Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It

by Kerry Winfrey

  “I thought zombies had to bite you,” I say, but I put on my mask anyway. Better safe than sorry, and anyway I haven’t finished World War Z, so who knows, maybe zombie germs are also airborne?

  “What’s the lightsaber for?” I ask, but before Jayson can answer, Derek bolts around the corner, grabs me, and lunges for my neck.

  “He’s a zombie!” screeches Jayson, running away and leaving me to my fate.

  “I thought zombies were slow!” I yell, panting from the shock.

  “I’m the fast kind,” Derek says. “Like in 28 Days Later. Didn’t you listen to my episode of Deep Dive on the different interpretations of the zombie myth in popular culture?”

  “Of course I listened, but I’m assuming the twins didn’t.”

  “No, but that’s the cool thing about having little brothers. They’ll believe literally anything you tell them. Anyway, you’re a zombie now, so you might as well take off the mask.”

  “A lot of good it did me,” I say.

  He’s still holding on to my shoulders when Dr. Jones peeks around the corner. “Jolie!” she says pleasantly. “I thought I heard you come in. We’re having walnut-crusted tilapia for dinner—would you like to stay?”

  “Actually, Jolie and I are going out tonight,” Derek says, pushing me by my shoulders into the living room.

  “We are?” I ask once we’re out of Dr. Jones’s earshot. “I thought it was Terrible Movie Night.”

  We’re planning on watching Troll 2. It’s a movie so bad that they made a movie all about how bad it is—truly an achievement worthy of Terrible Movie Night. We already have our snacks picked out: microwave popcorn with extra butter for me, and microwave kettle corn for Derek because he’s a weirdo.

  “How about a change of plans?” Derek asks.

  I sit down on the extremely comfortable and juice-stained couch. “Wait, Derek Jones? Going out somewhere? Leaving the confines of his living room? But I already tried all the Applebee’s appetizers.”

  Derek laughs. “Maybe we could actually try going somewhere other than a chain restaurant for once? Like, maybe Happy Endings.”

  I stare at him with my mouth open. “Seriously? You’ll go?”

  Derek sighs, but he’s smiling. “I’m still morally opposed to the name.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “But, for you? Okay. Let’s go to Happy Endings. Maybe I’ll meet a beautiful forty-year-old divorcée and leave Melody for her.”

  “Who knows where the night will take us?” I say, pulling out my phone and dashing off a quick text to ask Evelyn if she wants to come with us.

  No thank you very much, she responds. My mom hangs out at Happy Endings, and anyway I have tons of costume work to do.

  “She’s busy,” I tell Derek, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “Unrelated: Have you ever had any interest in dating Evelyn’s mom? Because it’s starting to look like a real possibility.”

  Derek frowns at me. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

  We stop by my house so I can change into something a little less “sweatpants” and a little more “leaving the house.” It’s hardly flashy—a plaid shirtdress, tights, and boots—but when I come downstairs Derek wolf whistles sarcastically. I think it’s sarcastic, anyway.

  “Don’t you clean up nice,” he says.

  This all feels a little patronizing, like when someone praises a little kid for coloring inside the lines, but I don’t get a lot of compliments on my appearance and I start blushing in spite of myself.

  “Let’s go,” I say, grabbing the tote bag that serves as my purse.

  The passenger seat of Derek’s truck is one of the most familiar places on earth for me. Although Derek’s mom could afford to buy him a nice car, she’s all into teaching her kids not to be entitled or whatever. Even though she drives a super expensive sports car, he has to make do with a rusty truck from his uncle that doesn’t have AC. Derek doesn’t even complain about it, which I would totally do if my parents were cruising around town in sports cars and I was on a payment plan with my uncle. But I guess Derek’s mom’s plan is working.

  “Are we going to be able to get in?” I finally think to ask as we’re driving toward the sad strip of buildings (Marty’s Diner, an antique store, a salon, the post office, another antique store, and Happy Endings) that constitute Brentley’s downtown.

