Zombie Blondes Page 8

  “God! Can’t you even walk without falling?” Miranda yells. She digs her fingernails into my arm and claws deep enough to leave a mark when I finally get my balance and step away. I can see the deep blue veins running down her arms that are thin like the bones of birds and I wonder how she was able to squeeze so hard that I have to shake the pain from my wrist.

  Her identical cheer sisters cover their mouths and whisper to one another between fits of laughter. Behind me, the semipopular non-cheerleader tagalongs start to quip and point, too, as my face starts to turn bright red.

  I reach down to pick up the two dimes that I also dropped and Miranda swings around in her chair on purpose to make sure I stagger into her a second time and knock a yogurt out of her hand.

  It splatters like dead bugs against a car windshield, burying my twenty cents under its sticky residue.

  “What the hell’s your problem?” Miranda says, pushing me into the unfortunate freshman nerd who got stuck behind me by sheer circumstance. The lunchroom aide is standing by the cafeteria door, observing the entire incident. Ignoring the whole thing because that seems to be the rule when it comes to jocks. No disciplinary action needed because they are allowed to get away with everything.

  Most of the kids nearby are standing now to watch. Hoping for a fight. But those hopes are dashed when Maggie strolls into the cafeteria. Always late so that everyone can see her walk in. Always an entrance like royalty greeting lesser subjects. But the princess smile leaves her lips when she sees me and Miranda facing off like cats ready to claw each other to pieces. She heads right for us with a determined spark lighting up her eyes.

  “Miranda, leave her alone,” she says in the steady voice of a master commanding her dog to roll over. Turning to me with suspicious eyes that study me like bright blue spies, letting me know I’m being watched. Warning me not to get any ideas that she’s taking my side. I only have temporary immunity according to squad rules that say I’m innocent until proven guilty. But after that, I will be fair game once more.

  “Fine,” Miranda growls. Puts her hands on her hips and sneers in my direction. “But next time you do that, I’ll make you lick the floor clean,” she hisses to the delight of those gathered to watch.

  I sniff up any sign that she’s gotten to me and scoot around her. She bumps me slightly, but just strong enough that I step in the sour remains of her lunch. “Poor girl’s going to have to buy another pair of five-dollar shoes now,” I hear one of them say and I don’t bother turning around.

  My soda ended up in the hands of one of the football players when it rolled under his chair. I’m ready to abandon it, figure it’s lost now that it’s in his possession, a jock, an ally of The Blondes.

  I walk past him with my head down.

  He touches my elbow as I do and I yank my arm away violently.

  “Hey,” he shouts in response. “This is yours, isn’t it?” The can of soda resting in his hand, held out toward me. I narrow my eyes and search him for any sign of a trick. Any clue that he’s only waiting for me to get close enough so that he can open it in an explosion of shaken carbonated foam that will rain down on me, but as far as I can tell he seems sincere and I step cautiously closer.

  “Thanks,” I say as the cold metal passes from his fingers to mine.

  And though he’s got the same ghost-blond hair and same electric blue eyes, he doesn’t look anything like the others. Something kind and gentle that I wouldn’t expect after witnessing the on-field violence of the game last weekend. “No problem. And don’t worry about them,” he says, quietly pointing to Miranda and the rest of the rah-rah idiots. “They treat everyone like that at first.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling shy enough to lower my eyes.

  He grins to show me he’s one of the nice ones. Nods as if to assure me they aren’t all obnoxious, that popularity doesn’t necessarily equal cruelty in every segment of Maplecrest High.

  When I get back to my table, Lukas has his face buried in one of his comic books. So absorbed in it that he isn’t even aware of what happened a few tables over and I sigh. “Great to know you have my back,” I complain, slamming the can on the table.

  “Huh?” he asks, looking up for the first time and confused to find me so annoyed with him.

  “Nothing,” I say. I’d rather not relive the experience by telling it to him.

  “Okay,” he says. Then he tells me I should wait before opening my soda since I slammed it down so hard. “It’ll fizz all over the place,” he warns.

  “What would I do without your wisdom?” I ask but he’s already reading through the pictures of the book again and it goes in one ear and out the other.

  I nibble on the apple I brought and keep an eye on their table. None of them even glance in my direction as they gossip together with sun shining on them, making their hair look like polished halos, and I feel a little sick inside. It’s going to be a long year if my dad’s job goes as well as he hopes.

  Lukas suddenly slides the book in front of me with his finger tracing a gory scene of corpses being devoured by creatures with rotting flesh. I feel suddenly more sick and slide the book back toward him. “I don’t want to see that,” I say with the taste of vomit deep in my stomach.

  “Just read it,” he begs and I tell him that I don’t want to read it, either. “Look, it says zombies feed off the living and absorb their energy. That’s how they get their strength.” He flips the page and points to another scene that I refuse to look at. “Over here it says how they try to lure others in. They poison their blood until they become one of the undead. And if they refuse, they eat them, too,” he says, shoving the book into my face.

  The illustration shows a man pinned to the ground as the ghouls salivate over him. Drops of blood from their open sores drip into his mouth and by the next frame, the man is as disgusting as them. I snatch the book from him, realizing now that my nightmare didn’t come from evil spirits. It came from Lukas and his never-ending barrage of gore comics and silly horror stories.

