“His name is Poison? Seriously? Remember Flash Davis,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, even though deep down I know Poison is no Flash. Poison looks like he actually earned his nickname.
Laila grabs two fistfuls of her hair by the roots, grunts, and then marches off to the kitchen.
Duke and I stare at each other, then I nod my head toward the front door. “Does it always work?”
“What?”
“Flashing your smile.”
“It tends to. You’ll have to let me know.”
I shake my head with a smirk. He is good.
CHAPTER 10
NORM-date: n. an outing with a Normal guy I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here.…
My mind says these words over and over, and yet instead of turning around and walking back down the long, deserted hallway, my body seems to think pressing my ear against the door marked Athletic Trainer is a good idea.
In Government, I had left my stupid kindergarten-style note on Trevor’s desk. I knew he got it because he picked it up and looked around when he came in. But after class, Mr. Buford had stopped me to tell me about a study group that meets on Thursdays. Sure, I had failed to answer one of his questions, more because I was distracted about my note than because I didn’t know the answer.… Well, I didn’t know the answer either, but still, Mr. Buford didn’t have to act like I was an academic failure based on one unanswered question. More importantly, his keeping me after had made me miss my opportunity to talk to Trevor. So when I rushed out the door and saw him round the corner, I followed him. Here. To the kinesiology department. And pressed my ear against the door marked Athletic Trainer. Now my mind screams at me that I’m exhibiting stalkerlike behavior.
“Did you get approval from your physical therapist?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Not yet, sir.” That’s Trevor. “But I was hoping you could clear me.”
“That’s not how it works. How is it feeling?”
“It feels much better.”
“Really? Because last time I saw you, it seemed you were in a lot of pain.” There’s a long pause. “I know you want to play, but you have pins in your shoulder. It takes awhile to get used to something like that. Your body needs time to recover.”
“It’s been almost a year.”
“Why don’t you do some windmills for me?”
I slowly raise my head to peer through the window. Trevor’s back is to me as he sits on a table. His shirt is off, and two purple scars run down his right shoulder. I can’t look away. I haven’t seen many scars. There was this kid my freshman year who didn’t want to see a Healer because he thought the cut across his knuckles would make him look tough, but a month later he changed his mind and got his skin regenerated.
My eyes wander from Trevor’s scars to his back. Despite his claim otherwise, the boy doesn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on him, let alone a layer. Considering Trevor is my future best friend, I let my gaze linger a little too long on his back.
He lifts his arm to do a rotation and lets out a grunt of pain.
“I thought you said it was feeling better.”
“When I do that, it feels slightly less better.”
“Trevor, I know how much you were hoping to avoid it, but I think another surgery might be in your future.”
Trevor hangs his head, and his shoulders rise and fall.
“I’m sorry.”
He straightens up. “Not your fault, sir.” Then he stands and grabs his shirt. I duck back down and make a run for the exit. Back in the bustling hallway, I slow down and move with the flow of the crowd for a moment, my mind too preoccupied to remember the direction of my next class.
Lunch comes, and I haven’t stopped thinking about Trevor and his injury. I wonder what happened to him. I stand by the commons again, looking around. I’m starting to recognize a few faces here and there, but nobody I feel close enough with to invade their group. I have no idea where Trevor and his friends hang out for lunch (maybe they go off-campus), and since he hadn’t stuck around for even one minute after Government to say anything about my note, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s trying to avoid me. He probably senses the you-are-being-stalked vibes I’m giving off. Maybe I should go to that study group Mr. Buford recommended after all and meet some people.
I suck at making friends.
The library is the only option that makes me feel halfway decent, so I head there. I pull A Tale of Two Cities from its place and sit down. When I turn back the cover, it automatically opens to where an index card is stuck between two pages. I furrow my brow and read, Wanted: good zombie hunter. Call 555–3681. Be prepared to provide references and past experience. On the back Trevor had drawn a stick-figure zombie wearing a powdered wig and chasing a man. A smile creeps onto my face. He has a sense of humor and creativity. I wonder when he put this in the book. I search the aisles for a while but can’t find him anywhere. I program his number into my phone for later and slip the card into my bag. And we’re back on track to best-friend-land.
After school I pull out my phone and call Trevor.
“Hello?” he answers.
I sit on the end of my bed. “I’m answering the ad for a zombie hunter.”
“Would you be able to start immediately? Apparently my life is in danger.”
“Can you describe the zombie that’s after you?”
He hums a little. “He’s a really old guy with an English accent, he might have a goatee, and he’ll definitely be carrying around a really thick, boring book. You might be able to pry it from his decaying hands and beat him back to death with it. Or maybe just reading it to him would work.”