­ly ma­king me la­ugh.

  “Um… not to­tal­ly. She’s the cap­ta­in. Her word is law and all that.” I shrug­ged and grab­bed so­me nap­kins from one of the tab­les. “Da­na’s the sa­me way, right?”

  “No, she’s pretty co­ol.” He nod­ded, cle­arly fi­nis­hed with the su­bj­ect. “But let’s not talk abo­ut squ­ad stuff. I want to che­er you
up. What do you say we go for a ri­de? May­be get so­me re­al bre­ak­fast?”

  “Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got to get to scho­ol.”

  “Aw, co­me on, you ne­ed mo­re than do­nuts for bre­ak­fast,” he sa­id as I sta­red out the win­dow in­to the bright mor­ning light. Ac­ross the stre­et, the sun ref­lec­ted che­erily off the ho­od of an an­no­yingly fa­mi­li­ar be­ige se­dan.

  Argh! My stu­pid Set­tler ta­il. I’d plan­ned on he­ading back ho­me even­tu­al­ly, but I ne­eded to lo­se the sha­dow first. Ma­king an unex­pec­ted de­to­ur might do the trick, and I did ha­ve an er­rand that wo­uld be mo­re easily ac­comp­lis­hed with trans­por­ta­ti­on.

  Hmmm… did I da­re? I me­an, Aaron did ha­ve a car. It wo­uld cer­ta­inly sa­ve me a lot of ti­me if I got him to dri­ve me back to the Ple­asant Mo­un­ta­in cli­nic, and the less scho­ol I mis­sed, the bet­ter. I co­uld al­ways ask Et­han, but he was al­re­ady busy in­ves­ti­ga­ting one hos­pi­tal this mor­ning and pro­bably wo­uldn’t ha­ve ti­me to cha­uf­fe­ur me aro­und un­til la­ter.

  “Whe­re’s yo­ur car par­ked?” I as­ked.

  “Aro­und back.”

  I de­ci­ded to ta­ke that as a sign. “I’m not su­re I ha­ve ti­me for bre­ak­fast, but what abo­ut a lit­tle dri­ve?” Aaron smi­led li­ke he’d won the lot­tery.

  “Su­re, whe­re do you ne­ed to go?” He held the back do­or for me as we step­ped out in­to the cold. His res­to­red an­ti­que Cor­vet­te sat only a few fe­et away, si­lently bec­ko­ning.

  “Ple­asant Mo­un­ta­in Fa­mily Cli­nic. It’s in west Lit­tle Rock, right off-”