  Derek fiddles with the radio. “Happy Endings is only twenty-one-and-over on Saturday nights. Otherwise they’d never get enough business.”

  “I’m low-key afraid we’re going to see one of our teachers here,” I say. “Why can’t Brentley have an actual cool place to hang out? Like someplace where bands could play, or any restaurant other than Applebee’s or Marty’s Diner? All due respect to Marty, but Mom literally got food poisoning from his pancakes. I don’t even know how that’s possible.”

  “Because,” Derek says, pulling into a parking spot on the street. “If it was hip, it wouldn’t be Brentley.”

  “Are you ready to have an ‘APP ENDI’?” Derek asks as we cross the street and he gestures toward the half-burned-out “Happy Endings” sign.

  “What a promising sign for the quality of our evening!” I say, stepping quickly to catch up with Derek’s long, easy strides. I’m trying to be all “whatever” about this, but the truth is, Derek and I don’t usually do this kind of thing together. Yeah, we hang out basically 24/7, but usually Evie’s there or we’re just on my sofa watching TV. This whole leaving-the-house thing? It’s not us. And it’s definitely not Derek—I can’t even remember the last time he wanted to do something other than watch movies or work on his podcast.

  Just as Derek promised, there’s no one at the door checking IDs. As we walk in, I can hear the music coming from the back of the bar before I can see it. As my eyes adjust, I see that there’s a live band playing. I’d be impressed, except this band is playing what sounds suspiciously like a very bad Maroon 5 cover.

  Derek and I take a seat at a high-top table and he asks what I’d like to drink.

  “The hard stuff,” I say. “Root beer.”

  While he’s at the bar, I inspect my surroundings. The walls are decorated (well, “decorated” might be a charitable term) with seemingly random stuff. Some class pictures from Brentley High in the ’90s. A big, faded advertisement for the Kevin James movie Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Strangely, a few hats. It all works together to create a very specific feeling of not trying at all and still somehow failing.

  By the time Derek hands me my root beer and sits down, the band has moved on to a cover of Justin Bieber’s “Sorry,” which sounds much more depressing when it’s sung by a group of fifty-five-year-olds who only sort of know how to play their instruments.

  “I think the drummer’s falling asleep,” Derek observes as we watch him move his sticks more and more slowly.

  “I’m almost put to sleep by this lovely lullaby myself,” I say, swirling my straw around in my soda.

  It’s uncomfortably hot in here, and I can feel the back of my neck starting to sweat.

  “Have you considered the possibility that we’ve descended into the depths of hell?” I lean over to ask Derek.

  “Hell has a better soundtrack,” he says, pulling off his red hoodie and hanging it over the back of his chair.

  Happy Endings may lack any amount of ambiance, but something about the dim light from the neon signs bouncing off the white T-shirt that clings to Derek’s body, well … I guess the realization I had when we were running wasn’t just an exercise-induced hallucination. The music and conversation around us fade into the background as I stare at Derek watching the band. He absentmindedly bites his lip as he bobs his head to the off-tempo beat, and my heartbeat quickens.

  To everyone else at this bar, we must look like we’re on a date, the two of us sharing a table. I wonder what they think—that guy in the American flag T-shirt, the woman in the polka dot top with a plunging neckline—if they wonder why this frankly gorgeous guy is on a date with this weird-l
ooking girl. Do they think it’s a pity date? I self-consciously push my bangs into place, as if perfect bangs can save me.

  Then Derek glances at me and his eyes widen. “Why are you staring at me like that? Did I grab a T-shirt that Justin barfed on again?” He starts wiping his shirt, lifting it up so the tiniest flash of his stomach shows, and my eyes dart there of their own accord.

  “No!” I whisper-shout, leaning across the table so quickly that I almost fall off my chair. I yank down his shirt so I’m no longer staring at his abs, because this. Is. Inappropriate. He grabs my shoulders to steady me so I won’t fall off my chair, and I land against his chest.

