Chapter 1
The rising sun slices through the blinds, forcing me awake.
I stretch, trying to work the knots out of my back. It’s no use. The springs in this dirty old couch have been plotting my demise all night.
my eyes focus as Something shifts in the corner of the room.
I stop stretching.
For a second, the darkness looks almost like a figure against the peeling floral wallpaper. I squint, trying to make sense of it. The morning light doesn’t quite reach that corner, and the longer I stare, the less certain I am that anything’s there.
I blink.
Gone.
Fantastic. Either I’m slowly losing my mind, or I seriously need glasses.
I’m really rooting for the glasses.
That’s the third time this week. I should probably get that eye exam before I start seeing dead relatives.
Then again, eye exams cost money. Ignoring things is free.
I swing my legs off the couch, my bare feet meeting the cold, sticky floor. My toes brush against an empty chip bag. Last night’s dinner, if you could call it that.
The stale smell of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, clinging to everything like a bad decision.
Something brushes against my arm, and I’m not sure if it’s my hair or a bug.
Guess who’s not sticking around long enough to find out.
I stand, but a loud snore makes me pause.
I turn toward my baby brother’s room.
Taped to his door is a drawing. Two stick figures hold hands beneath a sky full of stars. An uneven sun sits in the corner, its rays trying to take over the night sky. Above our heads, written in green marker, are the words Me and Sissy.
I smile.
Sammy Bear. The one good thing Frank and Sherry ever managed to do.
His snores follow me down the hallway as I head toward the kitchen.
Not that there’s much waiting for me there besides a fridge and stove that only work half the time.
in kitchen I notice a sink full of dishes growing mold, seriously? I sigh.
I open the fridge, looking for the last egg I’d planned to make for Sammy.
Gone.
All that’s left is a case of beer and a bottle of ketchup.
Fantastic. A well-balanced breakfast.
I grip the handle and slam the door so hard the entire fridge rocks backward.
Frank and Sherry. Of course. God forbid either of them think about Sammy before stuffing their own faces.
I stare at the fridge, half tempted to kick it.
What the hell am I supposed to feed him now?
Part of me wants to storm into their room and ask why.
But that would mean I still expect them to care.
And I don’t.
The only thing that brings them to life is the promise of their next high. Otherwise, they’re just zombies.
A floorboard creaks behind me.
A mess of brown hair appears above the kitchen counter. Sammy shuffles into view, wearing his favorite dinosaur pajamas.
“Good morning, Ivy,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.
My chest tightens.
He deserves so much more than this.
“Good morning, Sammy Bear. How’d you sleep?” I ask, ruffling his hair.
“Good… until I heard Mom and Dad fighting. Are they okay?”
I take a sharp breath, biting the inside of my cheek until the sting gives me something else to focus on.
“Everything’s fine, little dude. You know how Frank and Sherry are. They fight over the smallest things. Leave the worrying to me, okay? You’ve got enough to deal with at school.”
His shoulders relax, as if my words were magic.
I almost envy the trust he has in me.
Sometimes I wish I could believe the things I tell him as easily as he does.
“Hey, buddy, I have to get to school early this morning for a… project.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the crumpled ten-dollar bill I’d been savi.
So much for lunch.
Thanks, Springfield’s parents of the year.
“How would you like to buy breakfast at school? I hear they have killer pancakes.”
“I like biscuits and gravy better,” he says with a laugh, picking at a loose piece of wood on the kitchen table.
The thing’s falling apart faster than my sanity.
“Well, you’d better hurry and get ready before you’re forced to suffer through the tragedy of eating pancakes.”
I press the bill into his hand and give him a gentle shove toward his room.
He rolls his eyes, mumbling something about annoying older sisters as he heads down the hallway.
I watch him disappear into his room.
Glass shatters from the direction of the zombies’ cave, otherwise known as my parents’ bedroom.
Here. We. Go.
Freshman biology taught me that danger triggers one of two responses: fight or flight.
I should pick flight. There’s no winning this battle.
Unfortunately, my nervous system is just as stubborn as I was when I refused to dissect those frogs.
My hand trembles as I reach for the door handle.
I push it open.
Welcome to Zombieland.
Trash and dirty clothes cover the floor. Pill bottles, bongs, joints, and white powder litter the dressers.
Sherry stands with a beer bottle raised, ready to throw it at Frank. He presses a dirty rag against his temple, blood trickling toward his eye. Glass shards litter the floor at his feet.
“How dare you smoke the last bit of it, you mother—”
Sherry cuts herself off when she spots me in the doorway.
“Ivy, honey, you have a job, don’t you?”
The words tumble out, panic flashing in her eyes.
“I don’t have any money. We have no food. I gave my last ten dollars to your son so he can eat.”
Sherry’s eyes dart past me toward Sammy’s bedroom door. A forced smile spreads across her face.
It’s like watching her shapeshift into someone else.
“Sammy, baby, are you still here? Mommy really needs that money… for food.”
The sweetness in her voice makes my stomach turn.
Funny how she can remember she’s his mother when there’s something she wants.
Frank sits with the dirty rag pressed against his temple, looking completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
Useless as always.
Sherry pushes past me, heading straight for Sammy’s room..
I catch her wrist before she reaches his door and shove her back against the wall.
“You’re really going to take his breakfast money? Are you that desperate?”
Her hand connects with my cheek before I can react.
For a second, everything stops.
Then comes the sting.
I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to make her understand what she’s doing to us.
But my eyes land on Sammy’s drawing.
Not here.
Not where he can see.
I grab Sherry by the arm and force her toward the bathroom. She stumbles inside, cursing as I pull the door shut between us.
Sammy appears in his doorway, his eyes wide.
