Deadgirl (2 page)

“I’m so—” Wanda said, but stopped when she turned to look at me, “Lu! Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t even looking.”

She shook her head, sending her short spray of strawberry blonde hair dancing around her face. Wanda wasn’t pretty. She could be cute, with a makeover, maybe. Her face was too long, her hair too short, her body too skinny. Maybe it was her way of
being
that ruined everything—always cringing, always apologizing.

Still, she’d been at least a third-tier friend since both of us could read, and we’d been through a lot together. She wasn’t my coolest friend, but glass houses, you know?

“Wanda, calm down,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’ll make it.”

We went to work scooping up the explosion of fliers. When we’d shuffled them into two neat stacks, I handed my stack to her and re-shouldered my backpack. Wanda looked even more nervous than usual, I noticed. Better try to trick her into telling me. She wasn’t famous for divulging.

I pointed at the stack of fliers in her hands.

“Winter Formal?”

The flier advertised Winter Formal in a fruity, almost gothic font. Two tiny clip-art dancers wheeled underneath the text. After the dancers, standing out in quotes, were the words, “Under the Stars.”

“Yeah,” Wanda said. She tucked a crescent of hair behind her ear, which immediately fell back out of place, “It’s coming up, you know.”

“I
wouldn’t
know,” I said. “There isn’t a date on the flier, honey.”

Wanda deflated. I felt like a rat for pointing it out, but it was better than being embarrassed later. Wanda needed group humiliation like I needed five pages of grammar homework.

“Oh crap,” Wanda said. “Oh
crap!
”

“I’m sorry.”

“Crap, Lu, I’m such a freak. I forgot the date.”

“Can’t you just go back and redo it?”

“Not today,” she said, “The ASB room is closed already. I was supposed to get these up yesterday, but I just spaced. I’m such a freak.”

Wanda looked at the stack of fliers like they’d betrayed her.

“What about Kinkos or something?”

“I don’t have the file. And I’m outta cash.”

“Let me see one?” I asked.

Wanda muttered something and handed me one of them.

“Hey, you know,” I said. “There’s kind of a space under the dancers but before the theme. If we space it out right on my printer at home, we can just open a new document, put the date in the right spot on an empty document, and use the fliers you already have as paper.”

Wanda brightened up, and she smiled up at me through her hang-dog expression. I remembered why I liked Wanda. She could be a sourpuss sometimes, but her joy was clean and contagious. I grinned back at her.

“You think it’ll work, Luce?”

“I really do,” I said. “Just come over anytime tonight.”

“You’re not on...a date or anything?”

Wanda always assumed I was some kind of social goddess, just by contrast with her own life. Though flattering sometimes, mostly it annoyed the crap out of me because it wasn’t even close to true. I thought of Zack, then I made a point not to.

“No,” I said. I don’t think I hid the annoyance in my voice very well. “Just come over whenever, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” Wanda said. She wasn’t pushing it, which told me she’d noticed my tone.

I wanted to apologize, but I was thinking of Zack now, which is my anti-purpose.

“Okay, see you later.”

I turned and walked away.
What a bitch I am.

It was turning cold, something I relished. Atlanta High, typical of Southern California high schools, was an open-air campus, with only the occasional awning acting as a hallway between classrooms. Some people hated it—they’d seen too many high school movies with rows of lockers filling a crowded hallway. We didn’t even have lockers. I guess having a locker meant every kid would keep grenades in there or something.

That’s fine
, I thought, tugging my backpack up higher.
I’ll just charge my back problems to the State of California.

I walked across the little blacktop courtyard in the middle of the math wing and headed towards the parking lot. A gate near the gym emptied out into the massive parking lot. I joined the flood of humanity eking through a break in the chain link fence. I didn’t see anyone I knew—just a few school faces. People I’d been familiar with for years, but never actually spoken to. I’m sure they felt the same way about me.

My mom’s car, an electric green Honda hatchback I affectionately referred to as the Goblin mobile, wasn’t parked far away. I walked up to the passenger side and rapped my fist on the window. I couldn’t see her face from my angle, but she waved a hand at me. She knew the drill.

I set my backpack on the roof and leaned against the door. My hands slid into the pockets of my jeans. The cold was wonderful, but the wind still froze my hands into icicles. I wondered what it must be like to live in a place that snowed—I loved the cold, but if a California winter made me chill, I imagine I’m too big of a wuss to live anywhere else.

