Undead Much Page 8

  “Or even wor­se, they might ha­ve se­en Mo­ni­ca and me figh­ting the RCs.” I sho­ved the rib­bon back in Et­han’s poc­ket. I didn’t want to lo­ok at it any­mo­re, or think abo­ut how much mo­re tro­ub­le I co­uld be in. Even if I ma­na­ged to pro­ve my in­no­cen­ce, my fa­mily co­uld still be re­lo­ca­ted if a nosy che­er­le­ader had se­en so­met­hing she sho­uldn’t ha­ve. “I’ll try to fi­gu­re out who was in the wo­ods and just how much she saw to­mor­row at scho­ol.”

  “Get Mo­ni­ca to help you.” Et­han to­ok my hand as we he­aded out to the par­king lot.

  “Mo­ni­ca? Help me? What kind of crack ha­ve you be­en smo­king?”

  “It’s her butt on the li­ne as much as yo­urs,” he sa­id. “If you we­re spot­ted, she was too. Be­si­des, she se­emed up­set last night when the En­for­cers he­aded off to se­arch yo­ur ho­use.”

  “Why, be­ca­use she co­uldn’t co­me along and per­so­nal­ly watch me be­ing ta­ken in­to cus­tody for a cri­me I didn’t com­mit?” I sa­id, ope­ning the pas­sen­ger’s si­de do­or.

  Ethan stop­ped me from get­ting in­si­de with strong hands on my sho­ul­ders. “Lis­ten, Mo­ni­ca isn’t the sa­me per­son she was a few months ago. She do­esn’t ha­ve it out for you. Ho­nestly, I think you two wo­uld get along re­al­ly well if you’d gi­ve her a chan­ce.”

  “I’ve gi­ven her tons of chan­ces. She’s a to­tal witch, Et­han.”

  “She’s not a witch, she’s just… dif­fi­cult. I’ll ad­mit that, but she can al­so be a va­lu­ab­le per­son to ha­ve on yo­ur si­de. You two ha­ve let this je­alo­usy and com­pe­ti­ti­on thing go too far.”

  “Je­alo­usy and com­pe­ti­ti­on?” I as­ked, in­wardly se­et­hing tho­ugh do­ing my best to ke­ep my vo­ice soft. What the heck was he tal­king abo­ut? “You think I’m je­alo­us of Mo­ni­ca?”

  “I don’t know, may­be? A lit­tle bit? She’s de­fi­ni­tely je­alo­us of you,” he sa­id, trying to backt­rack. But it was too la­te-the da­ma­ge was al­re­ady do­ne.

  I didn’t say a word, just frow­ned up at his fa­ce, hurt that he felt so com­pel­led to de­fend the Mo­nics­ter. I was the one who was in de­ep tro­ub­le, whi­le she got away wit­ho­ut anyt­hing mo­re stres­sful than a few qu­es­ti­ons. She spent most of the day to­day plan­ning an ice ska­ting fund-ra­iser, not wor­ri­ed that she might be thrown in pri­son.

  Be­si­des, even if Et­han was right, was now the right ti­me to be lec­tu­ring me abo­ut bon­ding with my Set­tler bitc­hes and hos? The ans­wer was no, it de­fi­ni­tely was not.

  “Let’s go. I ne­ed to get back to scho­ol.”

  “Lis­ten, Meg, I’m sorry.” He ran a hand thro­ugh his ha­ir and I co­uld tell he was fe­eling al­most as mi­xed-up as I was. “I sho­uldn’t ha­ve sa­id anyt­hing-I just tho­ught you co­uld use so­me mo­re help, that’s all. I don’t want to fight,” Et­han sa­id, fin­gers mo­ving to my che­ek. “Espe­ci­al­ly abo­ut Mo­ni­ca.”

  I sig­hed and bit my lip.

  “For­gi­ve me?” he as­ked, gre­en eyes so mag­ne­tic in the­ir re­pen­tan­ce the­re was no chan­ce of re­sis­ting.

  “For­gi­ven.” I lo­oked up at him and smi­led. “And thanks, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  I shrug­ged. “For pic­king me up to­day, for hel­ping me, for just be­ing the­re.”

  “You don’t ha­ve to thank me. This is what boyf­ri­ends do,” he sa­id, be­fo­re he clo­sed the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us.

