B. Johnson - Deadgirl

Mom dropped me off in front of Atlanta—not my usual insertion point. Normally I landed in the parking lot near the band room. My first period class was Journalism, in the Art quad. Still, the front wasn’t far, and it gave me valuable positioning. First, recon—the true sabotage wouldn’t begin until lunch, if all went well.

Morgan and I got out of my mom’s car and separated—we didn’t even give each other a parting look. She wasn’t a Drama-geek, but she had more than a few friends who were, and she made a beeline for the steps up to the auditorium. Benny, best friends with Zack, was her first target. Benny was president of the drama club, and even now sat on the steps of the auditorium, holding court in a circle of fellow thespians. Dark featured, black hair framing his face, Benny had a certain attractive quality. Still, his personality drove the point home better than his rail-thin body—Benny had charisma. He’d be a great lawyer, a better salesman, and the world’s worst spy. You couldn’t not notice Benny in the room. He made sure of it, in fact.

But I wasn’t heading that way. My vector angled for the primary target.

Zack.

I took a deep breath, cinched my backpack up, and sallied forth.

Teenagers flooded into the school like shambling zombies into a mall. I drifted through the sea with practiced ease—dodging other people being the native art form of the average high school student. Through the front gate, past the office, toward the library. I knew where Zack would be—anyone who’d met him knew where he’d be.

I thought about the odd, unbreakable predictability high school forces you into. Something about the immutable routine of classes and bells encourages you to hang out with the same people in the same spot every morning before class, every lunch, and after school. Shifting from one bench to another during lunch would cause bedlam—you’d invade other territories, reshuffle boundaries. Contradict the norm. Mass hysteria, in other words.

I had my school ID out before I even went inside the library—I flashed it to the assistant, who waved me through the turnstile. I took a moment to lament the picture on my sophomore ID—I looked like a cross between a slut and a maniac. Too-low shirt, rat’s-nest hair, abominable make-up, worse lighting. The fact that it had only been two months ago made it all the more depressing. And I had no explanation for the picture, either. It was just a really bad day to take a picture.

Most of the time, the library featured only one or two students wandering quietly through the stacks.

Now, before school, the library bulged with bodies. Students who didn’t do their homework, didn’t do the reading, or never even picked up their needed book in the first place spent their last few desperate minutes before the bell rang buzzing through the library. A press of students milled or sat around, searching or praying or working or all three.

I fit in just fine . I rushed to the periodical section and tugged a few magazines from the rack. It didn’t take long for the fishy to bite, and that fact alone nearly completed the first leg of the mission. When his hand touched my shoulder I almost jumped out of my sneakers.

“Sorry,” Zack said as I turned toward him, “didn’t mean to spook you.”

Zack looked down at me with azure eyes. His face was handsome, almost boyish, but his bright blue eyes drew my attention every time. They didn’t seem to fit his look—they were too intense for his friendly face, too bright for his tan skin. They begged to be stared at, to be swum in. I obliged without hesitation.

His hair, messy-spiked in the current fashion and deep brown, made him look even taller than he was, I realized. He stood above me by a solid six inches, which was inherently ridiculous—I wasn’t even remotely short.

He wore a solid white short-sleeved button down shirt and jeans. Nothing fancy, but the white shirt made his skin look even darker. His tan couldn’t have been sun-based, I realized—he spent more time indoors than I did. I wondered what ethnicity he was. Then I wondered how long I’d been gawking at him while he asked me the same question over and over.

“Are you okay, Luce?” He asked me, again.

“Fine, fine, sorry,” I said. “You just scared the heck out of me.”

“Heck?” Zack asked, half-smiling.

I frowned, “Being a sailor isn’t cool. I am a lady.”

Zack’s half-smile ripened into a full one. His lop-sided grin made my stomach start doing gymnastics. Stupid girl. Clamp down .

“Not wrong there,” Zack said. “Whatcha looking for?”

He gestured to the stack of magazines in my hand. I flipped through them and shrugged.

“Forgot my Journalism assignment,” I said. I hadn’t, of course. “Needed an article to comment on.”

“Ah,” Zack said, and held up a newspaper, “There’s a good one in here about gangs.”

I made a face. “Seriously? Is that still a thing?”

Zack shrugged. “I guess no one’s told them how unfashionable gangs are.”

He wasn’t joking. He actually looked a little annoyed.

“Oh come on,” I said. “It was a joke. I’m just saying you don’t hear about gangs very much anymore.”

Zack nodded. My insides did a triple somersault. A 9.5, I imagine.

“So, uh, what brings you to the ole libraria?” I said in my best Spanish accent, which is also my worst Spanish accent.

I knew the reason he was in the library, but it didn’t hurt to reaffirm. Or to drive over a couple small-talk speed bumps before hitting the scary-talk freeway going eighty.

“ Biblioteque ,” Zack corrected, still smiling. “Just like to catch up on the paper before class.”

He waggled the newspaper in his hand again.

“You know,” I said, “I don’t know anyone our age that reads the newspaper.”

“Besides me?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, besides you.”

Zack smirked. “Well, I’m special.”

I agreed, but I wasn’t exactly going to admit it then and there. Maybe it was a little old-school, but I preferred to be the chased, not the chaser. Still, it was hard with him looking into my eyes like that not to just blurt out “I love you,” sling my arms around him, and tear his lips off with mine.

I took a deep breath. Whoa, girl .

“Does your mom tell you you’re special?”

“Constantly,” Zack said. “So, worst-segue-ever, by the way, are you going to the movies tonight? With us, I mean.”

My well-arranged cocky/flirty smile disintegrated. I was ready to play cat and mouse, and he was playing, well, dog. Straight to the point . I gathered myself together as fast as I could and gave a non-committal shrug. I’d been ready to play out his intentions, to see if he really wanted me to go or just wanted someone to go. The eager look on his face blew my spy attempts out of the water.

Raw excitement shot through my body like an electrical current. Calm down, Lucy. Play it coolish.

“Well, I want to,” I said. “But Morgan is technically grounded. We’re still scheming a way out of it.”

Zack frowned, “She’s grounded? Wasn’t she at your house last night?”

Warning, warning. Why the hell did I bring up Morgan? When trying to flirt with dream guy, mentioning goddess-like, super-hot, best friend is off-limits. Now he was thinking of her. Hell, I was thinking of her. Brilliant.

“Well, yeah,” I said. “But she was studying . She had to call her mom from my house phone every hour.”

“Every hour?” Zack whistled. “Did she hit a nun with a shovel or something?”

I explained her situation. He nodded along and finally gave that long low whistle again.