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Side-eyeing me.
Water wets my cheek, my hair, my black baggy Patti Smith band tee. Artfully ripped. I thought it was cool. Retro. Maybe I just look like I stepped out of the dumpster everyone wants to throw me in.
Too nervous to unfurl my umbrella, I’m slowly getting soaked.
“Durand,” Mr. Owens says in thought, going a little stiff. “I played football with your brother.”
I relax a little. Maybe this won’t be so bad then. Brian can be a jerk, but as far as he told me, his high school teammates never hated him.
Mr. Owens returns to his desk. “Do you know how to play charades, Zoey?”
I wish I didn’t.
I wince and nod halfheartedly.
“Good. Read the paper silently and then begin.” He focuses on the class. “Whoever guesses correctly first will receive five extra points on the next quiz.”
I unfurl the paper. Typed out are the words Zombie Cheerleader. Greeeaaat.
How should I start?
Before I even move a muscle, a student—Marc or Mattie or something or other (I can’t remember his name from eighth grade)—he shouts, “A corpse!”
Laughter fills the classroom.
“Scared girl!”
“Blonde girl?”
“The daughter of a murderer,” a girl in a yellow raincoat guesses cruelly.
I’m frozen. Cheeks flaming.
“Amelia,” Mr. Owens scolds.
Amelia feigns disbelief. “What? That’s what she is. Technically, I should be getting five extra credit points, Mr. Owens.”
The teacher disregards her and nods towards me. “Keep going, Zoey.”
Keep going? I haven’t even started.
I lick my dried lips and shuffle around the front of the room awkwardly. People shout in wild succession.
“Snake!”
“Loser!”
“Bigfoot!”
My eyes skirt around the faces. Some in my grade that I remember. Others are upperclassmen that I’ve never met, never paid much attention to. Everyone’s voices start melding together. My heart pounds harder and harder. Palms sweating. The temperature climbing.
And then my gaze lands on her.
Holy shit…
October Brambilla. Town royalty. One year older than me—ten times more put together, braver, prettier. She’s in my class?
Loosely gripping a cotton candy pink umbrella over her head, she sits with gracefulness and dignity—like she owns the room, the town, the world. Brown hair cascades in perfect waves along her shoulders. A pink sweater matches the color of her full, kissable lips. And why am I thinking they’re kissable when she’s staring at me like I’m a rodent traipsing through her universe? Her iced gaze pushes through me, punctures me. Makes me feel small. And weak.
She seems like an utter bitch. Exactly what my friend Vittoria used to tell me before she moved. But then…why isn’t October shouting at me like everyone else?
Why isn’t she making a guess?
I almost stumble.
“One-legged pirate!”
“Idiot!”
“Hey,” Mr. Owens barks at that.
I do feel like a bumbling idiot. Everyone knows the Brambillas. Just like everyone knows the Durands. Only, October has never cast a glance in my direction. Not whenever we crossed paths in town. Not in middle school or elementary. Not as kids. Definitely not as teenagers.
I’m gross.
Trash.
She’s a gem.
Wanted.
Desired.
Not only is she a Brambilla, but the girl literally ran into a burning building three years ago. The old library in the square went up in flames, and October stormed inside and saved her younger sister. Plus one of the town’s oldest history books.
She’s a legend.
I force myself to shuffle again. Arms outstretched. Lumbering forward like a ghoulish, ugly thing.
“A zombie,” October finally says in a cool, commanding tone.
I stop moving, and the students make a show of cursing and huffing. With wet hair and the damp tee suctioning my flat chest, I hand the soggy paper to the teacher. Trying not to shiver.
Since no one technically guessed the cheerleader portion of the zombie, Mr. Owens could make me continue. But I’m hoping he’ll cut me some slack.
He frowns a little at the paper, then nods.
“Alright. Good job, October.”
Hearing her name short-circuits my brain. And I unfortunately ask a question I know the answer to out loud, “October Brambilla?” Maybe she’s siphoning all of my oxygen. Asphyxiating me. Making me say stupid things.
Snickers fill the classroom at my dumb question.
Of course she’s the one and only October.
Amelia snorts. “You’re in the presence of royalty, Durand. Bow down to the queen.”
I ignore that, about to head to the open desk, but I’m stuck struggling to open my black umbrella. The sharp points snap back at me. Jesus. Come on, come on.
Everyone laughs more.
“Durand,” Amelia snaps louder. “I said bow.”
What the fuck? I glance to the teacher. Mr. Owens pretends not to hear, busying himself with something on his computer. Maybe he thinks he can’t give me another pass since he just did with charades.
Umbrella half-unfurled, I suck down my pride and look to October.
She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes, shaded beneath the pink umbrella, are as demanding as Amelia’s words.
Slowly, I bow.
Under my breath, I say, “Your highness.”
And I swear I hear her hiss just as quietly, “Stand up.”
My chest inflates with something I can’t understand. When I rise again, the classroom is in a fit of irrepressible laughter. My eyes are on hers.
