by Stacey Longo
“Braah,” she said. Not the same as fresh.
“Damn it, Bloss, they’re not gonna let you eat a penguin! Let’s go!”
People were turning to see what all the fuss was about. I wanted to die of embarrassment. An older woman in a green blouse and sweatpants sniffed audibly as I got Blossom back on her feet.
“What’s that smell? Did someone leave raw chicken out in the sun? I thought penguins only ate fish?” she asked, puzzled.
“It’s my sister, you insensitive cow,” I said heatedly. “She can’t help it if she doesn’t have living flesh like you, you showoff. Don’t worry—we’re outta here.”
Mercifully, Mom and Dad announced we’d had enough adventure at the aquarium for one day. We piled into the car, dug out some chilled gray matter from the cooler for Blossom, and hit the road. On the way home, once Blossom was sated and moaning a song along with the radio, we were all up for another stop. We agreed to check out the Book Barn in Niantic, ’cause Dad had heard it was the largest used bookstore in the state. He was right: it was enormous. Various barns and annexes were filled to the brim with books of all genres. We left Blossom’s wheelchair in the van—the dirt paths between the buildings would’ve been tough to navigate—and made our way in. We started sifting through the stacks, me in the biography section, Blossom in true crime, when I saw it happen. The place was crawling with cats, and Blossom managed to drop her Joe McGinniss book and snatch up an orange tabby in a flash. Luckily, there weren’t any other readers in the immediate vicinity, and I bolted over to where she was trying to bite the cat’s ear off, anxious to get at its brain. The poor tabby’s head was slathered in zombie drool, and Blossom was grunting in frustration. Her gums were too soft to crack the cat’s skull.
Amazingly, the cat was purring. As Blossom rubbed her gums against the cat, licking its head futilely, the animal nuzzled her chin. Maybe it thought my sister was giving it a bath. I watched for another minute or so—really, it was kind of charming—then realized others might not find it quite such a picturesque scene. I managed to extricate the cat from my sister’s jaws and put it down, patting it on the butt to shoo it away. It refused to leave, entwining itself between Blossom’s legs.
“Gah? Muaggh!” See? It wants me to have its brains!
“Leave it alone, Bloss,” I sighed. “Mom’ll kill you if she finds out you ate one of the bookstore’s pets.”
“Gaar. Yah-gah.” Spoilsport. I’m gonna tell Mom I want to come back here without you.
“What ever,” I said, walking away. I was tired of being my sister’s keeper. What did I care if she ate a few cats?
I rounded the corner to dive back into the biographies, and ran smack into a broad chest. I looked up and gulped. He may have been in street clothes, but I still recognized Vice Principal Larson.
“Watch where you’re going!” he barked, waving a book on Einstein in my direction. Thank God I was too new in school for him to recognize. He squinted a menacing eye. “Aren’t you that Hamilton girl? The one whose sister is a zombie?”
Uh-oh. This guy was good.
“Um, yeah, hi, Mr. Larson. Sorry for running into you there. I was distracted.”
“Distracted? I suppose being surrounded by so much fine literature should be distracting. Find anything good?”
Wait a minute . . . was the Animal being nice to me?
“N-no, not yet. My sister and I were just playing with one of the cats.”
“Cats.” Mr. Larson snorted. “You should leave the cats alone and pick up a book. Might do you some good.”
Okay, he wasn’t that nice, the condescending prick.
“I will, Mr. Larson. Bye.” I backpedaled away from him and the biographies and grabbed Blossom. “It’s the Animal! He’s here!” I whispered, and Blossom turned to look behind us, her tongue lolling. I glanced back too, in time to see the Animal scowling in our wake.
I really hoped Mom didn’t have any big plans for us tomorrow. It would be nice to just stay home for the day.
FIVE
Sunday morning found Blossom and me listening to an old London After Midnight CD and looking through photo albums. We would usually laugh at the pictures of us as kids, but this time, it made me kind of sad. I found a picture of Blossom sitting in a laundry basket as a baby, all rosy cheeks and bright eyes. She looked so happy to be alive. I missed that flash of glee in her eyes whenever something tickled her fancy, like a new Zac Efron movie or a basket full of Easter candy.
