The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried(60)

DINO

JULY DIRECTS ME TO THE parking lot behind the theater, which is way nicer than the one at Palm Shores High. There are only two vehicles parked there—a truck and a Honda.

“You sure they’re still here?”

“Trust me,” July says. Not that she’s giving me much choice. I follow her in through the rear door, which is propped open with a brick, and we walk quietly through the maze of curtains and lights. Before I see Zora, I hear her. Her husky voice fills the theater like thunder, backed by a recording of the band. There’s a careful carelessness to the way she sings that makes me feel like she could smash into the wall at any moment and burst into flames. That she doesn’t is a testament to her skill.

“Damn,” I whisper, “she’s really good.”

July purses her lips and then punches me in the arm.

We peek around the curtain. Zora’s standing center stage in a dress that’s saggy in the bust and loose in the waist, belting out “Good Morning Baltimore.”

“I didn’t need any padding to fill out the dress,” July says with pride.

“Not everyone can have your curves.”

We’ve only been here a minute, but I’m already nervous that we’re going to get caught. I don’t know why July wanted to come. Seeing Zora Hood rehearsing for the role July has wanted to play since she first heard Tracy Turnblad sing must be torture. It might not be so terrible if Zora couldn’t carry a tune, but she sings with a confidence and dexterity that are admirable. I wouldn’t say Zora’s better than July, mostly because July would shove my testicles into my nostrils, but she’s pretty damn good.

“Come on.” I tug July’s sleeve as the song comes to an end, but she doesn’t move.

Zora holds onto the last note and then nails the finish. The music ends.

“Motherfucker!” Zora says. “Mr. Moore was an imbecile for making me July’s understudy.”

I pull July more urgently. As much as July may want to watch Zora unfairly castigate herself for a performance that was objectively good, I don’t. Only, July doesn’t budge. In fact, she pulls her arm out of my grasp and marches onto the stage.

“Yeah he was,” July says in a loud, clear voice. “You should’ve gotten the lead and I should’ve been the understudy.”

Not unexpectedly, Zora screams.





JULY

ZORA TAKES THE TRUTH SURPRISINGLY well. Dino and I had to hide in the dressing room and then sneak out to the car after Zora’s screams brought Mr. Moore, who’d been sleeping in the office, running onto the stage. She told him a palmetto bug had crawled across her foot, and he’d bought the story but decided it was time to close up, so we wound up standing around Dino’s car in the lot. It’s not much of a step up from the Taco Bell lot, but at least there are no cops here.

Dino and I switch off trying to explain the events of the past couple of days to her, though it’s not like our grasp on the situation is particularly firm, and when we’re done, Zora kind of smiles and nods.

“I knew you were real!”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry about that. I panicked and Dino played along.”

“Totally understandable. If I rose from the grave and got caught joyriding in my best friend’s car, I’d have done the same.” Zora’s sitting on the hood of Dino’s car with her hands in her lap. “Or not. No, I probably would’ve led you on a high-speed chase, blown a tire, and died in a fiery explosion.” She pauses. “Is it weird being a zombie?”

“Not a zombie,” I say.

“If you say so.”

Dino keeps eyeing Zora like he expects this is a trap somehow. “You can’t tell anyone. Please promise you won’t tell a single person.”

“Why not?” Zora says. “You could start a video channel. Zombie makeup tips. Do you know how many people would watch that?”

It’s scary that I think a lot of people would watch, but that’s not the point. “Zora, promise you won’t tell anyone.”

Zora sighs like we’re morons for not seeing the genius of her plan. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Dino says.

“Are you going to stay this way forever? Because if you need a place to crash, my brother’s at college and my parents are oblivious.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I really, really hope this isn’t permanent. The smell is getting worse.”

Zora grins and taps her nose. “Doesn’t bother me. I took a softball to the skull in fourth grade. Since then, everything smells like Jolly Ranchers.” She leans in and takes a whiff. “Mmmmm. Watermelon.”

Dino gags. “And on that horrifying note, we should get going.” He jingles his keys in the air.

Zora slides off the car. “Hey, I know you said no one else can know—”

I’m already shaking my head. Even though I’m not sure where she’s going with this, I know it’s somewhere terrible.

“Hear me out,” Zora says. “It’s my mom’s boss. Think you could pretend to be a zombie? He keeps harassing her, and a good scare from you might convince him to keep his grabby hands off her ass.”

“No way,” Dino starts, but I’m like, “Now, that’s not a bad idea.”