by Stacey Longo
Dad loudly protested that neither of his daughters would be allowed to date until they were thirty. Mom pointed out she and Dad had started dating at twenty-two, and it was possible he was being a hair unreasonable. Dad said it wasn’t his fault our Grandpa Charlie hadn’t cared about his own daughter’s chastity, to which Mom suggested she show him just how chaste she could be, buster. It was one of the most repulsive conversations I’d ever witnessed, and I wasn’t so sure I even wanted to go anymore, if I was just going to imagine my parents on a date the whole time.
Mom eventually got Dad to agree to let me meet Andy at the bonfire, if I took Blossom along. I sighed. Great. Now I’d be babysitting my sister on my very first real date.
Dad had some other news to share.
“Another body was found,” he said somberly, and it seemed to me he was studying Blossom closely as he told us this. She continued to shovel her dinner into her mouth, scrambled cow brains with ketchup, which I always made a point to not watch Blossom gobble down. “It was a young man this time. His skull was sawed through, brain completely removed. Not a speck of gray matter left behind.” Dad kept his eyes trained on Blossom. She licked her fingers, completely unaffected by the news. Dad paused, then exhaled visibly. “He was found in a dumpster behind McDonalds—in Mystic.”
“That’s a little creepy. We were just there,” Mom said.
“I know. It’s really weird, too. Same MO, blunt force trauma to the head, and then the brain was removed postmortem. But murderers—especially serial killers, and it looks like we might have one working the state now—rarely change victimology like that. You know, once they start killing white females with blue hair, they tend to stick to—uh—white females. Ted Bundy often killed women with long brown hair resembling his first girlfriend, who rejected him. Pass the corn, will you, Jasmine?”
There were times when I wondered what someone who didn’t have to listen to Dad’s serial-killer trivia on a daily basis would think of our family dinner conversations. However, we also had a zombie snarfing brains at the table. Everyone has their own version of normal, I guess.
I pushed the bowl closer to him and took another forkful of rice. “So what you’re saying is it’s weird it was a dead guy this time,” I said.
“Yeah. This puts a whole new perspective on the case, I mean, if they are linked.”
“That’s kind of an unusual thing to do after killing someone, isn’t it? Removing the brain, I mean?” Mom asked. “Are the police really thinking they’re looking at two different killers?”
“I don’t know; I’m only going on what I heard at the lab. We just got the blood and fiber samples and the skull scrapings today. This guy is good, though. Doesn’t leave a lot of evidence behind. I doubt our testing will find anything useful. The last girl didn’t even have so much as a random skin cell under her fingernails.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Mom said, then paused, looking up. Dad wrinkled his brow, but she continued anyway. “I mean, let’s just address the elephant in the room here. These victims are showing up with their brains gone. Who would go for the brain? I’m sure the police are eventually going to think that maybe there’s a zombie involved. No offense, dear,” she said, turning to Blossom and patting her hand. “But—a zombie wouldn’t have the forethought or attention to detail needed to think about cleaning under someone’s fingernails to remove traces of DNA.”
Blossom huffed indignantly.
“Sorry, sorry,” Mom said, offering a small smile. “But you wouldn’t . . . would you?”
Blossom peered at her own colorless, peeling fingernails. “Larraguh,” she said. “Guhh nuh aaaaagh.” I would now. But no, it wasn’t me.
~~**~~
On Wednesday, I glumly told Andy I could meet him at the bonfire, but that my parents were making me take my sister with me.
“So I guess if you want to take a rain check, I’ll understand,” I added, praying that he didn’t want to take a rain check.
“Oh, hey, no worries. It’ll be fine. Your sister seems, uh, cool. Is she going to go out with us to get something to eat after?” His face was kind of pinched up, like he’d just bitten something sour. I’m sure he was trying to picture how dinner with a brain eater might go, exactly.
“No, my dad will pick her up. I’m sure he’ll want to scope you out, too. And I have to be home by eleven. Is that okay?”
“Sure. The bonfire ends at nine, so I think we’ll be okay. Maybe you could ask your Dad if eleven thirty would be all right. Or not,” he added when I frowned. “Eleven is fine.”