  “Jolie?” Derek asks, looking down at me with his brown eyes full of concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I’m pressed against him, his chest both solid and warm, and I can feel his steady heartbeat. I stay there for one too many beats before I sit up and give myself a little shake. “Sorry. I’m just … in a musical trance,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

  “Right,” he says slowly. I concentrate as hard as I can on the band, but I can feel Derek’s eyes on me. As I watch the lead singer warble his way through what I think might be an original composition that features that phrase “make love” way, way too much, one thought runs through my head:

  Uh-oh.

  This is Derek, I remind myself forcefully. My friend. Who cares if he’s suddenly and inexplicably hot? He is never, ever going to have any sort of feelings for me, because if he did, he would have had them by now. Obviously. We’ve only known each other since forever. And he has a girlfriend—one who’s perfect and pretty and mysterious and very much not me.

  Plus, a guy who looks like that just doesn’t go for a girl who looks like me. Ever. I’m banking on Noah Reed falling for my stunning personality, but either way, I only need him to kiss me. Then we can both move on with our lives. But Derek couldn’t ever be just a kiss, because I see him every day. You can’t just shove your tongue in your best friend’s mouth and then be like, Hey, do you want to watch Troll 2?

  But this will be okay, I tell myself. Clearly I’m just under the romantic spell of Happy Endings—Flag T-Shirt and Polka Dot Top are totally making out over there in the corner, so there must be something in the air here (besides the overpowering scent of air freshener that’s covering up the scent of God knows what). June 2 and my possible impending death are just a few weeks away, and fear makes people do and feel crazy things, like form romantic attachments to whoever happens to be around them at the time. I think that’s, like, biology or something. But I have a plan and I’m going to stick to it: Noah and I are going to kiss, Derek and I are going to be friends, and that’s that.

  I deliver this entire silent monologue to myself very convincingly (perhaps musical practice really is making me a better actor), but when I turn to Derek, he’s still staring at me.

  “Do you want to leave?” he asks just as the lead singer of the band rips his shirt off.

  “Yes,” I say quickly. I hop down off the chair and grab my tote bag, but before I can make my way toward the exit, a guy grabs my arm.

  “Hey,” he slurs, pulling me toward him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I’m actually just leaving,” I attempt to say politely, but he grabs my waist and pulls me closer to him. He’s broad-shouldered and his receding hairline makes him look like he might be in his thirties, aka way too old to be hitting on me. His boozy breath hits my face, and I wince.

  “Don’t you want to dance?” he asks as I try to wriggle away from him. But he’s strong, and I’m small, and I can feel my throat constricting. I try to remember what Evelyn told me she learned in her self-defense class—am I supposed to knee him in the balls or poke him in the eyes? In a panic, I look toward where Derek was sitting, but he’s already beside me, wrenching me away from the guy.

  “What the hell, man?” Derek shouts, holding me against him with a protective arm.

  “Whoa, sorry.” The guy holds up his hands. “Didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

  My breath comes quickly, and I want to say a million things, but I can’t. Things like, I never want to feel your gross, drunk hands on me ever again. But the words get caught in my throat.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with whether she has a boyfriend,” Derek says. “You shouldn’t grab random girls. Ever.”

  The guy shrugs and starts to walk away. “Your girl’s hot,” he says, as if this explains everything.

  Derek seems to gain several inches of height in an instant as he takes a step toward the guy. “You have anything else to say, bro?”

  “Derek!” I grab his arm and pull him toward the door. “He is so, so not worth it. Come on.”

  Derek lets me lead him out of the bar, but he keeps his eyes on the guy the whole time. I’ve never seen him like this before—protecting me, like I’m not just his best friend in his living room, but a girl out in public.

  Once we’re safely on the sidewalk, I turn to him. “That was terrifying.”

  Derek isn’t looking at me. He’s watching the door. “I wish I could end that guy. I’d do it. I’d—”

  “Dude!” I shout, and he looks at me. “What are you going to do? Punch that rando? Get arrested for defending my honor against some drunk, desperate sleazebag?”

  Derek laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I rub my arms to try to warm up. Now that the sun’s down, it’s actually a little chilly. “Why did you come out tonight, anyway? You never want to go anywhere.”

