Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “I’ve got it in my car. You want to ta­ke a walk with me to the par­king lot?”

  Did I want to ta­ke a walk? Hel­lo? Ska­tes? I ga­ve my fe­et a po­in­ted lo­ok. “Um, wal­king might be dif­fi­cult.”

  “Oh, right,” he sa­id. “I co­uld gi­ve you a pig­gyback ri­de.”

  “Don’t think that wo­uld be a go­od idea in a skirt.”

  “Well, you co­uld just put yo­ur sho­es back on.” He so­un­ded we­irdly frust­ra­ted, which ma­de me shuf­fle a few ext­ra inc­hes away, clo­ser to whe­re I’d left my pur­se.

  “Or you co­uld just go get the back­pack,” I sa­id, pluc­king my pur­se from the bench.

  Aaron smi­led, but I didn’t miss the ve­in bul­ging at the si­de of his fo­re­he­ad. “Right. I gu­ess I’ll do that.”

  “Okay.” I sta­red at him for a few awk­ward se­conds, wa­iting for him to go, be­fo­re pul­ling out the pa­per­work I’d snatc­hed from my mom’s lin­ge­rie dra­wer. The me­di­cal fi­les we­ren’t the only re­ading ma­te­ri­al on my list, and it was past ti­me for me to get edu­ca­ted abo­ut my own ca­se. “Um… all right… I’m just go­ing to ta­ke a lit­tle prac­ti­ce ska­te and work on so­me re­ading for the clas­ses I mis­sed this mor­ning.”

  “Re­ading and ska­ting at the sa­me ti­me?”

  “What can I say? I’m a mul­ti­tas­ker,” I cal­led out over my sho­ul­der as I eased out on­to the fro­zen pond, gra­te­ful to le­ave Aaron be­hind me. His crushy we­ird­ness was the last thing I ne­eded right now.

  The ice was still a lit­tle ro­ugh, but the mac­hi­ne Lon­don’s dad had bro­ught to con­di­ti­on the sur­fa­ce re­al­ly ma­de a dif­fe­ren­ce. It was al­most li­ke ska­ting at the in­do­or rink in Lit­tle Rock, but ten ti­mes as be­a­uti­ful. The­re was a dus­ting of snow fal­ling, and de­li­ca­te whi­te lights hung in the tre­es sur­ro­un­ding the ska­ting area. Over to the right, the pla­ce whe­re we used to bu­ild snow­men when we we­re kids had be­en trans­for­med in­to a mi­ni car­ni­val. The­re we­re three tents sel­ling yum­my-smel­ling fo­od and two fi­re-pit things for ro­as­ting marsh­mal­lows. Everyt­hing had co­me to­get­her per­fectly, inc­lu­ding the at­ten­dan­ce.

  Thirty mi­nu­tes to go ti­me, and the­re we­re al­re­ady a few pe­op­le on the ice and mo­re trick­ling in from the par­king lot. The ad­van­ce co­up­le ska­te sa­les pre­dic­ted a lar­ge inf­lux of boy-type pe­op­le in the next two ho­urs. By the end of the night, we we­re go­ing to ma­ke the bo­os­ter club so­me se­ri­o­us cash. And we’d know who won the fund-ra­ising com­pe­ti­ti­on.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely, I sen­sed I wasn’t go­ing to gi­ve a crap abo­ut any of that on­ce I fi­nis­hed my re­qu­ired re­ading. It wasn’t just a lack of ti­me and pri­vacy that ma­de me put off re­ading the pa­per­work. A part of me didn’t want to know what my pa­rents had be­en ke­eping from me. I had a hor­rib­le fe­eling that what was in­si­de this bland-lo­oking be­ige fol­der was go­ing to chan­ge my li­fe. Fo­re­ver. And not in a go­od way.

  So it was no surp­ri­se when I felt li­ke I was go­ing to throw up or pass out or both as I flip­ped open the fol­der and star­ted to re­ad.

  The first pa­ge of the re­port was a bri­ef and re­la­ti­vely un­surp­ri­sing sum­mary of what I’d be­en char­ged with. But the se­cond pa­ge-inste­ad of di­ving stra­ight in­to the evi­den­ce and blo­od samp­les and all that as I’d ex­pec­ted-con­ta­ined a three-pa­rag­raph re­port de­ta­iling the fin­dings of a pa­ter­nity in­qu­est.

