by Sarah Ockler
“Things any better with you and Jay?” he asks. He was the one who drove Ellie to pick me up at DIA after last summer’s California disaster. I didn’t share the specifics, but it was obvious we’d had a major fight.
“So-so,” I say. “She’s . . . trying.” I pull my knees to my chest, wrap myself in a hug. “She feels bad about all the scandal stuff.”
“Yeah.” Cole runs a hand through his perpetual bed-head. “Finally talked to Ellie last night. Five whole minutes.”
“That’s about five times what she’s giving me.”
“Pretty sure she hates me more than she hates you,” he says.
“If she hated you, she wouldn’t have a reason to hate me, because the hater and the hated . . . it doesn’t . . . You know that saying? Like, your enemy’s enemy is not your enemy, so you—”
“That’s it. We’re switching to decaf.” Cole leans across me and nabs my coffee cup. He takes a swig like we’ve known each other forever, and only now, in the aftermath of all the sparks, do I realize he’s always done it. Every dinner-and-a-movie he and Ellie third-wheeled me on, every botched double date, Cole always ate the fries off my plate, always stole the grand finale bite of my grilled cheese on rye or brownie à la mode. Not Ellie’s, but mine, like we had this unspoken fry-sharing agreement, and I never questioned it. It was just our thing, accepted and unremarkable, significant only in the remembering.
“After graduation,” he says, returning the coffee. His copper-green eyes are full of light again, the posters behind him dull in comparison. “Deal?”
“What about Ellie?”
“Oh, that girl will never go decaf. She’s way—oh.” Cole stops when he sees my face, T minus one second to eye roll. My knee gets an encouraging squeeze. “Sucks. Like, there’s all this sadness in her voice and I’m the one who put it there and it kills me. I mean, I get it. She’s fuming about the pictures, fuming that neither of us said anything earlier about . . .” His hand waves between us, you and me, me and you. “Things. Us. I wish I knew how to make it okay for her. For you. All of it.”
My brain is all, There were earlier things? Us things? Earlier us things? But my mouth just goes for the gold with, “Yeah.”
“Miss Vacarro. Mr. Foster.” Principal Zeff nods curtly as she breezes down the hall, polished and put together as usual. If she notices the posters on my locker, she doesn’t stop to investigate, to check whether they meet the “bullying on school property” handbook criteria. “Glad to see you two getting an early start on your education.”
Once she’s out of earshot, I ask, “How does someone see two scowling kids sitting on the floor and think it has anything to do with education?”
“We’re in the building a half hour before the bell,” he says. “And we’re not smokin’ a jay in the bathroom with 420. What else could she think?”
“I’m still scowling. You see that, right?”
Cole pretends to erase my grimace, fingertips grazing my lips. “Take it off, because I have an awesome fun idea and you’re not allowed to shoot it down.”
“I’ve already had my eight minutes of fun,” I say. “Your contract has thus released you from further obligation.” There’s something dangerous in joking about that night, but it feels normal, too. Easy, like the fry-and-coffee stealing thing. And even though my locker is covered in damning evidence and my lips still tingle from his touch, it’s so good to laugh with him, so real, and when he returns my smile, it’s all, Wow. This is what home feels like.
“We’re hitting up the prank meeting tonight.” Cole nods, triumphant, like Franklin asserting the superiority of the Explorer yesterday.
“Are you pranking me right now?” I ask. “Because in the words of Miss Demeanor, that’s very meta.”
“Shhh!” Cole presses his fingers to his temples. “I’m pretending I didn’t just hear you admit to reading Miss Demeanor, and you’re agreeing to my idea instead.”
“Dude. We can’t show up at a group thing, like, together.”
“You’re shooting me down, Luce. We talked about this.”
“Have you seen my fan page?” I bang the locker with my fist. “This crap?”
“Yeah, but we can rise above.” He takes one of my braids in his fingers, rolls it absently. “You know that old saying, if you can’t beat ’em—”
“Join ’em by giving them more photo ops for the poster project? Good plan.”
“That’s not . . . Okay. You know that scene in Walking Dead when Rick and Glenn go zombie undercover in that dude’s guts?” He drops the braid and reaches for the coffee, takes another swig. This time he balances the cup on his knee when he’s done, nestled perfectly in a hole in his jeans. “Something tells me you’re not getting the ‘joining’ metaphor here.”
