Free Double Feature: Attack of the Soul-Sucking Brain Zombies/Bride of the Soul-Sucking Brain Zombies (The Russel Middlebrook Series Book 3) by Brent Hartinger Page A

for Thanksgiving, not just because I really, really wanted to see him, but also because I had to figure out where this relationship of ours was heading. Now my parents were saying he couldn't come. Living so far apart, we weren't going to be seeing much of each other anyway, but now the one chance we had was gone.
    "Why doesn't he stay here with me?" Gunnar said. Gunnar lived right near me, and I'd gone over there to bitch about what my parents had done.
    "What?" I said, perking up.
    Gunnar shrugged. "Well, why not? He's my friend too." This was true. We'd both met Otto at the same time, at camp that summer. "I'll have to ask my parents," Gunnar went on, "but I'm sure it'll be okay. I'll tell them Otto got a free ticket at the last minute or something. Or I might even tell 'em the truth!"
    "Are you serious about this?"
    "Why not? We can pick him up at the airport together, and we can even eat Thanksgiving here. But then you guys can get together too. You can even spend the night over here, downstairs."
    "But my parents—"
    "What about them?"
    I thought about this. Technically, my parents hadn't said Otto couldn't come visit—just that he couldn't stay with them. And they were being completely unreasonable and homophobic, so why should I care what they said anyway?
    I let myself smile. "Gunnar, you're a genius. Let's do it!"
     
    *   *   *
     
    Two days later, Gunnar, Em, Min, and I picked up Otto at the airport. We had to wait for him outside the security gate. So close to Thanksgiving, it was a madhouse. I was jumpy, excited to see him, but also anxious that somehow things had changed between us.
    I stared into the crowd of people rushing at us through the security gate. After a while, everyone started to look the same. It's not that the individuals stopped looking different—old, young, fat, skinny, black, white, whatever. It's just that after about a minute or so, all I saw were about fifteen "types" of people, like one of those old cartoons where the character is running, and you can tell they're recycling the background.
    Finally, the crowd parted, and Otto emerged. He looked a little dazed, dragging his suitcase but trying to figure out where to go next. Then he saw us, and his face lit up like a halogen lamp. He looked like I remembered, but more so, if that makes any sense. And he looked nothing whatsoever like anyone else around him.
    No, really. For one thing, he was really cute. His smile reached out and really grabbed you. And if he didn't snag you with his smile, he got you with his eyes, which are this amazing brownish burgundy. He also had this nice trim bod, if I do say so myself.
    For another thing, he had this huge scar that covered one half of his face (and others on his shoulder and back, except they were obviously hidden by his clothes). The scar on his face looked sort of like a swirl with his eye in the middle. When he was seven years old, he'd had an accident with some gasoline. But this didn't make him any less handsome. In my mind, it made him look better, because it was something unique, part of him and him alone.
    He let go of his bag, stepped forward, and kissed me. I was surprised for a second, but then I kissed him right back. He smelled like juniper bushes (and tasted like ginger ale).
    I knew people were staring at us, two teenage boys kissing. But I guess Otto with his scar was used to being stared at, because he didn't seem to notice.
    I didn't mind either. On the contrary, I was busting with pride.
     
    *   *   *
     
    Once we got to Gunnar's, Otto and I went for a walk so we could be alone and talk. It was after ten on a November night, but if the air was cold, I sure didn't feel it. The best part was just being able to hold his hand—though we did have to let go of each other and step apart every time a car drove by. (It's one thing to be stared at in airports; it's something else entirely to have beer bottles thrown in your direction from passing pickup trucks. But that's young