It makes my shoulders tight to think about graduation. To think about next fall when we’re all separated, to think about moving on, moving out, what if I can’t hack it? What if no one else likes me? Just these girls I met in elementary school, and the rest of the world doesn’t care. Or worse.
What if I’m fundamentally unlikeable, and I drive everyone away with questions like this?
How do you stop asking questions?
Okay, so even if I do let go, or if they go anyway, which they will, no matter if I’m ready or not, how am I supposed to start over without them?
It doesn’t matter if Siggy makes me so annoyed sometimes with her boyfriend and her occasional insensitivity. It doesn’t matter if Imani can be frustrating with her grown-up seriousness, and it doesn’t even matter that Blair—
A knife twists in my heart at the name.
Okay, so it still does matter about Blair, duh, don’t be foolish, June.
I’m not going to let her ruin this for me. For us.
“June, I feel like you’re getting caught in it,” Imani says gently, and her hand touches my arm.
Sometimes I get too worked up. My mom calls it anxiety, Imani calls it “getting caught,” and I call it being a normal, rational person who can see all the ways everything can go wrong.
“She’s on the way,” Imani says. “Deep breaths.”
I gulp down air, take deep breaths, and nod at Imani.
“It’s not just Siggy. What is it?” Imani asks.
She’s got Spidey-level insight with me. And I do with her, too. We can always see when something is bothering the other, or when the other is upset about the thing underneath the thing.
I wave my hand at the world.
“It’s everything,” I say. “Blair and Scott. And graduation and stuff.”
Imani nods and pulls me into a hug, giving me a big squeeze.
It calms me down, and I squeeze her back to say thanks.
And I really do feel better. Just like that.
The line moves forward, and we step around the edge of the building. I can see the doors and the large ZombieCon! banner designed like a biohazard warning. Above it is a massive promotional sign for Human Wasteland, as big as a billboard, unrolled from the top of the three-story convention center. The main cast stares out at us from the sign, worry lines furrowing their brows, sweat staining their very close-fitting and/or strategically ripped clothes, their eyes intense with everything they’ve seen.
Oh my God, I love this show!
A separate banner hangs below it, the tagline for this season, written in letters three feet tall: WILL YOU SURVIVE . . .
It can be a question, but they write it like an unfinished sentence because it has more impact that way, sounds like an imperative statement, use your will, choose to fight, because one of the themes of the show is what will it take to survive?
Will you survive . . .
A jolt of happy adrenaline dumps into my veins, and I turn and grab Imani’s arms. And something I love about her (and Siggy, too, if she was here, dammit, I’m going to throttle her) is we know each other’s thoughts almost instantly, and even though I was just worrying, Imani is with me immediately right now, a jolt of pure excitement, as we scream at each other.
“ZOMBIECON!”
We’re here, it’s our senior year, graduation is seven months away, and we will be friends forever, no matter what. This day is going to be one of those Special Memories we always think about, think back to, and we’ll have the photo op with Hunter Sterling at the end of the day to prove it was the best day ever. Nothing’s going to stop us. It’ll be the perfect day, maybe the best day of our entire senior year.
Forget prom.
Forget graduation.
We’re at ZombieCon!
3
After taking and posting multiple selfies with the banners behind us, Imani and I start rehashing our plans for the day: listing who we’re going to pay for their autograph, who we might pay for a selfie at their tables, what we might buy for souvenirs. We strike up a conversation with the people in front of us, two girls and a guy, sharing the latest fandom gossip about the current showrunner, who is doing a great job with the show but seems to be a bit of a jerk at cons, and talking about the newest characters on the show.
“Man, it’s too bad our friend Siggy isn’t here, Linus and Annie are her absolute favorites,” Imani tells them.
As we get closer to the doors, the energy of the crowd picks up; you can feel it building like a wave. It’s good-natured, excitement and eagerness, but nobody’s pushing or shoving. It’s that elevated, amped-up feeling from our community of fans. Everyone here loves the same thing.
Pop music blares from the radio station van parked on the side of the convention center. The local reporter stands interviewing people in the line. She pulls over a rowdy group who roar just like football fans in a stadium when the camera sweeps over them.
Now I can see the doors and more importantly the security checkpoint in front of them that’s slowing everyone down. A bag check area, a metal detector, and a pat-down station. Beyond them is the main entrance to the convention center: a three-story, semicircular glass wall arcing out toward the street, with five sets of double doors set at regular intervals along its round edge.
“We could just go in and meet up with Siggy inside,” Imani says, twisting her ZombieCon! badge on the shoestring-style lanyard around her neck.
I glance at my phone. Still no texts.
“No, we need to wait,” I say.
“We have phones, June,” Imani says. “We could just meet up inside.”
I can feel it, too. The open doors, so close now, are pulling at me like they have hands, gently tugging. I can smell the slightly chemical newness of the inside—the walls, the carpet, the air conditioner, urging so many wonders within.
“Imani, we have to wait. Yes, she screwed up, and yes, we’re going to kill her, a little, when she gets here, but we can’t just go in without her. No friend left behind! Fight together or end alone! We have to decide right now who we are. Do we leave people behind? I say nay! We wait! All together or none at all!”
“Sweet lord,” Imani groans, laughing. “Juuuuuuuuuuune. We have phoooooones.”
But no, I will not be swayed. This is how a day gets ruined. These little compromises and I’ll-meet-you-laters that turn into meeting-you-not-at-alls. The next thing you know you spent the whole day apart, planning to meet up “sometime.”
Besides I can feel the oratory loading up in my brain, almost like there’s a swell of inspirational music underneath it. So, I lean into it, tenting a hand on my collar bones in affront.