- 5 -

It was a weird friendship; we both knew that. The bat was one thing, but it was other people who made it weird—the popular kids who made everything their business, the cheerleaders who "only wanted the best" for their misguided comrade.

Even Hellfire wasn't exempt, and that one stung.

"Can I sit here?" Chrissy asked, clutching her lunch tray with both hands and flashing a timid smile at the table of freaks and outcasts.

And instead of diving to make room, one of my outcasts said, "Get your own table, cheerleader."

I whacked his arm.

"Henderson," I said to the opposite row of seats. "Scoot down."

Dustin stared for another few seconds before he and his friend Mike each moved down a chair.

"Thanks," Chrissy said, her voice shaky. She sat, and by the rigid lines of her neck, I could tell how hard she was straining not to look over her shoulder at the cheerleaders. Part of me wanted to jump on the table with a speech about high school hierarchy, but I'd made it before, and it probably wouldn't set Chrissy any more at ease.

"Trade you," I offered instead. "I have this sweet bag of stale pretzels, and that looks like a brownie on your plate, so, seems pretty fair to me."

Chrissy glanced down at her tray. "I'm actually . . . not a big fan of chocolate."

"What! You are a freak; I knew it."

I stole her brownie, and while we grinned at each other, the rest of the table and lunchroom stared.

Let them.

We walked hallways together. We snuck out to the woods. On a particular evening of insanity, she came over to my place again, and I delivered her a gourmet meal of boxed mac and cheese while we watched Murder, She Wrote on a grainy TV I had to hit three times to get working.

"I bet you could write a really good murder book," I told Chrissy. I'd given her the chair, and I was on the floor at her feet, fighting to get my last two macaroni noodles on my fork. The macaroni was winning.

Chrissy laughed. "What makes you think that?"

"Because I think you could do anything."

"You're sweet, Eddie."

I leaned my head on her knee, and she didn't nudge me back off. Instead, I felt her slim fingers playing with my hair, tracing the waves. Goosebumps chilled my neck. I willed myself to never move for the rest of my life.

"I'm an excellent cook, too," I said. "The technique of, you know, getting the noodles out of the box—it's not easy. Takes finesse."

"Gourmet," she agreed. "And I'm not surprised."

"Not surprised my only cooking comes out of a box? Or a can."

"No. I'm not surprised you're an excellent cook. Because I think you could do anything."

"Hey, that sounds familiar."

I tilted my head back to look at her, and she was like an angel in the dim lamplight, her hair a glowing halo, her smile more radiant still. I wanted to ask her what this was—what we were. Less than three weeks until graduation, and I wanted to know if she saw me anywhere in her future. Because I was starting to think I couldn't see a future without her.

But I was still at least half coward.

"Well, there's one thing I can't do." I stood, taking her plate with mine. "I can't memorize everything for Mrs. O'Donnell's final, and I have it on her very good authority that if I don't score at least a seventy-five percent, I can kiss Class of '86 goodbye."

"Eddie!" Chrissy stared at me with the betrayal of an ambushed character. "You didn't tell me you were failing! I can help."

"Of course I'm failing—how—" I laughed. "How many times do you think I've been a senior?"

She frowned. "But we were in middle school together. The talent show."

"We were not in the same grade in middle school. Your memory's terrible; are you sure you can help me memorize things?"

She scrunched her nose in the most adorable glare. But she also dragged me to the library the next day, and she made flash cards, and she quizzed me at every opportunity—to the point of annoyance.

"What is the central conflict of Animal Farm?" she asked me at lunch.

"Animals on a farm," I said.

"Political power," said Mike. "The pigs—"

"She wasn't asking you," said Dustin. "Focus on your own failing grades, amigo."

When Chrissy passed me in the hall: "What trap does Hamlet set for Claudius?"

When she tapped on the door of my locker: "What meter did Shakespeare write sonnets in?"

"Gelatinous cube," I said.

"Centimeter," I said.

But my dry humor never wilted her, and I couldn't put in zero effort when she was trying so hard. It was more embarrassing each year I didn't graduate, but there was something else—Chrissy wore a little gold necklace with her graduating year. There was no way school or anything else could hold her back. No year would ever shine as bright as the one she graduated in. I had to be part of that.

So when she asked, "What is Hamlet's fatal flaw?"

I said, "Inability to act."

She checked her card for good measure, then beamed at me. "You got it!"

"Yeah, well, teacher calls it 'fatal flaw,' I call it, 'Would you murder your uncle on the word of a ghost?'"

"Maybe Hamlet's real fatal flaw was not running when he should have."

I could feel the ever-constant stares. The final bell had rung, so the river of students was rushing out the door, but the current slowed around us; the water whispered. Although Chrissy kept her eyes on me, there was no doubt she felt it, too.

"I can't blame him for that one," I said.

She handed me the stack of flash cards. "I think you'll pass that test after all. Keep studying."

With a salute from me, we parted ways. She had cheerleading and I had band practice. I was already fingering chords as I walked, absently reading the top question of the stack. During a break in practice, I had our drummer quiz me from the cards, and I got at least three right. Progress.

"How about a beer to celebrate your graduation?" he offered.

"I haven't graduated yet," I said, grinning nonetheless. While he went inside to get drinks, the bassist called me over to practice our opener, but we hadn't made it three bars in before a car pulled up to the house.

It was varsity hoops himself. And here was a true bully—with his posse climbing out to flank him on each side.

"Munson," he said. "We need to talk."

"We've never hung out before. Can't imagine what's so pressing now." Though it pained me to do so, I lifted my guitar free of my shoulders and set it aside. Just in case the jock took a swing at me, my face would heal easier than my prized instrument.

"It's about Chrissy."

