Deadgirl

“What is it?” Wanda asked, turning on my big office chair.

Morgan cocked her head to the side. I nodded.

“Hey, Wanda,” Morgan said, looking over my shoulder. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Um. Well, I planned on doing my laundry. I’m really behind and my mom stopped doing it for me last year because she says it builds character. I also have this Spanish project and—”

“We think Zack and a couple of his friends want me, you, and Luce to triple date at the Set tomorrow. Possibly.”

I glanced at Morgan—playing poker with her in Vegas was out.

Wanda’s eyes rounded.

“Oh, I don’t think I can go,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I still have to figure out me and Tyler and what—”

Morgan snapped, “Wanda. Where is Tyler right now?”

Wanda sighed, “He said he’s at the movies.”

“With who?” I asked.

“I’m not really sure—”

“Who is he at the movies with, Wanda?” Morgan asked.

“I mean I could guess—”

“Wanda,” I said. “Is Tyler at the movies with skanky Lisa Barnes?”

She paused a beat.

“Yeah.”

Morgan nodded and crossed her arms over her chest, “And where will you be tomorrow night?”

Wanda sighed, “At the Set, with Zack’s friend.”

Morgan beamed and threw her hands skyward. I gave a huge grin and jumped onto my bed. There it was, I realized. Hope. Hope was now officially curled around my heart, warming it with unimaginable heat even as it got ready to incinerate it completely.

I gave in. I threw my own arms up and let out a strangled cry of glee.

“Someone’s in love,” Morgan said.

“Oh, shush,” I said. “I think this is my first date.”

“First of many,” Morgan corrected. “You’ve got at least another ten years of dating in you, I imagine. Fifteen if you make it to thirty without snagging a rich investment banker.”

I gave her a face, “Don’t be a cliche. Plus, I have the rest of my life to worry about investment bankers.”

Chapter Two

One Day ’til

The next day at school I was on a mission.

Over dinner we’d planned strategy. Dad ate in his office—apparently too busy to join us. My mom listened to our war plans with a combination of amusement and genuine attention. She threw in a few ideas, and we incorporated almost all of them. Mom knew her stuff, I’ll give her that—she was the retired General to my up-and- coming Captain. Morgan was my Sergeant—in the trenches, ready to fight, determined to push us onward. Wanda hadn’t even made it out of boot camp.

And now I was heading for the front lines.

Mom dropped me off in front of Atlanta—not my usual insertion point. Normally I landed in the parking lot near the band room. My first period class was Journalism, in the Art quad. Still, the front wasn’t far, and it gave me valuable positioning. First, recon—the true sabotage wouldn’t begin until lunch, if all went well.

Morgan and I got out of my mom’s car and separated—we didn’t even give each other a parting look. She wasn’t a Drama-geek, but she had more than a few friends who were, and she made a beeline for the steps up to the auditorium. Benny, best friends with Zack, was her first target. Benny was president of the drama club, and even now sat on the steps of the auditorium, holding court in a circle of fellow thespians. Dark featured, black hair framing his face, Benny had a certain attractive quality. Still, his personality drove the point home better than his rail-thin body—Benny had charisma. He’d be a great lawyer, a better salesman, and the world’s worst spy. You couldn’t not notice Benny in the room. He made sure of it, in fact.

But I wasn’t heading that way. My vector angled for the primary target.

Zack.

I took a deep breath, cinched my backpack up, and sallied forth.

Teenagers flooded into the school like shambling zombies into a mall. I drifted through the sea with practiced ease—dodging other people being the native art form of the average high school student. Through the front gate, past the office, toward the library. I knew where Zack would be—anyone who’d met him knew where he’d be.

I thought about the odd, unbreakable predictability high school forces you into. Something about the immutable routine of classes and bells encourages you to hang out with the same people in the same spot every morning before class, every lunch, and after school. Shifting from one bench to another during lunch would cause bedlam—you’d invade other territories, reshuffle boundaries. Contradict the norm. Mass hysteria, in other words.

I had my school ID out before I even went inside the library—I flashed it to the assistant, who waved me through the turnstile. I took a moment to lament the picture on my sophomore ID—I looked like a cross between a slut and a maniac. Too-low shirt, rat’s-nest hair, abominable make-up, worse lighting. The fact that it had only been two months ago made it all the more depressing. And I had no explanation for the picture, either. It was just a really bad day to take a picture.

Most of the time, the library featured only one or two students wandering quietly through the stacks.

Now, before school, the library bulged with bodies. Students who didn’t do their homework, didn’t do the reading, or never even picked up their needed book in the first place spent their last few desperate minutes before the bell rang buzzing through the library. A press of students milled or sat around, searching or praying or working or all three.

I fit in just fine. I rushed to the periodical section and tugged a few magazines from the rack. It didn’t take long for the fishy to bite, and that fact alone nearly completed the first leg of the mission. When his hand touched my shoulder I almost jumped out of my sneakers.

“Sorry,” Zack said as I turned toward him, “didn’t mean to spook you.”

Zack looked down at me with azure eyes. His face was handsome, almost boyish, but his bright blue eyes drew my attention every time. They didn’t seem to fit his look—they were too intense for his friendly face, too bright for his tan skin. They begged to be stared at, to be swum in. I obliged without hesitation.

His hair, messy-spiked in the current fashion and deep brown, made him look even taller than he was, I realized. He stood above me by a solid six inches, which was inherently ridiculous—I wasn’t even remotely short.

He wore a solid white short-sleeved button down shirt and jeans. Nothing fancy, but the white shirt made his skin look even darker. His tan couldn’t have been sun-based, I realized—he spent more time indoors than I did. I wondered what ethnicity he was. Then I wondered how long I’d been gawking at him while he asked me the same question over and over.

“Are you okay, Luce?” He asked me, again.

“Fine, fine, sorry,” I said. “You just scared the heck out of me.”

“Heck?” Zack asked, half-smiling.

I frowned, “Being a sailor isn’t cool. I am a lady.”

Zack’s half-smile ripened into a full one. His lop-sided grin made my stomach start doing gymnastics. Stupid girl. Clamp down.

“Not wrong there,” Zack said. “Whatcha looking for?”

He gestured to the stack of magazines in my hand. I flipped through them and shrugged.

“Forgot my Journalism assignment,” I said. I hadn’t, of course. “Needed an article to comment on.”