by Sherry Soule
I quickly add to my notebook: Hayden’s a lefty and brings his lunch to school. Check.
When I look up, my eyes widen. Hayden’s ears are bright red and his whole body tenses, as if he wants to punch his smartass sibling. Suddenly the metal fork clenched in his fist folds in half, like it’s made out of pliable, soft plastic.
Pause. Rewind. What the hell?
My jaw practically hits the table. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Did that fork really just flop over like a warm Hershey bar?
My body twitches with the sudden urge to snatch up the utensil for a closer inspection. I blink and look again. Everything inside me screams to deny it, but really, how can I? The twisted stainless steel proof is right there in front of me. The deformed fork still clenched tightly in his hand is like a beacon of unreality.
Hayden—sexy-lone-wolf—suddenly went from stoic recluse to interesting hottie.
Frantically, I draw a bent fork in my notebook and write: Hayden can bend metal objects with his mind. Check.
My empty stomach churns. This is way too bizarre, even for me. Maybe I’ve been sucked into some freaky SyFy original movie. Because this kind of epic weirdness usually only happens in scary movies, not in real life.
I look at Viola. She’s still absorbed with her novel and no one else seems to have noticed the fork bend in half.
I bump her with my shoulder. “Did you see that?”
She doesn’t look up from her book, but a few strands of glossy black hair tickle the pages. “No. What?”
With a trembling hand, I reach out and touch Viola’s arm, desperate for an anchor in the midst of such improbability. It’s as if a door has burst open to some strange new world.
Viola lowers the paperback. “Sloane, what’s wrong? You look paler than usual.”
What can I say that won’t sound batshit crazy? That I saw Hayden doing—what? Using some mystical-type mojo?
Before I can utter a word, Hayden drops the fork onto the table with a clatter and stiffly crosses his arms. Zach grabs it and tosses the warped utensil behind him in the trash. They continue to argue in low tones.
Now the evidence is gone, and if I try to explain, my best friend might accuse me of rocking the crazy pants. And it’s probably not a good idea to make a scene in front of the whole school. This can wait.
“Never mind. I’m fine,” I mumble.
Hayden pushes away from the table and storms out of the cafeteria. Grabbing my phone from my bag and pretending to listen to a voicemail, I scoot back my chair and speed-walk across the room to stand by the windows. Hayden marches over to the closest tree and slams his fist into the bark. Talk about anger issues. Shaking out his hand, he stalks toward the parking lot, which probably means he’s cutting his next class.
Unless I go digging through the trash for that fork, I will need additional proof that something is off about Hayden Lancaster. It seems the computer hacking is just the tip of the iceberg.
I return to my seat and scan my notes. Now that I think about it harder, Hayden and Zach look like typical teens, but they’re almost too perfect. Extremely attractive. Very athletic. And super smart. Now, the fork mutilation.
Too freakin’ weird to ignore.
Viola leans over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I’m keeping a list.”
She frowns. “Huh?”
“My observations on Hayden for a possible scandalous article.”
“Lemme see that.” She snatches the notebook from my hands and flips through the pages like a cop checking notes. “I think the salad your mom is forcing you to eat is warping your brain.”
“Get serious.”
When Viola finishes, she hands me the notebook and says lightly, “I’d say vampire, but he can go out in daylight. A relative of Superman?”
My pulse races at the idea of him being something otherworldly.
“Huh. I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe he is a fledgling superhero…” I start to jot that in my notebook, and then vehemently cross it out. “Nah. Hayden’s a computer geek. Doubt he’d make much of a crusader.”
Viola dips a limp fry into her ketchup. “Then he’s a villain.”
Criminal mastermind. Check.
The bottom falls out of my stomach. Who the heck is this guy? And what if his whole scowly bad-boy act isn’t just an act?
Leaning back, I resolve to do what any good journalist would do: I’ll go stalking for answers. The pen in my hand slightly trembles as I write: Proceed with caution. Check.
FRIGHT NIGHT BABBLE
Welcome, Snarklings!
