Authors: SO
“I know incapped,” Cole says. “I’ve dabbled in the undead arts before.”
Mortification be damned. I open my eyes and cast a suspicious glare. “Did you just say ‘dabbled in the undead arts’?”
“Don’t hurt me.” Cole holds up his hands in surrender.
“Point is, using zombies as an excuse to ditch me? That’s beat, Vacarro. What kind of prom date are you?”
“The beat kind, obviously.”
Cole’s mischievous grin rises once again, custom-made by the fates to be my complete undoing.
“It’s just a party,” he whispers. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
22
FRIENDS DON’T ll E T FAIRIES DRINK, WA X P O E TIC, STRIP, AND SWIM
I
nquiring minds want to know, Lucy Vacarro.” Griffin discovered the video function on her phone, monster created, and now she’s filming us in the Fosters’ bathroom.
“How far
are
you willing to go as Ellie’s prom surrogate?” I pause mid–eyeliner application and frown playfully at her reflection in the mirror. Somehow she ended up with Marceau’s devil horns. “Brunette Griffin was nicer.”
“There’s no denying that Cole
is
adorable.” On the countertop, my phone buzzes with Ellie’s number, a call instead of a text. There’s a fire in me, guilt and desire, and I bury them both. The party hasn’t even begun, and it’s already my worst idea ever. Even though it was Cole’s idea.
23
I rearrange my face into something like this:
Cole? Adorable? Whatev.
“True,” I say. “Yet irrelevant.”
“I have a theory about you two.” Griff scopes out the buzzing phone, but when I still don’t answer it, she continues. “It’s not like anyone would find out if you . . . you know. Fulfilled Ellie’s postprom duties.” I slip and nearly blind myself with kohl. “What is
wrong
with you?”
“Whoa, girl. I’m kidding. Obviously.” Griff watches me a second longer in the mirror and narrows her eyes. “I know that look.”
“There’s no look.”
“You
like
him!”
My face burns. “Are you drunk already?”
“Luce. You’re getting a little—”
“I’m getting a little nothing, because I don’t like him.
And please stop documenting everything I say. It’s creepy.”
“Having closeted sexy-time thoughts about your best friend’s boyfriend is creepy. Just be honest for once. It’s so
obvious
.”
I go to smack her arm, but she dodges, still wielding her phone like the paparazzi. It almost makes me feel sorry for Jayla Heart, whose Hollywood shenanigans grace the gossip rags weekly. “Turn it off.”
“These are the moments of your life, Lucy Vacarro.
24
You should
thank
me for documenting them.” Griff has the movie announcer voice going, free hand framing my face, like,
Action!
“If it’s not on Facebook, it didn’t happen. You know that, right?”
“You’re so gross right now. You know that, right?” I leap on the subject change. “They’re a corporation. They’re probably tracking us.”
“Now you sound like (e)VIL.” Griff scrunches up her nose, same face she made at dinner when Paul explained where veal comes from. “Those people have no lives. It’s sad, really. Even sadder than your gamer marathons.” Griff turns her phone into a mock controller, frantically thumb-ing buttons.
Securely off the Cole innuendos, I return to my eyelining. “You’d so lose your life in the zombie apocalypse, blondie.”
“At least I have a life to lose. Did you see mermaid chick—”
“They have no
Facebook
,” I say. Kiara, an antitechnology mermaid with a secret tech life? That has to count for something
.
“For all we know, their lives are fascinating.” Griff snorts. “Their idea of fun is reading old newspapers and looking for codes.”
“And
your
idea of fun is sleeping with half the school and getting on Miss D’s scandal page. So?” 25
Her smile drops down the sink, and my heart follows.
“Sorry. I didn’t . . . That came out wrong.” I don’t know why I’m all defensive about (e)VIL. Before tonight, I never talked to any of them. And it’s not like Kiara and I are suddenly making plans to search for extraterrestrial life together.
This whole unrequited Cole thing is fracking my brain.
I shouldn’t even be here. It’s obvious Ellie didn’t want me to come to the party, and I’d rather not spend the night dis-proving Griff’s little theories—they’re not exactly wrong.
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Griffin, seriously. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry. It’s—”
“Whatev. Not like you’re lying.” She slips the devil horns from her head and sets them on the sink with a casual shrug. Something wounded flashes across her face, but then it’s gone, replaced by her cool, sexy confidence. “I’m hot.
