Lipstick & Zombies (Deadly Divas Book 1)

by McKay, Faith

  Nelly said, "It's totally mine," with a proud smile like she believed she already had it.

  Gerri pouted her bottom lip at her best friend. The ad said they were only taking one girl from each school. Some days, it was like Nelly was new to this world. She didn't want to break her poor little heart, but Gerri knew that spot was hers. "Oh, honey."

  EUREKA! NEWSFEED

  MEET TEN GIRLS AUDITIONING FOR DEADLY DIVAS

  THE NEXT BIG THING: DEADLY DIVAS, WHAT IS IT?

  THE STUFF OF DREAMS, OR NIGHTMARES? WHAT ARE DEADLY DIVAS?

  ARE YOUR DAUGHTERS AUDITIONING? HOW TO STOP THEM!

  Chapter Two

  SADIE

  There were three rounds to tryouts. Round one was the meet and greet. Round two was the panel with the big wigs. Round three had something to do with fighting, but it wasn't very clear. Sadie had stages to her outfit for the rounds. She had more to prove than the other girls, which was nothing new for her.

  For round one, she had a leather cord stitching together the slit on the left side of her dress, hiding her leg. It restrained her movement quite a bit, and she'd built her meet and greet strategy around that fact. Just like with everything in life, you had to give as much as you could right from the start, because you never knew how long you'd actually have someone's attention before they wrote you off.

  Anthony, her brother, had listened patiently while she talked through her strategy, never pointing out that he thought she was terribly pessimistic. They knew each other well enough that he didn't have to say it. He just smiled at her while she talked. He was one year younger than her, which meant that unless he dropped out of high school—meaning he'd be automatically drafted, something he would never do—he'd be put into the draft lottery one year after she was already in. They called it a lottery, like you had a chance, but if there was any kind of system to it they weighted down the names of the poor. The kids further from the city center nearly all went to the wall to fight. The inner city kids still went, but in half the numbers. She was sure that seemed awful enough to them, but it was everything to her. She'd be fine if she were drafted. She was tough, a survivor. The idea of taking out some undead and seeing the other side of the wall almost excited her. But her sweet little brother? Who wouldn't eat meat on the rare day they got it because he thought rabbits were cute? She'd do anything to lower his chances of being drafted. The ad didn't say she'd have that power, but it was a chance. That was all she needed.

  They wanted girls who could fight? Who could sing? Who had personality? Not. A. Problem. She could take the place of all five girls, if that's what they wanted. She needed to make it clear they could send everyone else home; she was there and ready.

  The tight braids on the sides of her head wound up to the curly Mohawk, both sassy and functional as it hid her six-piece-set of rainbow throwing knives and kept her hair out of her eyes. She came slinking into the room, pulled three from her hair, and tossed one above each judges' head before belting out the funkiest version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow she could come up with. She'd made it through the chorus before they swallowed down their shock.

  "These girls are insane," one of them said.

  "Isn't is great?"

  "She has my vote."

  "Of course she does," the first one said, and rolled his eyes. "God save us all." He stamped her sheet.

  DEE

  "What would you like me to sing?" Dee asked.

  "Oh, you don't have to sing," one of them said.

  "Alright, are you going to stamp my sheet then?"

  "Why don't you tell us about yourself first."

  "What do you wanna know?" She smacked her gum and blew a bubble. It broke apart and stuck on her chin. "Ugh, I hate when that happens. Okay. I'm Dee, and I'm the real deal. You want a girl people are going to want to watch? That's me. I've broken necks just by walking by, like seriously, I feel bad normal people are just so boring. It would be, like, a public service for you to help people get a better view of me and my life. We could open this stuff up and build it into like a reality show and stuff over time, too. I'm just trying to think ahead for you. But I'm practically a popstar already. My girls and I walk right into the club, get dancing, and I always remember all the words, you know, when the songs have words. And I totally hate the zombies, I mean, gross. I'm all about telling people to go kill those freaks. And like," she flipped her hair back and adjusted her underwire, "you may not know this about me, but when I want something, I get it. There's nothing that can stop me. I mean, seriously, you really think you're going to find someone better than this?" She ran her manicured fingers through her hair, and down her sides.

  Five minutes of talking later, her sheet was in her hand, stamped. She hadn't noticed them doing that, but whatever.

  CARRIE

  Four hours. That was how long she spent painting her skin, styling her hair, and pulling her clothes on without staining them. She rode the bus, stood in the lines, and walked onto the first stage of the audition rooms all without brushing against anything, even herself.

  It was all worth it when the judges' eyebrows rose.

  The first round was judging your look. They called it a meet and greet, but what do first meetings always mean? First impressions were all about how you looked, and that mattered double when you were talking about the music industry. The girls in the lobby practicing interview questions were hilarious; she would have laughed if she weren't worried the movement would damage something. She couldn't take any risks until absolutely necessary.

  As it turned out, not even the meet and greet required movement, not even a smile. She looked down at the judges, graceful and sweet, doused in pink and green and glitter and feathers, and if nothing else, she had their attention. That was all she needed. They stamped her paper, and she tilted her head in a slight nod of approval. She was going to dominate this competition.

