Alice in Zombieland. Gena Showalter

But my words were the straight-up truth. I was curious.

      She wasn’t buying. “That’s Cole Holland, and girl, you so don’t want to date him. Trust me.”

      Shock blustered through me. His name really was Cole? But … how had I known that?

       You heard someone else call him Cole, that’s all. A subconscious thing.

      Maybe. Probably. “Why?” I croaked.

      “Because I’m totally trustworthy. Hello, you’ve met me, right?”

      If I hadn’t been in such a state of upheaval, I would have rolled my eyes. “Not why should I trust you. Why don’t I want to date him?”

      “Oh. Well, for starters, because you’re intimidated by him.”

      “I’m not intimidated by him.”

      She rose on her tiptoes to pat the top of my head, and said, “Since you won’t admit that little truth, how about this one? Because he’s the leader of that rabid pack of animals and he’s totally dangerous.”

      Dangerous. Yeah, I got that. “You dated one of his friends.”

      She spread her arms, as if I’d just made her point for her. “And look where I ended up—cheated on and brokenhearted.” The soft snick of closing doors filled the hall, and she glanced around. “Come on. Let’s finish this on the way to your class.”

      Now that the halls were deserted and I could move freely, I should have relaxed. But I felt like I’d been plugged into something. A battery, maybe. I had energy. And there was a soft buzzing sound echoing in my head. Even the lights in the hallway seemed brighter.

      “Cole’s, like, the worst of the lot,” Kat said. “He speaks, and the rest of them jump to obey. They skip school a lot, and do … well, your guess is as good as mine. No, probably not as good, but close. And yeah, you’d think I’d know for sure, but Frosty was stellar at keeping secrets. Obviously. Anyway, they’re always wounded, so you know they like to throw down in the nastiest way possible. And did I mention that they’re secretive? Cole is the worst, but Frosty is second in line for the title of The Vault, I promise you.”

      “Frosty?”

      “My ex.”

      “I got that, but his name is …”

      “A nickname, yes. He accidentally locked himself out of his house one winter. By the time he was found he was covered in ice and completely frostbitten. They nearly amputated all of his limbs. True story.”

      “Really?” Because I hadn’t noticed anything missing, and if they’d nearly amputated all of his limbs, surely they would have taken a few of his fingers, the most vulnerable part of the hand.

      “Fine, he only lost a toe, but frostbite is treacherous. Anyway, the only girls who get to hang with them on their private little adventures are Mackenzie Love—Cole’s ex—and Trina, who you had the misfortune to meet earlier.”

      Cole still hung out with his ex? That had bad news written all over it. Not that I cared. Or wanted to, I don’t know, go on a date with him, marry him and have his babies. I just wanted answers. Really.

      What had happened in that hallway—or rather, what had not happened—was freaking me out. I mean, I’d always had a strong imagination, as evidenced by the monster in the wedding dress I was convinced I’d seen, but this little mind-vacay of making out in the hall with a strange boy I hadn’t officially met far surpassed anything else I’d ever thought up.

      “Just a warning,” Kat said. “If you hang with them, Mackenzie will corner you and threaten your very existence. Oh, and your friends will drop you and you’ll be known as trouble.”

      I could handle the name Trouble. Again, not that I was considering doing anything with Cole. “Were you dropped when you dated Frosty?”

      For a moment, only a moment, she radiated sadness. Then she flipped her hair over one shoulder, grinned and said, “I’ve always been known as big-time trouble, and though no one has yet realized, I’m more trouble now that Frosty and I—Or is it Frosty and me? I can’t ever remember. Whatevs. I’m more trouble now that we’ve spilt, but you’ll learn to appreciate that part of me, I’m sure.”

      “Already do,” I said, and I meant it.

      We reached a red door, and she stopped. She hitched her thumb at it and said, “This is you.”

      I peeked into the classroom through the small window on the door and wanted to run. Or vomit. No, both. Kids were everywhere, and there were no empty seats. The teacher was at the front, already lecturing. The moment I walked inside, silence would take over and every eye would find me.

      Maybe I’d turned green or shuddered, because Kat said, “Nervous?”

      “Yes, but only a little … lot.” I’d always had difficulty lying. “Want to ditch?” I asked hopefully. We could start fresh for block two.

      “No, I don’t want to ditch, and I’m not even going to attempt to figure out what a little lot is. I want to make an entrance in my own class. After all, the center of attention is the best place to be.”

      Uh, no, no it wasn’t. I backed up a step. “I’ll wait for you outside, then.”

      “You’ll be fine,” she said, merciless. “They’ll love you. And if they don’t, well, let me know who I need to punish. That’s a specialty of mine, just FYI. So is tough love.” She patted me on the butt. “Now go get ‘em, baby cub.”

      “Kat, wait. I—”

      “You heard the part about tough love, right? And P.S. In a few months, you might graduate to a full-on tigress, but until then …” She opened the door and gave me a push inside the room. “You’ll have to endure the growing pains.”

      I survived first block with only a splash of humiliation. The “teacher,” and I use the term lightly, made me stand at the front of the class and tell the students a little about myself and why I was late. Apparently there were to be no breaks for anyone. Not on the first day, and certainly not for first timers who should know how to read a map.

      My thinking on the matter: Mr. Buttle—whom I would forever call Mr. Butthole—was on a power trip, but whatever. I got through without any internal scarring because a very cute boy with puppy dog brown eyes smiled encouragingly at me, then made the universal jerk-off sign the moment Mr. Butthole turned his back, sending everyone into peals of laughter, thereby taking the attention away from me.

      Second block took place in the same hall but third was in another building. Still, I made it on time and the class proved to be a breeze. No one tried to talk to me except the short, rotund Ms. Meyers. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a bun. Her glasses were too big for her face and continually slid down her nose, but she wasn’t unpleasant to look at.

      “I’m so excited to begin a brand-new year with you,” she said, clapping, “and I know you will be too when you hear what I’ve got planned! By the way, this is Creative Writing, in case anyone accidentally wandered into the wrong room. Anyone? No? Great. On with our stories!”

      I propped my head on one hand, and I meant to pay attention, I really did, but my mind drifted. I’d like to say I pondered my future, ways to improve my general state of mind, something, anything useful. But, no. My brain hopped the train to Colehollandville and refused to detour.

      One question after another formed. What had happened out there in that hallway? Had Cole experienced anything when he looked at me? The way he’d snapped his teeth at me, as if I’d bewildered him without saying a word … maybe. But then again, maybe that had been a gesture of irritation. I’d basically eye-raped him.

      And what if I tranced out (or whatever you wanted to call it) the next time I saw him?

      Desperate to know, I’d searched for him