Chapter 2

I’m late to next period, naturally.

And Alex Foster already has girls sitting on either side of him, naturally.

But then, Alex Foster always has girls sitting on either side of him.

(Naturally.)

That’s because he’s Fine with a capital H-O-T.

(But not in the way that you might think.)

I’ve been crushing hard on Alex Foster for months now, ever since he first walked into Chorus and melted my non-beating heart on the first day of junior year.

I know it’s the oldest story in the book, the local crushing on the new guy, but I just couldn’t help it.

And he’s not, like, “hot guy” hot, you know?

Which is funny because, obviously, I’m not the only girl crushing on him.

But he has this… thing… about him.

Well, he has many things going for him.

Like, for instance, that first day he walked into class he was dressed up.

I mean, going for an interview dressed up; pleated khaki pants, braided leather belt, penny loafers, brown socks, light blue cotton button-down shirt – everything but the jacket and tie.

Of course, the guys all snorted and ribbed him about it (to this day most of them call him “Ascot Alex,” though I doubt half the guys at Barracuda Bay High know what an ascot is, only that it sounds snooty), but we girls just thought it was the cutest thing.

Turns out he’d only gone to prep schools, ever, up north, and this was his first public school; he’d just gotten into town a day or two earlier, and didn’t really have enough time to check-out the local customs here in Barracuda Bay, so he’d just gone with his default wardrobe and, boom, instant crushes from girls all over the school.

Now, normally, I’m a straight-hair girl; short and straight, specifically; black if you can swing it, dark brown in a pinch.

So is it weird that Alex has these gorgeous light brown curls and I just can’t stop staring at them?

Also, I like the jocks; always have.

Strong, not exactly stocky but thick; muscle-y, you know?

Not Alex; he’s long and gawky, all elbows and knees and apples in his cheeks and a kind of short, pug nose – which I normally don’t like, either.

But on Alex?

It’s aces; just… positively… aces.

And he has these eyes, that are so green they’re not green, you know?

They’re like… candy… green; “Jolly Rancher green,” I call it.

Although no one would know that because Alex is the crush of which I cannot speak.

Why?

That’s right; it’s a very big no-no and absolutely against one of The 8 Absolutely Unthinkable, Unbreakable Zombie Laws.

(# 6 or 7, I think, but don’t quote me on it.)

Today he’s got on wheat colored chords and a maroon rugby shirt with thin gold stripes and a kind of gold lion crest over his left nipple.

His skin is pale and he’s hairless just about everywhere but his gorgeous curls (and did I mention his abnormally bushy eyebrows, which I also normally don’t like but his are to die for) and if it wasn’t for the sun highlighting the thin peach stubble on his chin I’d swear he hadn’t reached puberty yet.

Now, just so you don’t think I’m both a zombie AND a Chorus Geek, let me explain something first: Chorus is a class in name only.

Our temporary teacher, Mr. Hatcher, is about 23 and looks even younger, and his only musical experience was playing in a garage band while going to Teacher College.

He got picked to teach Chorus because our regular teacher, Ms. Highbrow, went and got herself pregnant and is bound and determined to take every single day of maternity leave she has coming – and then some.

(Not that I can blame her one minute. Sometimes I wish zombies could get pregnant, just so I could take nine months off from passing as a mortal and let it all hang out back home.)

Enter Mr. Hatcher.

Now we basically just find a seat and do crossword puzzles for 45 minutes every day.

I slump in and find a seat near the door, because if I can’t hang with Alex there’s really no reason to be in this room in the first place.

What’s worse, now I have what Piper said to worry about.

Because what Piper didn’t see, and what Bianca had her head too far up Piper’s butt to notice, was the way Fiona Rutherford reached out to touch me on the way out of the bathroom just now.

Because, despite her catty little “She’s the Charlie Brown of goth girls” comment in front of her friends, and despite the way she kind of had to gang up on me just so girls like Piper and Bianca wouldn’t gang up on her, Fiona is actually a pretty nice girl.