As you know, I mostly review and chat up scary movies on this frightfully awesome editorial; but on occasion, I also like to share my views on overused clichés in horror that just kill the scare factor. As a future scriptwriter, I realize that writers have to work extra hard if they want to avoid the usual tired old scares.
So why does the electricity always fail at some point in the film, usually right after the victims have become aware there’s a killer in the house? Ugh!
And why does every storm that blows through the town suddenly knock the power out? Lame!
Or should the extraordinary occur and the house still has lights, there’s always the inevitable burned out light bulb in the exact room the victim needs to go into. Oddly enough, flicking the switch up and down a hundred times never seems to fix it. Duh!
Peace, love, and horror flicks,
Zombie Queen aka Sloane Masterson
TWO
On Monday, I’m back to stalking Hayden. Except, I prefer to call it detailed research on an extremely attractive classmate.
I had to babysit my little brother Jonah most of the weekend, so “Operation Lancaster” was put on hold. Last Friday after the weird fork incident, I spent ten minutes digging through a mound of trash for the bent cutlery, but couldn’t find it. At least it’s not as bad as dumpster diving. Besides, I’m not going to let a little garbage stand in my way.
But what good would a damaged fork do me, anyway? Who would even believe it? No one.
Slipping out the side-door of the gym, I escape the dank dreariness of Haven High’s exterior. The spring day is marred with overcast skies and pale sunshine. A brisk breeze nips at my cheeks. The school is an imposing two-story structure that reminds me of “Wayne Manor,” and is located beside a busy intersection. The comic book lover in me often wonders if the building has an underground cavern below it like The Batcave. Beyond the property is a portion of an immense oak forest, the branches bursting with red, gold, and orange colors.
Haven High is located in Winter Haven, California, which is actually an island within the San Francisco Bay Area. It has these really nice parks, lots of shady bike trails, and a ton of Victorian and waterfront homes. To get back to what some might call the “real world,” you have to cross one of two bridges into Oakland. And the island has one of the largest coastal oak forests in the state. It can be a bit Stepford-ish, so I’ve dubbed it Dullsville. Nothing much happens here. Ever.
Until now.
I spot Hayden standing on the passenger side of his SUV—a black LR4 aka badass Land Rover—waiting for his brother, who’s stuck in detention for fighting again. I know this because of the gossip I heard during lunch today. Hayden’s giving off that I’ll-kick-your-ass-if-you-talk-to-me vibe, so I decide to keep my distance. He has the faintest dusting of stubble on his jawline, and his defined cheekbones give him an almost menacing appearance, as if he wants to wage war on the entire world.
In that moment, he flicks a glance in my direction, as if he senses my scrutiny. For five long seconds, our gazes collide, locking together. A shiver dances over the length of my spine before he looks away, dismissing me as he would a pesky mosquito.
My stomach clenches. I hate the way my body always reacts to him. This has never happened to me before. Not with other guys.
I walk toward the nearly deserted parking lot on the side of the building. Four boys in gold and red soccer un
iforms kick around a ball on the lawn, their cheeks ruddy. And I’m guessing the freshmen girls in ridiculously short skirts watching them have zero to do with their efforts to show off. Lame. Two somber teachers stand near a Toyota pickup, nodding while they chat.
“Sloane! Sloane Masterson!”
Crapola. I groan and look over my shoulder at Devin Greenspan, my geeky admirer. He’s also editor of the school paper, which kind of makes him my boss. He sprints over to me on long, thin legs.
“You start working on the Lancaster editorial yet?” Devin asks.
“Yup. I’m all over it,” I say.
Devin’s gaze lingers on my breasts. Correction: my embarrassing mega-boobs. He gawks at them a lot.
Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I zip my jacket, but the zipper barely squeezes over my massive chest.
Boys have been ogling my goodies since that mortifying day in sixth grade—before I was even aware of the effect that breasts had on hormonal boys—when I’d worn this thin white tee with an even thinner sports bra and got sprayed with water. The memory still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“Okay. Cool. See ya tomorrow.” Devin meanders over to his muddy Taurus.
