I roll my eyes. Great.
Cissy’s voice keeps blaring through the answering machine. “I really-really-really need to talk to you about the party. I have so many questions for you. Love you, sweetie!” Beep.
I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Cissy’s a little boy crazy and I can’t handle her right now. Mind if I unplug the machine for the rest of the weekend?”
Mom full-on grins. “Nope.”
***
The weekend decays into a blur of bad reruns from human television, good sugar cereals, and dreading seeing Cissy at school. Monday morning arrives way too soon. Before I know it, I’m slogging through the front doors at Purgatory High. I barely set foot inside the main hallway when Cissy skip-walks toward me, a huge smile on her face.
Hells Bells. When you’re miserable, there’s nothing worse than someone else’s happiness.
“Gooooooood morning, Myla!” Her little golden curls bounce by her shoulders. Even her hair looks chipper.
“Hey, Cissy.”
“Did you get my messages? I tried to get in touch a million times. Then your answering machine was busted or something.”
I press my palms into my eyes. “Mom and I had a fight and–” What do I say here? I fought with a thrax, my dad might be a ghoul, and an oracle angel is sending me visions of Mom’s past? I sigh. “I’ve been a little down, that’s all.”
Frowning, Cissy places her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, that’s too bad.” I can almost hear her counting to three under her breath, giving my misery a bit of air-time before we move onto the marquee subject. “Okay, then! Let’s talk about Zeke.”
I debate about feigning illness—a sudden bout of the plague might get me out of this morning’s Zeke love fest—but then I remember Cissy’s been obsessing about this guy for at least a decade. Let her have her moment. I plaster on a grin. “Can’t wait to hear all about it.”
I half-listen to her love-babble until she starts demonstrating Zeke’s best dance moves down the hallway. The girls stare with a sneer, the guys with open mouths. I’m seriously debating what would happen if I accidentally tripped her when I get the bright idea to check my watch.
“Gosh Cissy, I have to run. Can’t be late for History!” Wow, I never thought I’d say that out loud.
For once, I arrive early to History, slipping into my favorite back row seat. All the students mill about, chit-chatting about the weekend. Miss Thing puts on lipstick using a small compact. Amazing how she can use a mirror and still not notice the huge red smear across her front teeth.
Miss Thing claps her hands twice. “Everyone, pay attention.”
I sit straight in my chair, ready to work. I’m feeling mighty proud of my Cissy management strategy when I realize my massive error: class is starting and Zeke’s just now walking through the door. I swing my long hair in front of my face, hoping that will hide my identity (not my best plan.) He heads straight for me anyway.
I almost face-palm myself. What’s the first rule of avoiding someone at school? Arrive late to class so you pick the seat farthest away from them.
Miss Thing paces the front of the room, her red stilettos click-clacking with each step. “Class, turn to 542 of Purgatory Through the Ages.”
I whip out my book as Zeke slides into the empty seat next to mine.
“Morning, Myla.”
Flipping through pages, I pretend not to hear him. Maybe he’ll get the message and pay attention to the lecture.
“I said, good morning, Myla.”
No such luck. I grind my teeth and low out a low ‘grrr.’ I’d expected the love-fest from Cissy, but I truly counted on never speaking to Zeke again. Now, I’m trapped next to him in history class and Mister Smarmy wants to talk. This sucks, big time.
Be nice to him for Cissy, Myla. Don’t ruin it for her.
I let out one last ‘grr’ and whisper “Hey, Zeke.”
Miss Thing stops pacing. Her black eyes carefully scan the room. “Class, we’re about to start a very important lesson. This month marks the twentieth anniversary of Armageddon’s liberation of Purgatory. To celebrate, we’ll learn all about how clever and merciful your new overlords are. Who wants to begin the reading?” No one raises a hand. “Paulette, why don’t you start us off? Page 542.”
Paulette carefully repositions her Hermes scarf on one shoulder, then begins to read: “Armageddon’s War, Episode One, Quasis Mismanage Purgatory. For thousands of years, quasi-demons mismanaged–”
As Paulette keeps reading, Zeke whispers across the aisle. “Myla, I know why you were so angry at the party.”
My throat tightens. Zeke knows Lincoln?
“You do?” Picking up my pen, I start doodling on my notebook. “It’s one thing to be treated that way by a ghoul, but not…You know.”
Zeke nods. “I understand.”