There was another photo of Blossom and me after a dance recital, her in a sparkly flapper outfit, me in my pink frothy tutu. Blossom had always been a better dancer than me; she took tap and jazz lessons, and the way she looked up on the stage, beaming from ear to ear as she smoothly performed triple-ball-changes and knee slaps with grace, was a sight to behold. When Mom had asked me if I wanted to sign up for lessons, I’d known I couldn’t compete with my amazing big sister as a tap or jazz dancer. I went for ballet, and my clumsy pliés and demi-pointes reminded one dance teacher of, and I quote, “a moose trying to kick a soccer ball.” It was no surprise that in this picture, despite the smile I wore, it looked like I’d been crying. Probably out of mortification.
“Bloss, look at this one.” I handed her the shot of us in our dance recital outfits. “Is that the first time you did my makeup for me?” She was probably eleven in the photo, which would’ve made me eight. Above my red-rimmed eyes and up into my brows was a wide swath of frosted blue eye makeup. My cheeks had two perfectly round red dots of blush on them, and my lipstick, which appeared to be orange, clashed garishly with my pink leotard. I looked like John Wayne Gacy in drag.
“Geh,” she confirmed. Think so.
“I can’t believe Mom let us go on stage looking like that.” I laughed.
“Ragh. Heeeerr gabba arrggh. Muh-gar.” Remember? You wouldn’t let Mom do your makeup. You wanted me to do it, ’cause I’d put on my own.
I looked at the photo again, this time studying Blossom’s face. She had the same clownish appearance, but looked carefree and triumphant, one arm casually thrown over my shoulders. I’m sure nobody thought for a minute that she looked like a cross-dressing serial killer.
“Why’d we stop taking lessons, anyway?” I put the photo back on top of the stack.
“Bleeeaaahh. Blar. Jaah, muuuuuh.” She wheezed out a little laugh at the end. I got tired of it, I guess. And you were happy to quit. You really sucked at ballet, Jas.
“I wasn’t that—I bet I could’ve gotten better if I’d stuck to it,” I said defensively.
“Marrr.” No . . . you were really terrible.
I stuck out my tongue at her and picked up an album labeled Christmas 2007. I would’ve been ten, Blossom thirteen. BZ, I thought, which was how I mentally classified every picture of us. Before Blossom was zombified: BZ. After Blossom became a zombie: AZ. I flipped through the pages and found a shot of us in pigtails and matching Wonder Woman pajamas, holding up our prize Christmas booty for that year. That was around the time I copied everything Blossom did, because she was my pretty, brilliant, and unstoppable big sister. We were both holding up our new Ugg boots. Why did a thirteen- and ten-year-old need Uggs in Arizona? Damned if I knew. But my sister had insisted they were the bomb, and I’d believed her. We’d worn them to every school function and sweated our way through summer camp in those babies all the next year. But I wore them without question or complaint, because Blossom did, too, and nobody was cooler than her.
“Check out our Uggs,” I said, holding up the album so Blossom could see.
“Ugg,” Blossom said, and I nodded. Dorks.
“Hey, now, we were wearing the height of fashion.”
“Lurrr. Gah nuh blaaaaarrrrhhh.” God, I remember you copied everything I did. Drove me crazy.
“You were my idol,” I said simply. “I wanted to be just like my big sister.”
“Nuggh-har. Vlaaah. Merrrg.” Sometimes, I feel like you’re the big sister. These days, anyway.
M
y eyes teared up, and I scrambled over to where she sprawled out on her beanbag chair, throwing my arms around her in a hug. She froze for a moment, then gummed my cheek.
To an outsider, it might’ve looked like she was trying to take a bite out of me. But I knew it was a kiss.
SIX
Hate-filled and rather poorly drawn posters lined the hallway walls at school on Monday, courtesy of the Anti-Zombie League. No Zombies at GHS, the signs proclaimed. Your life might depend on it. It took me a minute to register what they were saying. It wasn’t a thought-out political statement about zombies in general, or a commentary on the state of the nation. It was a personal attack, perpetrated by Jillian and her friends. They didn’t want my sister at the high school anymore.
