Alice in Zombieland. Gena Showalter

lie, surely. I had on ratty sneakers, ripped jeans and the oldest tee I owned. The fabric was so frayed, I looked like I—gag—wore fringe. I just hadn’t felt like getting dressed up, as if I had something to celebrate.

      The therapist my grandparents had made me see would have said I was punishing myself for living when the rest of my family had died. (If she had uttered those words just one more time, I would have hacked off my ears and left them with her.) I’d already figured that out on my own, thank you. That didn’t change how I felt.

      “Well?” Kat prompted. “Aren’t you going to tell me how good I look?”

      My gaze roved from top to bottom. “You don’t look good. You look amazing,” I added before she could pout. She wore glittery shoes, Miss Me hip-huggers and a skintight black top. Dark hair fell in pretty waves over one shoulder.

      “Gold star for Ali,” she said. “Now, then. Allow me to make introductions. Ladies, this is Ali, a very special friend of mine.”

      I stiffened, thinking she meant to tell them where we’d met, but she didn’t and I could have hugged her all over again.

      “Ali, this is Reeve, Poppy and Wren.”

      O-kay. No Janes, Beths, or Kellys here. “Hello,” I said, sounding as lame as always. The girls were as flawless as Kat, with stunning faces you’d usually find only in magazines. They wore drool-worthy outfits, also found only in magazines.

      Magazines. Yeah. That’s the only thing that made any sense. Kat had picked each girl out of Flawless Friends Forever, I’m sure. In comparison, I felt frumpy and way outclassed, like I’d been selected from Homeless Dogs Weekly.

      “Nice to meet you,” said Wren, a gorgeous black girl with the most amazing caramel eyes.

      “Any friend of Kat’s …” said Poppy, a freckled redhead surely destined to marry a prince or something.

      “I’m throwing a party this weekend.” Reeve flicked her dark hair over one shoulder. Her features were striking, bold, and her skin the most beautiful sun-dusted color of bronze. “Just a little get-together to celebrate surviving our first week of school. Well, our first three days.”

      Why did school always start in the middle of the week?

      “You have to come,” she added.

      “I, uh—hmm.”

      I’d never been to a party, but I’d certainly heard a lot about the ones my friends had attended. Therefore I knew that 1) I’d be stuck in an overcrowded house with people I barely knew, 2) I’d be stuck in an overcrowded house with drunk people I barely knew, because there would be drinking—not only had my friends told me about that part, but my mother had forced me to watch enough after-school specials to fry a thousand brain cells—and 3) it would take place at night.

      Once, all I’d wanted was to go out at night. I would have given anything for a simple moonlit stroll. Arm? Leg? Why not my soul?

      Now? Even the thought terrified me.

      “She’ll definitely be there,” Kat said. “I’ll make sure of it. Now, get, get. Ali and I need private time to catch up.” She kissed each girl on the cheek and sent them all on their ways before returning her attention to me. “So, you received your schedule, yes?”

      I ignored the fact that she had just guaranteed my party attendance. No reason to hurt her feelings with a belligerent (and childish) never, ever, you can’t make me go! “Yes.” Having memorized the blocks, I rattled off my classes and prayed we had at least one together.

      “Rock on! We’ll have lunch and last block to plan our takeover attempt on the school. I’ve already decided. Me and my girls are ruling. Now, I’ll walk you to first period. You’re two buildings over so it’s gonna be a hike.”

      “Are you over there, too?”

      “Nah. I’m here.” She hitched her thumb at the door only a few feet away.

      I glanced at the clock at the far end of the hall. We had six minutes until the tardy bell rang. “Won’t you be late to your own class?”

      “Yeah, but don’t worry.” Grinning that sly little grin of hers, she twined her arm through mine. “This is my humanitarian deed of the day. Besides, you’ll owe me. And yes, I always collect. Ask anyone. There’s not a single person in this school who doesn’t owe me a favor. True story.”

      As tiny as she was, she had no problem pushing her way through the crowds, telling people off or flipping them off when they did or said something she didn’t like. But she kept up a steady chatter with me, telling me everything I “needed to know to survive.”

      “She’s a skank. He’s a player. He’s cute but almost OD’d last year, so he’s a bad bet. She’s a two-faced, lying, cheating witch. That’s right, Trina, I’m talking to you,” she shouted. “By the way,” she added just for me, “Trina cusses, which means cussing is trashy, which means my golden rule is to never cuss. I have class. Unlike Trina, the skank of Birmingham.” That last part was, of course, shouted.

      I half expected the pretty but, well, somewhat masculine Trina to fly across the hall and introduce Kat’s teeth to her fist, but Trina just fronted and moved on with a glare that promised vengeance.

      O-kay. New note to self: never mess with Trina. Her tank was regulation, but still managed to show off her muscular arms and tats. Her hair was chopped to just below her ears, and there were scars stretching across the back of her neck. Like, scars that resembled teeth marks.

      And I really needed to stop rubbernecking, or I’d paralyze myself.

      “He’s gay but in denial,” Kat continued, as though nothing had happened, “so just a heads-up not to try and tap that. Now his friend over there is loaded, but he’s a total douche. Oh, and she’s so snotty you’ll need Kleenex just to talk to her. Actually, just pretend that entire group has the plague, and you’ll be the better for it. She’s not bad. He’s—crap!” She ground to a stop, forcing me to do the same. “Laugh like I just said something amazingly hilarious.”

      Laugh? Seriously? Did I even remember how?

      She slapped my arm and whispered fiercely, “Laugh!”

      Okay, so I forced out a laugh. I’m embarrassed to admit I sounded like a frog had jumped into my throat and played bongos on my voice box. Even Kat was horrified, her mouth hanging open so wide that I could see her tonsils.

      She recovered quickly and tossed her hair over her shoulder, throwing off her own magical laugh. It was like an angel played the harp on top of a rainbow. So not fair!

      “Why are we doing this?” I asked quietly.

      “Don’t look now, but that’s my ex over there.”

      Surely I’m not the only one who takes “don’t look now” as “there’s no better time than now.” I looked.

      “Bad Ali!” Another slap to my arm. “Bad, bad, bad Ali! Have you no self-control?”

      “Sorry.” I rubbed away the sting. Did I stop looking, though? No. I stared. Hard.

      To the right of us was a group of eight boys. If I’d ever needed a visual definition of serial criminal, I now had one (or eight). They were tall, all of them, and they were stacked with muscle. Most sported tattoos on their arms and piercings on their faces. A few wore chains around their waists, as if the metal links were belts, but on those bodies they could only be weapons.

      Proof: two of them had house-arrest anklets on display over their dirt-caked boots.

      They were shoving one another, laughing and punching each other on the arms. One of them even rubbed his fist into another’s hair, holding the guy by the waist and forcing him to stay hunched over and take the abuse while others pointed and called him the worst kind of names.