Deadgirl

“Lucy?”

Crap. I’d been drifting.

“Of course,” I said. “Well, today. On the weekends it’s Sasha Fierce.”

Zack laughed. His skin wrinkled around his nose, and he stared down at me with those intense sapphire eyes.

“Nice,” he said. “I meant have you heard anything yet?”

I nodded, my eyes wide, wondering about the question I must have missed. No way to play it cool without making the situation worse. Stupid truth.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’d like to buy a vowel?”

“What?”

“I totally spaced,” I said, sheepishly. “What did you want?”

I watched his face twitch—he didn’t think my attempt to pass it off was very funny. He looked offended, actually. I felt my heart sink down somewhere around my shoes. I took a deep breath, but he cut me off before I could launch into an apology.

“Can you go to Benny’s party tonight?”

I smiled huge. Gigantic. My face was gonna hurt the next day from cheek-trauma.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

Zack blinked at me. If we’d been in a cartoon, I would have heard the dink-dink noise.

“I’m kidding,” I said. “Just gotta be home by—”

Ten-thirty. Ten-thirty. Ten-thirty. It flashed in my brain like a neon sign.

“Eleven-thirty,” I said.

“Really?” Zack said. His shoulders squared off, and I watched relief wash over him, “Wow. That’s great. That’s amazing. You have the coolest parents.”

And they had the dumbest daughter. I shrugged off the sense of worry twisting my belly like bad Chinese food—I didn’t have to stay out until eleven-thirty just because my rebellious mouth said so. Maybe I’d be home at ten-thirty, or even ten. Yeah, and maybe Zack would propose to me tomorrow and fly me to Italy on his private flying reindeer-driven sled.

“Cool,” Zack said. “Mind if Benny and me come pick you and the girls up first? So he doesn’t have to go out again.”

First? It was tragically uncool to be the first people at a party.

“Benny doesn’t have to pick up anyone else?”

Zack shifted uncomfortably.

“What?”

“You and Sara, Wanda and Daphne are the only…non-wheeled. Sophomores, I mean.”

My mouth dropped open.

“You’re a sophomore, too.”

Zack grinned, “But Benny is my best friend.”

“So it’s just juniors and seniors? I don’t believe it,” I said. “Upperclassmen not trying to take advantage of helpless frosh girls?”

Zack shrugged. Again, not terribly amused. His sense of humor was so hot and cold. I had trouble getting a bead on what made him laugh and what offended him. It had to be all those newspapers he read. Gave him an over-developed sense of umbrage. Dad was the same way.

“It’s a damn shame Morgan can’t come.”

I made a face. I couldn’t help myself.

“For Benny,” he quickly corrected. “The poor guy is heartbroken about it.”

“He’ll be fine,” I said. “Though I feel pretty terrible for her.”

Zack nodded. I could tell what he was thinking—his first thought was to sneak her out, and his second was a memory of what kind of trouble that had caused last time. He’d heard through the grapevine, namely me, that when Morgan’s mom found out that Benny was her date the night of Morgan’s escape and my disappearance, she’d forbidden Morgan from talking, calling, or seeing him.

“So…you’ll pick me up?”

“At seven,” he said. “Give or take.”

“Just come to my house,” I said. “I’ll just gather the chicas there first.”

“Bueno,” Zack said.

He walked me to the circle of girls. We brushed elbows a couple times, each contact sparking little thrills of excitement. When he left to rejoin Benny’s crowd, the girls pounced.

Daphne: “When are you just going to tear his shirt off already?”

Wanda: “That’s great, Luce.”

Sara: “How are we getting to your house?”

Morgan: “Benny was heartbroken?”

I calmed them down and answered their questions and concerns one at time, press conference style.

“Because I’m not an animal; thanks, Wanda; your parents or your Huffys, and yes.”

Daphne looked disappointed, Wanda pleased, Sara unhappy, and Morgan besotted. We launched into more detailed plans almost immediately. Daphne had a new hat she wanted to give a spin, and Sara had a brand new dress. It looked like me and Wanda were just going to have to mix and match something from the collection. Granted, that meant Wanda was going to have to mix and match something from my collection, because her clothes, in general, were sad. They made me sad.

Morgan sat through our excitement as best as she could. I wanted to shut up, watching her smile and nod gracefully. Her grounding had been finalized because of the attempted sneak out—when I asked her about her prison sentence, she had laughed and considered it more likely that she’d be crushed by a spaceship than set free. Her mother had explained, in no uncertain terms, that she better get used to the couch, the fridge, and the vast lands between.

“What are you gonna do?” I asked her.

“Nothing,” Morgan said, the smile she flashed me was devoid of amusement. “I think that’s the point.”

I groaned, slipped my chin into my hands, and lost myself in the Daphne/Sara chatter. Wanda, strangely quiet, twirled her hair, listening to me and Morgan verbally spar. I did battle with Morgan’s self-pity—but no matter what I said, every attempt ended the same way:

“Morgan,” I’d say. “Your parents won’t ground you forever,” or

“Morgan, your mom is just freaked out,” or

“Maybe you can talk to her and change her mind.”

It didn’t matter. She had her stock response, and she wasn’t diverting.

“I’m screwed, Lucy. I’m screwed.”

Eventually I gave up and lapsed into furtive silence, punctuated only by little comments to Sara and Daphne about their hair-do plans or their worries about the party.

I was looking forward to Spanish, namely the Spanish-time with Zack, but it just wasn’t going to happen. When I walked into class one of Ms. Crane’s messengers was already in my class. It looked like Senor Halloway was giving the messenger guff about my frequent absences. It made me smile, to be honest—Halloway may have harassed me and Zack daily, but he was a good teacher, and a nice guy.

When he looked up, his face crinkled. He gestured the messenger in my general direction and sat down with a loud huff behind his desk. I smiled and mouthed “thank you,” to him, but he just seemed confused. The messenger handed me my obligatory note, and I went to see Ms. Crane.

As usual, she was in her black leather chair, her right side facing the window, her eyes to the wall across from her, her hands tangled across her expansive lap. It would have been a nervous posture, save the look on her face—stony. Almost cold, but in a comforting, hard to explain way.

I sat down in my usual chair, trying to relax, preparing for questions about my first dog or my favorite teacher. She spoke in her fluid but all-business tone.

“Were you raped last week, Lucy?”