The Creeping

Sam blinks at it like it’s the last thing he ever expected to see again. “Is this . . . ?” he asks.

“I saved it,” I say, more shy than I was about sleeping next to him. “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you . . . for not telling you how beautiful I thought the corsage was.”

For once Sam is speechless. I peck him on the cheek and tow him downstairs. After an embarrassing amount of stalling, he leaves, one of Dad’s pumpkin muffins in hand, waving good-bye.

Now the hard part. An hour later, having showered, called Zoey for a ride, and fed Moscow, I’m scaling the wood fence in my backyard. While Dad telling me to stay home on his way out the door didn’t exactly inspire me to listen, I do experience a pang of guilt at completely disregarding him. I’d call him and explain that I need to be with the girls today, but I worry he’ll tell Shane. I don’t want to contend with the uniformed minions tailing me. I have to confess to Zoey about Sam and me, I have to convince her to dig up graves at Griever’s, and I have to remember what happened the day Jeanie was taken.

“Ouch,” I whimper, snagging my arm on the ridge of the pickets. I’m sure there’s a cluster of evil splinters sticking out of my flesh. I jump down into my neighbor’s yard—the Howards don’t have kids and they work, so their house is dark—and scramble to their side gate. I emerge onto the street that runs parallel to mine.

Zoey’s SUV waits idling under a mammoth oak. The lowest branches have the look of arthritic skeleton hands reaching greedily toward the cab. Zoey’s already popping gummy bear after gummy bear into her mouth.

“A little early for gelatinous sugar, don’t you think?” I say, climbing into the front seat.

She taps the lid of an extra-large coffee in the cup holder. “This is breakfast, and these”—she waggles the candy bag in my face—“are dessert.”

“Oh well, in that case.” I hold my hands up in surrender.

She tosses me the bag. “And don’t eat all my green ones this time, Secret Agent Slut.”

Mouth full, I raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t get me wrong, I liked the old Stella, but I’m in looove with this new badass Stella who scales fences and ditches cops.” She throws the car into drive, and the wheels spin taking off.

Zoey doesn’t usually have a lead foot; she told me once that looking eager equals looking desperate. Today she must not care. I hastily snap my seat belt on as we careen sharp around a corner. It’s supposed to storm this afternoon, but you wouldn’t know it by the blissed-out sun rays making everything glow.

“I’m thinking the sun wants us to have a cove day,” Zoey says. I squirm under the seat belt at the thought of heading back to our spot after everything that’s happened there.

I open my mouth to protest; Zoey shoots me a warning glare. Usually, I wouldn’t give in so quickly, but I don’t want to piss her off, especially before I confess and ruin her chirpy mood.

“The girls are already there waiting for us, and I brought an extra bikini for you,” she adds.

“?’Kay, sounds fun.” I muster a teaspoon of enthusiasm. “Zo, I have something to tell you.” I pause, trying to work my words out. How do you tell your bestie you’re shacking up with a guy she calls the King of Loserdom?

Before I take a stab at it, she says, “We’re making a quick stop. We have to meet Drew’s older cousin by the garbage bin at the back of the drugstore.”

I’m grateful for the momentary reprieve. “What kind of back-alley deal are you dragging me to?” I ask.

She pantomimes tipping a bottle to her lips. “He’s hooking us up with hard lemonades and a bunch of pink wine so we can have fun this summer.” I give her a sideways look. She flaps her hand at me. “Spare me. I mean, after all this Jeanie stuff blows over, obviously.”

The loaded way she articulates “stuff” inflames me. I can hear her insinuating Sam’s name, as though he is only Jeanie blowback and I’ll move on once the killer is caught. “I asked Sam to be my boyfriend,” I blurt.

Zoey slams on the brakes. The car screeches bloody murder, almost turning sideways in the middle of a deserted residential street.

“Tell me this is a really effed-up joke, Stella!” she shouts.

I shake my head. “We made out last night.” I don’t add that the kissing continued this morning, because I’m not suicidal.

She stares at me, mouth agape like a dead person, lips stained from candy. “Then tell me that you just wanted to mess around with someone who wasn’t a total skeeze and that you were only using Sam because he’s a peasant and therefore STD free.”

My arms cross against my chest to shield myself from Zoey: from her judgment, her anger, her biting words. A car honks and then drives around us, the driver shooting us a dirty look before speeding up. Zoey flips him off until he disappears around a street corner.

She takes her foot off the brake and we continue toward downtown, where the alley behind the drugstore waits, bearing gifts.