What can I say? And I do loves me some boys.” I conjure up a smile to match, but it’s not about her hotness or how many people she hooks up with. When it comes to Griffin’s conquests, the tally is her business. I just hate how it changes her, how her revolving bedroom door is a constant topic for the fans congregating on Miss Demeanor’s page.
Griff is like a piece of clay that never makes it to the kiln. Last week an ashtray, next week a vase, each new guy 26
ushering in a personality and hairstyle to match. She’s been hanging out with me and Ellie for two years, but whenever we start to get close, the new Griff shows up and we have to learn her all over again.
Oh, I’m over that now,
she says.
So yesterday.
She smooths her curls before the mirror, tendrils licking her shoulders like white flames. “Do I look okay?”
“I wouldn’t change a thing.” I hold her gaze, but all she’s got left is her nothing-can-touch-me smile.
“Except for maybe Cole’s undying love for Ell ie?” she says.
“Griffin! I don’t—”
“You should tell him. Or maybe . . .” Her lips curl into a smile, dark and devious.
I hate when she gets like this, but guilt nudges me to play along. “Maybe what?”
“
I
could tell him.” She taps her chin with a glossy red fingernail. “That might be fun for everyone.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Drinks?” she says. “Paul’s a pro on the blender.” She flicks off the lights, and before I can remind her that she hates frozen drinks because they give her brain freeze, she’s gone.
The two-story timber-framed “cabin” is tucked into a grove that backs up to forest service land, miles from civilization.
27
I’ve only ever been here with Ellie, and now it feels odd without her, like the place was redecorated and I just can’t figure out what’s different.
Also, I don’t usually hang out in the foyer behind the floor-to-ceiling curtains, peering out the front windows like a shut-in.
That makes ten.
I sip my sweet “Piña Paulada” and count another set of headlights bouncing up the dirt path. Olivia, the art girl Cole danced with earlier, hops out of an SUV
with her friends Quinn and Haley, a trio of winged sprites in blond, brunette, and red. Disappointment settles in my stomach.
Want some whine with that cheese? Here goes: My hair hurts. My feet are killing me. Griff’s ignoring me. Cole’s been looking for me, but whenever I see him I disappear, hoping against the odds Griff hasn’t carried out her pseudo-threat.
The doorbell rings—Olivia and company—and I think about the
Undead Shred
tournament I’m missing, the rush that comes with tossing a Molotov cocktail and bolting to the nearest safe room. My online crew’s gonna freak when they hear I ditched them for a party. Half of them are in college or older, way beyond high school ridiculousness.
That’s what rocks about it. As long as you can kill walk-ers and keep the team safe, you can be anyone you want 28
in the gaming world. Princess. Warrior. International girl of mystery. Unlike in the real world, where everyone can see you bumbling around like an idiot in a dress, live and uncut.
A prom party! What was I thinking?
Cole. That’s what I was thinking. And in the hour I’ve been here, I’ve done nothing but avoid him.
Maybe . . .
I
could tell him . . . fun for everyone . . .
My phone buzzes again just as Cole passes behind me to collect the car keys from Olivia’s friend, and my neck prickles. Ellie didn’t leave a voice mail before. Her texts are getting impatient.
where r u? y no more pics?
at cabin
, I type.
cole playing host. but zzzzz! party is snooze-fest w/o u!
She replies instantly:
u went to party? thought u had game
stuff 2nite?
I hesitate. Another text follows:
hello, u h8 parties. what’s
going on?
Last minute decision
, I type.
no worries. prolly find a ride
home early. u mad?
A few minutes pass before she responds, my breath fog-ging the window as I wait.
just surprised
, she finally says.
& cranky w/ super big bird
flu. sux.
29
:-) wish u were here, el.
me 2, my goth princess. so where’s frenchie? u in total amour
yet?
The window is cloudy, and with my free hand I trace a heart in the fog. Ellie’s next text arrives before I respond.
u better b! i’m living vicariously, watching TVD reruns & eating crackers in bed. send more pix! esp. if frenchie shows! maybe
he’ll take u home?
“Duuuude.”
The word floats on a moss-scented current, and I turn toward the source, ducking out from behind the curtain.
