by Stacey Longo
“Shut up, Blossom! He’s not horny. He’s a gentleman,” I snapped.
“Horny! Forget it. Nobody’s going anywhere, except maybe church,” Dad declared.
“Bloss-som!” I cried. “You ruin everything! I hate you!” I pushed away from the table and stormed to my room, the effect of which was only slightly lessened when I stormed back and cleared away my dinner plate. I was furious, but Mom and Dad didn’t tolerate slobs in their house. “Everything!” I announced again, and flounced back to my room.
After stewing for a good hour on my bed, tiny tendrils of guilt started creeping in, pushing my anger aside. Even though Mom and Dad were being totally unfair about my date with Andy, it really wasn’t Blossom’s fault. She hadn’t volunteered to go along. She also hadn’t asked to be zombified in Desierto Caliente’s Great Nuclear Disaster. It certainly hadn’t been easy for her, what with her constant craving for fresh brains, the slowly putrefying skin issues, and people trying to separate her head from her spinal column on occasion. I had to admit, it was possible I was kind of being a selfish brat.
I went to my sister’s bedroom door, which was shut, and knocked softly.
“Bloss? Can I come in?” She didn’t open the door, but I could hear her moaning softly inside, so I let myself in. Blossom was standing in a corner that Mom had decorated with foam tombstones and Astroturf in an effort to give the room a homey, graveyard-type feeling.
Blossom was facing the wall, shuffling forward, banging into it, then retreating a few steps, only to repeat the ritual again. “Hey, I’m sorry about earlier,” I said. “I know it isn’t your fault Dad’s being so anal-retentive about my date. Here—I brought you this lip gloss. Pucker-Up Pomegranate.”
Blossom shot me a sorrowful look, then shambled over to her bed and sat down. She started making a snuffling sound, and I realized that if her tear ducts still worked, she’d be crying. “Hey,” I said, unnerved. “Not your fault. Stop that. This is my fault for being such a spoiled baby.”
Blossom began to wail, burying her head in my shoulder. Her whole body hitched as she struggled to talk in her garbled zombie-speak.
You think I like being like this? Watching you flirt with boys, putting on makeup and doing your hair all pretty, going out on dates, and I’m—I’m— “Dgannuh!” she said, exasperated, holding out her arms, motioning to her recent skin grafts. Hideous!
I started to cry now, too. I’d known it wasn’t a picnic for Blossom, being undead. But I hadn’t thought about how it might be for her to see me going out with someone as dreamy as Andy while she watched from the sidelines, or worse, was forced to tag along on my dates. She was, after all, a teenage girl. She still checked out guys and drooled over pictures of Taylor Lautner and Robert Pattinson. She was dead, sure, but she wasn’t dead. She still had some semblance of feelings.
“I’m sorry, Bloss,” I said, and I was. I hated seeing her in pain.
“Nna-nnuh,” she said. Not your fault.
“Listen, why don’t just you and I go out Friday night? We’ll do our hair and our nails, put on makeup, wear our foxiest outfits, and go cruising for guys. Whattaya say?”
“Mbugh gaaaaaah,” Blossom said. Maybe Andy can come with us, too. I hugged her.
“I can’t believe you called him horny,” I giggled. “Dad almost popped a blood vessel.”
Blossom chuffed. “Jaahnughh laa gaarrrrrrrr.” Even worse, Mom didn’t even bat an eyelash. Like his being horny wasn’t even a problem.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “What the hell?”
~~**~~
Mom and Dad were still amenable to Blossom, Andy and me going to the mall together Friday night. Even though Mom said she didn’t appreciate my little temper tantrum at dinner, she was glad Blossom and I had worked things out between us. “You’re sisters,” she said wistfully. “You two will be best friends for the rest of your lives. You shouldn’t fight.” I just smiled and thanked her for letting us go out. Mom didn’t have a sister, so she didn’t realize the most important bond between me and Blossom was that nobody else in the world quite understood what it was like to grow up with parents as loony as her and Dad.
