A Living Dead Love Story Series (3 page)

“Sorry. I was just offering Bones a taste of our corn bread.”

Dahlia smiles, inching forward, her own plate held high. Whereas my plate is mostly empty, hers is almost completely full. I can see why. While, thanks to Hazel—or so she would have the class believe—our corn bread is fluffy and moist, tender and juicy, theirs is dry and thin, almost like Mexican biscotti left out for a month.

“Try a little of
this,”
Dahlia says.

Though Bones is a decade out of style and centuries out of touch, Dahlia is on the cutting edge fashionwise, her violet bangs cut clipper-straight across her powdered white forehead, her lashes thick and black, her maroon lip gloss creamy and sparkly at the same time.

The weird thing is, and maybe
this
is why they're a couple but …
she
has yellow eyes, too. Don't get me wrong. They're much easier to take on Dahlia than they are on Bones, but who'da thunk the only two folks in Barracuda Bay High School with yellow eyes would hook up?

Her look is somewhere between Goth and glam, with a heavy dose of glitter and gloss for good measure. Today she has on high-heeled black wedges, burgundy hose, a leather miniskirt, and a sheer platinum bustier under a white leather jacket. Barely five feet five, she is Mutt to Bones' Jeff (or is it Jeff to his Mutt)? Either way, even though she's actually an inch shorter than me, she seems a foot taller, thanks, no doubt, to her brass balls and titanium confidence.

I notice that somehow Dahlia has managed to nudge me even closer to Bones. So now, with an oven on one side and a row of fake kitchen cabinets on the other, I am effectively hemmed into their dark little corner of our Home Ec universe. Over Dahlia's head I see Ms. Haskins bent over her grade book, her back to me, so I turn to Dahlia and grab a biscotti-slash-corn bread plank and take a bite to keep the peace and get out of this cold, dark corner alive.

Wow, it's bad. Deathly bad. Just …awful.

“Well?” she says.

I hear the stool slide out from beneath Bones. I can feel his eyes on my back as he stands to his full height; if we were outside, he might block out the sun.

I cough, then swallow dryly. “Not bad. I'm thinking maybe next time, less flour and more butter …you know, to make it a smidge flakier.” (Did I just say smidge? I did, didn't I?)

I'm stammering, trying to find anything nice to say, when the bell finally rings. I smile, thinking,
Saved by the bell
, but Bones and Dahlia hardly budge. If anything, they move closer.

“Guys, seriously, didn't you hear? The bell. I'll be late to Art class.”

Dahlia and Bones snicker as they gather up their books and stand to one side. Dahlia's yellow eyes grow small and suddenly cruel. The room grows ten degrees cooler, but between the two of them I might as well be standing in a walk-in freezer, so there's not much farther down the Celsius scale we can go here.

“Well,” Dahlia says, “we wouldn't want
that
now, would we?”

“Quite right,” Bones says. “The world needs more artists.”

Dahlia looks around the room and settles her glare on me. “Yeah, Bones. Kind of like this class needs more warm bodies.”

The laughter oozes out of them, like steam from fresh-baked Mexican corn bread (only colder, and deader, and not quite so steamy).

I open my mouth to say something, to defend my fallen classmates—Missy, Sally, and Amy—to preserve their honor against these, these …creeps …and they're practically daring me to. Like they
want
to talk about the Curse of Third Period Home Ec, like they can't wait to tell me something, anything, I don't already know.

It's something about their eyes, their beady yellow eyes, practically drooling (wait, can eyes drool?) over the chance to dredge up the Curse. But I don't let them. I
won't
let them; won't give them that satisfaction.

Instead I shrug and start to back away, not realizing Bones has slipped a foot in the path of my retreat. I trip over it instantly, my hands instinctively dropping the plate.

The white plastic clatters across the floor, the noise sending Bones and Dahlia scurrying out of the room before Ms. Haskins can reach me. The last thing I see as they walk through the door is Bones bending down to low-five Dahlia's precious, perfect, pale little hand.

