Page 9 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

The guy scoffed, adding a flick of purple hair for good measure. ‘Cats should be indoors-only, you shit cat parent,’ he called, before scooting off.

‘He’s not my cat!’ shouted Zoey. ‘He’s a communal neighbourhood cat!’

Ainsley hefted the wine bottle. ‘It’s not too late to turn this into a Molotov cocktail and throw it at the scooter guy.’

Zoey sighed. Unfortunately it was a high-fire-danger day, so there was going to be none of that.

There was another one for her list of pet peeves.

I HATE THE WAY THEY STUMBLE

4

Zoey

Zoey swore: she’d cut her thumb on the tape dispenser she was using to tape up Romero’s Lost posters. Well, his Possibly Lost, Possibly Just Being a Cat and Being Antisocial posters. After going door to door to see if a) any of the other locals involved in the informal neighbourhood cat-sharing program had seen Romero and b) explain the mushroom-smoothie situation, she and Ainsley had hit most of the nearby power poles with the ransom-note-style posters Ainsley had whipped up in the living room as What We Do in the Shadows played in the background. There was still no sign of grumpy Romero, although someone had texted them a recording of some awful caterwauling they’d reportedly heard outside last night.

Ainsley grimaced as she played back the recording. ‘Definitely human. Bedroom noises like that should be an arrestable offence. Not to mention recording them.’

‘If I don’t get a coffee soon, the next thing I do is going to be an arrestable offence,’ muttered Zoey. Yoga types like June might be able to get through their day on leafy greens and guarana, but Zoey needed her caffeine. Running a smoothie shop entailed beating the sun up every day. To work, not to journal or post videos to her socials about how getting up at 5 a.m. was the secret to success.

Mentally affecting her customer-facing face – a more smiley version of her real one – Zoey unlocked the doors to The Smoothie Maven. Meanwhile, Ainsley pinned up the last poster on the pole outside, pausing to chitchat with Nolan from the zine shop next door as he went off on his bike to deliver zine subscriptions.

Zoey switched on the lights, blinking as she always did as they splashed the shop with astonishing brightness. The shop was garishly cheerful: all white façade with pink trim, and a huge planter of gerberas above the door. (Watering these during the dry summers was quite the enterprise.) The entrance, which was stepped back off the street for architectural reasons that made sense to a draughtsperson but not a Roomba, boasted quaint pink-and-white penny-tile decor with Make Smoothie Moves inlaid in gold.

‘I’ll keep you updated on the Romero situation,’ said Ainsley. ‘But until then, I’ve got a memorial window for a gamer to paint. It’s going in at the Lone Fir Cemetery. My fave.’

Ainsley had a soft spot for cemeteries, and was always coming home with gravestone rubbings she insisted on putting on the fridge.

‘I’ll pop by the urns and say hi to Maeve for you. Before I go …’ Ainsley unfolded a flyer and popped it on the counter. ‘Nolan gave me this.’

‘Cat Mayor of Laurelhurst?’ Well, Zoey had heard of stranger things. A cat mayor was actually quite tame for this part of Portland.

‘I think it’s important that we make our voice heard. Well, that Romero makes his voice heard.’

‘Romero’s missing,’ pointed out Zoey.

Ainsley waved her off. ‘In no way is that a disqualifying factor. He’s just … temporarily appearance-impaired. He’ll probably show up at three of the other houses on the street before noon. Besides, there are career congresspeople who haven’t done a town hall in decades. Romero’s just carrying on the tradition. Anyway, think about it. Because I’m going to put together a whole campaign.’

Zoey sighed. Where Zoey was not a joiner, Ainsley was the opposite. She made social butterflies wish a lepidopterist would just hurry up and jab a pin in their hearts to put them out of their misery.

‘We’ll strategise tonight. But until then, good luck with the mushroom smoothies. Or, as I like to call them, muthies. Or smoothrooms.’

‘Neither of those. Out.’ Zoey made a shooing motion.

With a wink, Ainsley headed off towards the Lone Fir Cemetery, which was a quick stroll down Belmont – assuming she didn’t stop for coffee at the Frocking Rog, which had grown up like a phoenix from the ashes of the Rocking Frog, a cutesy coffee shop Zoey had loved for its wonky tables and tiny doughnuts.

Meanwhile, Zoey went through the pre-opening motions: wiping away any leftover green spills, stamping the napkins, loading the prep units with fresh fruit, checking the dehydrators.

Maeve, the shop’s former owner and the woman who’d put the ‘Maeve’ in The Smoothie Maven, smiled up at Zoe from the pink decorative frame on the counter. Ah, Maeve. She’d dropped dead after a brain freeze brought on by a too-cold smoothie. But at least she’d died doing what she loved: trying to suck cinnamon-doused banana guts up through a paper straw.

Unlike Zoey, who all right hadn’t died yet, but wasn’t exactly living her dream. She’d had her eye on tenure at Reed College, or at worst a ho-hum desk job where she could fiddle around in Excel while sleeping soundly in the knowledge that she was contributing to a retirement account and a health savings account. But her exceptional work ethic had worked against her, as it always had. She’d applied for a summer role while she was wrapping up her second master’s, then had quickly been promoted to manager. And when Maeve had died, she’d been the one left holding the keys – and eventually the paperwork.

Zoey had initially balked, of course, because owning a smoothie shop had not been on her vision board, or even close to it. And Maeve’s death had been so fresh. As had been Zoey’s breakup with Kit. But then Zoey had sat down behind the counter with Maeve’s photo, the P&Ls and a glass of liquefied raspberry sorbet, a signature smoothie that came with a beret and a Prince quote, and she’d found herself increasingly sold on the idea.

Maeve had worked so hard to make the little shop part of the neighbourhood, and it didn’t seem right that it should go to some stranger. Or worse, a conglomerate. So Zoey had talked to the bank and put in an offer. And now she was the Smoothie Maven (M.A., Art History, with a focus on twentieth-century children’s literature). And while running the shop wasn’t quite the same as writing lengthy missives about the use of yellow in 1960s block prints, it wasn’t all bad. She did enjoy the meditative nature of the pre-opening prep time. Not to mention the fact that the shop looked out onto Belmont Street, giving her a front-row view of the endless cabinet of curiosities that was Portland.

She was less enamoured of the colourful assortment of people who came through the doors in an endless, cheerful stream, but look, not everyone could be a people person. Especially when you worked in customer service and therefore had very good reasons not to be a people person.