  I wrestle the book from his reach and toss it away.

  It slides across the floor and strikes against the trash can placed at the end of our table.

  “What was that for?” he asks.

  “For giving me nightmares, idiot!” I shout with my arms crossed.

  He gets up and retrieves the book. He puts it in his backpack after I tell him that if he opens it once more, we’ll never speak again. I also warn him not to bring up any ridiculous zombie tales, either. I’m sick of it. If he wants me to believe that crap, I tell him he better show me some proof. “Otherwise, they don’t exist. Get it?” I threaten him.

  “Whatever,” he says. “You’ll see.”

  I’m sorry, Hannah, I’m just not sure there’s a space on the squad,” Mrs. Donner says with an apologetic smile. She stopped me in the hall on my way to class before I had the chance to change direction. She breaks the news to me as the rest of the school files past on either side in a whirlwind of shuffling sneakers and broken pieces of conversations.

  “I was terrible, wasn’t I?” I ask.

  “No. No, you weren’t. You just need to practice,” fixing her glasses as she speaks, searching for something positive to say.

  I ask her if that means I officially didn’t make it.

  “Not this year, I’m afraid,” she says and lifts her arms, ready to hug me in case I break down in tears as I’m sure many of the other girls who have received the same news in her same words have done before me.

  “Maybe next year,” I say, putting on a brave smile, and it seems to please Mrs. Donner that I have so much spirit. But I don’t mean it. Not the part about trying out and not the brave smile, either. I just don’t want her feeling sorry for me. Don’t want her to know I’m even upset.

  And I know it’s stupid to be bummed by it. I’ve known since yesterday afternoon that this was coming, but that’s the negative side of keeping a false sense of hope. You almost begin to believe that a miracle might happen, so
it still hurts when the dream is dashed. Not that my ultimate dream was to be a cheerleader or anything. But I didn’t really want to go back to being the girl everyone picks on, either. Not sure I have much of a choice anymore.

  I drag my feet down the hall as the warning bell rings. The other kids rush past me, racing against late slips and detentions. I look around for a familiar face coming up behind me, but there’s no sign of Diana.

  Maybe she’s already in class. I’m not exactly of interest anymore and maybe our brief friendship was conditional to my being one of the chosen few. Most likely that’s the case. I really hope not. I could use a friend but I can’t say I’d blame her. What wannabe wants to be friends with someone who has already been rejected?

  Our teacher Ms. Earle steps into the hallway to close the door as the late bell rings. She frowns when she sees me slowly walking toward her. “Miss Sanders, I thought we discussed this yesterday,” she says, raising her eyebrows and they disappear under the sharp line of her gray bangs clipped in the most boring hairstyle ever invented.

  I shrug my shoulders as I walk past her.

  Her skin smells like menthol and medicine when she holds up her hand to prevent me from going in. The wind created by all the classroom doors in the hallway closing at once blows the stale scent from her floral-print dress and I politely turn away. “One more time, young lady, and I’ll be seeing you after school,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say, without looking at her.

  She grunts at my lack of concern but steps aside to let me enter nonetheless. I walk in with my fingers crossed inside my pocket as I look around for Diana. Her desk is empty, though, and I take one more look behind me to see if she’s even later than I am, but I only see Ms. Earle as the door clicks into place to start class.

  Ms. Earle taps a ruler against her desk to end the conversations going on between neighbors. She waits for silence before calling out attendance. Never looking up from her little book where our names are printed in her neat handwriting. I wait my turn and say “here” with a flick of my wrist when my name is said. She finishes up in alphabetical order without calling Diana’s name. Skips over it completely and closes the grade book without another word.

  I figure she must know something I don’t. Maybe Diana’s on vacation. Or maybe she’s sick and the office let her teachers know not to expect her. Or maybe Ms. Earle just knows Diana well enough to know she didn’t see her. It seems likely given how she paid special attention to Diana yesterday.

  I wait until class is over to ask her. Approach her desk quietly as the rest of my classmates hurry on to their next scheduled destination.

  Ms. Earle taps her pen against a pile of papers she started grading toward the end of class after giving us a few minutes to start on our homework. “What is it, Hannah?” she asks, sensing me there more than actually seeing me.

  “Um . . . I was just wondering if you knew what was wrong with Diana?” I ask.

  “Who?” she asks, clearly wanting me to leave her alone with the papers she bleeds with red pen to check off correct answers and marking the wrong ones by crossing them out.

  “Diana,” I say louder, making sure I don’t mumble this time. But I say it a little too fast and a little too snobbish gauging by the way Ms. Earle squints at me. “She wasn’t in class today,” I add in a nicer voice because I don’t want her telling me she doesn’t know simply because she doesn’t like my attitude. I even force myself to smile.

  Ms. Earle sighs. She opens her attendance book and scrolls through the names with her crowlike finger. Reads through it once and then a second time and I find it strange that she has to do that after the familiar way she yelled at Diana in the hall only yesterday. Then again, teachers do have six or seven classes a day and I’m sure they can’t keep all the names straight.