“Madison?” Ms. Haskins asks as I wipe corn-bread crumbs off my khaki skirt and put as many pieces as possible back onto the white plate before adjusting my peach scarf belt. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I lie, flustered, eager to get to Art class, to stand up, to leave this chilly, dark corner of a room that, come to think of it, really
does
feel cursed. At least, at this very moment. “Clumsy, I guess.”

She helps me clean up and we stand. I see the clock and rush past her. “I'll be late,” I say, leaving her the dirty plate.

“I can write you a pass,” she says, but I've already grabbed my denim backpack and am steaming out of class, head lowered, when I go down for the second time in less than an hour.

O
OOOMPH
.” T
HIS IS
what I say when I run into that yummy new kid on the way out of Home Ec. “Oooomph.” Not “Excuse me.” Not “Here's my number.” Not even “We've got to stop meeting like this.” Not something charming, clever, or sexy. Just …“Oooomph.”

But that's okay because as we both watch our books, papers, folders, and notebooks tumble to the ground in a whirling spiral of college-ruled paper and No. 2 pencils, he stands there helplessly and murmurs something like “Murrumph.”

I look for Hazel for some help, but she's already on the way to Cheer Club practice by now. We're jostled by other kids a good dozen times as I watch the new guy's big, pale hands carefully separate his papers from mine. Not that he has many; I mean, the kid
did
just transfer here from Wyoming or Washington or some godforsaken place.

“I'm usually not so clumsy,” I lie as he hands me my Home Ec handbook.

“My fault entirely,” he says while I hold out his Barracuda Bay High schedule sheet. “I've been doing this all day.”

“Really?” I quip before I can clamp my mouth shut. “And here I thought I was special.”

He snorts, then looks self-consciously down at his ratty size-jumbo sneakers. Even though we're kneeling, snatching up and separating the last of our loose-leaf papers, he's tall; not Bones tall, but then who is?

He's slender but tight, like he's coiled to pounce on something—or someone—nearby. (She
wishes.)
His skin is pale and smooth but hard like marble, with a faint dusting of hair across the backs of his hands. He smells like cologne; something good but not
too
good.

He's dressed down for his first day: faded jeans and a rugby shirt with brown and blue stripes. It's tight across the chest but loose around the waist, and I only realize I'm staring when it's been silent for awhile and the halls are practically empty.

“Shit!” I stand at attention.

He follows me as I stand to my full height, but then he keeps going, a head or so higher once he's finally stopped unfolding.

“I'm going to be late.” He looks stranded, helpless, the walls of Barracuda Bay High suddenly a maze, his books all stacked wrong and his schedule knotted.

I take pity and say, somewhat irritated (though trying to hide it), “Where's your next class?”

He frowns, unraveling his ruined schedule from between two teetering textbooks. “Art,” he says without enthusiasm.

“Really?” I ask, tugging on his sleeve and steering him toward C-wing before falling into stride with his long, thin legs. “Me too.”

“Not by choice,” he adds defensively.

“Don't worry.” I sigh. “Your heterosexuality is still very much intact.”

“No, I just mean …you know what I mean.”

“Art's not too big in Wyoming?” I say, rounding the corner.

“Nothing's too big in
Wisconsin,”
he says, correcting me without formally correcting me, “except hunting, fishing, and …more fishing.”

I smile and rush into class, dragging him across the threshold right before the final bell rings. Mrs. Witherspoon raises one gray eyebrow above her ridiculously round, incredibly red tortoiseshell glasses, until she sees the big kid lumbering behind me.

Then she winks, clears her throat, and announces theatrically (her default setting), “Cutting it a little close, aren't we, Maddy dear? Well, since you and your new friend are so late, I'm afraid you'll have to take the two last seats in the house. I hope you won't …
mind.”

As I walk past, I try to avoid the jealous stares of all the other Art Chicks shooting me daggers, but there's something about walking into a class full of frustrated feminists with a big, tall, strapping jock by your side that makes me want to jump up on one of the black lab tables and shout, “In
your
face! In your
face!”
I restrain myself and slide into my chair.

The new kid sits stiffly to my left as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. His chiseled face is Midwest pale above his weathered collar, and I notice as he blinks rapidly that his eyes are an almost chocolate brown. Between that and the thick black hair, he might as well be a giant chocolate chip cookie. He fiddles with his books as Mrs. Witherspoon calls roll, and when she gets to the Cs and calls out “Crosby, Stamp,” I can literally see the blush creep from his throat to his taut Wisconsin cheeks.

