SEVENTEEN
I believe an improvement can be made in the administration of the electroshock. Now that we know that the shock will not be a one-time event, it seemed a priority to create something that would negate the need for new incisions, which are not only time-consuming, but the more incisions, the more likely someone is to notice them in the outside world.
*
The only kind of pressure I believed in was the ratio of force to the area over which that force was distributed. That’s what I told Adam when he practically bounced out of football practice and told me the team wanted him to attend a field party tonight. Peer pressure was for people looking for an excuse to make bad decisions without enough guts to make them on their own.
Of course, I then learned of another kind of pressure. The kind where the boy you killed and reanimated really-really-really wanted to meet up with his new friends, which meant you really-really-really had to tag along to chaperone. Now why wasn’t there a name for that?
“Surprised you could make it.” Paisley leaned against the taillights of Knox Hoyle’s pickup truck. She was only five foot tall, which made her the shortest girl in the junior class.
Not a lot of people attributed this disorder to girls, but I was convinced that everything about Paisley Wheelwright could be explained by the Napoleon complex, a bona fide psychological condition where a person was extra aggressive and domineering just to make up for his or her short stature.
“Surprised you asked,” I replied. A group of students had met in the Walmart parking lot to collect ice for coolers and firewood and to consolidate vehicles. I looked around, feeling out of place and without anything useful to do.
This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. First, Adam would join the football team, and before I knew it, we’d be involved in things. Hanging out with the Hollow Pines High social elite on a Friday after mandatory school hours definitely counted as involved. It set my teeth on edge.
“I didn’t.” She turned her back and strode to the passenger side, where she hopped in and slammed the door with a solid clang that shot through the dark parking lot like a gun.
“That’s that Southern hospitality I was telling you about,” I said to Adam.
“You don’t like her.” Adam’s eyes had a way of boring into me.
“Yeah, well, I don’t like rabid animals, either. They bite,” I said, climbing onto the back of Knox’s truck. My tennis shoe slipped off the ledge, and Cassidy, already perched on the side of the truck bed, caught my elbow.
“Careful,” she said, giggling softly.
I stepped over the tailgate, and Adam climbed in behind me.
Even in the dark, Cassidy’s legs were tan against her cutoff jean shorts. She wore a white tank top, and her hair fell in loose waves around her face. She smiled and scooted over. I sat down next to her on the side of the truck, wearing an oversized army jacket and shorts with my dirty checkered Vans, while Adam took the seat beside me.
“This y’all’s first time?” she asked.
“At least that I can remember,” said Adam.
She quirked an eyebrow and I smacked a mosquito sucking on my arm. One minute in and already I could see nothing great about the great outdoors.
“All aboard,” yelled Knox. From behind the steering wheel, he reached his hand out the open window and thumped the cabin roof like it was a horse. The other trucks roared to life. Headlights flickered on. Wheels spun and squealed against the asphalt. “Giddyup!”
The truck lurched forward. I fell against Adam and he caught me against his chest. Strong hands wrapped around my waist protectively. “Sorry,” I muttered. I put my hand on his thigh and pushed myself up straight as fast as I could.
“You better hang on,” said Cassidy. The rushing air off the top of the truck brushed Cassidy’s hair back from her shoulders so that she looked like a model standing in front of a wind machine, while somehow the same airflow made my hair stick to my mouth. Knox steered the truck over the curb and onto the neighboring dirt road. I watched as the blazing lights of the parking lot faded. The truck bed rocked back and forth on the gravel road.
After ten minutes of driving, the liquid contents of my stomach had converted into a wave pool. Knox swerved into potholes. He floored the accelerator to pass the truck in front of us. Billy Ray, moonlight gleaming off his white head, gave us a friendly middle finger as we edged in front. I was on the verge of hurling in Cassidy’s lap when we reached an open field and Knox decided to perform a doughnut.