  JO

  She hadn't told anyone she was doing this, though she could have used the help. The thing was, who did she know to ask for help with something like this? Nail polish wasn't exactly a survival tool; she doubted she knew anyone who even knew what it was, let alone which to buy or how to put it on. She'd spent over an hour in the store, staring at the different colors, waiting for one of them to speak to her. The backs of the bottles told her nothing useful. She'd bought red—she'd seen plenty of inner city girls wearing red—and thought the hard part was over. Ultimately, the skin around the nails on her right hand had been covered in red paint and the stuff that made it to her nails dried in clumps. Her fingers had appeared mangled by the mess of it all. Of course, her attempts to pick the stuff off had truly mangled her skin. Her fingers were red and chapped, her nails ripped apart.

  Combat clothes it was. They were... homey. She washed them first. And tied up her hair. It was extremely uncomfortable: the hair pulled on her face and felt like a wobbling weight on the back of her head. Her mother had braided her hair when she was a child, and she often tied it at the base of her neck during the day, but the girls online said you had to show off your face, and that meant an "updo". That thought alone—I'm planning on showing off my face—was enough to make her cringe and turn around to go home. But going home? Giving in? Staying there forever? She could show off her face if she had to. Maybe.

  "Josephine?" the judge asked, clearly skeptical. Everyone knew she wasn't supposed to be there. That was par for the course. She doubted she'd ever fit anywhere again.

  She grunted, and then remembered where she was and forced a smile. "Yes, sir," she said. Sir. Was that wrong, too? Some of the other girls snickered. "I'm excited to be here," she said, because that was another thing the girls online had mentioned. Make sure they know you're enthusiastic. She bounced on the toes of her combat boots and giggled, though it got caught in her throat, like her body was revolting. Be bubbly, they'd said.

  "A survivalist," one of the judges said as soon as she entered the room.

  "Right! That makes sense," another said.

&nbs
p; "Does it, really? What are you doing here, girl?"

  Were they talking to her? "Auditioning for the band?"

  "Are you sure?"

  She cleared her throat. "I'm auditioning for the band."

  "Why?" one of them asked.

  Her shoulders fell, and jerked back up. It was like dropping her pants. Worse, even. You never let the enemy see your shoulders fall. And that's what these judges were: the enemy. The enemy she needed something from. There was nothing worse than needing something from someone else, no greater weakness. You just have to take it for yourself, her mom would say. Don't bother asking the world for anything. You get what you need for yourself.

  That's why she was there. She needed it. But you couldn't just say that.

  She leaned forward, pressing her weight on the balls of her feet. She made eye contact with the judge who'd asked her why, and did three back tucks in a row. She landed on one crouched leg, swooped the other in a circle out around her, and then held herself there. Silent eye contact. No fear.

  "I say yes," two of them said in sync. The third judge stamped her sheet.

  GERRI

  Gerri set the pots and pans up across the judges' table, acutely aware that only two of the three were watching her cleavage swing in their faces while she did it. Two out of three was probably enough.

  She pulled her drum sticks from the back of her shorts and built up a beat on the edge of the table and the pots and pans while clacking her heels on their tile floor. It was working just as she'd planned. She told them all about her plans to kill zombies while riding horses, her willingness to jump off buildings, or perform whatever theatrics they could come up with together. She assured them she had the ability to do, well, pretty much anything.

  She backed away from the table, kicked off her shoes, and hopped from foot to foot in a dance designed around shaking her tambourine and anything else that happened to, you know, shake. Her tambourine let off a cloud of glitter as she moved, and she slammed down into the splits before the last of it fell.

  SADIE

  The leather cord braiding the left slit of her dress together had been pulled free and tied neatly into a bow she tucked in her curls. With a touch of lip gloss and a double check on the locations of her knives, she was ready for whatever those suckers could throw at her in the mysterious second round of tryouts.

  There was only one woman on the panel of four executives and one stoic black guy in the middle. She supposed she should be happy they weren't all white dudes, but she kept expecting more from the world than that. Her brother, Anthony, called it her Achilles' heel. He said it with admiration, though, like he was amazed she still had that kind of useless hope hidden under her pessimism. That was how Anthony was.

  One of the white men was sitting on the table with his back turned to her. He was wearing a bright green pinstripe suit with his hair slicked back. It was so shiny that the light bounced off of it. She stood on the marked spot in the center of the room and waited for him to turn to look at her. He did a double take. His jaw fell into an open mouthed smile, and he stood for an ovation. When his hands clapped shut he raised them until his fingers bumped his chin, and then shook his head slightly in wonder.

  "Yes," he said, pointing at her now. "Yes! This is what I'm talking about! Black girl, and one leg! Making it count. But can she fight? It does me no good if the only person of color dies."

  She knew it was going to be like that. Now would you call me a pessimist, Anthony, or a realist?

