Like the time JTC sent me an invitation to MaryEllen Marini’s costume party, which might have been okay if I was actually invited to her party, and it had been a costume party.

Fine, the Drama Police called, and they said maybe I’m not a goner, but I won’t get a tart, which is pretty much the same thing. My blood sugar is low.

I’d heard people order coffee drinks whose names went on for half an hour . . . A double mocha joka jerky over ice with a peppermint twist and a Kansas City pickle on the side.

I pictured myself falling off and getting trampled to death. Caroline would be beyond embarrassed, but I wouldn’t care because I’d be dead, and Ellie would have her fill of blood and guts until the sequel to Bloodsucking Zombies was released.

Quel Dommage!” That was “bummer” in French, or maybe “too bad,” or “scrambled eggs.

When she backed up the Petmobile it made a Beep! Beep! Beep! that attracted even more attention than the average minivan dressed like a cat–dog.

Carissa pried Mrs. Buck’s phone away from her. She looked at the screen of the game. “Quite impressive, you freaky cape-wearing gamer.

It was the woman I’d been certain had been planning to bake me in her oven but instead, had rescued us with a tractor.

How can a zombie be hot?” Sam asked. “I mean, they’re dead. They must smell terrible, and random body parts just fall off and tumble to the ground.