Blossom was still capable of reading, although not at the college level she used to manage, and she was furious. I tried to push her quickly down the hall to homeroom before she could spot them, but she leapt out of the wheelchair and ripped down three or four of the hateful signs before turning to me.
“Rauhhh? Mabllaaahh gag uh!” she ranted, arms waving fistfuls of construction paper. I can’t believe these jerkettes! Why are they doing this?
“People are afraid of things they don’t understand,” I offered lamely. Blossom shook her head rapidly, as if shaking away a bee.
“Oogah glaaah bruuuugla. Laagaaa maauunuhh.” I’m not much different from them. Hell, I used to be them.
“No zombies at GHS!” a girl shrieked, and I turned to see the pudgy blonde that rarely left Jillian’s side behind us, pointing at Blossom. “Death to all zombies, before they kill us!”
That troll just threatened my sister. I stepped toward her, fists clenched, when I felt a breeze blow by. Blossom was after her at full gallop, arms outstretched, roaring and ready to rip the girl to shreds.
“Blossom! No! You can’t!” I ran after her, hoping for a well-placed tackle before she got her hands on the troll’s neck and pulled out her larynx . . . and worried I might start clapping if she did do it. The blonde sprinted, screaming the whole way. A dark, bald figure wielding a baseball bat stepped into the hall, effectively blocking Blossom from her prey.
“No running in the hallways,” the Animal hissed as Blossom smashed full-speed into his chest. “That’s a detention, Hamilton.”
~~**~~
Blossom was still howling and moaning as the Animal parked her back in her wheelchair and started pushing her to the office. “Nuyaah blaggahh,” she tried to explain desparately. “Myaah wuugnah.”
The Animal was having none of it. “Keep it up, Miss Hamilton, and you’ll earn yourself a suspension.”
He wouldn’t let me go with them, even though I was the only one who could interpret for her. “But Ani—Mr. Larson! Please; it wasn’t her fault,” I begged.
He stopped pushing Blossom for a moment and looked back at me. “Your sister needs to control her temper,” he said coldly. “I’m not blind, Miss Hamilton. I can see why your sister’s ire may have been provoked by the inflammatory posters popping up around the school. But it’s my job as your vice principal to guide you to proper decision-making skills that will help you as an adult. Trying to eat a classmate is not a sound decision. I’m treating Blossom just like I would any other student in the same situation. That’s only fair.”
He’d deflated my argument in one fell swoop. I wasn’t going to give up so easily, though. “But what about this dumb Anti-Zombie League? Are you gonna do something about them?” I could hear the whine in my own voice.
“How I deal with them is none of your concern,” he said. “Your sister’s safety will be the school’s priority, I can promise you. But that’s all you need to know.” He turned a shoulder, cutting me off. I watched helplessly as he pushed Blossom’s wheelchair toward the office. But it’s my sister, I thought. I plucked down the rest of the posters in the hallway, silent tears sliding down my cheeks. It’s not fair.
Dad was waiting out front for us after school. Apparently, the Animal had called our parents to inform them about the morning’s incident.
“Tell me about this Anti-Zombie League,” Dad said as soon as we closed the car doors. “Have they been threatening you? What’s going on?”
I tried to explain about Jillian, how she was a mean bully for no reason.
“Bagnaah pooshaa,” Blossom said. Uh . . . that’s not entirely accurate.
“What’re you talking about? She’s a total turbo-witch.”
“Nullah frah bleeg Animal galaabanuuh,” Blossom explained. The Animal called her down to the office. “Jublahh naglaah saauugrrrull. Naaah Liguh Deaggh,” she added, chuckling. It turns out she saw Dawn of the Dead when she was six. Been afraid of zombies ever since.
“Are you kidding? She’s been tormenting you because somebody let her watch a scary movie when she was a kid?”
Blossom nodded. “Looogaah saaah.” She says she’ll back off.
I frowned. “We’ll see.”
~~**~~
On Tuesday, Andy started kicking my seat as soon as I sat down.
“Hey, new girl,” he said, thumping.
