Zombified (10 page)

“Yeah,” he said. “So they were wondering if you might want to come over to dinner some night.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “Thanksgiving dinner may have been mentioned.”

“Oh,” I said. “I don't know if that'd work. I mean, my dad and I always . . . You know.”

“Didn't you say that you and your dad always have a sad Thanksgiving by yourselves?”

“Yeah,” I said. Those sad dinners were the closest thing we had to a tradition.

“Well, they thought you
both
might like to come over,” he said.

And suddenly I was caught in a relationship-algebra death-spiral. What did it mean that I was being invited to a family dinner, one usually reserved for close family? This was Phil, so I was tempted to take all of this at face value, i.e., he mentioned me favorably and his aunt and uncle were moved to invite me over. But this explanation lacked so much of the delicious and crazy-making drama that my hormone-addled brain desperately craved. What exactly had Phil said? Had he really mentioned me only in response to their questions, or had he brought me up to them? Had he asked them if I could come over? It all boiled down to, what did this new development mean for how Phil felt about me?

I realized that Phil had just been staring at me as I went through my mental calculations. Jesus, what must he be thinking now?

“I'll have to ask my dad,” I said. “But thank them for inviting me.”

“Sure,” he said. “Even if Thanksgiving doesn't work out, they'd love to have you over some night.”

They'd
love to, Phil? Not
you
? God, I needed to stop it.

Just then, Cody and Warren came into the waiting room. A huge bandage covered Cody's right ear and a sizable piece of his head beside. But he was grinning, so that was good.

“How you doing?” Phil asked. We both stood as they walked over.

“Seven stitches,” Cody said by way of an answer. “And this guy paid for it!”

Warren shrugged. “I did it. Seemed like I should cover it.”

“Any way I can get you to spring for some erythromycin?” Cody asked. He was still all grins.

“Did they give you pain meds?” I asked.

“A blue pill about the size of my fist,” he said happily. “I can barely feel my feet.”

“Right,” Phil said. “We should get home before he does anything dumb. Dumber than usual.”

“First,” said Warren, “I want to apologize. I conducted some bad reconnaissance. I could have got us hurt, or worse. It won't happen again.”

We all just stared at him. Humility wasn't an emotion we'd ever seen him display before. Suddenly, Cody swept in and grabbed Warren in a bear hug.

“Love you, man,” I heard him whisper.

Warren awkwardly patted Cody's back. “Um, thanks.”

“Well,” I said. “I'm about to start crying. Or barfing. One or the other. Let's go home.”

We left the acrid smells and too-bright lighting of the urgent care waiting room and stepped out into a night that wasn't nearly as dark as I'd have liked. The eastern horizon was tinged with red. The sun was going to be up soon.

“Oh, man,” I said. “I need to get home before my dad wakes up.” I didn't think he'd be likely to check on me if he woke up early, but it just seemed safer to actually be in my bed and avoid the possibility.

“We can take you home first,” Warren said. “And I meant what I said to you guys in there. I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” Phil said. “Thanks.”

I opened the rear door to his car. “What he said.”

Phil and I slumped into the backseat at the same time and bumped shoulders. I just stayed there, too tired to move.

“I will ask my dad about Thanksgiving,” I said. “And no matter what he says, I think it was sweet of your aunt and uncle to invite us.” My tongue really hurt just then, and I wasn't sure how much Phil was able to understand what was coming out of my mouth.

“I'll tell them you said so,” he said. He rested his hand on my leg for a second and I felt an electric thrill rush from the point of contact up to my secret girly places. He moved his hand and I stifled a little moan of displeasure.

“Yeah, tell them.” I meant to say more, but I was out, asleep with my head resting on Phil's shoulder. I didn't wake up until we got to my house, and then just long enough to endure a hug from Cody and then to have Phil help me into my room through the window.