  His lips we­re surp­ri­singly warm des­pi­te how cold it was out­si­de, and they he­ated up mi­ne in no ti­me. I wrap­ped my arms aro­und his neck and he mo­ved even clo­ser, squ­is­hing me aga­inst the si­de of the car as our lip-lock qu­ickly went from swe­et to so­met­hing mo­re se­ri­o­us.

  The­re was an ur­gency in the way his mo­uth met mi­ne that had ne­ver be­en the­re be­fo­re, an in­ten­sity that ma­de my he­art ra­ce and my he­ad spin. It was easily both the best and the sca­ri­est kiss I’d ever had. Even as every cell in my body lit up with a hard-co­re ca­se of the ting­les, my mind co­uldn’t stop thin­king the­re was so­met­hing hor­ribly fi­nal abo­ut the who­le thing. It felt li­ke we we­re cha­rac­ters in a mo­vie, sho­oting that sce­ne just be­fo­re the he­ro runs off to bat­tle and gets kil­led or the he­ro­ine di­es of so­me tra­gic di­se­ase.

  Gah! I didn’t want to die of so­me tra­gic di­se­ase! I didn’t want all this dra­ma, even if it ins­pi­red kis­ses li­ke this.

  I suc­ked in a bre­ath and rip­ped my mo­uth away. We we­re both bre­at­hing hard, very hard, li­ke we’d be­en at this a lot lon­ger than a mi­nu­te and a half. I was surp­ri­sed to find my hands we­re sha­king as I de­tang­led them from whe­re they’d be­en bu­ri­ed in Et­han’s ha­ir.

  “Wow.” His bre­ath puf­fed aga­inst my lips, hot and smel­ling of mints and Et­han.

  “Too wow.” I tri­ed to la­ugh, but it ca­me out so­un­ding mo­re li­ke a grunt. Way to go, Me­gan, very al­lu­ring.

  “Is the­re such a thing as too wow?”

  “I don’t know. May­be?” As smo­othly as pos­sib­le, I pul­led away and slid in­to the pas­sen­ger’s se­at.

  Ethan sig­hed and tigh­te­ned his grip on my do­or un­til his knuck­les tur­ned whi­te. “What do you me­an, may­be? Is the­re so­met­hing I sho­uld know, Me­gan? Be­ca­use it se­ems li­ke… ”

  “Se­ems li­ke what?” I as­ked, my vo­ice small and ner­vo­us so­un­ding.

  He pa­used, then let out a de­ep bre­ath. “Not­hing.” But I co­uld tell it wasn’t.

  “I just don’t want to be la­te get­ting back to scho­ol. That’s all.”

  “Okay.” He for­ced a smi­le I co­uld tell he didn’t fe­el. “Fi­ne, let’s hit it.”

  As he circ­led aro­und to the dri­ver’s si­de, I tri­ed to tell myself everyt­hing was fi­ne, that Et­han and I we­re go­od and everyt­hing was go­ing to work it­self out. But for so­me re­ason, I was ha­ving a hard ti­me bu­ying my own pep talk, es­pe­ci­al­ly when that we­ird “watc­hed” fe­eling re­tur­ned with a ven­ge­an­ce.

  I scan­ned the par­king lot but saw not­hing out of the or­di­nary. Still, I was glad when we pul­led out on­to the ro­ad and the cre­epy fe­eling va­nis­hed. Now if only I co­uld ba­nish the awk­ward­ness bet­we­en me and my boyf­ri­end as easily.

  CHAPTER 7

  The world was co­ming to an end. The­re was no ot­her exp­la­na­ti­on for why the­re was a bag of che­ese­bur­gers-re­al che­ese­bur­gers, not veg­gie bur­gers, and from McDo­nald’s no less-on our kitc­hen tab­le la­ter that af­ter­no­on.

  “I co­uldn’t re­mem­ber if you didn’t li­ke mus­tard or ketc­hup, so I or­de­red all of them wit­ho­ut eit­her,” Mom sa­id aro­und a mo­uth­ful of bur­ger. She al­ways talks with her mo­uth full, and it dri­ves me in­sa­ne, but at the mo­ment I fo­und it oddly com­for­ting. At le­ast I knew she hadn’t be­en body-snatc­hed by an ali­en or so­met­hing. “I fi­gu­red you co­uld add wha­te­ver you li­ked and le­ave the ot­her off.”