“Thanks. He doesn’t want me dating until I’m thirty as it is, so I don’t want to push it.”
“I get it. My dad’s the same way with my sister. Was the same way,” he corrected, and I perked up, but he didn’t add any details.
Sure, I thought. And look where that got her. Maybe I’d talk to Dad tonight about how strict curfews sometimes caused teenagers to rebel. Then again, if I told him how Andy’s sister was suspected of being a teenage mom, he might not let me out of the house at all.
Best to leave things as they were.
Mickey and I were discussing the bonfire at our bench at lunch when Jillian Mott and her crowd of wannabe hippies decided to harass us. “There she is,” Jillian announced loudly as she sauntered by with her pack, like jackals eyeing the hunting ground. “The murderer’s sister. I bet she’s in on it, too.”
“In on what?” I asked warily.
“Everybody knows your putrid sister’s the one killing and eating people. C’mon, two murders in three weeks, right after the zombie moves to town? It’s only a matter of time,” Jillian hissed. “You and your sister are going down.”
“Maybe you could give her pointers on going down,” Mickey piped up.
Jillian crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing to slits. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying, the way you’re working through the senior class at Cheney Tech, you’re gonna star in your own MTV show soon. Sixteen and Diseased or something.”
“Big words from a little boy,” Jillian said with a sniff, holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. Her jackal pack broke out in a chorus of giggles. “Not that you would know, seeing as you never had the pleasure yourself. So what’s that say about you?”
“I guess it says you’re so disgusting that even I, the most desperate guy at Glastonbury High, wouldn’t put out for you,” he said, shrugging.
“Corn packer!” Jillian squawked. “You can’t talk to me that way! I’m gonna report you to Rhodes!” She turned, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulders, and flounced away.
“Don’t leave out the part where you used an offensive epithet to describe my sexuality,” he shouted after her. She flipped him off as she walked, and Mickey chuckled.
“Thanks for sticking up for me,” I said. “But how much trouble do you think you’ll be in?”
“She won’t report me to Rhodes. She just used an insult that could be interpreted as a slander against my sexual orientation. She’d get in just as much trouble as I would.” Mickey grinned at me. “Rhodes doesn’t like bullying, but she sure doesn’t like bigots, either. Call someone a murderer, sure, maybe you can get away with that. Call them a corn packer? Automatic suspension.”
SEVEN
I complained over dinner about how Jillian wasn’t backing off. “She called Blossom a murderer,” I whined. “I didn’t know what to do! Mickey stuck up for us, though.”
“Haah nuh?” He did?
Hmm. Blossom’s smile looked suspiciously dopey.
“I’ll call the principal tomorrow,” Mom said. “This harassment has to stop. I don’t want my girls going to school somewhere where they can’t feel safe.”
I was awakened in the middle of the night by Blossom’s howling. A flickering orange glow lit up the shadows in my room, and it took me a moment to realize that it was coming from outside, not anywhere in the house. “Bloss? You okay?” I call
ed out.
She appeared in my doorway, moaning and gesturing wildly. I got up, pulling on a fuzzy robe, and she started tugging hard at my sleeve, moving toward the front door. Mom and Dad were on the other side of the house, and we needed to get to them, but Mom was shouting before we were two feet past the kitchen. “Girls? Girls!”
We met them in the hallway. “We’re okay,” I said, but Mom hugged us both and patted us down quickly to check for injuries. “What’s going on?”
“Gaah!” That. Blossom pointed to the front door.
Outside, a fire burned in the center of our lawn. What appeared at first glance to be a scarecrow was in the middle of it, the flames licking at its pants. Squinting, I saw the figure wore what looked like a ghoulish Halloween mask. Its stiff arms and lumpy pants showed that yeah, it was a mannequin of some kind, not a real person on a suicide mission.
“Call the fire department!” Dad shouted, and Mom started dialing. Dad ran to the kitchen, coming back with the small fire extinguisher we kept under the sink. He ran outside in his pajamas and slippers, spraying foam at the flames, which were trying to catch hold of the grass. Dad’s efforts slowed the fire some, but it struggled to stay alive, and he shouted back to the house for one of us to get the garden hose. Sirens called out in the distance.