“What?” I growled, whipping my head to face him, ready to claw out his eyes at the first Team Edward crack.
“Ease up. Your name’s Jasmine, right?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“I just—um, what’re you doing Friday night, Jasmine?” He sounded sheepish, and his cheeks flushed pink.
“I dunno,” I said, reaching up to twirl my bangs self-consciously. “What’re you doing?”
“The school bonfire’s Friday. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me? Maybe we can grab something to eat after?”
Glastonbury High held a huge bonfire on the grass in the center of their track field every year to kick off the football season. It was the biggest social event of the fall, bigger than the games themselves, because the team sucked and most students didn’t bother wasting their time freezing in the bleachers. Nanette and I had already made plans to go to the bonfire together, meet up with Beki, and make fun of the jocks while pretending the whole time we were entirely too cool to even be there. I’d even been practicing my best You’re lucky I’m here, I’m bored out of my mind expression in the mirror at home. I’d almost perfected it. But this was a wrinkle in our plans. Was I the kind of girl who would blow off her closest friends for some guy who, up until this very moment, had done nothing but antagonize me?
“Sounds like fun,” I gushed. “Sure!”
I asked Mickey at lunch if he knew Andy. “Sure. We were on the same baseball team in middle school. The Glastonbury Bank Beagles,” he said, beaming. “We took the town league championship the last year I did little league. Of course, that was the year I broke my foot and couldn’t play all season . . .”
Mickey and I used his phone to scroll through Andy’s Instagram photos. Andy clearly took pride in his Triumph motorcycle, because every shot was of him either on the bike or next to it. In one photo, a pretty girl with chestnut hair sat behind him, her arms wrapped around his torso.
“Who the hell is that?” I asked Mickey. Was it possible that my potential new boyfriend had not pined away his life, alone and miserable, waiting for the day when he would meet me? Unacceptable!
“That’s Andy’s sister, Andrea,” Mickey explained. I peered closer. I guess they did have the same dreamy blue eyes. “She used to go here, but she disappeared over Christmas vacation last year. I heard she got uh, in the family way, and left town to have the baby. She never came back, though. She should be a senior this year.” He brightened. “Hey, maybe you can find out if it’s true!”
“How am I going to ask him that? ‘Gee, Andy, your parents seem nice, did they ship your sister off because she was preggers?’”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mickey said. “Ask him if he has any hobbies. Fishing, biking, spending time learning how to be a good uncle . . .”
“Yeah, your approach is much better. Who is that?”
A bright blue convertibl
e with a loud muffler and “Friday Night” by Katy Perry blaring from the radio pulled up next to the quad. The driver was a pudgy guy with dark hair and bad acne. He honked the horn, then flipped off a group of soccer jocks who started jeering at the car. From the stoner crowd, Jillian Mott emerged, resplendent in a gauzy turquoise dress and matching head kerchief. She threw her bag into the back of the convertible and climbed into the front seat.
“That’s Ken Yothers, the douchiest douchebag in the tri-state area.” Mickey scowled. “He stole my girl, and now he’s flaunting it in front of me.” Mickey stood up to call out a few epithets of his own, then finished by shooting the convertible a double bird. He sat back down next to me. “Stupid freakshow should know better than to pick Jillian up here,” he spat. “Cheney Tech is where you go when you can’t even make it in the special needs classes here. Sorry,” he added, probably realizing that my sister was in all of those classes.
“Hey, my sister’s doing just fine in her level threes,” I said, brushing it off. “Here’s the thing, Mickey: she’s not mentally disabled. She’s just undead. Kinda like Jordan. He’s got cerebral palsy, but Nanette says he’s smart as hell. Same thing.”
“Yeah, got it,” he said, and punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Think I have any chance with Beki? That ought to chap Jillian’s cheeks, if I go out with her former BFF. You’re friends with her—can you test the waters for me, see if she’s interested?”
~~**~~
I announced at dinner that night that I had a date with Andy to go to the bonfire.
“Your first date!” Mom beamed.
“Over my dead body! You’re too young to date!” Dad barked at the same time.
“Laaaah, yanabalaaaa,” Blossom offered. He’s cute. He’s in my woodshop class.