Good. Now I can go back to observing the ultra-cute Lancaster without being disrupted.
I stop near my VW Jetta, whip out my iPhone, and snap a few pics of it. The car has a dent in the fender from an accident last month, and the insurance company wants a few photos, so it’s a good cover story if Hayden questions me. As I snap away with the camera on my smartphone, I peek at Hayden.
“Woof! Arf!”
Holding the phone and squinting through the viewfinder, I turn at the barking noise. Up the street, a golden retriever wanders along the sidewalk, and then rambles into the intersection. I start walking toward the puppy and softly call to it, but halt when a PT Cruiser turns the corner. The clueless driver is heading straight toward the dog.
I wave my hands in the air at the car, but it zips right past me. I clutch the phone tighter, a scream stuck in my throat.
No! I can’t watch! I cringe, wanting to cover my eyes.
A brilliant flash, like a bolt of lightning strikes near the Range Rover. Leaves and gravel zoom in a gale-force wind that hadn’t been there before. Another explosion of brightness and Hayden is suddenly standing in the middle of the road, scooping up the golden retriever.
The PT Cruiser comes to a squealing halt, and the world fills with the scent of burning rubber. The bumper kisses Hayden’s legs. I take in the scene: the car, the whimpering pooch, the boy, and the asphalt below his black Vans...is cracked. Fractured and indented where he’s standing. The crumbled spot is so broken up it’s created a minor pothole.
Holy zombies.
Lowering my phone, I twist the frayed hem of my shirt between my fingers. My brain feels as though it’s humming, vibrating at a lower frequency. I hold my head with both hands. What’s with the weird sound? It’s hard to even think.
I glance back at the parking lot on my right. A few students stare at the car stopped in the road. “Are you people blind?” I ask no one in particular.
The driver of the PT Cruiser sticks his head out the window. “Watch where you’re going, kid!” The man shakes an angry fist at Hayden and the puppy. “And get that dog a leash!” He stomps on the gas and swerves around them and the pothole.
I try to calculate the distance, and how Hayden was able to move so incredibly fast. His back was to the street and the puppy, with his SUV between them. No way could he have conceivably gotten to the dog in time. And what was up with that weird flash of blue lightning?
Hayden shouldn’t have even been there. And the pup should’ve been roadkill, but it’s safely in his arms, bright-eyed, tail wagging, and completely unscathed.
Giving up on trying to figure out how Hayden did it, I whip out my Hello Kitty notebook and fuzzy-tipped pen and write: Hayden is a dog lover. Check.
It’s some kind of epic miracle. And lucky for me, I caught the whole thing on my iPhone. Inside my head, I do a little victory dance. Just as I’m about to geek out on Hayden’s possible superhero abilities, he glances over at me.
Busted.
Hayden marches to the other side of the street. He’s wearing a snug black T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders and distressed jeans. Excuse me while I wipe the drool from my lips. He looks good. Too good. Lip smacking good.
Guess my hormones are fully functioning despite all the weirdness.
And now he’s blatantly staring in my direction and biting his lip. I want to look away, I really do. But the way he’s looking at me is unnerving. More like worry—or some other emotion I don’t know how to identify.
Does he somehow sense my ridiculous crush on him?
Sure, I’ve liked the guy since he moved here. And yes, the boy wears supercool clothes, but I hadn’t been that obvious. Or have I?
Putting my notebook away, I gulp. Oh, god. What if he knows that I know what he just did? That I was filming the dog rescue?
I chew on a strand of my hair, unsure if I should jump in my car and burn rubber out of here or go see if they’re both in one piece. I choose the latter and strut over to Super Boy and the puppy. I wait for two cars to pass before I jog across the street to where they’re standing.
Hayden looks at me warily. So does the dog.
I lick my lips. “Are you guys okay?”
He stiffens. “Fine.”
“Is that your dog?”
“No,” he snaps. “Now run along.”
Sheesh. What crawled up his butt and died?
“Does the dog need to go to the vet or something?” I ask, refusing to budge.
