The neighborhood where I’d had Pete drop me off wasn’t the one I lived in. The whole way home I couldn’t stop thinking, I just made out with Pete Martinsburg. It was gross in so many ways. I guess it’s a good thing that zombies can’t throw up. After his initial kiss, which kind of took me by surprise, I resisted, and of course that only got him going even more. He was that type; the type who believed that no was just a more challenging stage of yes. Toward the end—and although in my head it seemed like an eternity, it really didn’t last long—I managed to give him the impression that I was enjoying it. I guess I can act. And then he sat back like the conquering hero, like he’s such a good kisser and a stud that he broke down all my resistance. I’m sure that when he came up for air he thought I was the one left wanting more. I wondered what it was like for him. Were my lips cold, less responsive than a living girl’s? I tried to think of beaches, of kittens, of warm fuzzy sweaters—but did he feel how cool I was when he touched my skin?