“It’s possible you’ve misinterpreted that scene,” I say. “Not surprising, coming from a self-professed zombie ‘dabbler.’ ”
Cole raises an eyebrow.
“That scene functions on multiple levels,” I say. “From a plot perspective, they needed to get to the truck without calling attention to themselves. By wrapping themselves in guts, they could trick the zombies long enough to get past the horde.”
“But what about—”
“Symbolically, it was a spiritual turning point. They had to die a metaphorical death—become zombies themselves, temporarily—so they could be reborn into a world where the dead walk and the living are losing their humanity. It was one of the last scenes where they still treated the zombies as humans, as lives cut short by a freak accident. That’s why they checked the dead guy’s license before they gutted him and said he was an organ donor.”
“Um . . . I still think there was some joining going on.”
I shake my head. “Rick didn’t willingly lead his man into a horde just so he could show those zombies he was above it all. He did it to save their lives.”
“But—”
“If you really want a metaphor, in Rick’s new world, death has become life, and the real monsters aren’t the flesh-eating zombies, but the living, who’ve de-evolved to base survival mode because they can’t face the reality of death. The reason people are fascinated by zombies isn’t the gore, but the fact that we live our lives in a coma, walking around like we’re already dead, kept in check only by the systems and laws.”
“You’ve given this a lot of—”
“Rick and his crew struggle not only to survive, but to hold on to their humanity, the only thing that separates them from the literal walking dead. It’s not unlike high school, which is a metaphor for the popularity contest of life. So do you want me to go on? I could do this all day.” I take back my coffee and down the last of it, and Cole’s just grinning, melting my heart into a pile of goo.
He lets out a low whistle as I crush the empty cup against the floor. “I think my decaf plan has merit,” he says. “And necessity.”
“Unlike the prank meeting.”
Cole sighs, and for a few minutes we sit in silence, the school awakening around us: Teachers scuttle to classrooms, lights flick on, cell phones chirp to life. The first wave of students trickles in from the bus drop, and Cole nudges my knee with his, our peace meeting its end.
Farther down the corridor, someone props the main doors open, students and sunshine filing in from the courtyard. The commotion momentarily distracts us, but when our eyes meet again, Cole’s focus is intense, unflinching.
“I miss my favorite groupie,” he says, and I shiver, hopefully unnoticed. “I can’t just pretend it didn’t mean . . . You know I’m torn up about Ellie, but what? I’m supposed to act like I hate you just because everyone’s talking shit?”
I tip my head against the locker and close my eyes. Maybe he’s right. Before all this, it’s not like we didn’t pal around in the woods with the dogs or swap notes from shared classes. It’s not like I didn’t pass by his garage in the summer on my bike, hang out while he banged on the drums.
Maybe if we go to the meeting like normal,
show them we won’t be cowed into hiding by rumors and name-calling . . . maybe that’s the key to fixing this mess.
“Come with me tonight,” Cole says, triumphant once again. He grabs his drumsticks, taps me on the knee. “We’ll sit in the back and make inside jokes about their ideas to laugh at for years to come.”
“Gee, you really know how to impress a girl.”
“This is A-game stuff. Take it or leave it.” Cole rises and stretches out his hand to give me a lift, and I take it. He sees the resigned yes in my smile and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Pick you up at seven. Wear something . . .” He wiggles his eyebrows, backing up toward his homeroom. “Pranky.”
“Really thought you’d go with ‘gutsy’ there.”
“Ooh.” He points at me with the drumsticks, his smile infectious. “Decaf, Vacarro. Look it up.”
• • •
Cole, John, and I reconvene at my locker during lunch to finish clearing the posters. For most of the afternoon, other than a few shoulder bumps and the ongoing arctic freeze-out from Ellie and Griff, Lav-Oaks seems content to put the scandal on snooze.
Jayla makes pad Thai for dinner—score—and for dessert I receive a new Facebook alert: a photo essay, making its bid for Pulitzer Prize for Breaking News Photography, tagged to me with love from Olivia on the Juicy Lucy page.