Clarice’s substance-abusing nemesis, a kid who earned the nickname 420 in middle school, blinks from beneath the rim of a dingy orange hat. The rest of his mythical creatures attire consists of tuxedo pants and a black T-shirt with a picture of a Gelfling that reads,
I thought I was the only one!
Conversing with 420 is like playing Mad Libs, but it’s more entertaining than cuddling with the drapery and faking my way through Ellie’s texts, and anyway, I love
The
Dark Crystal
.
“What’s up?” I say through a too-bright smile. Cole passes behind him, scoping out the foyer and the living room beyond, but he doesn’t see me.
“This place is like . . .” 420 blinks. I give him my full attention.
30
“A mountain oasis?” I ask helpfully.
He shakes his head and giggles.
“Retreat-like?” I say. “Cozy?”
He closes his eyes.
“Woodsy,” I press. “Outdoorsy. Secluded?” Time passes. Mountains erode. Streams merge into rivers. Six new species evolve, and I’m pretty sure this kid just fell asleep standing up.
“Good talk, 420.” I leave him to contemplate the mysteries of the Foster cabin and relocate to the kitchen. Chips and dip, rescuer from social ineptitudes great and small!
“That kid is
wasted.
” Clarice scowls at me over the munchies table as if I’m responsible for 420’s life choices. “I can’t believe they’re letting him graduate—”
“Attention, attention! I’ve got a song in my
heaaaaart
!” Clarice and I turn toward the sudden commotion in the living room. John, the only member of the class heading to Harvard, is standing on the coffee table in nothing but tuxedo pants, a turquoise cummerbund that matches Clarice’s dress, black socks, and his silver wings.
“Perfect.”
Clarice abandons a plate of apple slices and cheddar and marches into the living room, her wings stiff and commanding. Why she’s so concerned about 420
when her own boyfriend has already stumbled into the karaoke stage of debauchery is a mystery, but so are most 31
relationships in Lavender Oaks, and I follow her angry footsteps, switching on my video capture for Ellie.
John’s thumbs hook behind the wing straps stretched over his muscular shoulders. “These are the
tiiiimes
to remember,” he sings. “And they will not last
foreverrrrr
.” Cole’s nowhere in sight, but across the room, Marceau tips his beer bottle toward me and smiles. I didn’t see him arrive, and I’m surprised at the flutter in my chest. In the wake of my inappropriate Cole-fantasizing, I grab on to the feeling like a lifeboat. Even though we’re landlocked, as Marceau astutely pointed out, but still. Flutter! Not Cole!
Progress!
“Hey,” I mouth over the crowd, holding up my frosty glass of yellow-white slush. Marceau winks.
I send Ellie a quick text—
frenchie has arrived. let the
panting and/or pantsing commence
—then flip back to video as John continues.
“Four score and four years together,” John says. “We’ve endured countless tornado warnings. Sex-ed assemblies with Mrs. Frockton.” John puts a hand on his bare chest and shudders.
One of the vampires I saw at the dance makes a gagging sound. “Givin’ me nightmares, bro!”
Everyone laughs, but John holds up his hands to quiet the crowd.
32
“We’ve survived Kincaid’s British lit class,” he continues. “The questionable safety of Merton’s chem labs. The questionable safety of cafeteria hamburgers.” John clenches his stomach, then rockets his fist into the air. “Despite my best efforts at delinquency, my pretty face has yet to appear on Miss Demeanor’s scandal page. You don’t have to protect me, D! Obama took the pressure off when he became the first black prez. The second one has more room to cul-tivate a shady past.”
“You’re shady as hell, bro,” one of the vamps says.
John flashes a crooked grin. “I’m saying! Miss D, if you’re here, you lovable scandalmonger, come forth!”
“It’s totally Lucy, right?” Griff giggles from her perch on Paul’s lap, and everyone roars at the ridiculous joke. The chill between us thaws, and across the room she returns my smile, making a heart with her hands.
“Fine,” John says. “If the real Miss D refuses to self-identify, I dedicate this next scandal to Lucy. Hot-ass chick in your hot ass boots. That thing on video?” He points to my phone, and I give him the thumbs-up.
John goes all Shakespeare in the Park on a rendition of that rage against the dying light poem by Dylan Thomas, which has nothing to do with graduation as far as I can tell, but his performance is partly musical and beyond compelling.