“Yes, ma'am,” he says politely, eliciting twitters from the tough artsy crowd.

She smiles and corrects him. “My mother is called ‘ma'am,' Mr. Crosby. So you shall call me
Mrs
. Witherspoon. Stamp, I'm sure you know the drill by now. Please stand and introduce yourself.”

He groans so only I can hear him, and I kind of want to pinch his cheek while standing up and demanding Mrs. Witherspoon give him a pass just this once. I do neither and merely watch with the rest of my smitten Art Class sisters (plus the resident moody male, Dmitri Collins, who could be smitten, or bored, or asleep—it's hard to tell what with all the eye shadow).

Stamp stands to his full six feet (and then some). “My name is Stamp Crosby. I just transferred here from Waukesha,
Wisconsin
. I'm the new kicker for the Barracuda Bay Marauders.” When we don't all stand up and cheer and flash our jugs, he sighs and says, “You know? Your school football team?”

That gets a few laughs, and I notice a few of the Art Chicks start to swoon. (Witches.)

Thankfully, before he's allowed to go on in his entirely charming way, Mrs. Witherspoon clears her throat. “Thank you, Stamp. Very …interesting. Now, if you'll kindly take your seat, I'll explain today's assignment …”

Mrs. Witherspoon gives him a square clump of brown modeling clay and a picture she's cut out of some pet magazine that shows a fluffy little cat curled up in a soft, cozy bed. “Interpret this,” she says cryptically before moving on without a backward glance.

Stamp shrugs in my direction and begins creating an exact replica of the picture. I watch his large fingers dabble with the clay, lots of it getting under his bitten-to-the-nub fingernails and the frayed edges of his rugby shirtsleeves. He's one of those guys who sticks his tongue out when he's concentrating, which I can't say I mind all that much.

Halfway through class, he's done with his cozy kitten and about to raise his hand to call Mrs. Witherspoon over, when I stop it in midair. “She said ‘interpret' it, Stamp, not
copy
it exactly.”

“What's the difference?”

I point to my own glob of clay in response. The magazine picture taped to my workstation is of a simple tennis shoe, but my piece of clay has been twisted and molded and bent to look like a single shoelace coiled into the pose of a striking anaconda.

“What the heck is
that
supposed to be?”

I frown, looking at it with a new pair of eyes. “Well, it's
supposed
to represent the commercial oppression of the American shoemakers who hire cheap immigrant labor to manufacture their capitalist ideals of consumer confidence …” My voice trails off as his mouth opens wide and his eyes glaze over. I reel it back in and say, “Anyway, when Mrs. Witherspoon tells you to
interpret
something, you're not supposed to just totally re-create what you see. You're supposed to illustrate how the kitten makes you
feel.”

He nods, shrugs, nods again, says, “huh,” really loudly like maybe he's in a room by himself, and then leans in, body heat shimmering off of him in warm, golden waves. Finally he murmurs to himself, “How do I turn a piece of clay into …happy?” He frowns at the prospect but then turns his clay cat into a (wait for it) smiley face. You know, the kind that Walmart used to use before it got too cheesy even for them?

When Mrs. Witherspoon finally rolls around to check out our table, she is
not
amused. I see the righteous indignation roiling inside of her, back there behind her big red glasses and above her flouncy red scarf. As she raises a trembling finger and gets ready to chew Stamp a new one, I momentarily catch her eye and, with pleadingly blinking eyelashes successfully derail her—at least for today. (You're on your own tomorrow, Stamp.)

She sighs, bites her lip, and says, “Very nice, Stamp. Very …
adequate.”

When she's gone, he looks at me, unconvinced, leans in, and whispers glumly, his breath Tic Tac fresh, “She hated it.”

I snort a little and inch even closer. “There's always tomorrow.”

He's laughing as we clean up our clay, but since he's a guy, and new, and a guy, his so-called cleanup takes many minutes fewer than mine, and when the bell rings, I'm still elbow deep in muddy, clay-filled water at the sink.