The album is a fifteen-shot series of me and Cole drinking coffee this morning, complete with extensive commentary from my many endearing fans.
OLIVIA: Here they are practically DOING IT in the hallway.
JACKSON (VAMPIRE): Class it up, bro.
JOHN: I’m only joining this RIDIC page to say—stay out of it. Cole & Lucy are my peeps.
SPENCE: Only joining to say—what he said ^ ^
CLARICE: Only joining to say—John, maybe u should worry about your OWN pants (or lack thereof) instead of what’s going on in Cole’s.
JOHN: Why are u so obsessed w/ what’s in my pants?
MARGO: Only joining to say—u guys I totally wasn’t making out with Prince Freckles in the living room. We were having a moment. Lucy I hope u die or at least get an uncomfortable rash.
OLIVIA: Bwahahah I’m sure she already has a rash.
JOHN: Srsly? U guys need to back off. Lucy didn’t do it.
HALEY: Why should we back off when that skank put our private biz online? I’m grounded 4 evs. Sorry, no sympathy from the prisoners.
QUINN: If my parentals were on FB, I’d be dead 2. I stand with the prisoners. Solidarity!
REN (VAMPIRE): Bros before hos, Lucy. Or whatever the chick version of that saying is.
OLIVIA: *fistbumps Haley & Quinn* Fight the power! The SLUT power! lol
JACKSON: Some people just like attention. Oh did u see pics of me & zombie Farrah? We were WASTED, bro. HILARIOUS.
REN: Mmmm. Zombie Farrah . . .
HALEY: Back on point . . . Juicy Lucy, give her a squeeze!
There’s another two pages of fascinating conversation, but before I reach the satisfying conclusion, the chat box pings with an invite from Franklin.
FRANKLIN: Saw u sign in. Ur not doing what I think ur doing, r u?
LUCY: If u think I’m thoroughly depressing myself by reading nasty comments from so-called classmates on a fan page of their own making, then . . . no. Totally not.
FRANKLIN: Watch this video. Always cheers me up, esp. at the 2:04 mark.
LUCY: K. Watching now . . . Please hold for expressions of cheer. . . .
LUCY: !!! :-) Switching to inbox to message u.
From: Lucy Vacarro
Dear Franklin,
Baby owls? Whoooo knew you were such a softy? Never before have I seen so much onscreen cuteness. I say we adopt them for “research purposes.” We can raise them in the stables—I’m sure the horses won’t mind. Seriously, thank you. It helped. Truly. :)
Cole and I have decided to adopt the old standby—if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Will we see you at the prank meeting tonight?
—Slightly Less Vilified
From: Franklin Margolis
Dearest SLV,
I really am a softy at heart—don’t let my urbane sophistication and stylishly unkempt Jewfro fool you. So glad I could make you smile. Sadly, you and your compatriots will have to mastermind your evil plots without me. I’m severely allergic to anything group project. Prince Freckles suggested I might have a superiority complex, and perhaps he’s right, because my response to the accusation was, “What do you know? You’re just a horse.” And he replied, “Neeeaaayyy!”
In any case, hold your head high tonight.
Shall we lunch tomorrow with our four-legged friend? You can update me on the meeting. Off the record, of course.
—Prankster by Proxy
From: Lucy Vacarro
Dear P-by-P,
Lunch tomorrow it is. I’ll have a word with Prince Freckles about his manners. He means well, but sometimes he can be a bit blunt.
Off to the slaughterhouse!
—SLV
HORROR MOVIE SURVIVAL TIP: SHE WHO INVESTIGATES NOISES IN THE BASEMENT IN HER UNDERWEAR CARRYING ONLY A FLASHLIGHT SHALL BE DISAPPOINTED AND/OR KILLED
It’s weird to show up at a firing squad with mini bundts, right?”
I wasn’t planning on group treats, but when I told Jayla about the prank meeting, she agreed with Cole’s joining-in philosophy (so much for sticking it to the ass-vampires) and insisted on “making something” for me. Translation: running out to Bundt Heads and ordering six dozen minis, then dousing them with gold sprinkles and presenting them with her usual wide-eyed flourish. “Lucy, I totally made these!”