We’re not exactly talking Mother Theresa nice here, but nice enough to reach out with a reassuring touch when a rabid pack of catty girls is ganging up on you in the girls’ room.

Which, in high school these days, is pretty much bordering on Mother Theresa nice, if you know what I mean.

And so when Piper and Fiona were concentrating on the paper towel machine and how I could have possibly broken it, and while her friends were busy trying to avoid me at all costs, Fiona reached out gently to reassure me and when she was intending to touch me on my sleeve her hand slipped – or maybe my arm moved, it happened so fast I’m a little vague on the details now – and she.

Touched.

My.

Hand.

My bare hand.

My cold, dead, gray hand.

Now, Fiona has never touched me before.

Fiona has never had any reason to touch me before.

So she’s never felt my cold skin, never gotten a chill or a shiver simply from brushing up against me and here she is touching my hand and in a split-second her naturally pale, genetically mousy little face… changes.

Not in a disgusted way, not in a surprised way, not even in a mean way; it’s even worse than any of those.

It’s like her smart, Math-a-lete brain has suddenly switched into Detective Mode and so right away it’s putting together clues.

Clue # 1, my hands won’t work on the new paper towel dispenser.

Clue # 2, my hands feel like ice, ice baby.

And hands aren’t supposed to feel quite that cold.

I mean, even when you’re sick, and having the chills, humans still have a pretty high threshold of heat going on so… this is something bad; not normal, which in high school is bad.

So immediately our little detective Fiona knows, the minute she touches me, that something is wrong; very, very wrong.

She may not know what I am, exactly; she just knows that I.

Am.

Not.

What.

I.

Say.

I.

Am.

That being, of course… human.

And that’s where all the trouble starts.

I know you would think that somebody like Fiona should have brushed up against and touched me before but I’m normally really, really careful about that type of thing.

And, really, with the way I dress there isn’t that much opportunity for Normals to, you know, touch my skin.

From the black clogs to the black and gray striped leggings to the long maroon sleeves to the too-big hoodies, seriously, you’d have to be really determined to touch me to touch me, and so far nobody’s been all t¬hat determined.

(Especially Fiona Rutherford.)

And the fact that it was my fault that Fiona touched me today, well, that just makes it all the more infuriating.

I mean, of all the stupid, stupid blunders.

I should know better; I’m supposed to know better.

No, I mean, technically, as a zombie I am literally charged with knowing better.

Like, not knowing better is against one of The 8 Absolutely Unthinkable, Unbreakable Zombie Laws (i.e. “Thou Shalt Not Have Physical Contact with Humans Unless Absolutely, Positively Necessary”).

But who could predict that, over the weekend the school would install newfangled paper towel dispensers?

And I’m thinking of all the ways Fiona’s touch can come back to haunt me, in unwanted gossip, in unwanted rumors, in unwanted attention, when suddenly there is a knock on the Chorus room door.

And the minute I hear that knock, I know it’s for me, and I know it has something to do with the bathroom, with Fiona… with my skin.

Of course, it could have been a knock signaling any number of things.

Some thug (in Chorus?) getting called to the office because he’d pantsed some freshman in the halls before class.

Albert Frostmeyer getting called up to the office because his mom had forgotten to pack his lunch (again).

Or simply Alex Foster getting called to the office on account of terminal hotness!

Yeah, right; it’s for me.

I know it’s for me.

It has to be for me.

That knock just has my name on it.

And sure enough, when Mr. Hatcher stands up and opens the door for the knock that bears my name, the person holding the note is none other than Fiona and she has this overly-concerned look on her pasty, doughy face as she hands it to the sub and waits for me.

For me.

And the sub lifts his head and, even after being our teacher for two weeks now he looks clear past me to some chick in the alto section and asks, “Lucy? Lucy Frost?”