Girls Save the World in This One - Ash Parsons Page 0,37
“And it definitely doesn’t beat number two,” Jilly says.
Pointless Zombie Death number two was a redneck who tried to “wrassle” it. Really. You cannot make this up. Well, obviously someone did, I guess. But I never would have been able to think of that.
But the guy was in mourning for his dead sister, you see. And he was angry and suicidal. And he told the others to go on.
It was the zombie apocalypse version of walking into the sea.
Still ridiculous. And a definite PZD. Infuriated a lot of fans. Because then his friends had to kill him once he became a zombie. It felt manipulative.
Which my mom definitely didn’t get when I was complaining about it.
She’d said, “Wait. You’re saying a death in a zombie show. Was manipulative.”
And then she gave me the listen to yourself look.
And I gave her the I knew you wouldn’t understand eyes.
And that’s why I really try not to talk about Human Wasteland with her. She doesn’t get it.
“Okay, but does it rank as number three?” Melinda asks.
Number three is the worst one, and their numbering is all wrong. But Billy really loved the actress who played Samantha, and said as much, and that’s why her death is number three instead of number one.
Also because we know that the reason her character was so poorly killed off was because she was in a contract dispute with the producers.
Talk about a life lesson there. Everyone is expendable in the zombie apocalypse.
But the way they killed her off? So infuriating. And it’s hard not to think that was somehow about her being a girl and a fan favorite who tried to use her leverage to get a better deal.
So yeah, we’re all a bit PO’d about the way they killed Samantha off. She should have had a hero’s death. And it was so much worse than that because it was just so ridiculous.
Imani leans over to me. “Nothing beats Samantha’s fighting a zombie with a nail file.”
“I know,” I moan. “As if she would.”
“That still makes me so mad.” Siggy shakes her head in exasperation, setting her dangly earrings rocking dizzyingly.
I feel someone looking at me. Suddenly, eyes like a weight. You know the feeling: you turn to look before you can think. A response to being stared at that is primal, like scenting danger. Somehow you just know.
And so I look.
And so I don’t hear whatever Jilly says next, because Scott is standing at the edge of the seats, about thirty feet from me.
And he’s staring at me.
The last thing I said to him was “I never want to see you again.”
At least he has the grace to look embarrassed. But he’s not looking away either.
The problem with Scott is he’s charming. He’s cute, and he knows it. He knows exactly how far he can push you, or he thinks he does, at least.
I thought his charm was something that was natural to him, like air, like breathing; but now after what happened with Blair, I think it’s more calculated than that.
I think he likes to see the way he looks in another person’s eyes.
Which means that it never was about how he felt about me, but how I made him feel about himself.
But I didn’t know that when we started dating. Even though he went to a different high school, and had a whole other life up there in Peachtree City, I thought of him as mine, when he was with me, at least.
He’d drive down on Saturdays and we’d go out and spend the whole day together, driving around, listening to music, eating picnics in the state park. Making out.
He’s not gorgeous. He’s cute in an ordinary way. But he’s got a . . . way about him.
His hair is sandy brown, streaked with blond and trimmed so short it’s almost severe.