Now, Cole balances the tower of bakery boxes in one hand, his other hand on my shoulder as we cross the school lot, damned leading the damned. “Unconventional, maybe.”
“She’s taking the parenting thing too far,” I say. “Yesterday I found a fiber bar in my lunch.”
“It’s important to be regular.”
“It’s important that we never discuss this again.”
“What do your actual parents think?” he asks.
“Talked to them yesterday—totally laissez-faire. Mom’s thrilled that Jayla’s quote unquote taking an interest.”
Cole squeezes my shoulder. “You still mad about last summer?”
“Honestly? She’s being pretty cool.” I tell him about the shopping spree, the cooking, how she covered for me with Zeff. “She even gave Night a bubble bath last night,” I say. “Lemon ginger. He smells like tea. He’s basically in love with himself now.”
“Spike will be all over him,” Cole says. “So the infamous Angelica Darling has an actual heart under those perky little . . . clothes!” He twists to dodge my punch, cracking up. “I was gonna say clothes!”
“And I was gonna pelt you with bundts, but since we’ve reached our destination, you get to live another day. Celebrate life!” I wrench open the emergency exit doors, perpetually unlocked and unalarmed. At the end of the corridor is the entrance to the auditorium, also unguarded. It’s unlikely that Principal Zeff isn’t aware of the “secret” annual senior prank meeting, but there haven’t been any decent hijinks since the 1972 Swimming of the Burros—yes, donkeys in the pool—so tonight’s assembled brain trust is low on the threat list.
The aud doors are propped open, seniors being admitted one at a time by an underclassman with frizzy blond curls and a clipboard. Inside, a few dozen kids are already bumbling around the aisles, texting and gasping, slack-jawed, directionless.
Olivia’s there, surgically attached to Quinn and Haley. They stop whispering just long enough to give us the triple death glare.
“God,” I say to Cole, louder than necessary. “Remember when Olivia Barnes was nice?” I’m half joking, more defensive than snarky, but Cole’s face reveals only regret. He doesn’t have to say what’s on his mind; deep down, I feel it too. Olivia was mortified by those pictures, ashamed to face her own parents, and all evidence points to me. Of course she’s not blowing kis
ses.
Cole’s heavy sigh says, Maybe this wasn’t such an awesome fun idea after all. . . .
We press on regardless.
When we reach the doorway, Clipboard Girl shoots out her arm like a barricade. “You’re not on the list.”
“We’re on the list,” Cole says. “We’re seniors.”
Her eyes narrow. “I know who you are, Cole Foster.”
“Great!” Cole shifts the bakery boxes from one hand to the other. “And you are . . .”
“Margo Hennessy’s intern.” She’s wearing a pink tee that says STAFF across the front in red letters, and she points to it with her pen, as if this explains everything. “With strict orders not to let you in. Margo doesn’t want any”—her eyes rake my body, lingering on my red platform flip-flips—“disturbances.”
Disturbances? Margo’s the one who got way past the I Love You, Man stage with Prince Freckles and a bottle of her namesake bourbon.
“You’re excluding two people from the whole class?” Cole’s voice is even, but his ears are red, his shoulders taut.
“Discrimination much?” I say.
“Since it’s not a school-sanctioned event, no.” Intern steps aside to let a few other seniors enter, no one I know. “And those (e)VIL people can’t come either. Margo says they ask too many questions.”
“Whatever,” I snap. “We’ll just . . . go somewhere else and have a private . . . prank party. And we’ve got six dozen mini bundts, with sprinkles, and we’re not sharing a single one.”
Intern rolls her eyes. “Dial it down, rage-a-holic. I’m not the one who slept with my best friend’s boyfriend and posted pictures of it on Facebook instead of, like, admitting it to her face.”
“Excuse me?” I’m about to say something that’ll knock the curl out of her hair, but Cole grabs my arm and pulls me down the corridor, back the way we came. He doesn’t stop until we’re in the parking lot, and in the low orange sun my anger evaporates.
“Dude.” I narrow my eyes at him, barely containing a laugh. “Did we just get bounced from a fake school function by a fake intern with a clipboard?”
He rubs his head with a free hand, hair sticking out like dark tumbleweeds. “Moving on to plan b. Follow me.”