More Than Good Enough by Crissa-Jean Chappell

zombie batteries. See if they’ve risen from the dead,” I muttered, ducking out of the kitchen. Why was it so hard to answer her questions? I didn’t have answers. At least, none that Pippa needed to hear.
    The tribe had its own rules. That’s the way it had to be.
    My mom told me that Dad couldn’t wait to leave the Rez. As soon as he got out of school, he moved into his own place with some bandmates. He probably thought he was going to be famous. Guess he never planned on me showing up. He didn’t plan on a lot of things.
    The camera batteries were plugged into the wall behind the dining room table. I had to squeeze behind it to pull them out and that’s when I saw the gun—smaller and more compact than my air rifle. I picked up the .357 Mag and felt its weight in my hands.
    Dad liked to go to Trail Glades on the weekend and fire off rounds at paper targets. He was always telling me that we’d go shooting together. Of course, that never happened. Now the gun was sitting next to a stack of bills. The safety was locked. I found the carrying case—a soft, padded bag that looked like a fanny pack—unzipped on a chair.
    I figured Dad had gone shooting earlier and left it on the table. Pretty typical. I fit the Mag back in its case. Now what? I felt kind of weird about it being out in the open. Meanwhile, Pippa was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear her. Without thinking, I shoved the gun in my backpack and zipped it.
    “What’s going on with the batteries?” she asked.
    “All charged up.” I grabbed a set of keys off the table. Then I had a brilliant idea. “Ever been on a motorcycle?”
    “Lots of times,” she said. “Okay. I lied.”
    “My dad’s got this Kawasaki. The engine runs kind of chunky. I think it needs the plugs changed, but he’s too lazy to deal with it.”
    “Is that your half-assed version of an invite?”
    “You might say that.” I spun the keys. “Besides. You could shoot a ton of amazing road footage.”
    “Oh, I get it. You mean, like, those old movies where people are driving, right? And the road is, like, projected behind their heads?”
    “Pretty much,” I said, throwing on my jacket.
    She jabbed her thumb at my Scout badge: ON MY HONOR. TIMELESS VALUES. “Is that supposed to be ironic?”
    “There should be a zombie survival badge,” I said.
    “Oh my god. That would be awesome. ‘Hey, I’ve been working on this zombie movie with my friend Trent. We do all our own stunts and everything—’”
    “A zombie wouldn’t have a chance around a crocodile,” I cut in. “Crocs have a thing for dead meat, you know? Nice and soft. If it’s too tough to eat now, they’ll store it for later. See, they’re different from gators. They’re kind of like the vultures of the swamp.”
    “I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” Pippa said.
    “Did you know that vultures defend themselves by projectile vomiting? Can you imagine sneaking up on one and he’s all freaked out and just lets loose on you, like, take that!”
    Pippa followed me into the garage. It was so packed with junk, you almost missed the lime-green motorcycle tipped against the wall.
    “The kickstand’s busted,” I said. “It’s a sweet bike, though. My dad treats it like garbage.”
    “And he doesn’t care if you steal it?”
    “Steal? It’s called borrowing.” I lifted the seat and took out a helmet, which was like something an astronaut would wear. “It’s all good. Mucho good, in fact,” I said, passing it to her. “This will keep your zombie brains from splattering all over the concrete.”
    “Thanks.” Pippa slid the helmet on. It was way too big for her, but she looked totally badass. Not to mention, super cute.
    I grinned. “You ready?”

eight
    The pavement flew beneath us. We were going faster than the cars, zipping in and out of lanes. It was just me and Pippa and the bike. All the pines on the side of the road smushed together like backgrounds in cartoons.
    As we picked up