Mom had the hose in hand, struggling to unwind it. I found the end that connected to the outside spigot and started hooking it up. I turned on the water, and after unraveling a few kinks that were holding up the flow, Mom started spraying the lawn.
The fire wasn’t relenting. It died where Mom’s arc of water hit it, but started reaching out the other way, toward the road. At least it was backing away from the house, but it was still moving. Please don’t let the neighborhood catch on fire, I prayed silently. They’ll never forgive us if we burn Glastonbury down.
Blossom was watching it all, shambling up and down the front walk. She stepped out into the street and started waving her arms frantically. I wanted to scream at her—scaring the neighbors was no way to get them to help—until I realized the sirens were much louder now. She was directing the fire trucks.
Once the firemen arrived and put out the conflagration without any of the neighbors—some who were now out on their own lawns—in danger of losing their homes or perfect emerald landscaping, we were able to catch our breath and take a look around. There was a soggy, scorched black circle on our lawn. And on the vinyl siding of our house, someone had spray-painted a message: DIE, ZOMBIE.
“She’s definitely not backing off,” I murmured, slinging an arm around my shivering sister. The Anti-Zombie League had spoken.
~~**~~
Mom kept us out of school the next day. I wasn’t happy about it—this was probably exactly what Jillian and her friends wanted, plus, missing a day of school meant missing an opportunity to flirt with Andy. I did text him to let him know I wasn’t sick and we were definitely still on for Friday. Nanette called at lunchtime to ask what had happened, and even Beki IMed me with an update. Got called into the office, her message read. The Animal grilled me @ friendship with Jillian, &about a movie we saw 2gether a million years ago. Dawn of the Dead. Scared the crap outta me—lol. WTH is going on?
So Jillian and Beki had watched Dawn of the Dead together. I wondered if it’d psychologically scarred Beki as it had seemed to terrify Jillian. She’d said it scared the crap out of her—lol—but what did that mean, exactly? Could Beki and Jillian secretly still be friends? Was Beki spying on me and Blossom, and reporting back to the Anti-Zombie queen? Normally, I would’ve dismissed the idea of sweet, not-too-bright Beki having a devious motive, but that was before our lawn had been set on fire and our house defiled.
~~**~~
Mom held us out the next day, too, so I helped Dad clean the house. We scrubbed the siding with detergent and Goo Gone, and after a couple of hours, the spray paint had faded, but now we had giant clean spots that still clearly spelled out DIE ZOMBIE. Dad drove down to Home Depot to rent a pressure washer. “The outside needed a good cleaning anyway,” Dad said with a resigned sigh.
Friday afternoon, I was frantic. I started getting ready for my date a little early—like, four hours early—and nothing was going right. I’ve had a few bad hair days in my time, but this one was epic. My bangs kept insisting on lying flat and listless. I teased and sprayed them, but still wound up with two pizza-slice chunks of bangs pointing directly at my eyebrows, which needed plucking—gaah! My hair refused to hold a curl, and I singed my neck with the curling iron. What if Andy thought the burn was a hickey, one he certainly hadn’t given me?
I missed Arizona. I never had humidity-related bad hair days there.
I dunked my head under the sink to water down and start all over again. Blossom shambled in, banged into the shower door, then turned in my direction. I was frantically blowing my hair straight, since soft, sexy, shampoo-commercial curls didn’t seem to be an option. She quirked an eyebrow at me, and I scowled back. “Don’t even start. I know I look like Cousin Itt, but I can’t get my hair to do anything!” Tears pricked my eyes. Andy would take one look at me and decide maybe my dad had the right idea—we should wait another fifteen years before hooking up.
Blossom rummaged through a drawer of ponytail holders and headbands. “Blaggh?” she asked, holding up a clip. She’d picked up a pink hair fastener with little skulls painted on it at a Hot Topic back in Arizona. It was sweet of her to offer to let me borrow it.
“But don’t you want to wear it?”
“Gyuhh,” she said. Mom’s making me wear my helmet to the bonfire.