  “Thanks.” I eased in­to my cha­ir whi­le disc­re­etly sho­oting Dad a “what the heck is go­ing on?” lo­ok. I’d ne­ver se­en Mom eat me­at, not on­ce in six­te­en ye­ars of li­fe. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en dis­tur­bing on a nor­mal day, but af­ter her crying fit last night and her sta­ying in bed this mor­ning, it ma­de me… ner­vo­us. And sus­pi­ci­o­us. What the heck was go­ing on with her that she felt com­pel­led to throw away de­ca­des of me­at-avo­idan­ce on a bag full of McDo­nald’s ham­bur­gers?

  “The­re are french fri­es in the mic­ro­wa­ve,” he sa­id with a we­ary smi­le, not se­eming to no­ti­ce my po­in­ted sta­re. “We we­re trying to ke­ep them warm un­til you got ho­me from scho­ol.”

  “We skip­ped lun
ch, so we we­re star­ving by fo­ur o’clock.”

  Dad re­ac­hed out and tuc­ked a strand of ha­ir be­hind her ear with this go­ofy grin on his fa­ce. “I can’t re­mem­ber the last ti­me we sta­yed in bed all day.”

  I fi­nal­ly over­ca­me my che­ese­bur­ger shock eno­ugh to no­ti­ce they we­re both still in the­ir pa­j­amas. What the heck was up with ever­yo­ne? First the zom­bi­es and now my pa­rents. Didn’t an­yo­ne ac­tu­al­ly get up and get dres­sed any­mo­re?

  Mom had al­ways sa­id sta­ying in her pa­j­amas all day dep­res­ses her, but she didn’t lo­ok dep­res­sed. She didn’t lo­ok up­set at all, which for so­me re­ason ma­de me even mo­re cer­ta­in she was hi­ding so­met­hing.

  “Too long.” Mom le­aned over to gi­ve Dad a qu­ick kiss, then mo­aned her ap­pre­ci­ati­on as she sho­ved the last bi­te of bur­ger in her mo­uth. “God, the­se are so go­od.”

  Okay. That was it. “Mom, you do know tho­se are me­at, right? Li­ke, re­al me­at, not so­met­hing ma­de from a soy­be­an?”

  “I know, I’m pro­bably go­ing to be sick as a dog la­ter.” She and Dad la­ug­hed to­get­her, li­ke they we­re sha­ring so­me pri­va­te joke that in­vol­ved retc­hing ham­bur­ger me­at.

  Char­ming. And comp­le­tely an­no­ying! I was in de­ep tro­ub­le and they’d spent the day chil­ling out in bed, re­kind­ling the­ir mar­ri­age or wha­te­ver, and pig­ging out on che­ese­bur­gers. And now they we­re ac­ting li­ke everyt­hing was okay and this was just any old af­ter­no­on, not the first af­ter­no­on sin­ce I’d be­en ac­cu­sed of a fe­lony! My pa­rents we­re hu­ge jerks, and that was not okay!

  “You guys suck,” I sa­id, thro­wing the bur­ger I’d just snag­ged back in­to the bag. “You do re­ali­ze I’m in hu­ge tro­ub­le right? That I co­uld go to ja­il? Li­ke, for fo­re­ver? I me­an, I ha­te to in­ter­rupt yo­ur grown-up bon­ding ti­me or wha­te­ver the heck this is but-”

  “Ho­ney, calm down,” Mom sa­id in her re­aso­nab­le to­ne of vo­ice. “Everyt­hing is go­ing to be fi­ne.”

  “No, it’s not go­ing to be fi­ne.” I sto­od to pa­ce aro­und the kitc­hen. “Pe­op­le who know me think I ra­ised tho­se zom­bi­es even tho­ugh no Set­tler has ever be­en con­vic­ted of using black ma­gic. And no one will tell me why. The­re’s got to be mo­re to it than black ma­gic, ot­her­wi­se-”

  “As so­on as we get the of­fi­ci­al pa­per­work, we’ll know exactly what you’ve be­en char­ged with, and we can go from the­re,” Dad sa­id. “Until then, we wo­uld only be gu­es­sing at-”

  “Mom is a Set­tler and she’s smart-I’m su­re she can ma­ke a pretty go­od gu­ess. They’re go­ing to say I ra­ised tho­se zom­bi­es to do so­met­hing hor­rib­le. Li­ke kill so­me­one or so­met­hing, right?”