~~**~~
Nanette was better the rest of the week, but there was still a little bit of coldness remaining underneath. Probably I should’ve been upset that she was mad at me, but all her attitude did was make me more suspicious. Why didn’t she want me investigating the Frankenstein murders? Was she involved—or did she know who was? Maybe she was trying to protect someone . . . hmm . . . just like I was trying to protect Blossom. I studied Jordan on the short bus on our rides to and from school. He was always in a wheelchair, and often strapped into it. Jordan had dark hair like his sister, and chocolate eyes that, while often staring unfocused, could easily be taking in everything around him. His right hand seemed to be permanently curved inward toward his chest, and he occasionally moaned, cried, and spoke in a garbled language not unlike Blossom’s. He certainly didn’t look like he could be the one stalking and killing teenagers. But then I remembered what Dad had said about serial killer Ted Bundy—that he would often fake illness or injury to lure in his victims.
“You could potentially be the craftiest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen,” I muttered one afternoon as I scrutinized Jordan.
He stared back, unblinking.
“What?” Nanette asked.
“Huh? Oh, nothing,” I apologized. “Youngquist’s got us analyzing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle right now. Just trying to figure out what to write about Moriarty for my essay,” I explained, thinking fast.
“Whatever. Could you mentally write your paper without staring at my brother? It’s kinda rude, dude.” She patted Jordan’s hand.
“Oh, sorry. You know I wasn’t doing it on purpose, right?” I said. She waved my comment off and went back to texting on her phone. I stole one last glance at Jordan. I’m on to you, I wanted my look to convey, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. See? I thought smugly. Suspicious.
ELEVEN
Blossom and I started getting ready for our Friday night date as soon as we got home from school. We tore through each other’s closets, trying to find just the right outfits. I wanted to wear a hot pink crop top that I thought would go perfectly with Blossom’s purple velvet jacket, which she agreed to let me borrow if she could wear my asymmetrically striped tee with my black leggings. I debated this for a moment: would the outfit she’d just picked out of my closet look better than the one I’d just picked out of hers? I glanced back at my hot pink and purple selection.
Naah. I’d selected fashion gold.
I used a hair dryer to style my hair in a half-pinned hairdo that AnnaSophia was modeling in the latest Generation Grrl! magazine. It did not turn me into a laid-back goddess like the magazine promised, but I did achieve a flyaway look that I hoped conveyed messy, yet cute. Blossom wanted curls, which was a little tricky, because we have to be really careful with her hair. It didn’t grow anymore, so Mom had cautioned us a million times not to damage the follicles she had left. Translation: no curling irons, straightening sticks, or hair dryers that might burn the delicate fibers. We’d been able to work around these setbacks, mostly due to the miracle of dry shampoo. I’d spray it on my sister’s head, brush her hair out around whatever round object was handy (usually a hairspray can, or, if she wanted more spiral-y curls, a tampon) and let it sit. The dry shampoo worked wonders to hold the curl and give her volume. It really wasn’t fair: even though she was one of the walking dead, my sister still had gorgeous hair.
I wanted to do my nails, but Blossom started to sulk when I pulled out my manicure kit. Her nails had slowly begun to rot, to the point where two on her left hand and three on her right had turned to mush or fallen off. Mom was regularly gluing press-on nails to Blossom’s fingers with superglue in an effort to help her be less self-conscious about it all, but the fake nails came in the most hideous colors. Blossom was wearing what appeared to be a deep hue of filled-baby-diaper brown.
>
Seeing Blossom’s distress, I sighed. It would’ve been nice to paint my nails fuchsia to match my shirt, but I didn’t want to rub it in that my blood still circulated through healthy nail beds and hers didn’t. I rummaged through my collection of Wet n’ Wild until I pulled out one labeled Wet Cement. It was a horrible, tacky color, but Blossom beamed as soon as I started painting my nails with it.
“Huglauh,” she said. We match!
“Well, duh, of course,” I said. “You’re still my big sister. I’ve always gotten my fashion sense from copying you, right?” Blossom laughed, clapping, and I could tell she was tickled. She hardly wailed or groaned at all while I did her makeup.
