Undead Girl Gang(14)

“I’ll get your moths,” Nora interrupts, louder than I want. I check the door for signs of Mom or Dad but only see Izzy’s eyes roll. “But I want Pua. You don’t even sleep with it.”

She’s right. And it’s a small price to pay.

“Fine,” I say, heaving my shoulders like this is the greatest of burdens. Nora likes to feel like she’s really triumphed over the rest of us. “But you’d better keep those moths alive until I need them. Make sure they have air and food.”

“Okay.” She skips over to the dresser and yanks down the stuffed pig. Is it my imagination or does he look sad to leave with her? “If Mom asks, tell her it’s for science.”

“It kind of is,” I say to her back as she shoves past Izzy to go put her prize pig in a place of honor in their room.

Izzy hovers in the doorway, watching as I dig back into dinner. She flips her hair to one side. The yellow highlights one of her friends bleached into the black glint in the light from my ceiling fan. I wish the highlights didn’t look so good. They make me question keeping my hair its natural color.

“You waiting to take my plate?” I ask her.

“No.” She snorts and folds her arms over her chest. I know everyone is a snot in the eighth grade, but as the second-born Flores, Izzy has had this too-good-for-everyone attitude from the moment she was born. She has already informed our parents that she has too many friends to follow me to Fairmont next year. She wants to go to Cross Creek High. And, really, good for her. I wouldn’t want to follow me to school either.

“So?” I ask, my cheeks bulging with rice. Not that they need help. Looking at Izzy is a reminder that Mom’s chipmunk cheeks are an inescapable family curse. I could keep two days’ worth of food stored in these babies. “I’m not going to bribe you into not blabbing to Mom and Dad about the moths.”

She casts a sneering look around the room, eyes darting from my Stay Weird poster to the collection of washi tape above my desk to the pile of eyeliner pencils on top of my nightstand. Her gaze finally lands on my rumpled purple sheets. “I don’t want any of this stuff,” she says, before pushing herself off the wall and walking over to me. She reaches into the pocket of her pants and pulls out a black ponytail holder. She holds it out, within my reach.

“Um,” I say, deeply confused. It is not the first time that Izzy has complained about my hair—according to her it’s too long and thick and straight and boring—but it is the first time she has interrupted a meal to insult me. I set down my fork with a sigh. “Thanks?”

“My friend Emma wears one of these when she gets depressed,” she says, the words too fast, like she rehearsed them and her speech isn’t going according to plan. One of her front teeth digs into her lower lip. “She snaps it against her wrist when she starts to feel numb. I thought . . . I don’t know—here.” She thrusts the piece of elastic into my hand. “When you scream—even when it’s into your pillow—it freaks everyone out. Nora, mostly. But also all of us? Just try something else, okay?”

I take a second, the band pinched between my thumb and forefinger. Anger flares in me, as hot and fast as a lighter blazing against a candle wick. Shame sweeps in behind it. I imagine my sisters on the other side of my bedroom wall, hearing every scream and sob of the last week. Mom and Dad forbade me from talking about Riley’s death in front of Izzy and Nora because the topic was “too mature.” I didn’t consider that they might not be scared of death as much as they’re scared of what’s happening to me.

“Yeah, okay,” I say quietly. I roll the band over my wrist. There’s a long black hair attached to it, and I don’t know if it’s Izzy’s or Nora’s. Or maybe it’s mine, a ghost of ponytails past. I pull it off before it can fall onto my plate. As it floats down to the floor, a jolt of inspiration hits me.

I know where to get a piece of Riley’s DNA.





SIX



THE DRIVEWAY AT the Greenways’ house curves up the side of the lawn, the concrete immaculately smooth and wide. It ends under a carport with stone pillars next to a set of double doors that, when open, lead either to the showroom on the main floor or to the morgue in the basement, depending on how alive the passenger is. Today, the gleaming black hearse is missing from the top of the driveway. Mr. Greenway must be out—retrieving or delivering, I’m not sure.

Xander’s car, a silver Honda with a license plate number I may or may not have memorized, is parked beside the neighbor’s red elderberry tree. In the branches, I spot the white fur of Binx, Riley’s outdoor cat. I make a quiet clicking sound to see if I can lure him out of the tree, but his eyes watch me with lazy disinterest. Ungrateful asshole. I’ve fed him so often over the years, even though wet cat food smells like dumpster custard.

The Greenways’ neighborhood is covered in a blanket of dead leaves that crunch and squish under my boots. I don’t know how many times I walked this block with Riley—shuffling between our houses before I got my grandpa’s old car, coming back from Lucky Thirteen with contraband in our pockets. Laurel Street has always been the road to Riley.

I look up at the house, a rush of pain passing through me as I realize that she won’t be on the other side of the door. Instead, she’s underground in one of the caskets from the showroom—the best one, the one made from high-gloss cherrywood and lined with cream-colored velvet. She’s empty, her body purposeless without the essence of her inside.