  Her finger finally stops on a name scribbled over with black ink.

  “Oh, Diana,” she says with a knowing smile, “she’s not with us anymore.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. Memories of death chants and death threats humming in my ears. Visions of razor-sharp teeth tearing at flesh imprinted on the inside of my eyelids and I start biting my nails out of habit.

  Ms. Earle doesn’t relay anything as sinister as my thoughts, though.

  “Transferred? Moved? I can’t keep up,” she says with a wave of her hand.

  The sound of so many FOR SALE signs blowing in the wind echoes through my mind and I begin to understand. Diana’s gone like so many others in so many empty houses that stare out onto the streets of this town where moving is contagious. Nearly epidemic and I suppose that’s why no one minds. No one gives a second thought to the departed.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say and Ms. Earle gives me a dismissive grin before going back to grading tests and takes no notice of me as I leave.

  Throughout the rest of my classes, I can’t stop thinking about it, though. Why wouldn’t Diana mention yesterday that she was taking off? I even got up the courage to ask one of the girls I’d seen her talk to, asking if she knew anything about it. The girl just shrugged. And when I tried to find out more by asking her more questions, she ignored me. Gave me a look as if I was asking about secrets I had no business knowing and walked away.

  Maybe I should forget about it.

  Maybe that’s the way things go here.

  Or maybe Diana’s dad is like mine and she came home to find a car packed up and ready to hit the road. I know I’ve left schools without telling anyone before. But somehow, it feels different. Everything in Maplecrest feels different.

  NINE

  The air is cold on my skin as I run into the world after the last bell rings. There’s ice in my lungs as I breathe and I guess winter comes early in this part of the hills. Earlier than I’m used to. Earlier than my thin coat is prepared for as I follow the cracks in the sidewalk toward nowhere.

  Not exactly nowhere. I know where I’m going, just don’t know where it is.

  I’ve decided to go by Diana’s house. Pass by and see if I can figure anything out. Too many strange things have been happening for me not to. Too many coincidences that keep coming back to me. I need to see for myself that it’s all in my imagination. Too many zombie stories and too little sleep. If I can just see her, I’ll know I’m being stupid. Even if I can only see a moving truck or her shadow through the window. Anything so that I can quiet the part of me that wants to listen to Lukas’s theory about brutal massacres and killings and the possibility that I got her in trouble by mentioning her name yesterday. If I don’t, I know exactly what nightmare will be waiting in my room when I get home.

  Also, it would be nice to know if she still wants to be my friend even if I’m not who she wants me to be. I’d hate it if she doesn’t. I’d like to have one friend in this town who isn’t completely psycho.

  I follow the power lines into the center of town. Shade covers the storefronts as the sun stays hidden behind a gray sky. The lights inside switch on, dancing with one another across Main Street, where the wind blows colder between the buildings built closer together in this one section of town. Closer together but still lonely. Only the sound of my footsteps to break up the tranquility as I walk toward the pharmacy.

  The door chimes as I open it. The cold air from outside collides with the heated air forced through the vent above my head and the cashier watches as I walk over to the bulletin board. The phone directory for the town is there on a little table and I pick it up, flip through the white pages, reading the name ranges printed across the top until I get to the right page and find Diana’s.

  I tear out a corner from a page in my notebook and copy the address, 16 Timbercrest Drive. It’s two streets over from mine heading toward the highway. I remember passing it when my dad and I were looking for Walnut Cove on our first drive through town. I close the phone book and put it back where I found it under the constant suspicion of the bug-eyed lady behind the counter. I escape back into the smell of pine trees and burning firewood and try not to look at
the cashier’s eyes as they follow me down the street from the store’s window.

  The bare trees stick out against the sky like skeletons when I turn onto Timbercrest Drive. Their branches waving like a forest of dead bones and the clouds gather thicker and darker like being caught in a ghost story. It makes me shiver and I pull my arms closer to my body to keep the cold from getting in. I’m not too far now. The house numbers counting up by twos, even numbers on one side and odd numbers on the other. FOR SALE signs as frequent as the withered flower gardens, just like the street I live on.

  I keep my head down as I walk, afraid to look up. Afraid there’s no moving truck in the driveway of the eighth house on the even side. Watching my feet to keep from stepping on the cracks. Crossing my fingers inside my pockets, too, because I’m hoping for some kind of luck to swoop in like a fog that will erase the eeriness of this town when it lifts.

  I pinch my skin through the fabric of my coat.

  Pinch it harder when I reach her house but it doesn’t feel like anything because when I finally bring myself to look, there’s nothing there. Only a powder blue house roughly the same size and shape as the brown one I live in.

  No cars.

  No trucks.

  No shadows moving behind closed windows.

  The only difference between her house and the other abandoned homes is that her lawn has been kept neat. The leaves have been raked into several little piles waiting to be scooped up and tossed into the woods. The weeds have been pulled from the cracks in the walkway. The hedges have all been trimmed. Even the gardens have a fresh layer of mulch for the winter and I wonder why they would bother with all that if they were just going to move.

  That’s when I notice there’s another difference, too.

  No FOR SALE sign hammered into the grass.