"Ooh, this place is so spooky," Marisol said. "I love it."
Marshall went on to another grave and shook his spray can, preparing for another round of vandalism.
"Can I try?" Marisol asked.
"Okay," Marshall said. "But you got to think up something clever to write."
Marshall Astor was rumored to be distantly related to the famous Astors―you know, the rich ones who went down on the Titanic. If it was true, then some other distant cousins must have gotten all the money and class. Still, it had never stopped Marshall's father from wearing the name like he was royalty―that is, until the day he had too much to drink, drove off a bridge into the river, and went down with the Buick.
Marshall was half as smart and twice as useless as his father ever was―but he was strong, had a winning smile, and good hair in a stiff wind. Around here, that's enough to make you mayor, which his father was until that fatefiil day.
"How about this?" said Marisol, still pondering what to spray on the tombstone. "'Why do I always wake up with dead hair.' Get it? 'Dead hair'?"
Make that fly intelligence. Marisol had always been one of those baby beauty queens, with platinum blond hair that had probably been bleached from birth. Our hatred of each other was deeply ingrained, but I'll get to that later.
These two were the source of much misery around Flock's Rest High. They were what I call master-means. Not master "minds," because that would be giving them too much credit― but they did have a way of motivating other people to do their thinking for them.
As Marisol sprayed her message on a nearby gravestone, I tried to figure out how I could get out of there without being noticed. It wasn't dark enough yet to escape unseen, and I wasn't quiet enough to slip away unheard. But maybe if I waited, the shadows would take over and I could scurry away before they started the make-out session that I knew was coming. Maybe the sound would startle them enough to make them leave and go swap saliva somewhere else, which was fine by me.