I told him good-bye and didn't bother to take off any of my clothes before I threw myself into my bed and a long, dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER NINE

I
was caught by complete surprise when my dad said that joining Phil's family for Thanksgiving sounded like a neat idea. He actually used that word. “Neat.”

So, on the last Thursday in November, I found myself wondering how exactly to dress for dinner with one's potential love interest. Was that what Phil was? Was he just my zombie-slaying buddy? Why were there so many questions when I thought about him? I craved just a single declarative statement where he was concerned.

Really, this was the exact reason I thought school holidays should be outlawed. Give me too much time off from worrying about my GPA, and I filled my head with all this stupid shit.

Not being sure how to dress, I went with my standard uniform: plaid flannel over a black T-shirt, black jeans, and my Dr. Martens. Everything was clean at least. I threw a hoodie on in lieu of a jacket.

Dad frowned when I emerged from my cave. I needed to tell him that it gave him unattractive lines around his mouth when he did that, but I didn't think he'd appreciate it.

“That's what you're wearing?” This from a man who'd chosen a knit sweater vest.

“I like to set the bar of expectation low right from the start,” I said.

“Mission accomplished, smart-ass,” he said.

A soft but steady rain fell as we drove to dinner. I acted as navigator and read Dad the instructions that Phil had written down. They were very precise directions. Turns out, Phil's place wasn't that far from ours. Maybe a mile away. His neighborhood sported the same depressing little houses and their flimsy chain-link fences. Phil's house was a sun-bleached pink color. Maybe it had been salmon or peach once upon a time, but it had faded long ago.

We parked on the curb and rushed through the rain, Dad opening the gate for me.

As I ran up the front steps, the door swung open and a thin, tall woman stepped out, her face lit up.

“You must be Courtney!” she shrieked at me.

I stopped short because it felt like an accusation. She shrieked again and I realized it was a laugh delivered at full volume.

“Oh, I didn't mean to scare you, sweetie,” she said. “Come on in before you melt!”

She got me inside and stripped my hoodie sweatshirt off me. Then she nearly cracked my ribs with a bear hug.

“It's so nice to meet one of Philip's friends,” she said right into my ear. She broke the hug and I drew a breath. She held me at arms' length, one hand on each of my shoulders. Very obviously, she looked me up and down. “I can see why he likes you.”

By this time, my dad had come up the steps.

“Oh, I can see where Courtney gets her good looks,” Phil's aunt said and Dad went an entertaining shade of crimson. He held out a bottle of wine in response. Maybe not the smoothest move, but it did preempt the sort of hug that nearly snapped me in two.

“Jesus, Diane,” said a man's voice, “let them come inside.”

“Of course,” said Phil's aunt, Diane. “Come in, both of you. Dinner's nearly done.”

At the mention of food, I noticed how great the place smelled. I wasn't too used to the aroma of cooking in my house and my mouth immediately started watering.

Diane ushered us out of the little entryway and into the living room. Phil stood awkwardly in the middle of the immaculate room. His carbon copy stood next to him. It took me a second to realize that the man standing next to him was a couple of inches taller and maybe twenty pounds heavier, but the resemblance was uncanny.

Phil half-raised his hand. “Hey.”

His uncle stepped forward, grinning, and extended his hand. “We're glad you were able to come, Courtney. I'm Gene.” My hand completely disappeared in his as he shook it. It wasn't one of those bone-crushers like he had something to prove, but he let you know he was there. “And this is . . . ?”

I'd been so caught up in the weird and strong genetics at play between him and Phil that I'd forgotten my manners. “Oh, right. This is my dad, Fred.”

The two of them shook hands and started to exchange whatever passes for conversation between adults, all against a background of Phil's aunt apologizing for the state of their house. A house that was actually well-suited for receiving the queen of England. As they did their grown-up business, I sidled up to Phil.

“I'm guessing sales of some sort,” I said.

“My uncle?” Phil asked. “Sort of, he's a lobbyist for the teachers' union.”

“Wow,” I said. “That is
so boring
.”

