Passing Strange by Daniel Waters

father had an epiphany in the car that night.
    He didn’t say it, but when he turned away from the road for a moment to look at me, I could see that the affection was still there in his eyes, and that it might actually be blossoming into more. Four years was a long time to some, but I hadn’t aged a day, and for the love of my parents I could wait an eternity.
    “I’d really like…to take the job,” I told him.
    “Absolutely,” my Dad said. “I think it’s about time you go to work.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    I wanted to hug him, to lean over the seat and kiss his cheek just like a real girl would do. Of course I didn’t. I still had part of the story to tell.
    “But, Dad?”
    “Yes, Karen?”
    “I don’t think they realize I’m dead.”
    He didn’t answer right away, and I assumed he was considering how to phrase his reversed position in a way that would be the least psychologically damaging to me. I was already placing a lot of faith in the tiny gleam of affection I’d seen in his eyes, wasn’t I? The next light turned green as we approached, as did the next, and finally he spoke.
    “Well,” he said, “I won’t tell them if you don’t.”
    And then he did a beautiful thing, my Dad did. He winked at me.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    T HINGS AT HOME IMPROVED , strangely, in the days that followed the Guttridge “murders.” The new state rules regarding zombies—the curfew, the banning from schools, the requirement to be staying with a legal guardian—created a feeling of solidarity at home. Even with Mom, who was much kinder to me, although Dad must have told her about all the various ways I was breaking the law.
    I think she was reaching out to me in her own way. Christmas at the DeSonne household almost felt like a real Christmas for me, even though I wasn’t invited to attend church with my parents. Maybe if they weren’t such sporadic attendees—they were lapsed to the point where they only set foot in the church for Christmas, Easter, funerals, and weddings—they would have risked bringing me along, but in truth I wasn’t so disappointed that I couldn’t go. Since my suicide I’ve been scared of setting foot in a church.
    Katy threw a minor tantrum, saying that she wanted to stay with me, when in reality we all knew that she wanted to stay with her new toys. New dolls and a house for them to live in, stuffed animals, DVDs, an electronic keyboard, games, sneakers—she’d gotten a pretty good haul. My parents included me this year and supplemented my usual mall gift certificates with a present I could actually unwrap: a book.
    “We’ll play when you get back home, Katy,” I told her, once she’d settled down a bit.
    “Those are my dolls,” she said, sniffling. If I wasn’t a zombie I would have been struggling to hold my laughter inside.
    “Oh, I know they are,” I said, nodding gravely. “I’ll wait for you to get home.”
    She stuck out a pouty lip. “You can play wif them if you want,” she said. “Just one.”
    “We’ll be back in a couple hours,” my father said, his tone apologetic as my mother waved from the car. “If you could just keep an eye on the turkey, I’d appreciate it.” He was leaning in close to me because he knew that Mom didn’t like me around their food.
    “Okay, Dad.” I said. I stood in the doorway and watched them drive away. The sun was shining and I had to squint my eyes against the reflection of the light on the snow.
    I wasn’t sad. Not really. I sat on the sofa with my new book on my lap and looked at the colored lights around the tree blinking on and off. I’d bought my mother a jacket, my father a retro punk T-shirt, and my sister a trio of stuffed bears. I could smell the pine. I could smell the turkey cooking in the next room. I opened my new book and I could feel the pages beneath my fingertips.
    When they came home, Mom rushed into the kitchen to check on the food, Katy rushed to the tree to check her toys, and Dad just