  “Idi­opat­hic in­fer­ti­lity, ca­usa­ti­on uni­den­ti­fi­ed,” I sa­id alo­ud, fo­cu­sing on trans­for­ming the cli­ni­cal words un­der my dad’s na­me in­to so­met­hing my ad­dled bra­in co­uld di­gest.

  Infer­ti­lity, duh, I knew what that me­ant-can’t ma­ke ba­bi­es. I wasn’t so cle­ar on the de­fi­ni­ti­on of “idi­opat­hic,” but it pro­bably didn’t mat­ter. The mes­sa­ge he­re was cle­ar. My dad co­uldn’t ha­ve kids, he had “ne­ver fat­he­red a child.”

  Ne­ver fat­he­red a child.

  My thro­at clo­sed up and my en­ti­re body went numb, and I knew I had to get off the ice be­fo­re I wi­ped out. Thank­ful­ly, my spot on the ble­ac­hers was free with Aaron now­he­re to be se­en. As so­on as I ca­ught an ope­ning in the crowd, I dar­ted over.

  Strug­gling to ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath, I snap­ped the fol­der shut, squ­e­ezing it clo­sed un­til my fin­gers tur­ned whi­te, as if I co­uld trap the hor­rib­le things I’d re­ad in­si­de. But it was al­re­ady too la­te. The truth was squ­ir­ming aro­und in my bra­in, li­ke so­me hor­rib­le worm set on de­vo­uring my happy past.

  Dad wasn’t my dad. I didn’t get my ath­le­tic abi­lity from him, I co­uldn’t re­al­ly ha­ve his thumb, and I wasn’t one-fo­urth Ita­li­an. Or if I was, it wasn’t from his ge­nes.

  So­mew­he­re out the­re was anot­her man, a comp­le­te stran­ger, who was the ot­her half of me. But how co­uld that ha­ve hap­pe­ned? Mom and Dad we­re mar­ri­ed for ye­ars be­fo­re I was born. Had mom go­ne to a sperm bank or so­met­hing when they le­ar­ned Dad co­uldn’t ha­ve kids?

  “Ye­ah, right,” I mumb­led.

  I had mes­sed-up su­per­na­tu­ral blo­od. What we­re the chan­ces I was the pro­duct of a sperm bank? Not go­od. The most li­kely story was that my mom had che­ated on my dad. She’d go­ne and ban­ged anot­her guy and got­ten knoc­ked up whi­le they we­re still li­ving in Ca­li­for­nia. Kno­wing my mom-how much she lo­ved my dad and how im­por­tant ho­nesty had al­ways be­en to her-it se­emed psycho­tic to even think of her as a che­ater, but it wo­uld exp­la­in so much, es­pe­ci­al­ly if…

  I for­ced myself to open the fol­der aga­in and turn past the re­port pro­ving my fat­her wasn’t my fat­her. On the very next pa­ge, things got in­te­res­ting. The En­for­cers had or­de­red a blo­od analy­sis, com­pa­ring the blo­od they had on fi­le for me at SA he­ad­qu­ar­ters with blo­od fo­und on the hos­pi­tal beds of pa­ti­ents at Uni­ver­sity Me­di­cal Cen­ter’s in­ten­si­ve ca­re unit. The blo­od type-AB ne­ga­ti­ve-was iden­ti­cal, as I’d sus­pec­ted. But it al­so sa­id that both samp­les had tes­ted po­si­ti­ve for the sa­me ra­re vi­rus, en­su­ring a ne­arly one hund­red per­cent pro­ba­bi­lity that they had co­me from the sa­me per­son. From the­re it hadn’t ta­ken SA long to de­ci­de who was to bla­me. Af­ter all, they al­re­ady knew a Set­tler with AB ne­ga­ti­ve blo­od who had the vi­rus. Me.

  The third pa­ge in the fi­le con­ta­ined the re­sults of an am­nio do­ne on my mom whi­le she was preg­nant, an am­nio that ga­ve all the de­ta­ils abo­ut the vi­rus the un­born baby was in­fec­ted with and re­com­men­ded ter­mi­na­ti­on of the fe­tus. Ter­mi­na­ti­on of me. Gu­ess I knew what Mom’s big “mis­ta­ke” was now. I was the mis­ta­ke.

  I suc­ked in a de­ep bre­ath as everyt­hing I’d just re­ad swam aro­und in my bra­in. It wasn’t a ra­re blo­od type that I had at all, it was a vi­rus. A fre­aking di­se­ase!