“I shouldn’t let my girls out of the car looking so beautiful,” Dad said when he dropped us off at the mall. I giggled, and Blossom wiped away the line of drool that had been hanging off of her lip, then kissed his cheek. Andy met us in the food court. He whistled when he saw me, then studied Blossom curiously. She’d insisted on leaving her helmet at home, and instead had opted for big, shaded sunglasses and a dark, floppy sunhat, which she had just pulled out of her handbag and donned.
“What’s with the Lady Gaga look?” he whispered to me, and I shushed him.
“She thinks if she covers up, people won’t notice she’s undead,” I explained quietly. “Act natural. It’ll make her feel better.”
We walked around, occasionally stopping to check out stores like Dollar Basement and Hot Topic. Blossom found a collection of risqué birthday cards at Spencer’s, and was soon wheezing in laughter. I didn’t join her—I would’ve died of embarrassment if Andy saw me looking at a card with a penis cake on the front.
“Just ignore her—she’s entertaining herself,” I said to Andy, guiding him toward the T-shirts. I picked one up without looking at it and announced, “This is cute.” The printing on the front read FBI: Female Body Inspector. Luckily, Andy had the decency to look as mortified as I felt, so I tossed the shirt aside and told Blossom we’d wait for her out front.
“Thanks for letting her tag along,” I said when we were on the bench in front of Spencer’s. “She’s been going through a rough time lately. The move’s been hard on her.”
“No worries.” Andy casually put his arm over my shoulders. “I admire how close you two are. My sister and I were like that, too, until . . . well, until my parents sent her away.” He moved closer, like he was going in for a kiss.
Uh-oh. Let him kiss me or ask about his sister? I wanted him to like me, and letting him get to first base was a sure bet to make that happen, but darn it, I really wanted to know what had happened to his sister, too. I pulled back before he could reach my lips.
“Where is your sister?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I mean, uh, why would your parents send her away?”
Andy looked disappointed. Crap. Should’ve kissed him. “She, um . . . I guess you could say she got sick,” he said. “Not pregnant. I know people think she went away for that reason, but that’s not what happened. She’s just really sick, is all. Cancer. My parents put her in a cancer home until she gets better.”
A cancer home? That sounded made up. She’s totally pregnant, I thought, but I just smiled and moved in to get the kiss going again. He looked grateful, and we started making out right there in the middle of the mall.
“Gaaaauuuhh.” Blossom was suddenly standing there, a black shopping bag hanging from one wrist. Get a room.
Blossom and I were picking through the clearance bin at Forever 21 when Nanette’s familiar pink and black hair bobbed around the corner. She was pushing Jordan.
“Hey,” I called out. “I didn’t know you guys were gonna be at the mall tonight. Want to hang out? Andy’s here too.” I motioned to my new boyfriend, who was waiting at the front door, using a handkerchief to wipe smudges off of his iPhone. I found his habit of carrying a handkerchief endearing. Okay, yeah, and a little weird. Nobody’s perfect, I decided.
“No, that’s okay,” Nanette said formally, like I’d invited her to tea. She started to move past us, but I stopped her.
“Dude, what’s your problem?” Blossom, Andy, and I had been having a good time. I didn’t want to let Nanette ruin it with her attitude, but enough was enough.
Nanette asked Blossom to stay with Jordan for a minute, then pulled me over to a rack of skinny jeans. “Listen, I just don’t think it’s fair,” she started to explain in hushed tones. “I know it’s not your fault, but we just found out this week the school won’t pay for Jordan’s alternative augmentative communication device, which is totally not right. He really needs it, but the school system says it’s not necessary, because he’s got an iPad and a pointer already, plus, it’s expensive. And it ticks me off when I see someone like”—she lowered her voice to a murmur—“Blossom—c’mon, you know she doesn’t really need special ed resources. She’s not special needs. She’s just dead. She can get around and comprehend just fine.”
