My grandparents nodded in unison, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“No,” I said. “I promise. No drinking.” On my part, I silently added. Who knew what the other kids would be doing—after taking shots of tequila off of each other’s bellies.
“All right, then. We’ll trust you. Unless and until you give us reason not to,” Nana added in that stern, motherly tone of hers. “But we’ll want to meet this boy, talk to him before you leave with him, that kind of thing.”
I did not allow myself to gulp guiltily, even though I wanted to. “Thank you. He’s nice, I promise. But we’re not interested in each other that way.”
“Then why are you going out with him?” Nana asked, clearly exasperated with my continued insistence.
“Because he asked me.”
“Are you leading him on?” Pops demanded.
“No!”
“We ask because we care.” Nana brushed her hands together, and crumbs went flying in every direction. “Now, then. Do you need a few dead presidents?”
Took me a minute to decipher that one, too. “Maybe a few…Washingtons,” I said, giving the slang a shot just to make them happy. They were such good people. They’d taken me in, given me a home, food and even personal space to mourn in my own way.
Pops pulled out his wallet. “What if there’s an emergency, and this boy leaves you alone in the restaurant? He is taking you to eat at a nice place, isn’t he? I’ll give you a few Lincolns.” He withdrew three fives, placed them in my hand and closed my fingers around them.
“Uh, we’re not going out to eat.”
“What kind of boy takes a girl to a party without feeding her first? Not one I’d want to date, that’s for sure,” Nana said.
Someone help me. “We’re not dating!”
They had a few more questions about the party—was I planning to skinny-dip, play strip anything or naked Ping-Pong—leaving me in flames of mortification. By the end I managed to convince them of my determination to keep my clothes on and we agreed on a twelve-thirty curfew. We also agreed that I would call if Justin got “handsy.”
I liked that they cared enough about me to be concerned, but, oh, wow, this was painful. I’d never had this experience with my parents because I’d never gone out. Too bad I hadn’t realized what a blessing that was until too late.
Back in my room, I finally had the opportunity to research zombies without falling asleep. Most of the info I found stemmed from movies, fictional books, a magazine about dating the undead, and role-playing that icked me out big-time, especially with images of naked Ping-Pong running through my mind. There was nothing I could take seriously, but I did find a few forums where people speculated about were-zombies-real-or-weren’t-they, what to do if you actually found one and the possibility of an uprising.
Nothing mirrored what Cole and Frosty had told me, and that proved one of two things. Either we were the best-kept secret in the world, or I just hadn’t found the right sites. I was leaning toward option two. Even my dad had managed to find a site with tidbits of correct information. He’d read that guns wouldn’t hurt the zombies; he just hadn’t believed.
As I was closing the laptop, I spotted Emma’s photo and the journal I’d left on my closet floor. Nana must have done some cleaning and placed the items on my desk. I blew Emma a kiss before picking up the journal.
How could I have forgotten it, even for a moment? It was the reason I’d known about spirit, soul and body before Cole had told me. And really, maybe this was where my dad had gotten his information.
Anticipation danced through me. I cracked the spine and read from where I’d left off.
I’ve been able to see the evil among us all of my life, but I didn’t learn how to fight it until much later, and then only by accident. I tried using a knife—nothing. I tried shooting—again nothing. Finally, when the monsters cornered me, I wanted so badly to destroy them, and deep down, I knew I could. I just didn’t know how. A split second later, my spirit was out of my body. (Later I would learn that the wonder known as faith was the cause of the separation. You can stumble upon it, and not realize until later.) Suddenly I could touch the evil creatures I’d before only seen—and they could touch me.
After that, they were more determined than ever to end me. They hunted me as if I were wild game. For a while, I ran. But always they followed me, their darkness drawn to my light.
I had to teach myself how to ambush them.
Teach me! I thought with a flare of excitement.
If you possess the ability to see them, you should possess other abilities as well. A more highly developed sense of smell. An inward knowing of when evil approaches. A hand of heat.
“Check, maybe check, can’t check yet,” I muttered.
Those abilities should be common to all of us, but some slayers refuse to yield to the power that swirls inside them. Why? I always wonder. Fear?
“Possible check.”
Oh, if only all of us would yield! There are even more abilities to be had, so many more.
Like the visions Cole and I shared, perhaps.
But all right. I can hear you now. You want to do something easy. Well, then. Speak. There is power in our words, when we wholly believe what we’re saying, and that power is available even in this natural realm. There is an energy that creates whatever is spoken without doubt, allowing our words to be a weapon for us—but if we aren’t careful, they’ll become a weapon against us.
Like everything else, I had to learn the hard way.
But I can hear you now. If there’s so much power in our words, we should be able to speak the end of the zombies, right? Wrong! The amount of power we wield with our words stems from the strength of our belief. Can you honestly tell me that you believe, from the bottom of your heart, that when you say something like, “All zombies are wiped out, gone,” that it will happen? No, you can’t. You don’t believe it’s possible.
Cole had already told me about the speaking thing, and though I’d first doubted him, this acted as confirmation. I’d have to be more open-minded about this stuff.
More than that, we can only believe for ourselves. We can’t believe for others. We can protect ourselves, but we can’t always protect others. And sometimes, what we speak takes time to manifest. How much patience do you have? How long can you believe before you begin to doubt? Doubt, even a little, and you’ve rendered your words powerless.