Undead Girl Gang(13)

Blood pounds in my ears, the rumble of a breakdown getting closer and closer—the thunder preceding a storm. I try to cling to the feeling I had when I first opened the grimoire, or when I could hear Riley’s voice so clearly at the memorial service. That feeling of her nearby, nudging me toward the right answer.

The next full moon is Saturday, so I have one shot to find fresh, lunar-light-infused flowers or else I’ll have to wait a whole month before I can perform the spell. And I don’t know if Riley can wait that long. The book doesn’t say anything about how fresh she’ll be when she wakes up, but I figure a month from now her body will be past the point of resurrection: rotten and deformed and smelling so bad that not even her cotton candy perfume could cover it. And who knows how many other people could be dead by then?

There’s a knock on my door. I have just enough time to slap my notebook closed before the knob turns, revealing Nora’s nose sneaking around the corner a moment before the rest of her body follows, a plate of chicken and rice in hand. Izzy hangs back in the doorway.

I sit up, feeling a wave of terror as Nora moves to set the plate in my hands. There has literally never been a plate of food in my room before. It’s one of my parents’ house rules. Eating alone would mean that you weren’t eating with the family—a cardinal sin, according to Mom—and you could be attracting ants, Dad’s greatest nemesis. He flipped his shit when they got into the garage over the summer. And the garage is basically outside.

“I’m not allowed,” I start to protest, but the plate is in my hands and Nora is dropping a fork and a paper towel onto the bed next to the iron rose.

“Tonight you are,” she chirps. Her voice is high and soft, making her sound younger than she is. Sometimes, when I hear her talk, I expect to look up and see a round-bellied preschooler instead of a sixth-grader with a braces-lisp and bra straps constantly falling down.

“We could get ants,” I say, looking over Nora’s shoulder at Izzy, who shrugs.

“Then you’ll have to cast a spell to get rid of them,” she says blandly.

I choose to ignore this, picking up the fork from the sheets and starting to scoop rice into my mouth. It’s obviously the end of the pot—too few chickpeas, oiler than normal—but I can’t complain since I’m getting special treatment. Plus, since I walked out of school before lunch, I haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.

My sisters watch me eat, showing no signs of leaving. Nora looks around the room greedily, a burglar scouting her next score. I don’t know why she thinks that my stuff is any better than what’s in her and Izzy’s room, except that she doesn’t see it quite as often. I slide the iron rose under my pillow. I don’t want her getting any ideas about taking it. Riley needs it to live, and I worked hard stealing it for myself.

“I need a favor,” I say, swallowing hard and wishing I had something to drink. Bits of rice and chickpea skin cling to the back of my throat. Dad must have cooked tonight; he never shucks the chickpeas. “Can you catch seven to ten moths for me? Big monstery ones. Like from the front porch light.”

I quickly go back to eating, sawing into the chicken breast on my plate and ignoring how the temperature of the room changes. I didn’t think it was possible for my sisters to look at me any harder, but curiosity sharpens their attention. I think if they could, they’d carve my secrets out of me with the side of a spoon like guts from a pumpkin. I don’t think they would like what they found, though. Other than one plan to resurrect my dead friend, it’s mostly sex dreams about Xander and wishing I had cool clothes from Torrid like Aniyah Dorsey.

“Is this for magic?” Nora asks, still too young for tact.

I remember being eleven. At eleven you still tell everyone everything. At eleven I told my whole family how cute Riley’s big brother was and how I wanted to go to Fairmont Academy just like him. I’m sure Nora has told the entire sixth grade that her sister is a witch. I hope it doesn’t get her ass kicked.

“No,” I lie blithely, helping myself to another bite of chicken.

“Mom doesn’t allow magic in the house,” Izzy says. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and looks toward the kitchen. It feels like a threat.

“That’s why there isn’t any,” I say, my tone cultivated to be the height of blasé. I’ve had more practice than either of them.

Nora has nervous hands, like me, and they fidget and twitch against her stomach. She’s been learning origami, but she presses her seams too tight without checking for clean lines.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

Thank the Goddess. I would let out a sigh of relief, but I don’t want to spew dinner all over my sheets.

I start to say thank you, but Nora cuts me off, pointing at my dresser.

“I want your Moana doll.”

My head snaps toward the precious stuffed pig standing guard over my seldom-used retainers. “My Pua?”

“You’re too old to have so many stuffies,” Izzy says from the door.

“Whoa,” I say. “I don’t police your toys.”

“That’s because I don’t have that many toys,” Izzy says. “They’re for babies.”

“Pretty snarky for someone who put out cookies for Santa last year.”

“I did that for Nora!” she snaps.