Undead (9780545473460) by Kirsty McKay Page A

the crazy juice.
    It feels so good. But I stop just before the bubbly mania segues into the crying type, because it might.
    â€œThere’s nobody here.” I stand up and skip past him. “Must have been a problem with the door. We should make sure it stays shut.”
    We barricade the door with a couple of skis wedged against the curb, and return to our original quest — the back door of the Cheery Chomper.
    â€œReassuring to know that all this time we’ve been gone, Malice and Petey haven’t sent out the search party,” Smitty says.
    I pull up my hood, mmm
yes
, and we plow through the snow to the rear of the building. There’s a single-paned window, with blinds down, and a plain door with a normal lock. No digipad here. Smitty bends down to the lock.
    â€œGimme your plastic,” he says.
    â€œPardon me?”
    He looks up, snaps his fingers. “The AmEx will do, but you should know that generally it’s not so widely accepted here in the UK.”
    I redden. How does he know I have a credit card?
    â€œOK, it’s freezing and we don’t have time to get all grumpy — remember when we had our boot fittings back on the first day?” He makes a squirly mouth. “I went through your stuff. Sorry. I didn’t take anything.”
    Blood rushes to my head with rage. “You did
what
?”
    â€œNothing personal.” Smitty shrugs. “We’re all cooped up in that stupid ski lodge, no cash, what’s a boy to do?” He thinks he’s being so cute. “I was going to borrow a tenner for beer, but unluckily for me you didn’t have any dosh. Hey, it’s all irrelevant now.”
    â€œLike hell it is.” I glare at him.
    â€œI didn’t even know you then,” he sighs. “Anyway, hand over the card.”
    I will do no such thing. Fury and violation whip up around me like the whirling snow and stick me to the spot. Smitty stands up and stares at me, his face passive, the blue-gray eyes almost sorrowful.
    â€œI’m a doof.” He lays a hand on my arm. My first impulse is to throw it off, but I search his face and, incredibly, he’s genuine. “I should never have gone through your pockets.” There’s no trace of sarcasm, and I’m looking really hard. Then he allows a small smile to creep onto his lips. “I just thought you were a Yank, so you were bound to be loaded.”
    Ugh! My first impulse was right. I pull my arm away from his reach. “I’m not a ‘Yank’!” I shout, as if this is the issue. I stomp toward the door, unzip my jacket, and reach inside for my red Chinese silk purse. My dad brought it back from one of his work trips overseas. It houses a credit card, Band-Aids, lip balm, a tampon, and a small roll of emergency quarters. Not that a quarter would do me any good in this cold, damp, stupid country. As my face burns and anger continues to bubble inside my chest, I slot the card between the door and the wall, and wiggle it.
    â€œYou need to —”
    â€œBack off!” I roar. He thinks I’m some dumb American? He thinks he can bat those long lashes and I’ll simper and forgive him? I wedge the corner of the card into the place where the latch is snug in its slot, and rattle the doorknob.
    â€œHow come you speak like one, then?” Smitty asks.
    I ignore him and concentrate on my task.
    â€œA Yank,” he says helpfully. “You sound like one, or almost. Not that I have anything against Yanks, you understand.”
    â€œReally?” I look up. “That’s great to know, thank you so much.” I get back to the lock. “If you must know, I’m British. I was born here and I grew up here. We moved to America when I was nine because of my mum’s stupid job. We moved back here last month. And
blimey
, it’s just been so
bloody
brilliant
to be back.”
    Smitty kicks the snow. “Things have changed since you were