“He's really nice.”

“I can tell. I know I'll like him despite myself.”

“How long until dinner?” Phil asked in the general direction of his aunt and uncle.

“Just a few minutes,” Diane said. “Are you going to take little Courtney to your room?”

Little Courtney?

“Yes, ma'am,” Phil said. Diane's smile seemed to falter a little at his use of the word, but she recovered quickly.

“C'mon,” Phil said and he turned and led me away.

The hallway was lined with photos. It started with Gene and Diane as kids themselves, then them together when they were younger. Their wedding, Diane pregnant, them with first one kid, then another. Then them alone, both of them looking tense and far away. I guessed what happened. Finally, Phil joined the photos. I got to see him go from a little kid to the hoodlum I knew all in the space of a few steps.

I wondered if I'd ever take up some real estate on those walls someday, then stifled the thought. It was too early for that kind of thinking.

Phil walked into a room at the end of the hall and I followed him. Not one thing in the whole room looked out of place, and the bed was made. That right there separated Phil's room from mine, but there was more. I had never seen a space so well organized. It was, frankly, a little creepy. His bed was up on a loft, underneath it sat a drawing table and chair, and a cabinet stuffed with drawing supplies. I said “stuffed,” but really, everything was obviously in its intended place. Pencils, brushes, pens, paints, and inks. Rulers and erasers and a thousand little things I couldn't even have named. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and I just knew that there was some elaborate system of organization at play that I'd never figure out. I wanted to start reading the titles, but that could wait.

“You have a closet organizer, don't you?” I asked.

“Yes?” he said.

“Of course you do.”

As vaguely sterile as I found the room, the art lining the other two walls—and I mean every bit of available wall space—gave me a glimpse of Phil's interior life. It was his own art, of course. Some of it was obvious kid stuff, but still more accomplished than 99 percent of the stuff I'd seen in any art class. Some of it was more recent and so well done, it seemed like it should be in a poster shop. Friends, I'd guess, and family, and people he'd sketched on the street after seeing just once. And zombies. Zombies everywhere, but never really the focus, and never dominant. They were always being slayed by the people in the pictures.

One in particular caught my eye, and I stepped forward to look at it.

A girl dressed in jeans, Chucks, and a hoodie stood with a bloody ax resting on her shoulder. One foot rested on a small pile of zombie corpses. Around the edges of the drawing, Phil had suggested an army of the undead without actually drawing them in. The girl sneered as she looked out at the viewer and said, “Who's next.”

“That's me,” I said.

“It is.” Phil rubbed the thumb of each hand against his forefingers. When he realized he was doing it, he stopped and put his hands in his pockets. “Do you like it?”

“No, dim bulb,” I said. “I
love
it. Why didn't you tell me you'd done another of me?”

He shrugged. “I wanted you to see it here.”

“It's gorgeous,” I said. It drew my eyes in and refused to let them go. It was so weird the way the figure had my face, but it also wasn't my face.
Idealized
. That was the word.

“Are you still working on your comic?” I asked. Since the beginning of the school year, Phil had been drawing a comic about a zombie-slaying girl. He hadn't shown me any of it, but I guessed that the girl in the drawing—me, basically—was the main character.

“Every day,” he said.

“Show it to me after dinner?”

“Not yet,” Phil said. When I turned to glare at him, he shrugged. A simple raising and lowering of the shoulders that might have meant anything. “It's not ready yet. Soon.”

Before I was able to bawl him out, his aunt poked her head into the room. “Phil, will you go help your uncle in the kitchen?” He moved off in that direction and I was left alone with a scary Stepford aunt. She walked toward me and I had to stop myself from stepping backward. She put her hands on my shoulders and then she got a really serious look on her face.

“We are so glad you and your father could join us, Courtney,” she said and I thought she might start crying. I was not prepared for this eventuality. “Phil never brings his friends over, so any glimpse into his world is something we really treasure.”