  He was looking at the other members of the panel, but she decided his question could just as easily be directed at her. "Then maybe you should get two," she suggested, and then pulled the knives from her hair and tossed them into the wall again, making sure to get as close to his shiny hair as possible. She flicked the front panel of her dress to the side and moved her left leg forward, exposing the weapons she had strapped in a neat spiral up her prosthesis. In real life, she would have strapped them to her thigh, where they wouldn't have been noticed—but this wasn't real life, and it made a great show. Rainbow throwing knives, a few throwing stars, and a gun strapped around the top, encrusted with light blue crystals. It didn't work—it was difficult to acquire a working gun these days—but it was just for show, and the statement was all the same.

  He clapped again, with that arrogant smile, and Sadie didn't even reach for her knives. She must want this popstar thing even more than she thought.

  DEE

  "Hiya!" Dee flipped her hair out of her face and placed one hand on her hip. "What would you like me to sing?"

  The chick with the ugly suit put her hand up, like she was telling Dee to stop talking.

  "Oh, girl, you did not just use your hand to shut me up," Dee said.

  The older dude on the other end of the table laughed. "Spunky," he said.

  "If you mean a brat, then I agree," the chick said.

  "It's okay," Dee said. "It's your clothes."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You are not a pink girl," Dee said. "I know every girl thinks she is, but you're not. If you tried for maybe a green, or even just a good deep red, you'd look a lot better and then you wouldn't have to be like this."

  "Is this happening?" she asked.

  "You'll thank me after you go shopping," Dee said. "And then maybe you can help your guy friends here. Or maybe just get them personal shoppers to do it for them. I can't believe you bought a suit that expensive without asking for opinions first. You guys are so lucky I'm here."

  "What happened on her audition tape?" the red-haired guy in the middle asked.

  "Everything," Dee said. "You guys didn't see it? Here, I have it on my phone." Dee dumped her purse out on the table and shuffled through the pile of tampons, condoms, makeup, and candy.

  "More of this," the older guy said. "She talked, and talked, and talked."

  "I don't see how she made it past that," the red-haired guy said.

  "The kids'll like her," the woman said.

  "Seriously?"

  "Look at those clothes. And the talking? Some of these others we're considering aren't too chatty. We need someone to yammer in the interviews."

  "But can she be trained?"

  "Oh, I've had training," Dee said. "I've gone through, like, a million dance instructors."

  "I can't imagine why they didn't stick with you," the red-haired guy said.

  "Her school had fight classes," the black guy in the middle said. It was the first time he'd spoken. He seemed to be on her side, so she smiled wider to encourage him. "She got good marks."

  "Alright. I think that's all we need from you," the woman said. "Thank you."

  "So you don't want to hear me sing?" Dee asked.

  "No need," she said.

  "Cool," Dee said. "So how famous are we talking? Because I need to be like, really famous. You can do that, right? Or do I need to talk to somebody better?"

  CARRIE

  It took at least half an hour in the bathroom stall of breathing with her eyes closed to find a calm place inside herself. Some of the other girls were talking about peeing their pants or throwing up; they were so desperate and scared. She didn't know why they bothered with all the drama. This was just a game for them, something to kill the time. Carrie was going to get the part. There was no other option. She felt at peace with that, especially after getting through the first round without so much as saying a word. She was about to conquer round two just as swiftly, she was sure of it. The problem, the thing that had Carrie fighting to find her calm place, was being around all these people. The line wasn't a line, it was a crowd. The bathroom was full of people filing in and out. Their constant chatter washed over her in crushing waves, attempting to drag her under. She wouldn't let it.

  "Did you see that girl?"

  Maybe it wasn't about her.

  "FEATHERS!"

  Of course it was about her.

  She couldn't help but smile. It gave her spine some additional strength for the next round, but she pushed her hands ove
r her ears to block out the distraction. She needed a clear head. She went back to visualizing the rooftop of the building next door to hers. She could sing and write there for hours, without seeing a single face. It was bliss.

  And yet, she wanted to gaze out at a sea of faces. She wanted her songs to be heard. Somehow, someway, she'd get used to being around people. It would become less draining. Or something. Someday. After she got through these auditions.

  She pushed through a whirlpool of chattering and stood in front of the mirror. The feathers and the bottom row of bobby pins had to be pulled from her hair. It gave her a softer, but still carefully crafted look that framed her face well. She left the face paint on; it had held up well. Gingerly, she pulled rolls of gauzy fabric out from under her structured shoulder pieces. The first round was about showing off her skin; for the second round she planned to demonstrate that she could pull off a slightly more conservative glamour. The second round of judges would have the photos taken during round one. The paint on her arms showed through the gauzy fabric, offering a reminder of her previous look and a pop of color that helped her stand out. With a pull of a few straps, her short skirt descended into a gauzy, slinky, gown. She tucked one feather into the strap around her waist, and then pulled it out again. Simplicity was better.

  She left the bathroom so those girls could go back to talking about her in relative privacy, and posed herself in the waiting room with the few others who'd made it this far. Most of them sat hunched in their chairs, curled in on themselves. You couldn't do that and succeed; their body language was informing their brains they were small and insignificant. She kept her hands on her hips and fully occupied her corner of the lounge, head up, full breaths. Her body was telling her brain: you can do this. You are worth the attention you command. You don't need to worry about anyone else. You are on your way. Or it better well have been, because she could not afford a panic attack at a time like this.