  “WB ret­ro­vi­rus. Type two.” I mumb­led the words alo­ud as I scrol­led thro­ugh the desc­rip­ti­on con­ta­ined in the am­nio re­sults.

  The Type II part was ap­pa­rently sig­ni­fi­cant be­ca­use it was pre­sent only in wo­men, not men, whe­re Type I co­uld be car­ri­ed by eit­her a ma­le or fe­ma­le. So my mom’s ar­gu­ment-qu­oted in the last pa­ge, right the­re in black and whi­te-that my bio fat­her, who al­so had the vi­rus, might be res­pon­sib­le for the at­tacks was dis­co­un­ted.

  My bio fat­her. I had a bio fat­her, and he was ap­pa­rently eno­ugh of an evil bas­tard that my mom wo­uld sus­pect him of at­tac­king me with li­ving zom­bi­es. And, ac­cor­ding to the fi­le, he’d gi­ven me a vi­rus just by be­ing my stu­pid bio fat­her. A vi­rus that had al­te­red my DNA, ma�
�king me so­me kind of su­per-po­wer­ful fre­ak. It had al­so re­le­ased po­ten­ti­al­ly harm­ful me­tal­lic ele­ments in­to my blo­od, ma­king me “pre­dis­po­sed to vi­olent psycho­tic bre­aks in­vol­ving the use of for­bid­den ma­gics.”

  My che­eks fla­med even as the rest of me grew cold. Kitty and the El­ders and God only knew who el­se knew abo­ut this. They knew that the man I’d al­ways lo­ved li­ke a fat­her wasn’t my dad, and that I was re­al­ly the spawn of so­me evil ma­ni­ac and had a crazy-ma­king vi­rus.

  Of co­ur­se, just re­ading abo­ut psycho­tic bre­aks was eno­ugh to ma­ke me cer­ta­in I was ha­ving one. Be­ca­use I was just that crazy. He­re I’d tho­ught I was just a lit­tle high-strung, but now I knew I was a bre­ak­down wa­iting to hap­pen. I was a fre­ak, a vi­rus-rid­den fre­ak who­se pa­rents had li­ed to her her en­ti­re li­fe. It ma­de me fe­el li­ke I was suf­fo­ca­ting. Dad co­uldn’t not be my dad. I lo­ved him so much, and I’d as­su­med he lo­ved me.

  But what if he didn’t? What if he sec­retly ha­ted me for be­ing so­me­one el­se’s kid? A psycho­path’s kid? A di­se­ased psycho­path’s un­holy offsp­ring-

  “Me­gan, I co­uldn’t find the back­pack. I think I left it in my loc­ker at scho­ol li­ke an idi­ot. You want to co­me with me to grab it?” God! Not Aaron aga­in. Co­uldn’t he ta­ke a fre­aking hint? “Hey… are you okay?”

  I sho­ved the fi­le back in my pur­se as fast as I co­uld, ke­eping my fa­ce down. “Fi­ne, I’m fi­ne.” I didn’t want an­yo­ne to see me crying, es­pe­ci­al­ly not Aaron. His idea of com­fort wo­uld no do­ubt in­vol­ve his hands in pla­ces I didn’t want, and I just co­uldn’t de­al with that right now. I’d pro­bably punch him in the no­se be­ca­use that was what pe­op­le on the ver­ge of a psycho­tic bre­ak did.

  “You don’t so­und fi­ne. Are you crying?”

  “No, I just… I think it’s so­met­hing I ate.” I swi­ped at my che­eks and slung my pur­se over my sho­ul­der. I had to get away from Aaron. Now. “Or may­be so­met­hing I didn’t eat. I didn’t ha­ve ti­me to grab anyt­hing af­ter prac­ti­ce. I think I sho­uld go hit the tents be­fo­re we get star­ted.”

  “I’ll co­me with you,” he sa­id, fol­lo­wing me on­to the ice in his stre­et sho­es.

  “I’d re­al­ly rat­her be alo­ne right now, but thanks.”

  “Co­me on, let me buy you a fun­nel ca­ke. We can eat it in my car.”

  “No thanks, I-”

  “I bet you’ll fe­el bet­ter if you sit in a warm car for a few mi­nu­tes.” He re­ac­hed for my arm, but I ma­na­ged to slip away be­fo­re he co­uld catch my el­bow.