  “I don’t know, Me­gan. I can’t know for su­re un­til we get the pa­per­work.”

  Pa­per­work. Right, li­ke Mom had ever be­en one to wa­it for the pa­per­work. Why was she ac­ting li­ke this? “Well can you at le­ast tell me what was up with El­der Tho­mas last night? What’s the big ‘mis­ta­ke,’ Mom?” I pin­ned her with an ac­cu­sing lo­ok but was surp­ri­sed when she sta­red gu­il­tily at her hands.

  “That has not­hing to do with you. I pro­mi­se,” she sa­id.

  “It su­re so­un­ded li­ke it did.”

  She ans­we­red me with a long, sad sigh. My re­al mom wo­uld ha­ve sas­sed me right back and told me not to be ri­di­cu­lo­us, that of co­ur­se she didn’t know anyt­hing she wasn’t tel­ling me. But this mom just sat the­re, fid­ge­ting and let­ting Dad do the tal­king.

  May­be she had be­en body-snatc­hed af­ter all.

  “Be­li­eve me, Me­gan, Mom and I are on yo­ur si­de.” Dad ca­me aro­und the tab­le to pull me in for a hug. Even tho­ugh I was still mad, I co­uldn’t re­sist le­aning in­to him and wrap­ping my arms aro­und his wa­ist. He just felt so so­lid and dad­li­ke and sa­fe. “As so­on as the writ­ten char­ges ar­ri­ve we’re go­ing to be comp­le­tely fo­cu­sed on cle­aring yo­ur na­me.”

  “Okay.” I snif­fed and hug­ged Dad tigh­ter whi­le Mom star­ted gat­he­ring up the empty pa­per wrap­pers lit­te­ring the tab­le.

  “Mom and I just ne­eded a lit­tle ti­me for our­sel­ves to­day,” he sa­id, pat­ting me on the back li­ke I’d wan­ted Mom to do last night. “I know it’s hard to be­li­eve, but pa­rents can fe­el overw­hel­med so­me­ti­mes too.”

  “It’s not hard to be­li­eve.” I pul­led away and to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. “I’m not a baby any­mo­re, Dad. I know you and Mom ha­ve a li­fe.” Well, sort of, any­way. “And I know it can’t be easy ha­ving a fre­ak for a da­ugh­ter.”

  “You’re not a fre­ak.” Mom threw the wrap­pers in the trash with a lot mo­re for­ce than re­qu­ired, then pul­led me in for a hug so tight I co­uld ba­rely bre­at­he. “You’re a be­a­uti­ful, ta­len­ted girl and a damn fi­ne per­son.” Te­ars we­re le­aking from her eyes aga­in when she pul­led back to cup my fa­ce in her hands. “From the ti­me you we­re a lit­tle girl, I’ve al­ways be­en so pro­ud of you. Do you know that? You ha­ve such a go­od he­art. I co­uldn’t ha­ve wis­hed for a swe­eter, mo­re lo­ving da­ugh­ter.”

  Ge­ez, now I was get­ting all we­epy. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re not one of the bad guys, Meg, and we’re go­ing to ma­ke su­re ever­yo­ne at SA and the En­for­cers and an­yo­ne el­se who thinks they know you bet­ter than we do un­ders­tands that.”

  “Okay.” I nod­ded and pul­led away to fetch the both of us a Kle­enex. I knew I sho­uld fe­el bet­ter af­ter the pep talk, but I co­uldn’t sha­ke the fe­eling that so­met­hing was wrong. It was sort of li­ke that li­ne from Ham­let we stu­di­ed du­ring our Sha­kes­pe­are unit last fall, “The lady doth pro­test too much.”

  Mom did pro­test too much. But why? Was she just sca­red, or did my pa­rents know mo­re than they we­re let­ting on? I was trying to think of a way to get Mom to spill wha­te­ver it was she tho­ught I didn’t ne­ed to know when the do­or­bell rang. “I’ll get it,” I sa­id, and hust­led to­ward the front do­or.

  “Cliff?” I as­ked, shoc­ked to see the Un­set­tled I’d put to rest three days ago stan­ding on my front porch. Un­set­tled didn’t co­me back for se­conds! Craw­ling out of yo­ur gra­ve was a one-ti­me de­al. I’d ne­ver had a re­pe­at cus­to­mer, ne­ver even he­ard of such a thing. That must me­an Cliff had ne­ver go­ne back to his eter­nal rest-des­pi­te the fact that I’d se­aled his gra­ve-which me­ant he’d be­en Un­set­tled for three days, which me­ant I pro­bably had a Ro­gue zom­bie on my hands.

