chocolate and flowers and sweater-over-his-shoulders, hand-holding guy.
I wipe the guysâ blood on the side of my jeans and stoop to rinse off in a puddle of standing water in the church parking lot.
âWhat happened?â Dane says.
I shrug. âNothing much. Just common late-night thuggery. This neighborhood seems like it gets worse every day.â
âThen itâs good youâre here to keep Normal grave rubbers safe, right?â
I figure heâs joking, but when I look up, I know heâs not. He has his thoughtful face on: lids half-shut, cheeks sucked in, lips tight. Stamp always called it Daneâs grim face.
The thought of Stamp makes me smile.
We walk back to the apartment, then past it. Dane pauses at the entrance, standing in the silhouette of a dozen broken Christmas lights wrapped around The Socialite sign, still waiting for someone to take them down before itâs time to put them back up again.
âI need to think,â I tell him when he follows reluctantly.
âOkay, yeah, good idea. Listen, Maddy, about the map. Iâm sorry. I justââ
âYou know what I was thinking of?â I interrupt, ignoring him. âWhen those guys jumped me back there? I was remembering the first time Bones and Dahlia did the same thing back in Barracuda Bay.â
âAnd?â he says when I donât immediately deliver the punch line.
âAnd it got me thinking,â I huff, waiting for him to catch up. âI donât think Valâs a Sentinel, Dane. I think ⦠I think sheâs a Zerker.â
12
Valâs His Gal
âThis is awkward.â Stamp smiles as we sit in the same booth at his favorite café. Itâs midway between work and home, but thatâs not why he likes it. They serve carbonated espresso shots, and heâs as addicted as a zombie can be to something other than brains.
The place is one of those funky, poser, retro coffee shops with floor-to-ceiling windows and stark, uncomfortable black chairs and matching tables, black-and-white framed art of random couples kissing in France, and baristas who havenât bathed in days and are damn proud of it.
They all know Stamp by name and have his order practically waiting for him when he walks through the door, while they look at me and my Mountain Dew Voltage as if Iâve just ordered fried chicken at a vegetarian buffet.
Itâs not just that Iâm undead. Itâs that Iâm unhip. Stamp, in his endless effort to pass among the Normals, has managed to expertly navigate a world Iâm still trying to understand. Even months after being reanimated, Iâm still experimenting with the right layering of my makeup, trying not to look too pale or too gray or too orange or too fleshy. Iâm still working on finding long-sleeved shirts that donât look dorky and leggings that donât make me look 12 years old.
But Stamp? Heâs mastered this world. Not just the living world but the teenage world. I keep forgetting I was never hip when I was alive, and Dane could never be anything other than a bad boyâgood for making your dad mad, bad for dinner parties and cafés and poser clubs.
But Stamp was already heading toward permanent cool before he died. Now heâs just made it his lifeâs mission to belong. And here, in a place like this, with funky so-retro-its-hot-again remixes of old â80s songs on the overhead speakers and hipster baristas with stringy beards and carbonated espresso, itâs like his home turf and Iâm the sore thumb.
Itâs after work and heâs dressed for another long night out, in snug black leather pants and a shiny gray shirt that manages to make his skin only vaguely pale. His favorite black-and-white hoodie is tossed across one corner of the table, his shiny cell phone resting atop it.
He looks good, but I know thatâs mostly because he wants nothing to do with me.
âAwkward how?â I say,
I wipe the guysâ blood on the side of my jeans and stoop to rinse off in a puddle of standing water in the church parking lot.
âWhat happened?â Dane says.
I shrug. âNothing much. Just common late-night thuggery. This neighborhood seems like it gets worse every day.â
âThen itâs good youâre here to keep Normal grave rubbers safe, right?â
I figure heâs joking, but when I look up, I know heâs not. He has his thoughtful face on: lids half-shut, cheeks sucked in, lips tight. Stamp always called it Daneâs grim face.
The thought of Stamp makes me smile.
We walk back to the apartment, then past it. Dane pauses at the entrance, standing in the silhouette of a dozen broken Christmas lights wrapped around The Socialite sign, still waiting for someone to take them down before itâs time to put them back up again.
âI need to think,â I tell him when he follows reluctantly.
âOkay, yeah, good idea. Listen, Maddy, about the map. Iâm sorry. I justââ
âYou know what I was thinking of?â I interrupt, ignoring him. âWhen those guys jumped me back there? I was remembering the first time Bones and Dahlia did the same thing back in Barracuda Bay.â
âAnd?â he says when I donât immediately deliver the punch line.
âAnd it got me thinking,â I huff, waiting for him to catch up. âI donât think Valâs a Sentinel, Dane. I think ⦠I think sheâs a Zerker.â
12
Valâs His Gal
âThis is awkward.â Stamp smiles as we sit in the same booth at his favorite café. Itâs midway between work and home, but thatâs not why he likes it. They serve carbonated espresso shots, and heâs as addicted as a zombie can be to something other than brains.
The place is one of those funky, poser, retro coffee shops with floor-to-ceiling windows and stark, uncomfortable black chairs and matching tables, black-and-white framed art of random couples kissing in France, and baristas who havenât bathed in days and are damn proud of it.
They all know Stamp by name and have his order practically waiting for him when he walks through the door, while they look at me and my Mountain Dew Voltage as if Iâve just ordered fried chicken at a vegetarian buffet.
Itâs not just that Iâm undead. Itâs that Iâm unhip. Stamp, in his endless effort to pass among the Normals, has managed to expertly navigate a world Iâm still trying to understand. Even months after being reanimated, Iâm still experimenting with the right layering of my makeup, trying not to look too pale or too gray or too orange or too fleshy. Iâm still working on finding long-sleeved shirts that donât look dorky and leggings that donât make me look 12 years old.
But Stamp? Heâs mastered this world. Not just the living world but the teenage world. I keep forgetting I was never hip when I was alive, and Dane could never be anything other than a bad boyâgood for making your dad mad, bad for dinner parties and cafés and poser clubs.
But Stamp was already heading toward permanent cool before he died. Now heâs just made it his lifeâs mission to belong. And here, in a place like this, with funky so-retro-its-hot-again remixes of old â80s songs on the overhead speakers and hipster baristas with stringy beards and carbonated espresso, itâs like his home turf and Iâm the sore thumb.
Itâs after work and heâs dressed for another long night out, in snug black leather pants and a shiny gray shirt that manages to make his skin only vaguely pale. His favorite black-and-white hoodie is tossed across one corner of the table, his shiny cell phone resting atop it.
He looks good, but I know thatâs mostly because he wants nothing to do with me.
âAwkward how?â I say,
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