“Ivy? What’s going on?”
“Nothing, buddy. Mom’s just not feeling well.”
Sherry pounds against the bathroom door.
“But she was calling me.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache.
He still thinks she needs him.
“Sammy, go to school. Please.”
“But—”
“Sam, I said go!”
He flinches.
And there it is.
The look I’ve spent years trying to keep off his face.
I open my mouth to apologize, but nothing comes out.
The school bus rumbles to a stop outside.
Sammy grabs his backpack and heads for the front door without looking back.
I want to follow him. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him none of this is his fault.
Instead, I stay where I am.
Because if I move, Sherry gets out.
I slide down the bathroom door until I’m sitting on the floor.
The pounding continues against my back.
Sherry’s pounding grows distant.
The edges of my vision soften.
And then—
Garlic.
The smell fills the air, warm and familiar.
From the next room, a man hums “Eye of the Tiger.”
I close my eyes for a moment.
Of course.
I’ve been slipping into this place for months, but the timing still isn’t something I’ve figured out.
When I open them, the hallway is different.
The bathroom door is gone. In its place, a stretch of clean wall leads toward the living room, where a brown couch sits beneath an intact set of blinds. A throw blanket hangs over the back.
The wallpaper isn’t peeling. The curtains are white.
No broken glass.
No shouting.
Just the sound of someone cooking.
I know better than to question a good thing while it’s happening.
Still off balance, I get to my feet and steady myself against the wall.
“Hey, Iv, can you come here, please?”
I follow his voice into the kitchen, where Dad stands over the stove, stirring something in a pot.
“What is it this time? Spaghetti? Hot water and garlic? Anything would be an improvement over last night.”
Dad smiles, then jumps back as something splashes out of the pot.
“Well, I could let you starve, but you know I’m a loving father, even if I feed you hot garlic soup.”
He rolls his eyes and adds—you guessed it—more garlic.
I shake my head.
This man should be banned from kitchens everywhere.
Before I can respond, the front door slams.
A tall, lanky teenage boy stands in the living room, glaring at us..
“Don’t get too comfortable. We’ll be picking up pizza any minute,” I call over to him.
The moody kid wanders into the kitchen, his headphones turned up so loud I can hear the singer cussing me out.
“I’m offended by your lack of faith in me! Can you believe your sister?” Dad waves the spoon dramatically.
“Oh, shoot.”
Dad practically disappears into the fridge, searching for more ingredients to torture us with.
“We’re out of eggs.”
Of course we are.
Apparently, eggs are a problem no matter where I end up.
“I’ll go!” the giant fifteen-year-old volunteers.
Seriously, when did this kid get so tall?
Dad pulls a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and holds it out to me.
“That’s okay. You can help me. Ivy’s got this, right?”
“You can come with me,” I offer, hoping to ease the tension.
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.
“Why? What do you think I’ll do? Why don’t you trust me?”
Who knew someone could get this upset over eggs?
Dad clears his throat.
“It’s not that I—”
“Oh, shut up! Yes, it is! What do you think I’ll do with the money? Get high?”
His voice rises as he kicks a chair, sending it crashing to the floor.
“It was one time! It’s not like I’m a junkie. I’m not—”
“Hey!”
Dad slams his fist against the kitchen counter.
“We don’t use language like that in this house!”
The room goes quiet.
For a second, I find myself waiting for something else to happen.
Another crash.
Another argument.
But Dad takes a breath, his shoulders relaxing.
“I do trust you. But if you’re struggling, we’re here to help. What we’re not going to do is yell at each other or call ourselves names.”
“Whatever. I’m not hungry anyway. I’m going to my room.”
he disappears down the hallway and slams his bedroom door.
The drawing taped to the door falls to the floor.
I stare at it.
Two stick figures beneath the stars.
The same uneven sun.
Even here, Sammy still draws us together.
“Dad… maybe we should try getting Sammy some help.”
I pick up the chair from the floor.
“I know you’re worried, Ivy, but I’m his dad. Let me handle it. It’s not your responsibility.”
I stop.
Not my responsibility.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words put together in that order.
I bite my lip and turn away before Dad can see the tears in my eyes.
“I just want to help.”
“I know. And Sammy’s lucky to have you. But you don’t have to carry everything on your own.”
Dad wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.
For a moment, I don’t move.
I’m so used to being the one holding everything together that I almost don’t know what to do when someone holds me.
Eventually, I rest my head against his chest.
His T-shirt smells like cologne, and the garlic lingers in the air.
I close my eyes.
His arms are warm. Solid. Gentle.
Nobody is asking me for money.
Nobody is screaming.
Nobody needs me to fix anything.
For once, I can just stand here.
I try to memorize the way his arms feel around me.
The sound of his breathing.
The smell of his shirt.
Every little detail.
Because the good things never seem to last as long as I want them to.
Somewhere down the hall, a baseball thuds against the wall.
Again.
And again.
I press my face a little harder against Dad’s chest.
Not yet.
The thuds grow louder.
Then another sound joins them.
Click. Scrape. Click.
Like something hard dragging across the floor.
I lift my head, listening.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice.
The smell of garlic begins to fade.
His arms grow lighter around me.
No.
I reach for his shirt, but there’s nothing to hold on to.
My vision blurs.
The warmth disappears.
Sherry forces the bathroom door open, sending me sprawling face-first onto the dirty carpet.
The smell of stale beer replaces the garlic.
My cheek still burns.
Sherry steps over me without so much as a glance.
I stay on the floor, staring at the place where her feet disappeared.
Then I hear it again.
Click. Scrape. Click.
Somewhere behind me.
I turn.
Nothing.
I want to go back.