"She isn't here," I said. "But I'd be happy to take a message."

Jason stepped into the shadow of the garage. His scowl was nothing like the golden-boy smile he always paraded at pep rallies.

"You stay the hell away from her," he said.

Come to think of it, his scowl was almost identical to Chrissy's mom.

I said, "Take it down a peg, Laundry Basket. Even if Chrissy was still your girlfriend, you wouldn't own her."

"I'm protecting her."

"You have no idea how capable she is."

She could bite someone's hand off if she wanted to—not that she ever would.

I said, "She's faced monsters you can't even imagine."

Jason traded looks with a sidekick. The scowling darkened.

"That cult you're in—" His voice lowered, but it pierced. "I heard it does sacrifices. I heard . . . it's devil worship."

Our bassist scoffed. "Cult? It's a game. Guess you're in a cult, too, then."

"No, no." I waved him off. "He's got me. I'm Satan's front man. I dice with the devil on weekends. I, uh, chopped up a squirrel, and it gave me the evil power to make cheerleader Chrissy Cunningham hang out with me. That makes sense, right? Much more sense than Chrissy being her own person. More sense than her choosing to dump a jock and hang out with a freak. That—that would be insane. So it must be the devil thing."

Our drummer returned, and the sound of the door was enough to startle the jocks back a step. The addition of a third foe to face seemed to overcome whatever bravado they had, and the lost sheep all looked to their leader, who was still flaring his nostrils at me.

"Come on," Jason said at last. "But I'm watching you, Munson."

"However will I sleep?" I reached for my guitar, then paused. "Hey, you want so bad to protect her. Did you ever protect her from her mom?"

Jason gripped his car door, the insult clear in his voice. "Mrs. Cunningham is a saint. How dare—"

"Yeah, that's what I thought." I threw the strap back on with purpose and drowned his last words in wailing chords. The car lurched away down the street.

That night when we performed, Chrissy came to The Hideout. She was like a beacon among the drunks, so brightly out of place. Everyone noticed, but she didn't leave. She clapped and made all her cheering motions with invisible pom-poms. At one point, I was even sure she screamed my name.

After we took our bows, the bassist smirked at me. "She your girlfriend?"

"Probably not," I said, "but whatever it is, I'll take it."

I'd never packed up so quickly after a show. Chrissy was still waiting in the crowd as the closing band went on, and when she saw me, she threw her arms around my neck with a squeal that set my whole body on fire. I would have held her forever, but gravity brought her feet back to the ground, and she stepped away.

"—" she said.

"What?" I touched my ear, leaning down.

Her cheeks flushed with color, and she raised her voice. "You were amazing!"

"Thanks! It's very loud in here. I'm not usually on this side of the speakers."

She threaded her fingers through mine and pulled me out into the cool night air. My ears rang in the dim silence.

"Can't believe you came." I could have released her hand, but I didn't. "I, uh—I thought you might be under house arrest or something for hanging out with Satan."

Her face paled. "Did my mom call you? I'm so sorry. She—"

"She didn't." Even if she had, I didn't matter. "Are you okay?"

Chrissy glanced at a couple approaching the bar. I squeezed her hand and led her around the side to where my van was parked. The rest of the band had already gone home, so it was just us and a few empty vehicles. I popped open the side door and gave a sweeping bow.

"Your throne, milady."

After we both sat, Chrissy scooted closer to rest her head on my shoulder. My ears slowly normalized until I could hear the crickets in the woods.

At last she said, "I just can't . . . I can't be what she wants. I'm not good enough. She wants me to be a good Christian girl, so I go to church, I go to bible study, I pray. But then I get one of the Israelite kings wrong, or she hears from a friend that someone brought beer to a party and I didn't tell—then I'm bad-girl Chrissy all over again. Lazy. Uncharitable. Sinful. Or it's . . . Cheerleaders are supposed to be beautiful. Slim. So I . . . I don't eat, or whatever I eat, I throw up. But I still can't fit in the dresses she buys, and then she has to spend all night sewing to fix them because her daughter's a fat pig."

My horror finally grew to a point where I couldn't hold back. "Chrissy, you are not—"

"No, I'm worse, Eddie. I'm worse." She swiped at her eyes. "I'm a vampire. If my mom knew that . . . she'd kill me."

"Look at me. Listen to me." I angled to grip her shoulders. "You are incredible, Chrissy Cunningham. It isn't because you do cheerleading or bible study; it isn't because you do anything. It's just pure you, to the core. You are beautiful, and that has nothing to do with what you weigh or what you eat or what you wear. It's all you. It's just you."

"You barely know me," she whispered. Under my hands, she was shaking.

"I guess, but I think it's fair to say I've seen you at—at your worst, you know." I raised my eyebrows significantly. When her nose scrunched, I added, "And that's incredible, too. You faced down an actual monster, and you lived. I'm so glad you lived, Chrissy."

I must have said something wrong, because her shaking got worse. But when I let go of her shoulders and started to scoot back, she caught my hands.

And she said, "Can I kiss you?"

I thought I'd swallowed my tongue, but somehow it still managed a "Yes."

Her grip increased, almost crushed my fingers. "Even though—even though I'm a . . . bat?"

My grin had to have been over the edge of sanity. "Just don't kiss me as a bat. You'd probably take my nose off."

I caught a flash of her addicting smile before she had her arms around me like she'd just spotted me in the crowd again. Everything about her was soft—the weight of her arms, the feel of her lips. I was breathing cupcakes, and the scent would intoxicate me for eternity.

That night was everything I'd ever wanted. It was a reality better than any pipe dream, better than any heroic campaign.

But the next morning brought news of a murder.

And it shattered paradise.