Before I could think of something to say, she swept me up in another rib-cracking hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered in my ear.

“You're welcome,” I finally said when she released me. It seemed best to keep it simple since saying something like, “Well, I've really been hoping your nephew might finally put the moves on me and coming to dinner tonight seemed like a good way to seal that deal,” was probably inappropriate. “Thank you for asking Phil to invite me.”

She did one of those confused-puppy-head-tilt things. “Is that what Philip told you?”

“Yes?” I said. The question crept into the word and I was powerless to stop it.

“That's odd,” she said. “It was his idea to invite you. Of course, we leaped at the chance.”

This tidbit of information made me extremely happy.

“Oh,” I said. “Maybe I misunderstood.” Not that it was a big deal.

“No, of course,” she said. “You want to go wash up? We're almost ready.”

She headed off to the kitchen and I went into a bathroom clean enough to receive the pope's fanny. I felt like I was defiling a holy site by using it for its intended purpose. When I was done, I joined everyone else in the dining room. Diane and Phil carried load after load of amazing food out of the kitchen. I'm guessing that Gene was playing field marshal in there. Dad and I stood by feeling inadequate since we'd been made to understand that as guests we weren't allowed to help out—without being told so, of course.

When all of the preliminary dishes had been staged, Gene emerged, still wearing an apron, and carrying a Tiny Tim–sized turkey. Or was that a goose? Phil and I sat next to one another, Dad across from us, and Diane and Gene at the head and foot of the table.

“Do you folks say grace?” Gene said, and my dad and I exchanged horrified looks. This caused Gene to burst out laughing.

“Oh, Gene,” Diane said, but she was laughing, too. Even Phil smiled.

“Thank God,” said Gene. “Neither do we. Let's dig in.”

What followed was a scene of such carnage that I'm sure turkeys will sing of its horror for generations to come. I didn't think I'd ever eaten such delicious food and had trouble getting myself to stop. Those beautiful German linguists must have a word for that type of indulgent overeating. I'd have to Google it when I got home. If my guts didn't explode before I was able.

We talked about all sorts of stuff after the first rush of gluttony. Dad and Gene had a lot to say to one another about the state of the education system. My mom came up and was quickly put down again with only the barest raised eyebrow from Diane. Gene was very interested in my plan to go to Columbia to study epidemiology.

“The timing might be right for that,” he said. “The latest news is that the Army is scheduled to finish clearing out the city by June.”

“Well,” said Dad, “we still have to work out a few kinks in the plan.” He gave me meaningful eyes and I just smiled.

Phil told Dad that he'd like to study art when he was done with high school.

“He'd be an amazing painter,” Diane chimed in.

“I hope to get accepted to a school with a comic book program.”

“You need to take a look at the art on his walls,” I said quickly when I saw his aunt frowning. Dad promised he'd do that before we left.

Diane let it drop, but I knew it took some effort.

“Ma'am,” Phil said. When she looked up at him, he tapped his wrist. He didn't wear a watch.

“Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed. “Phil and I never miss an episode of
Survival,
and tonight's a special episode.”
Survival
was a terrible reality show that re-created stories of people escaping from zombie attacks. It also featured interviews with the survivors. I hated the show. I never understood its appeal, but then maybe most people hadn't had as many run-ins with shufflers as me. She gave Gene a pleading look.

“Go on,” he said. “I'll clean up while you watch. Never could stand that show.”

“I'll help you,” I said. Everyone turned to look at me in shock. My dad's jaw might have fallen open.

“Oh, Courtney, you don't have to . . .” Gene said.

“No, sir,” I said. “I don't have to, but I'd like to.”

“You should take her up on it,” Dad said. “She might never make that offer again.”

While the others sat on the couch and watched an hour of shitty reality television, I mostly got in Gene's way as he tried to tidy up. After all the food was put away, we started washing dishes and I was finally able to lend a hand—even I know my way around a dish towel. Gene washed and I dried and stacked.