My face and ears grew hot. “Listen, she can get around, sure, but she still needs help. She can’t communicate with most people, unless grunting and drooling sounds like English to you. Plus, at least when people meet Jordan, they don’t immediately pull out shotguns and try to blow his head off.” I tried to control my voice, but I was mad. “All we’re asking for from the school is a wheelchair and a ride so she doesn’t get murdered on the regular school bus. I’m sorry the school isn’t using that two dollars a day they spend on Blossom to get your brother fancier equipment. Blossom would kill—not kill, you know what I mean—but she sure wouldn’t mind an iPad and a pointer, if it meant people might understand what the hell she’s saying. Oh, and Nanette?” She tilted her head to listen, but her eyes were slits, and she was frowning. “Screw you,” I said, and stormed off. I stopped to get my sister, who was still hanging out with Jordan, the two of them sniggering over an orange bikini with smiley faces on it. “We’re going. See ya later, Jordan,” I said through clenched teeth, and led a confused Blossom away.
Andy could tell I was upset. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, motioning toward Blossom, who was eyeballing the fish in the aquarium outside Pet Smart, ignoring the barking dogs. “Suffice to say I’m pretty sure Jordan isn’t the Frankenstein Killer after all, but it doesn’t make Nanette any less of a feminazi.” Andy asked me what I was talking about, so I gave in to his ruthless questioning—his “Huh?” was enough to open the floodgates—and filled him in about her attitude on the bus earlier in the week. “And it was so obvious that Nanette was mad, but I figured she was hiding something, because we’d been talking about the murders,” I said. “It turns out she was just mad because my sister’s taking away precious resources from her stupid brother,” I finished, then started crying. Just a little. I’m not an attractive crier, and I didn’t want my eyes to get all puffy or my skin all blotchy.
“Okay, okay, but try to look at it from her point of view,” Andy said, leading me to a table near the food court, but still within Blossom’s line of sight. He used his handkerchief to wipe down the table and chairs, then sat me down. “Blossom and Jordan are on two totally different planes. Jordan is probably going to be dependent on other people his whole life. He can’t feed himself, he can’t go to the bathroom, hell, he can’t even sit up. And Blossom, well . . .” he looked up as my sister, hearing her name, came shambling over to our table. “She’s practically at the top of the food chain. Think about it. Jordan has to worry about regular diseases like colds sending him to the hospital, and how he’s gonna get food in him or go to the bathroom, and about his body failing, all the time. There’s only one thing in the world that can kill Blossom, and really, all you have to do is wear a helmet to prevent that,” he said, nodding to my sister. Blossom grunted and touched her goofy hat, as if pondering if leaving the helmet at home had been a bad idea after all. “I mean, you’re practically a predator,” Andy said, smiling. Blossom growled and held up her hands like they were claws, then gurgled, amused by the image. “Jordan will always strug
gle just to survive. Even though you’re a reanimated corpse, Blossom, you’re always going to come out on top.”
I was starting to feel pretty terrible right around then. Blossom was running her hand along her jawline, as if deep in thought. I sighed, realizing he was right. Blossom didn’t have much to worry about besides a bullet to the brain or decapitation, both of which were highly unlikely given the precautions our family took with her all the time. Jordan had a world of problems, and I’d been whining about my sister needing a ride on the short bus. Heck, if we did have to ride the regular school bus and someone gave Blossom a problem, she could—in theory—just eat them. Maybe she couldn’t bite them, but my sister was freakishly strong, and, though I hated to admit it, good with a wood saw. She could stand up for herself. Jordan couldn’t.
I texted Nanette. Sorry I was such a troll, I typed. You’re right, Jordan does need that equipment more than Blossom needs a wheelchair or a ride to school. I suck. Can we please be friends again? It seemed like forever before my phone buzzed with her reply. I’m sorry too. Where R U? We’ll meet up. She and Jordan showed up at our table a few minutes later. We hugged awkwardly while Blossom and Jordan babbled, unaffected by their sisters’ little snit.
“I would kill for an Orange Julius,” Andy announced. “Anyone else?”
I agreed to walk with him to collect our order of four orange smoothies.
“Did you know Ken Yothers works here?” I said as we stepped into line.
“Heck, everyone’s worked at this mall at one time or another,” Andy said, holding my hand and making my heart flutter. “Your friend Beki worked at Newbury Comics downstairs. My sister used to work at Victoria’s Secret. Your buddy Mickey used to work at this Orange Julius, too, right alongside Ken.”
I jerked around to face him. “What?”