Undead and Unwed Read Online Free PDF Page A

was a best friend's privilege and also because she was grossly prejudiced. Thought all whites were greedy and treacherous, with the possible exception of yours truly. Admittedly, this could sometimes be a hard case to argue.
      When we met in seventh grade, her first words to me were, "Drop dead twice, you privileged, whitemeat schmuck." The fact that she was saying this while clutching a Gucci bag didn't seem to matter to her. My response ("Go cry in a bag of money, sweetie.") startled her into becoming my friend. That's how I made most of my friends: the element of surprise.
      "Now that you're undead," Jessica went on, "I expect you to stop repressing me and others of my racial persuasion," she said primly, which was as big a laugh as I'd had that day. Jessica was about as repressed as Martha Stewart.  
      "Noted."
      "Are you being driven insane with the unholy urge to feed?" she asked in a 'would you like cream with that?' tone of voice.
      I couldn't help grinning. "Not insane, but I'm super, super thirsty. Like, jump out of bed and work out for an hour thirsty. Dancing at the club all night thirsty."
      "Well, stay the hell away...I'd hate to have to pepper spray my best friend."
      "Right. After throwing myself off the roof, getting run over by a garbage truck, electrocuting myself, drinking bleach, and committing a double homicide and felonious assault, I sure wouldn't want to be pepper sprayed."  
      She smiled. "You're unkillable now. Good. I don't need another phone call like I got last week."  
      "About that...how long have I been dead? What's been going on? I can't ask them ," I said, jerking my head toward the living room. "He's in shock and she's useless."
      "Well," Jessica began slowly, folding her legs beneath her and clasping her fingers together. She looked like a black praying mantis. "Your dad called me Wednesday night. I reacted to the news of your death by calling him a fucking honky liar and slamming the phone down. FYI, I've never called anyone a honky in my life; it's so twentieth century. Then, for effect, I burst into tears. Also very twentieth century. This lasted about eight hours. I called the rest of the gang, and talked to Officer Stud—"
      "Nick Berry?"
      "He called to ask about funeral information. I guess he found out about the accident because he's a cop and all. He was at the funeral," she added slyly. She'd been teasing me about my nonexistent affair for months.
      "Oooh, details, who else?"
      "Umm...most of the gang from work. And your former boss! He lays you off, you die , and the colossal prick had the nerve to be all sad-eyed at your funeral. And ask me if I knew where you'd kept the phone number for the copy machine repair guy. Ugh. Of course, there wasn't actually a funeral...they lost your body! Picture it: we're all standing around, waiting for things to get started, and the head mortician guy stands up and tells us there's been 'a slight problem.' Which I thought was weird until I walked into this house and got a look at what weird really was. And speaking of weird, weren't you embalmed? I mean, did it just not affect you, or did your folks cheap out and skip that step, or what?"
      "You're asking me ? How the hell should I know?" I barely suppressed a shudder. Even the thought of liposuction creeped me out, to say nothing of tubing and embalming fluid. A riddle I was in no hurry to solve, and that was a fact. "Why are you here, anyway? Not that I mind, because you probably saved me from wringing the Ant's neck. But you hate my parents. Don't tell me—you bought up their mortgage from the bank and came over to foreclose on them."
      "I wish. Thanks for the idea, though. I got a look at Mrs. Taylor's footgear at the funeral. I knew those weren't her Pradas. So I figured I'd come over and try to get them back."
      I smiled at her. She looked like an Egyptian queen, and fought for her friends like a rabid coyote. She positively despised my father and his