  He shrugs and looks around us. “Because you wanted to. I just … thought you would enjoy it. And look what happened.”

  “Were you really going to hit that guy?” I ask, half-horrified and half in awe.

  “In the moment, could I have? Yeah.”

  “But why?” I ask.

  “Because I’m looking out for you, Jolie,” he says, and my heart skips a beat. “Because we’re friends.”

  My heart goes back to its previously scheduled rhythm. Right. We’re friends. Derek was reacting as a friend, not anything else.

  I shudder at the memory of that guy’s hands around my waist, at the way I struggled but couldn’t move, at the panic that prevented me from fighting back. “That’s not you—hitting random douches at bars. That’s not the kind of guy you are.”

  “Oh yeah?” Derek asks. “And what kind of guy am I?”

  He meets my eyes and I realize that I don’t know what to say. Or maybe I do, and I’m just too scared to say it.

  But I’m distracted because out of the corner of my eye, I see two people come out of Marty’s Diner, both of them laughing. One of them is tall with long, brown, shiny hair. The other one has gray hair. Wait a second. Is that…?

  “Evelyn and Marla?” Derek asks.

  I pull him behind a mailbox. “Duck!”

  “Why are we hiding?” Derek asks.

  “Because they clearly don’t want to be seen!” I hiss. “Evelyn told me she was working tonight … and she’s literally never mentioned hanging out with Marla, ever. I didn’t even know they were friends.”

  The gears turn in my head. Why the hell is Evelyn secretly hanging out with my mortal enemy? Well, maybe “enemy” is a strong word; after all, she did apologize to me. But still, why is Evelyn hanging out with someone who actively hated me until recently?

  “Something’s up,” I whisper as we watch them get into Evelyn’s car.

  “Yeah, you’re a maniac is what’s up,” Derek says, pulling me up from my crouch. “Evelyn can hang out with whoever she wants. Come on, Peterson. Let’s bounce. If we hurry up, we’ll still have time to watch Troll 2.”

  He puts his arm around me as we walk toward his truck and this, in itself, isn’t unusual. Derek is a full head taller than me, so I’m basically nestled into his armpit and normally I would make a comment about how he smells bad, but this time I don’t. I lean against him as we walk, and I let myself relax a little bit. I wonder: What if he was
n’t Derek, and I wasn’t me, and we were just two people who were on a date? What would that be like?

  “I can’t believe we were almost involved in a bar fight,” Derek says with a laugh, and I can feel the words rumble through his chest and vibrate into my skull. “This night kind of got out of hand, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. “It kind of did.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I get home on the latish side, but Abbi’s sleep schedule is so erratic (she tends to fall asleep on the couch at seven p.m., then complain about being unable to sleep at midnight) that I don’t feel bad about knocking on her bedroom door. She grunts, which I assume is Abbi for Please come in.

  She’s lying on her side with her back to the door and she rolls over to face me, groaning. In her hand is her constant companion, a dog-eared copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. “Are you here because you’ve magically found a cure for constant heartburn? Because otherwise I don’t want to see anyone right now. I want to sit around, alone, and think about how uncomfortable I am while this stupid book scares the hell out of me.”

  I gesture to myself. “Do I look like Larry the Cable Guy in a Prilosec commercial? I’m here for advice.”

  Abbi narrows her eyes and rests the book on her stomach. “About what?”

  “About kissing.”

  Abbi sits upright faster than I’ve seen her move in months and the book tumbles to the floor. “Who are you kissing?” she shouts.

  “Keep it down!” I whisper.

  She rolls her eyes. “Please. No one else here cares that much what you do with your lips. Unless you learn how to operate a miter saw with your mouth, Dad isn’t paying attention.”

  I sit down beside her on the fluffy floral comforter she’s had since we were little, back when I used to climb into her bed when I got nightmares after watching particularly scary episodes of Scooby-Doo.

  “I just want to know what it feels like,” I say. “My one and only kiss was in kindergarten, and I don’t remember much.”