Mom walks to the front door, letting a giddy Cissy inside. There’s a lot of cooing and hugging, then footsteps pad toward my bedroom. Cissy pauses in my doorway, her hand covering her bow-shaped mouth. She’s wearing a slinky black dress that’s floor length and sliced half-way up her thigh.
I let out a low whistle. “Cissy, you look gorgeous.” All quasis are beautiful by human standards, but Cissy’s dress takes it to a new level. Why couldn’t Mom have called Versace, too?
“Thanks, Myla. You look…” Cissy smacks her lips, searching for the right word.
“She looks amazing, doesn’t she?” Mom weaves her arm through Cissy’s. “Hard to believe I wore this gown twenty years ago.”
“I believe it,” says Cissy quietly.
Suddenly, I’d like nothing better than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I kill things; I don’t wear dresses.
“Just one second!” Mom rushes back to the box, pulling out a floppy orange hat with an enormous bow. “This goes with it.”
I picture Captain Hook’s hat, then realize Mom’s hat could eat that one and still have room for dessert.
“No, thanks,” say Cissy and I unison.
A knot of tension crawls up my spine; I can’t wait to get this dress off. “I’m not feeling too well, Cissy.” I fiddle with the zipper on my back. “You’ll have to catch the party without me.”
“You’re fine. It’s nerves.” Cissy turns to my mother, blinking her tawny eyes madly. “You wouldn’t mind if we made a few little alterations, would you? To bring the dress up to date a wee bit?”
“Of course. There are scissors in the box. Do you need anything else?”
Cissy smiles sweetly. “A little girl-time.” She stares pointedly at the door. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Still beaming, Mom almost glides out of my room. Cissy closes the door firmly behind her, then grabs the scissors and goes to work. Within minutes, the flounces and bows lay on the floor, alongside the hoop. In the end, I’m wearing a very simple, very electric orange gown. I stare at my image in the mirror.
“I look like a nuclear carrot.”
Cissy grabs my hand. “No, you don’t, you look fine. Please let’s go to the party please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeease?”
I’m going to regret this. “Okay, let’s go.”
Cissy and I race toward the front door, but my mother’s too quick for an uneventful escape. “No, wait!” Mom holds up her hands. “I have an instamatic camera somewhere in the attic crawlspace. I want to capture this moment!”
Cissy pauses by the threshold, fluffing her blonde ringlets. “Sure.” Mom runs off, the sound of footsteps echo through the house.
I glare at my best friend. “No pictures, please. Besides, we’re running super-late.”
“Oh, yeah,” Cissy cups her hand by her mouth. “Gotta go, Momma Lewis!”
Mom’s muffled voice sounds from the attic. “Are you sure you can’t wait?”
I grab Cissy’s hand and lunge for the front door. “Absolutely positive.”
Cissy and I rush to the driveway and slide into Betsy. After Betsy coughs up a few clouds of toxic smoke, we putter along the route to the Ryder mansion, our gowns carefully folded around us. As I drive along, I watch Upper Purgatory slide by my windows.
What a bummer this place is. When I was a kid, this used to be the fanciest spot around, filled with rows of overly-large houses on overly-small plots of land. The lawns were always green and fancy black sedans lined all the driveways.
That was before the ghouls took over.
Like all conquerors, the ghouls decided they deserved the best real estate. The same houses I remember slide by my window again, only now they’re filled with the undead. The lawns have been turned into open earth, the better for worm farming. Every window has been boarded up; each fancy sedan sits rusting in its driveway.
All the houses, that is, except the Ryder mansion. It slides into view, a white citadel of quasi-ness sitting atop a lush green hill. It’s a little patch of the old republic that survived, lovely and alive. We park Betsy and march up to the mansion’s front door. Cissy presses the bell, her face positively beaming. “We’re on!”
I suppress the urge to grab her hand and run for it.
Seconds later, the door swings open to reveal Zeke, who looks extra smarmy with his slick-backed hair, black tuxedo, and red plaid vest. His eyes me slowly from head to toe before saying: “Helloooo, Elmo!”
“Ha, ha, very funny.” I step inside. “And it’s orange, not red.”
Zeke rubs his chiseled chin. “Yes, Elmo’s not the right Muppet for you. Beaker maybe? Ernie?”
Cissy steps directly in front of me. “Hi, Zeke! Wanna dance?” She hitches one leg out to show the high slit in her dress. Damn, that girl looks like a million dollars.
I cross my fingers behind my back. Please, please, please let him notice her. Just once.
Zeke’s caramel eyes twinkle with a reddish glow. “I’d love to, uh…” He snaps his fingers. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“Cissy.” She steps closer to Zeke. “My name’s Cissy.”
“Wow. Are you new in school?”