Never Slow Dance with a Zombie - By E. Van Lowe Page 0,4

She cocked her head to one side. "I don't care if you are your parents' last hope. Tomorrow morning, note or not, we start getting you in shape."

"But-"

'That will give us just enough time to get you ready for the state endurance exam. So, tomorrow you're mine, same bat time, same bat channel." And then she chuckled, as if she'd said something funny.

It was sad really, knowing that a woman entrusted with the lives of so many young people couldn't care less if I lived or died. But I sucked it up. Mrs. Mars, or even Amanda Culpepper, couldn't ruin my day. I was going to ask Dirk to the carnival with me. Okay, I wasn't going to ask him--Sybil was going to do the asking--but if he said yes he'd be saying yes to me.

Later, as Sybil and I approached our lockers we saw him-- Dirk Conrad, standing alone putting some books in his locker, and looking oh-so handsome. Dirk had already distinguished himself as the best player on the varsity basketball team, and was a finalist at last year's science fair. He was cute, tall, intelligent--everything I wanted in a boy. I was suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

Sybil glanced at me. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. It's ... hot in here." My palms began to sweat and itch as if I'd rubbed them in a patch of poison ivy. A lump formed

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in my throat. I don't know how I managed to speak. "Well... there's Dirk." The words crawled from my throat.

"I see him." She glanced over at him for like a nanosecond before turning her attention back to her locker.

"What are you waiting for?" I nudged her in his direction. He was twenty feet from us, wearing a gray varsity jacket that highlighted the blue of his eyes.

"Margot, you're standing right here. Am I supposed to walk over to him and say, 'Hey, my friend over there wants to go to the carnival with you?"

Yes, I thought. But I knew that's not what she was looking for. "No, no, of course not," I replied. "I was merely bringing to your attention that he's standing just twenty feet away."

"I see that, Margot."

Note to self. Picking up on hints is not one of Sybil's strong suits.

"Okay, so what's the plan?" I asked, eager to hear the clever scheme she'd concocted for approaching him and popping the question.

"Dirk is in my World History class and you're not. I'll go up to him right after History."

"And?"

"And ask him if he wants to go out with you."

So much for ingenuity.

"After History?" I said, screwing up my face. "Then I won't get to see the expression on his face when you say my name."

"I know."

"I won't see if his eyes fill with bliss or horror."

"I know."

"History is eighth period. I'll have to wait ALL DAY."

"I know!"

Dirk finished at his locker and moved away. He didn't

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glance in our direction. My doubts about the whole dating thing returned.

"Sybil, I've been thinking, maybe I should ask him myself."

"Oh, no! You're just trying to get out of it. Remember the manifesto? Boyfriends?"

"Yeah," I said weakly. "But we're just two months into our junior year. We've got loads of time."

"Margot, just let me do this for you, okay? I'm your best friend. I won't mess it up."

I wasn't worried about her messing it up. Dirk hadn't looked in my direction. We were a mere twenty feet away and I didn't even rate a glance. I realized then that even if he said no to Sybil, the embarrassment would still be mine to bear.

"Okay. Do it," I said with a sigh. But my mind conjured up the husky voice of Mrs. Mars saying, "This is a mistake, Margot Jean Johnson. A big, fat mistake."

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Chapter Three

And now a brief note about text messaging: Texting is one of the greatest inventions of all time, right up there with the vaccine for polio and the mosquito ring tone. For it allows us to stay on top of important, life-altering issues while going through our mundane school day.

Sybil, unfortunately, is unappreciative of this great invention. I texted her midway through eighth period:

PCM

Please call me. A simple ok would have done, but Sybil didn't respond. How rude! I know she got it. And I know she knows I know she got it. It's hard enough concentrating at the end of the day. Sybil was forcing me to concentrate on French with my social life hanging in the balance.

My French teacher, Mr. Monsieur--which is obviously a fake