“Hey, Luce!”

I snapped my head around. Morgan appeared from the human exhaust valve that was the gym gate—I still had trouble swallowing the clump of hatred that popped up whenever I first saw her. I think I’m cute—not to blow my own horn. I have exotic-looking eyes, a good face, and an average body. But I’m arguably pretty, and certainly not what anyone would call hot.

Morgan was gorgeous. Long blonde hair, of course, fell in perfect waves around her chiseled face. Wide green eyes didn’t beat mine for more interesting, but definitely seemed to bring in the boys better. High cheek-bones, pouty lips.

Body like a twenty-three-year-old Hollywood actress playing a sixteen-year-old high school student, and the clothes to accentuate it. Tall.

I wanted to put my fist through her face sometimes. It didn’t help that as she appeared from the gate, she had a guy on each side of her laughing at something that probably wasn’t funny.
Uck.
They both had that puppy-dog look on their face.

They peeled off of her as she approached my mom’s car—no one wanted to be seen near the Goblin mobile. Morgan smiled and tossed her messenger-bag on top of the car’s roof. Even her backpack was cooler than mine.

“How’s it going?”
Voice like honey.
Why did I hang out with her? Was I masochist or something?

“Oh, you know, post-mathematic stress disorder,” I said.

“I hear they have a clinic for that,” Morgan said, and leaned against the car next to me.

“Disneyland?”

“Isn’t Knott’s cooler now?”

I shrugged, “Haven’t taken a poll in a while. Isn’t Knott’s just filled with freshmen boys trying to make out with junior high girls?”

“Point,” Morgan said, playing with her bottom lip, staring out into the rapidly filling parking lot. “I don’t think I can do Disneyland for a while.”

My heart sank. Getting high on twelve pounds of sugar and riding Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride was my favorite therapeutic outing. What could possibly keep her home? I thought of her deaf cousin Lance who visited sometimes, but usually he loved Disneyland just as much as we did.

“Why not?”

“Grounded.”

“Why? Since when?”

Morgan shrugged. “My mom found out about my detention yesterday. She grounded me via text message.”

“That’s just impersonal.”

Morgan had a detention for being late for the fourth time to Chemistry—she’d played off the detention to her mom by saying that she was staying after school to tutor a friend. Apparently the great parental phone chain had let Morgan down—it was a rookie mistake. She should have asked me to stay after school, too, thus corroborating her story. Morgan wasn’t stupid, despite what her appearance might suggest—but when it came to trouble, she was far too naïve. I think she thought, even subconsciously, that her looks would get her out of trouble. Granted, they usually did, but not where her parents were concerned.

When it came to mischief, she was the Watson to my Holmes.

“Describe this grounding to me. No going out
tonight
or no going out this
week
?”

“The second one.”

“What?” I nearly shouted. Morgan’s eyes went wide. “Sorry. I just mean, for one detention?”

Morgan sighed. “Mom is trying to crack down. She gave me the ole ‘if your father were here’ routine.”

Ouch.
I didn’t like to think about Morgan’s dad—I couldn’t even imagine what it was like to have my dad run out to get groceries. In Alabama. Forever.

“That’s low,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever, I just want to get home,” Morgan said, grabbing her bag and reaching for the door. “Just don’t say anything to anyone.”

I nodded and grabbed my bag. I slid into the passenger side as Morgan got into the back. We closed the doors at the same time.

Mom sat behind the wheel, grooving along to a Beatles song. “Help,” I think. I didn’t share my mom’s love of the oldies—I liked them, but I think it was a nostalgia thing from my childhood. Mom and Dad used to blast oldies songs while they ate dinner, or cleaned, or...well, anything that didn’t require sound, really.

Mom had her
Mom hair
up into a tiny ponytail. She had the same nearly-black, straight as an arrow hair that I did, but she tended to keep it in a short bob. Her ponytail did little to hold up her hair—most of it still fell into her face. She was cute, and had only a little weight on me. Our major difference in appearance was relegated to height, mostly—I was a good four inches taller than her. From my super-tall dad, I imagine.

“Hey, Mom,” I said. “How’s it going?”

