does, touches my arm every once in a while, even offers to rub my neck if I look tense. She likes the power she has over the McAdams twins. But it’s not like I’ll ever get my chance. She’d never give up Connor. Why would she want an inferior version of him?
“Connor looks especially handsome tonight,” Cami says.
“That thick, wavy hair of his is just inviting someone to run her fingers through it. And those piercing blue eyes and that strong jaw.” She sighs, glances in my direction, and then looks startled. “Oh, wait,” she says, like she’s never seen me before.
“You look just like him, only maybe not as ripe.”
“Ripe?”
“You know. You look like you need a little more time on the vine. Need to mature a bit. Maybe start appreciating what you see when you look in the mirror.”
I almost laugh. I mean, people never appreciate what they see in the mirror. We barely even acknowledge to ourselves 3 0
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that it’s us reflected back. We just look to make sure our hair isn’t too much of a mess or there isn’t something stuck in our teeth or poking out of our nose, but we don’t really look at ourselves. At least, I don’t.
“How is everyone?” a booming voice asks. Luigi himself is standing beside the table where Mom, Dad, Connor, and Emma sit, and he’s giving them his best Disney-inspired Italian accent. Lou’s from Kansas City, not Rome, but he’s sort of Italian. His great-grandfather came over in the early 1900s. He taught his daughter how to cook, and she taught her daughter, and her daughter refused to teach her son because, in America, men should be doctors or lawyers and shouldn’t obsess about countries they’ve never been to. So Lou took an extended trip to Italy to learn how to cook, and he came back as Luigi. “Do you know what you’d like this evening?”
Actually, he sounds a little like an Italian version of Dracula.
“Wait,” Luigi cries just as my father starts to order. “I know what you want. I know what you all want. You want . . .” His eyes dart from side to side like he’s waiting for something. “To celebrate!”
And then it comes. People rush out from the hallway leading to the kitchen and the bathrooms; others pop up from behind the long wooden bar where Luigi lets adult patrons sample different wines. Within seconds, the scarcely occupied restaurant is packed with people throwing balloons and holding signs that say HAPPY BIRTHDAY and CONGRATULATIONS and STATE CHAMPION.
I slouch in my seat and seriously think about slipping under the table. Cami reaches over and takes my silverware. She 3 1
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unrolls the white cloth napkin, removes the knife, and hands me back the fork and spoon.
“I wouldn’t want you to . . .” She takes the knife and does a slicing motion across her wrist.
“I appreciate that,” I say and hand her my fork too.
“Wow. That bad? I can’t even trust you with a fork?”
I pick up the spoon. “Looks like I’ll be having soup.” Truth is, I don’t want anything. Not minestrone, not lasagna or
“b’sghetti.” I want to get away from the fans who have crammed themselves into the restaurant. I should slip off to the bathroom and call the fire department. I’m sure the fire marshal would have something to say about the hundred plus people crammed into a room that shouldn’t hold more than fifty.
I feel a hand against mine. Cami’s looking at me. She’s the only person who is. Everyone is staring at Connor, talking to Connor, praising Connor. Dad’s beaming, enthralled by the magnificence of his eldest son, while Mom dabs at her eyes with her napkin. She’s touched, no doubt, by the idea that all these people would go through all this trouble to surprise them—to surprise Connor.
“He’ll be going off to college soon,” Cami says.
I nod. “But the legend will go on.” I try to smile at her. Try to show that I appreciate that she’s talking to me, acknowledg-ing me. But I just want all of this to be over.
3 2
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Killing zombies is stupid. I mean, really. They’re already dead; that’s why they’re zombies. So why does shooting them over and over again, or exploding a bomb next to them, kill them? I know they’re undead. Like