  “No,” I snap­ped, ska­ting fas­ter to­ward the tents, not su­re whe­re I was go­ing to go when I re­ac­hed the ed­ge of the ice, just kno­wing I had to get away from Aaron. What was with this guy?

  “What abo­ut so­me hot cho­co­la­te?” He ca­ught me this ti­me, his in­fu­ri­ating paws clo­sing aro­und my wa­ist.

  “Aaron, le­ave me-Ah!” My one hund­red and eighty-deg­ree turn to fa­ce Aaron tur­ned in­to a three hund­red and sixty-deg­ree spin in­to a ma­j­or fall. I hit the ice chin-first with a very un­lady­li­ke “oomph.” Tho­ugh I do­ub­ted an­yo­ne no­ti­ced my grunt, con­si­de­ring my skirt was sud­denly up aro­und my arm­pits.

  I scramb­led to right myself, but bet­we­en the slip­pery ice and

  Aaron’s ef­forts to “help” me up, I co­uldn’t se­em to get my kilt back down whe­re it was sup­po­sed to be.

  “Omg! Granny pan­ti­es, much?” The high-pitc­hed vo­ice was met by gig­gles. I lo­oked up to see Ni­na, the new flyer for the che­er­le­aders, do­ing her best to earn her gold scrunc­hie of evil. Kim­berly, Ka­te, Lee, and a co­up­le ot­her che­er-witc­hes sto­od next to her, la­ug­hing, qu­ickly dra­wing at­ten­ti­on to our si­de of the pond.

  By the ti­me I got to my fe­et and pul­led my skirt down, half the stu­dent body of CHS had se­en my “granny pan­ti­es.” And they we­re gran­nyish. I hadn’t had ti­me to do la­undry in ne­arly two we­eks and was down to my comfy bri­efs, which we­re big on fab­ric and ext­re­mely low on sex ap­pe­al.

  Li­ke it wo­uld ha­ve be­en any bet­ter we­aring a black thong? The vo­ice of re­ason was so de­ad-on. The­re was no “right” un­der­we­ar to be we­aring in a si­tu­ati­on li­ke this. Just li­ke the­re was no “right” res­pon­se to the la­ugh­ter flo­ating to­ward me from what felt li­ke every di­rec­ti­on.

  Still, I was pretty su­re run­ning from the ice in te­ars wasn’t the co­olest cho­ice I co­uld ha­ve ma­de, es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce I trip­ped aga­in at the ed­ge of the la­ke and ne­arly bit the dust a se­cond ti­me. I was half­way to bus­ting my fa­ce in the fro­zen dirt when two hands grab­bed me and set me back on my fe­et.

  “Co­me on, this way.”

  I clung to the hand Cliff slip­ped in­to mi­ne and fol­lo­wed him thro­ugh the wo­ods, away from the so­und of Aaron’s vo­ice cal­ling my na­me, not even ca­ring that I sho­uldn’t. No mat­ter how stran­ge it was to fe­el mo­re com­for­ted by the hand of a de­ad boy than by that of an ali­ve one, the­re was no den­ying I’d rat­her be he­re in the wo­ods hi­ding with Cliff than with Aaron. I was just lucky he still wan­ted to be aro­und me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whis­pe­red, snif­fing as we fo­und an iso­la­ted pla­ce un­der the tre­es, far from the cras­hing so­und of Aaron pur­su­ing me thro­ugh the fal­len le­aves in the op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­on. “I’m re­al­ly sorry I sa­id tho­se me­an things ear­li­er.”

  “Don’t worry abo­ut it. I’m sorry too… abo­ut yo­ur dad. I sho­uld ha­ve told you this mor­ning,” he sa­id, fin­ding a shel­te­red pla­ce be­hind one of the lar­ger tre­es. “Last night, af­ter I left the cli­nic, I had a vi­si­on, the big­gest vi­si­on yet, re­al­ly. I knew what you we­re go­ing to re­ad in that fi­le-I even saw you fall down on the ice. I sho­uld ha­ve told you ins­te­ad of let­ting you find out whi­le you we­re alo­ne.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I snif­fed aga­in and swi­ped the last of the te­ars from my fa­ce. “I don’t think the­re is a go­od way to find out my dad isn’t my dad.” Oh crap, sho­uldn’t ha­ve go­ne the­re. I was go­ing to start crying aga­in, and af­ter I’d just got­ten myself re­la­ti­vely cle­aned up.

