Free Loud Awake and Lost by Adele Griffin Page A

pizza—maybe my parents would want it—and then began tearing the extra pastry apart with my bare hands, shoving it through the garbage disposal’s rubber shield to the teeth below and flipping on the switch for the motorized grind.
    Had Anthony Travolo liked to cook?
    These kinds of questions had begun to circle me like vultures lately, especially since my Google searches hadn’t pulled up anything more breakthrough than names and addresses of various random Travolos in Carroll Gardens and Bensonhurst. His name was Italian—had he been a pasta guy? A steak eater? What had his last meal been, before he got in the car with me? What had we been talking about, that moment before I lost control of the wheel? What were the last words in his last conscious breath? My eyes brimmed at the thought, my throat went thick. Another side effect of head trauma—laryngeal reflux. Also known as occasional mucus overload.
    Pretty gross. Plus it made me hate to cry.
    Rachel was at my side, her hand steady on my shoulder. “Relax, Ember. It’s only food.”
    “It’s not. It’s me. It’s a part of me that’s missing. Where did I go?”
    “You’re right here. Come on. You have to stop being so hard on yourself. It’s going to come back just the way you want, Embie. I know it.” She began to crack her knuckles, her usual sign of nervousness. “Okay, here’s my worst, but I really feel like you asked for it. What did the cannibal order for takeout?”
    “What?”
    “Pizza, with everyone on it.”
    “Ugh.” But I could feel myself smiling. “Are all your jokes from the How to Be an Annoying Fourth Grader’s operating manual?”
    “Hey, I got a smile out of you. I’d way rather see you be exasperated than sad. And listen—you’ve got your whole life to be a French chef. Truth is, the average high school class runs on Pop-Tarts, Corn Pops, and Red Bull. So how about you just sit back and enjoy something that crunches while we talk Halloween.” With one long arm, Rachel easily plucked two bowls from the top shelf and then shook the box of cereal on the counter.
    “Yes, Halloween. No, Corn Pops.”
    “Cereal snob.” Rachel replaced one bowl with a sigh, then dumped her own bowl straight to the rim. “So here’s our dilemma, as I see it. Are we going to Lucia’s Halloween party? Even though it’s in Tribeca and we have no idea if superrich Italian beauty queens know how to throw a party?”
    “I think so,” I answered. “If we don’t drop by, Claude will feel snubbed. And then we’ll never hear the end of it.”
    Rachel made a face. “Annoying but true. Agreed.”
    “So, wedding zombies,” I said. “Are we definitely decided on that?”
    “Yes, but not gross-out. Fashionable zombies, all dressed up. With the blood daubed on like perfume. A couple of tasteful splotches at the neck and wrists.”
    “Mmm. Let me write this down.” I found a notebook by the phone and wrote,
blood—perfume.
“What about shoes?”
    “Dunno, but it sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? Where do zombies buy their shoes?”
    “A bad joke. A Rachel Smart joke.” I wrote,
shoes?
Then I stared at the paper. The words
blood
perfume
shoes
seemed to blur and break apart into fragments before my eyes. It was as if a winter wind had slivered through the room. Shivering, I looked down. I saw my bare feet and I saw black biker boots with thick silver metal grommets at the ankle. I saw a kitchen floor and I also saw a concrete pavement. Wet leaves blown by the chill of a first freeze. I could hear a rhythmic thud of footfalls. I was on a bridge, a gray chop of water stretched all around me, and I was singing, from faraway I could hear an echo of my own voice, the tune was Weregirl, I was singing with someone, and now he stopped and I could feel his mouth on my neck, nipping it, his lips soft and cool against me, but somebody was watching, somebody I disliked, my body tensed, I turned my head—
    “Ember!” Rachel had zoomed in close,