  I bra­ced myself for a fight, but Cliff just smi­led.

  “Hey, what’s up, Berry? Gre­at to see you aga­in.” The fri­end­li­ness of the grin ma­de him lo­ok al­most hu­man. Heck, he did lo­ok hu­man. If I hadn’t met him be­fo­re, I wo­uldn’t know he was a zom­bie at all. He se­emed… cle­aner. His long dark brown ha­ir was shi­ning with he­alth, his clot­hes we­re dif­fe­rent-light-co­lo­red kha­ki je­ans and a dark brown swe­ater-and ob­vi­o­usly cle­an, the gra­ve smell was go­ne and he-

  “You’re we­aring glas­ses.” My sta­te­ment of the ob­vi­o­us was met with a la­ugh.

  “Not­hing’s get­ting past you, B.”

  “But why?”

  “I sort of ne­ed them to see,” he sa­id, win­king at me in a way that was kind of flirty. Or may­be just a sha­de too fri­endly. Or may­be I was the one who was too fri­endly, sin­ce he ob­vi­o­usly hadn’t got­ten the mes­sa­ge that our bu­si­ness was fi­nis­hed. But at le­ast his eyes we­ren’t glo­wing red be­hind his glas­ses. He wasn’t anyw­he­re clo­se to go­ing Ro­gue, at le­ast not yet.

  “Me­gan, who is it?” Mom cal­led from the ot­her ro­om.

  “A fri­end from church,” I yel­led b
ack, gi­ving our co­de phra­se for “an Un­set­tled at the do­or.”

  I ges­tu­red for Cliff to shush and grab­bed my co­at, hat, and scarf from the co­at tree by the do­or. “Be back so­on!”

  “All right, but ta­ke yo­ur cell pho­ne. And call us when you’re do­ne if you ne­ed a ri­de. I don’t want you wal­king by yo­ur­self af­ter dark.”

  “Okay.” Grab­bing Cliff by the arm, I ur­ged him down the steps and ac­ross the snow-dus­ted lawn. It was still an ho­ur or so be­fo­re sun­set. The­re was eno­ugh light that my pa­rents wo­uld be ab­le to see how oddly cle­an Cliff was if they tho­ught to lo­ok out the win­dow, and I re­al­ly didn’t want to de­al with trying to exp­la­in Cliff to them or an­yo­ne el­se.

  “So we’re in a hurry?” Cliff as­ked.

  “Yes, we are,” I his­sed, ris­king a lo­ok over my sho­ul­der and bre­at­hing a sigh of re­li­ef as I re­ali­zed we’d ma­de it out of the li­ne of sight wit­ho­ut be­ing ob­ser­ved. “What are you do­ing he­re?”

  “Co­ming to see you.” He grin­ned and tuc­ked his ha­ir be­hind his ears. “It was re­al­ly ni­ce tal­king to you the ot­her night. Even be­fo­re I was de­ad I didn’t me­et many girls who co­uld carry on a con­ver­sa­ti­on.”

  “Cliff, I-”

  “I me­an, abo­ut girl stuff, su­re, but not abo­ut li­fe stuff. But I did hang with a lot of pot­he­ads.” He la­ug­hed as we con­ti­nu­ed down the si­de­walk in the ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on of his ce­me­tery. “Not to jud­ge, but… ye­ah. I just re­al­ly enj­oyed han­ging out with you.”

  “Well, thanks, but Cliff…” God, how was I sup­po­sed to tell him to get lost af­ter that? “I don’t know how to say this, um…”

  “I wasn’t sup­po­sed to co­me back, was I?”

  I bre­at­hed a sigh of re­li­ef. The du­de was we­ird, but at le­ast he was per­cep­ti­ve. “Not re­al­ly. Ac­tu­al­ly, not at all. I’ve ne­ver had so­me­one co­me back.”

  He nod­ded. “You lo­oked pretty surp­ri­sed, and I ha­ven’t se­en an­yo­ne el­se li­ke me han­ging aro­und the ce­me­tery. I co­uldn’t go back to sle­ep, or de­ath or wha­te­ver, so I tho­ught I’d try to find so­me fel­low de­ad to chill with, but… no luck. ”