  Cliff pul­led me in for one of tho­se hard, lo­ving hugs li­ke my grand­mot­her al­ways ga­ve. My ma­ter­nal grand­mot­her, who was still my re­al grand­mot­her. God, I hadn’t even tho­ught abo­ut all my dad’s fa­mily not be­ing my re­al fa­mily any­mo­re. This just kept get­ting wor­se and wor­se.

  “Of co­ur­se he’s still yo­ur dad-ge­nes don’t chan­ge that,” Cliff sa­id, hug­ging me even tigh­ter. “That ot­her du­de is just a sperm do­nor.”

  “But I ha­ve a vi­rus,” I sa­id, my vo­ice crac­king.

  Cliff la­ug­hed. “You ma­ke it so­und li­ke a de­ath sen­ten­ce. From what I’ve se­en, that vi­rus only ma­kes you stron­ger than ot­her Set­tlers. Which is not ne­ces­sa­rily a bad thing.”

  “It’s al­so sup­po­sed to ma­ke me bre­ak psycho­ti­cal­ly.”

  “Not­hing co­uld ma­ke you bre­ak psycho­ti­cal­ly. You’re too to­ugh.” Cliff pul­led back to lo­ok me in the eyes.

  He was short eno­ugh that the ac­ti­on put our no­ses a few inc­hes apart and our lips only a lit­tle furt­her away than that. I knew I sho­uldn’t ha­ve be­en thin­king abo­ut his lips, but I co­uldn’t se­em to help myself. As po­wer­ful­ly as Aaron ske­eved me out, and as much as what I felt for Et­han sca­red me with its in­ten­sity, Cliff put me at ease just as po­wer­ful­ly. He ma­de me fe­el sa­fe and we­irdly re­la­xed, a lit­tle dizzy, and mo­re than a lit­tle… cu­ri­o­us.

  “Did you he­ar me, Me­gan Berry?” he as­ked, his words a warm whis­per that ca­res­sed
my par­ted lips. “You’re strong and smart and you can hand­le anyt­hing that co­mes yo­ur way. You’ve got to hand­le it, be­ca­use-”

  I shut him up by pres­sing my lips to his. I hadn’t cons­ci­o­usly de­ci­ded to kiss him, but I just co­uldn’t de­al with he­aring abo­ut what I had to hand­le. I didn’t fe­el li­ke I co­uld hand­le anyt­hing right now-not my fa­mily, or my boyf­ri­end, or Set­tling, or even get­ting up the co­ura­ge to go back out on the ice and fa­ce the pe­op­le who had se­en my un­der­we­ar.

  And I cer­ta­inly co­uldn’t hand­le le­ar­ning that Cliff was a way bet­ter kis­ser than I’d ima­gi­ned.

  He didn’t he­si­ta­te for a se­cond, simply cup­ped my fa­ce in his warm hands and pul­led me clo­ser, li­ke he’d known exactly how he wan­ted to kiss me for a long ti­me. His lips we­re con­fi­dent, but at the sa­me ti­me un­be­li­evably gent­le. Cliff didn’t ma­ke me fe­el pres­su­red-he ma­de me fe­el ali­ve and warm and won­der­ful.

  Diz­zi­ness spun thro­ugh my he­ad, and that giddy, low-blo­od-su­gar fe­eling des­cen­ded with a ven­ge­an­ce, but I didn’t ca­re. I didn’t ca­re abo­ut anyt­hing but-

  “Me­gan?”

  Oh God, no. It co­uldn’t be. But the­re wasn’t much chan­ce I was mis­ta­ken. We’d only be­en go­ing out for few months, but I wo­uld ha­ve known that vo­ice anyw­he­re.

  CHAPTER 18

  I re­ad in a bo­ok one ti­me that a wo­man’s vo­ice was “drip­ping with pa­in.” I re­mem­ber thin­king it was a we­ird way to desc­ri­be a so­und. But now I un­ders­to­od. When Et­han sa­id my na­me, I co­uld fe­el his pa­in drip­ping all over me, li­ke so­me sort of hor­rib­le acid that bur­ned my skin and ma­de my he­art fe­el li­ke it was go­ing to exp­lo­de.

  I jum­ped away from Cliff, but it was too la­te. The shock and hurt on Et­han’s fa­ce left no do­ubt he’d se­en what I’d be­en up to.