Undead 11, Undead and Unstable - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,42

frozen carcasses. “Let’s see, you’re supposed to figure on a pound per person, except the dead people won’t eat. So … um … Nick/Dick, and my mom, and BabyJon (but he’s barely onto solid foods), and you’ll eat about nine pounds, but Sinclair and Marc and Garrett and I won’t, so that’s … um…” Math had never been a go-to skill of mine. Did I forget to carry the 1? “… um…”

“Not a Butterball. At least get a fresh one. Or maybe kosher?”

“To get a fresh one would mean I would have decided two weeks ago to host T’giving, ordered a fresh one, and in general be an organized, responsible person. What, out of anything you’ve seen since we were in junior high, would suggest—”

“Right. Sorry. But Butterballs are so dry and boring.”

“Turkey is dry and boring; don’t blame the brand. Stop being a rich snob.” Given that she was rich, I almost never had to say that. Jessica lived in skinny jeans (long before they were trendy, and now again after they weren’t) and T-shirts. We used to share a duplex in Apple Valley, and shopped at discount grocery stores like Cub and Rainbow.

She could have bought a new Ferrari every month once she passed her driver’s license exam, but stuck with fuel-efficient four-doors like Toyota Camrys and Ford Fusions. The only reason she picked the mansion was because our old house had termites, and she figured a vampire queen should have a den, a basement lair, multiple guest rooms for entertaining, and a huge attic occasionally infested with zombies.

“I’m not being a snob. I’m pretty sure. I’m just trying to be superhealthy for the baby.”

“Or babies.” Triplets would explain the gut. So would septuplets.

“Baby,” Jessica corrected firmly.

I grabbed a 10-pound turkey and dropped it into the cart. My cart was pissing me off—one of those sneaky carts that seem fine at first, but then you find out one of the wheels sticks, so you have to pay attention or you’ll run into—

“Sorry,” I told the thirty-something woman steering one of those huge carts that lets the parent strap both kids into a big plastic contraption hooked up to the grocery cart. Nobody asked me, but wouldn’t it be easier to just leave the rug rats in a freezing cold car while you got the holiday shopping done? “Uh, Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, right,” she replied with the exact right amount of tired despair. Here was a kindred spirit, between the Butterballs and the twenty-foot stuffing display. Which reminded me.

“Stove Top! Oh worse, Stove Top Mushroom? Come on, Bets. Are you trying to make this the least interesting meal ever?”

“It takes five minutes and nobody gives a shit, Jessica. This is not New England. This is Minnesota, and we’ve all got more important things to do than make homemade oyster stuffing with walnuts and, I dunno, Craisins.”

“Oooh. Craisins! That sounds good.”

I was slumped over my cart, resting my chin on the steering wheel and steering with my elbows. “The problem is, I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a plan to come up with a plan. The only thing I see ahead is nothing.”

“Yeah, well.” She’d finished the grapes and was looking around at the various food displays. She spied a baking display and helped herself to a 24-ounce bag of chocolate chips. “That’s your thing. You sort of do everything by the hair of your ass. And sometimes it even works out.”

“And sometimes people die. I just can’t get it together this time. I’m Maverick after Goose bit the big one at Miramar.”

“A Top Gun reference? Seriously?”

“I’ve lost my wingman,” I griped, struggling with the cart before it could veer and clip someone else—thank goodness for vampire strength! “And now I enjoy standing around in my tidy whities staring at my mirrored reflection as Tom Skerritt checks out my butt!”

“Oh, the humanity.”

“Why can’t that bitch just tell me? Huh? Fuck all that mysterious-visitor crap. Just tell me what went wrong and how to fix it.”

“That bitch, Satan? That bitch, Elderly Betsy? That bitch, the Anti—”

“Elderly Betsy. In the movies they’re always ‘Oooh, we gotta watch out we don’t make a paradox so I’m just gonna be all cryptic and unhelpful,’ and then everyone’s mystified when things don’t work out. I should just get my hands on her, find a blowtorch or something, and get busy until she tells me how to fix everything.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, but effective, maybe.”

“No, gross, and also that sets you on the road to Evil Town,