chapter twenty-three

I’m remembering the last time I felt this alone.

This memory, though—it feels so real. Like it’s more than just a memory. Like I’m there, back in those middle school halls. . . .

I was at rock bottom. Crater city.

I remember clawing through my locker, looking for a bag of Fritos that I thought maybe I left in there, when—

SMASH!

My framed Certificate of Merit shattered against the floor. I won it for being the first ever sixth-grade senior editor of the school paper.

I had hung it on my locker door.

And there it was on the floor, lying in a pile of broken glass. But I didn’t care.

That dumb piece of paper didn’t matter anymore, because NOTHING from my old life mattered anymore.

And the weight of that hit me like a cannonball.

Everything I’d envisioned for myself was gone.

I had a PLAN for my future. I always had clear-cut goals. I had my future mapped out by first grade, when half my classmates were still sucking Elmer’s straight out of the tube.

I used to play it in my head, like a movie, during that ninety-nine-second sprint to the bus every morning. And then on the bus. And, well, all the time.

Youngest editor of the middle school paper: did that. Check mark.

Then, it would be first slow dance at the eighth-grade formal, driver’s license at sixteen, followed by starting midfielder on the Hounds lacrosse team, taking us to the state championship. Then an internship at the Morning Horn News in the big city.

Next, a scholarship to my first-choice college, graduate near the top of the class, then I’d move to the city, land my dream job at the Morning Horn, three years there and I’d be the paper’s first female editor-in-chief—

And y’know what else? Y’know what the biggest, best part of my big plan was? I was going to do all of it with my family cheering me on, watching me become the person I was supposed to become.

But then the world was suddenly shattered. Just like the glass that held my dumb, useless Certificate of Merit.

I stared at it, on the floor—thinking about how my hopes and dreams were dead, done, destroyed—just like the rest of the world.

My hand tightened around the spear in my hand, and I knew what I would do.

I would break that too.

And once it broke, once my only weapon was gone—then I’d be able to truly, fully GIVE UP.

Anger rushed through me and I raised the spear and swung—

I caught my breath. Gathered my strength. In a moment, I would bring that spear smashing down against the school’s big fake gold lacrosse trophies! One final swing.

And then, like I said, I could quit.

I raised the spear high, drew up my strength, then—

“JUNE! JUNE DEL TORO!”

I spun around. My name. Someone was calling my name. Not the army, not my parents, not some super squad of armor-clad warriors come to rescue me.

No, it was a boy. The sound was distant and echoey, and I couldn’t quite make it out at first.

I realized—with a mix of shock, horror, and wonder—that it was freaking JACK SULLIVAN. . . .

JACK SULLIVAN

THE WEIRD NEW KID

Yup—the kid who joined the school paper and said it was ’cause he liked taking photos, even though it was SO OBVIOUS it was ’cause he had a crush on me. Like, one time, I was telling Jenny Muro that I loved French bulldogs and Jack must’ve heard me ’cause the next day he comes in with this massive scrapbook of dog photos he cut out of magazines. And he was all like, “Wait, whaaaat, you like dogs, too??! I had zero idea! I just always carry around this dog photo magazine scrapbook!! WEIRD! We’re, like—CONNECTED!” And I just stood there, groaning and thinking, Dude, freaking everyone likes dogs.

And then, a few months later, he asked someone to ask someone to ask someone to ask someone if I liked him. But one of those people was Quint, and Quint is, well, Quint. So when it was Quint’s turn to ask someone, he asked Mr. Burr, my math teacher, which led to maybe the single most uncomfortable moment of my life—

Yep, Jack Sullivan.

And he was in the school.

His voice was coming from the end of the sixth-grade wing. I looked at my spear, suddenly glad I hadn’t finished smashing it, and moved in that direction. Peering through double doors, I saw him racing toward me.

Flanked by Quint Baker and Dirk Savage (the Smart Kid and the Kid Who Can Grow a Beard and Never Comes to School).

They were being pursued by the Zombie Ball!

I had been living in the school with that Zombie Ball for MONTHS and it never came after me! It only tracked you if you stank like food. If you washed your hands and face every now and then, guess what? You’d be fine.

Clearly, nobody told these boys about washing their hands and faces.

I heard somebody shout something about “Indiana Jones!”

And then they were backed up against the doors. The Zombie Ball was going to crush and devour them!

Ugh. Those fools! Those dorky, reckless fools!

They had put me in a really dangerous position! I’d spent days reinforcing that door and over a month fortifying that wing of the school! And now it was ruined! All because of JACK SULLIVAN?!

REALLY?!

“I’m gonna regret this,” I growled, then—

YANK!

I quickly opened the door, and they crashed to the floor.

“GET BACK!” I shouted. The Zombie Ball was barreling toward us. At the last possible instant, I SLAMMED the door shut—

We were safe.

No thanks to the three boys who I did NOT want to see. I mean, really, world? I was just sitting there, thinking about all the things I had lost! My parents! My hopes! My dreams!

And what did life send me . . . ?

Three doofuses. . . .

Anger boiled up, building and building, until I slammed the spear against the floor and—

I was convinced that Jack, Dirk, and Quint were going to make things worse.

But here’s the thing: I was totally wrong.

Because these guys made each other laugh. And they started to make me laugh, too. And make me WANT to laugh. Within five minutes of finding me, Dirk and Quint were having a legit TICKLE FIGHT!

That night, on the rooftop, Jack and I tossed tennis balls at the zombie teacher down below. I didn’t admit it then, but it was better—better because I had someone else to do it with.

Jack and Quint and Dirk didn’t magically fix everything. They didn’t make me miss my parents any less and they couldn’t put my plans and dreams back on track. But, as Jack said, “Life during the Monster Apocalypse is a whole brick-load better with buddies.”

I knew my life wouldn’t ever be the same as it used to be.

But I learned it could still be good.

That it was still worth fighting for.

The memory twinkles away. And suddenly I’m sliding back to the present . . .

. . . in the mini golf course, a prisoner. I feel like I’ve traveled a long way, when in fact I haven’t moved an inch.

That wasn’t just a regular old memory.

That felt real.

That was Neon. . . .