Mom turned the Beatles down, reluctantly, and shrugged. She put the car in reverse and glanced over her shoulder as she backed up.

“Oh, you know. I didn’t get off my shift until about an hour ago.”

“Wow,” Morgan said. “You look great for pulling a twelve hour shift without sleep.”

My mom smiled, “From you, that means almost nothing, dear. Thanks, though.”

Morgan blushed. She knew how pretty she was, but had somehow managed to avoid a good chunk of the arrogance usually implied by that. I imagine it’s because her transformation was recent—in junior high she’d been tall and skinny and unmistakably mannish. The un-clever nickname MorMAN had been stapled to her at that age. No one called her that anymore that I knew. Most of the bullies were too busy hitting on her now.

“What about you gals?” Mom asked.

“Okay,” Morgan began. “We vegged during volleyball. Coach Lark had cramps or something.”

Volleyball may have been part of her appeal, I thought. Boys loved a hot girl in tiny shorts. I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair. I would have slipped my ear buds on and drifted away to MP3 land, but my mom hated them and was just as likely to slap them out of my ears than ask me to take them off.

“Are you team captain yet, Morgan?” Mom asked.

“I’m only a sophomore, Mrs. D.,” Morgan laughed.

“Right, right,” Mom said. “I always forget that you’re the same age as my Lucy. You look so grown up.”

I longed for ear buds. Or a sharp hammer-blow to the temple.

“What about you, Luce?” Mom asked. “Your day?”

“Okay,” I said. “Do you mind if Wanda comes over later?”

Mom shrugged. Wanda was so vanilla-plain and unobjectionable that my requests to hang out with her were rarely denied, if even questioned. It was a fact I had yet to take advantage of, but something I’d long ago filed away for future use. I offered information anyway—it built good credit for the times I didn’t.

“Wanda needs to fix a bunch of fliers,” I said.

Mom nodded. Morgan leaned forward from the backseat.

“Mind if I come over, Mrs. D.?”

I shot Morgan a surprised look. Her eyes widened and snapped back to normal, and I took the hint. I sat back in my seat and pretended everything was cool.

“Sure thing, honey,” Mom said. “I guess we’re having a little party tonight.”

“Thanks, Mrs. D.,” Morgan said.

I didn’t turn around to look at her. I had no idea what she was up to, or why, but I decided to ride it out anyway. After a moment, Morgan spoke up again.

“I still need to swing by my place first, if that’s okay?”

Mom made a mmm-hmm noise, cranked up the Beatles, and pulled into the long line of traffic trying to escape Atlanta High. The Beatles told us that yesterday all our troubles seemed so far away. I didn’t bother asking another question.

We swung by Morgan’s mom’s mildly-crappy apartment—ever since her dad had left, she and her mom had been living pretty tight. Morgan was back to the car in minutes with a wide smile and an overnight bag—she must have begged or pleaded or thrown herself at her mother’s mercy something fierce.

Our house sat in an okay neighborhood—next to Morgan’s place, it felt positively palatial. Morgan had never made me feel guilty. In fact, when I brought my feelings up, she laughed them off. If jealousy ran through her brain very often, she didn’t show it. Which made me feel twice the rat for being so envious of her.

Mom pulled into the driveway, and Morgan and I jumped out of the car. She grabbed my hand and yanked so hard that I nearly forgot my backpack. Morgan ran me at the house like she was charging a castle—I only just got my keys out before she whipped me towards the door.

When we got inside, Morgan raced up the hallway stairs two at a time. Her energy was contagious, I couldn’t help myself. I darted up the stairs after her.

“Slow down or you’re gonna break your…”

My dad’s shout didn’t make it out of his office intact.

Morgan was already lying sideways across my bed when I got there. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. I crossed my arms and let a suspicious look radiate off of me for a while. She gave me a smug smile, but I wasn’t breaking first. I busied myself by letting my eyes drift around my room.

A year ago, the room would have made me shudder. Candy-pink wallpaper hugging every wall. The huge cartoonish flowers on the print leaning drunkenly at me from every direction. Horrifying. It reminded me of Alice in Wonderland, and not in the good way. My mom and dad had decided to infect my room when I’d gone away to Outdoor Ed, and I’d returned to find my lovely room defiled. It had taken me three years to get them to recant.