“No.” He puts the puppy down and stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. His eyes narrow. “It’s after four. What are you still doing here?” he asks in a dark tone.
Doubly busted. I am the worst spy ever.
The golden retriever cocks his head, looking at me as if to say, Yeah. Why are you stalking the nice guy who just saved my life?
I lift my chin. “I was taking pics of my car. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Uh-huh.” He folds his arms over his chest, biceps flexing. His expression is stark, all careful control. “What do you want, Sloane?”
“How do you know my name?”
“You’re that popular reporter for the school paper. Everyone at school knows who you are.”
I shuffle my feet. “Oh.”
“Again, what do you want?”
My eyes go wide and innocent. “Nothing. I just saw what happened and I thought a dog rescue might make a compelling story,” I improvise.
Hayden regards me shrewdly, but he doesn’t say anything. His hard gaze seems to swirl with sapphire and flecks of emerald. For a second, they don’t even look like human eyes. I turn away from his scrutiny and glance at my knotted fingers. He’s just so freaking hot. And it’s very distracting.
Breathe, Sloane, just breathe.
“You saved the puppy. It was amazing.” I peek up at him from beneath a fringe of hair. “How did you—”
“Bro!” Zach appears across the street near the Range Rover. His stare is cold and flinty. “Let’s roll.”
But Hayden doesn’t move. His eyes meet mine in an instant of bright, hot voltage. Whoa. My heart rate spikes. Time becomes static. He touches my arm, and my throat goes dry. I lower my gaze to his beautiful mouth. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to taste those firm lips. He sighs, and releases my arm, leaving me with a trembling surge of emotions. I can’t deny the attraction, or the strange things it’s doing to my body.
Hayden moves closer and my pulse seizes up with quivery anticipation. He has that look on his face as if he’s about to say something, but he’s not sure how to say it. A question? Or an invite of some kind? Oh! Maybe he’s decided to ask me on a date. What? What?
“I’ve got to go,” he says strongly, the internal struggle clearly gone.
Damn. Not what I was hopi
ng to hear.
Hayden stalks across the street without checking for oncoming traffic, as if he suddenly can’t wait to get the hell away from me.
Those lustful feelings vanish, and my blood boils. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Hey! We were having a conversation here, Mr. Impolite!”
Without breaking his stride, he tosses back, “And now we’re done.”
I spend a moment checking out his cute butt before returning to planet Earth. Then I pull out my notebook and write down: No amount of hot boy exterior is going to make up for the fact that he’s a rude jerk. Check.
The golden retriever and I look at each other. Crouching, I inspect his collar. Fortunately, the puppy’s tag has the owner’s name and address. The dog’s soulful eyes stare up at me. I take his adorable head in my hands and kiss him. He licks my cheek, and I scrunch my nose. Ewww, doggy breath.
Straightening, I wipe my face with my sleeve and pull out my phone to view the footage. The recording shows Hayden standing beside the Range Rover and turning his head as though he’s heard something. Then he literally vanishes in a—poof! A bright flash of bluish light follows a blast of wind filling the space, like a mini-tornado where Hayden had been standing. Seconds later, there’s another flare of brightness and the swish of rushing air. Now Hayden’s in the middle of the road with the dog.
Oh. My. Zombies.
My mouth drops open, then snaps shut.
Goodbye, Dullsville. Hello, Bizarro Land!
It’s too incredible. The dog rescue seems virtually impossible, and when there’s no logical answer, I guess the impossible seems plausible. Hayden has some sort of supernatural powers. My heart thumps hard and fast in my chest. What the fudge have I gotten myself into?
At least now...
I. Have. Freakin’. Proof.
“Just a sec,” I tell the puppy, and take out my notebook again: Hayden dodges cars at warp-speed to rescue puppies. Check.
But how? Teleportation?
I scoff, unable to believe my inner voice on that illogical argument. But I can’t wait to find out what he does next. This strange urge to discover all of Hayden’s secrets is the same one rubberneckers get when they see a car wreck on the freeway—they just have to slow down and look. Or in my case, get to the truth.