“She is? Jeez, I’m sorry. Um, okay, yeah. I’d love to borrow it. Are you sure?”
She gestured to her head in a who’s going to see it anyway? motion and shuffled off. Hair crisis resolved. Thank God for my big sister. Now for a little concealer on my curling iron neck burn, and I’d be good to go.
Dad drove us to the bonfire. We passed a policeman with a couple of cars pulled over on the way, and Dad slowed down as we passed until we were practically crawling. This made us about ten minutes late getting to the field. I hoped Andy hadn’t left, thinking I blew him off or something.
“Take this,” Dad said, handing me a small canister. “If you girls run in to any trouble, hold your breath and push the button on top.”
“Pepper spray?” I asked, squinting at the label. “Dad, that’s stupid.”
“You’re lucky we’re even letting you out of the house after what happened,” he reminded me.
“Dad, that’s brilliant. Pepper spray! Of course!” I smiled, and Blossom and I waved goodbye and headed toward the bleachers to find Andy.
Blossom had insisted on leaving her wheelchair at home; the field would’ve been hard to roll over, and besides, the kids at school all knew her by now. They were all fairly certain she was a zombie, and—except for Jillian and her crew, of course—ignored her whether she was in the chair or out of it. It was really the adults who felt better about not making eye contact with her when she was in the wheelchair, and tonight was about us, the students, not them.
We found Andy at the base of the bleachers, checking his watch and looking around—aww, was that nervously? He really was a cutie pie. He was wearing a blue sweater that matched his eyes, and jeans with an ironed crease in them. He looked adorable. I smiled shyly at him, feeling self-conscious in my black tee and jean skirt. I’d completed the outfit with black Converse sneakers, but now I felt overdressed.
“You look smokin’,” Andy said, plucking a lint ball off my tee, and I felt better.
We walked with Blossom over to the hot dog stand to grab sodas. Beki was there talking with Mickey, who was pontificating on the Seattle music scene in the mid-nineties. I tilted my head to study them. I still didn’t know if I could trust Beki. I also had no idea Mickey was such an expert on Kurt Cobain. As if reading my mind, Blossom also scowled at the sight of Mickey fawning all over Beki.
“Oh, Jasmine! Mickey was just enlightening me with detai
ls about the whole underground band scene! Why didn’t you tell me he was such a music expert?” Beki called out in greeting. As we got closer, I saw her smile was forced. She cocked her head at Mickey, eyes boring into my skull. Translation: Save me! Should I? After all, if she was spying . . . but if she was Jillian’s plant, I had to act like I suspected nothing.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “Mickey, can you go find Nanette? She’s supposed to bring Jordan, and I think she needs help getting his wheelchair across the green. Bloss, that’ll be fun, you’ll have someone to hang out with if Jordan’s here—” I turned, but my sister was gone. Great. She must’ve wandered off again.
“Where’d Blossom go?” Andy asked.
“She’s roaming around, I’m sure.” I pouted. “She does that all the time. She’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go stand by the fire for a little bit.” I was a little nervous doing this after my last encounter with flames, but there were a lot of witnesses, so I didn’t think I was really in danger. I took Andy’s hand and led him toward the big pile of broken wooden pallets that were just starting to light up in the center of the track field.
Mickey, Nanette and Jordan found us ten minutes later. Mickey was fawning over Nanette, telling her how awesome she looked in her charcoal knit dress and clunky boots. I sighed. It was really starting to be a nuisance, Mickey falling in love with all of my girlfriends at the drop of a hat. Nanette was polite enough to put up with his chatter, and soon they were talking about the history of Venom in the Spider-man comic series.
Andy’s friend Tim found us, and we all hung out and watched the fire burn. Tim was complaining about reading Dante—it turned out he had Youngquist, too.
“She’s a real ball buster.” Tim sighed. “I have her last period, and it’s such a shardy way to end the day.”
“My sister had her when she was a freshman, and hated her,” Andy said. “When I got her for Lit 101 my sophomore year, I got my mother to switch me out of the class before the semester even started. Andrea used to make herself sick over that class—she swore Youngquist had it in for her.” It was the most I’d heard Andy talk about his sister.