(I should probably mention that the reason the girls are watching old movies is because Crescent Moon Academy has VCRs and DVD players available for the students, hence, why all the movies are old).

I did not clean the dorm.

That was important context.

The girls' wing at Crescent Moon Academy always smelled like instant ramen, nail polish, and the blasphemous marriage of cheap incense and cheaper fabric softener, so what was the point?

My room added "stolen theater popcorn" and "over-ripe peach and vanilla" to the bouquet, and that made me pretty happy.

The CRT in the corner hummed like a dying bee, and the VCR had to be kicked exactly twice to believe I was serious enough to begin playing for me.

But, seriously, this place did have its own, awkward charm. You just had to really dig to find it.

Shion sprawled on my futon like a crime scene no one had bothered to outline, low-rise jeans, a threadbare tank, bare feet, and that half-dare grin she wore like a cigarette on full display.

She was a vampire, yes, but not the lace-collar, "madame will see you now" kind. She was the kind who would have carved "BITE ME" into a school desk and then challenged the teacher to say something about it.

"I brought culture," she said, dropping a cracked DVD case onto the wobbly table.

The disc rattled like a baby rattle full of gravel.

"Return of the Living Dead. It's a classic, and I love it, so buckle up, Azuki. We're learning science."

I took one look at the cover and snickered at the punk-rock zombies.

"That's not science," I said. "That's, 'what if the 80s were a haunted tanning bed?'"

She took a breath and picked the DVD back up.

"Exactly," she purred. "It's crass, it's raunchy, and as a bonus, it features full frontal nudity. I thought it was just our style."

I blinked.

"What? Wait… they had full frontal back then?"

She grinned.

"Wanna find out?"

I was about to snap the case open when our door flew wide and Hotaru exploded inside, ponytails bouncing, pom-pom duffel thumping her hip.

She was flushed with the kinetic grief of a canceled cheer practice and injustice against the concept of high kicks in general.

"Hotaru!" I said, surprised. "What the heck are you doing here?"

She looked at me.

"Practice got nixed," she huffed, tossing herself onto my beanbag and sinking like a doomed ship. "So I'm here to grieve productively. I see Shion's here, so is it movie night? Can I crash? We watching something stupid?"

Shion shrugged.

"Educational," Shion said. "It's a film about zombies."

Hotaru brightened.

"Oh! I think I've head of this one. Do they dance? Like Thriller?"

Shion and I laughed.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"Better," I said. "They file workers' comp."

We established the shrine: my battered karaoke table repurposed with snacks, starting with pocky, senbei, a bowl of mystery chips I had probably traded a midterm answer key for, and a two-liter of store-brand cola labeled COLA in block letters like it was under witness protection.

The remote was an eldritch artifact whose batteries were held in by tape and prayer.

The room was warm, noisy with our breath and the old TV's voltage, neon from a cheap beer sign buzzing through the blinds.

Shion popped the disc in with a flourish and a middle finger to caution.

"If this freezes," she said, "I'll bite the machine."

"Please don't," I said. "The last time you got electrocuted you insisted every outlet was 'your boyfriend' for a week."

Hotaru's mouth dropped open, but Shion just grinned.

"Some of them treated me right," she said, deadpan, and Hotaru's eyes widened like she'd been vandalized.

We hit play.

The menu was a single loop of synth and a skeleton pointing like, "Live, laugh, rot."

Shion reached over towards the light switch with a long leg and flipped the lights off with her toes.

The three of us were instantly a pile of limbs; Hotaru pinballed between us, stealing half my blanket and all my personal space.

The movie started: industrial park, barrels of bad ideas, punk kids dressing like they had lost a bet to a thrift store.

Shion narrated like a nature documentary.

"Observe," she intoned, "the American teen in his natural habitat: horny and unemployed."

She gestured towards the screen like an experienced weatherman.

"Is that you?" I asked. "Except with more employment."

She scoffed.

"I have a job," she said. "Punk vampire delinquentry was a growth industry."

Hotaru was already doing voices.

"Hi, I'm Trash," she said, mimicking the mohawked icon on screen. "Do I own pants? Unclear!"

Shion's mouth dropped open.

"Hey! You do not talk bad about Trash. She's obviously a role model!"

Onscreen, the military drummed a hole in the plot, a barrel leaked, and we all leaned in.

It was the big zombie reveal, the smoke, the cadavers.

When cadaver guy flopped and shrieked, Hotaru yelped into my shoulder, then popped back up, grinning.

"I love him," she said. "He's shaped like fear."

Shion clucked her tongue at the characters.

"Rule one," she said, "if a barrel says 'DO NOT OPEN,' it's just negging you. The correct thing to do is punch it like it owes you money."

Hotaru rubbed her eyes.

"That sounds like horrible advice."

I scratched the back of my neck, unsure.

I mean, the barrel will let you write whatever you want on it.

"Rule two," I added, "if your job is 'warehouse of corpses,' don't do drugs labeled 'corpse perfume.'"

We heckled like saints of the cheap seat.

When a punk lit a cigarette on a headstone, Shion stood to salute. "To cultural heritage," she said, and nearly sloshed cola that Hotaru was holding onto my rug.

She peeled off her tank to blot the spill, not thinking about it, not caring.

Shion had the modesty of a cat, which is to say none.

She turned away out of courtesy, but Hotaru still barked laughter at the sight of the skull tattoo on Shion's shoulder blades: badly inked, deliberately crooked, grinning like it knew her secrets.

"Nice art," I said.

Shion looked over her shoulder at it

"Thanks," Shion said, wriggling back into her shirt. "Got it in a bathroom in the early 2000s."

Hotaru looked at it disapprovingly, but I loved it.

"Like the Renaissance," I said.

We ate our way through half the snacks by the time the first cemetery scene kicked into overdrive.

Trash started her whole "ever think about being eaten by old men?" monologue and we all groaned, laughed, groaned again.

"Girl," Hotaru whined, "therapy. Please."

Shion scrunched up her nose, giggling.

"'Horny' is her therapy," Shion said. "Respect the classics."

I nudged Hotaru in the side, teasing her a little.

"I respected the 80s for committing to vibes," I said. "And legwarmers."

Hotaru poked my thigh to retaliate, mischief loaded.

"We should do a cheer tribute," she said. "Rip legwarmers, zombie routine, right? I mean, it could be something like Thriller!"

I pushed my glassed back on my face, feeling my body momentarily turn into static as I lost my focus for a moment.

"Only if we can chant 'Send more cops,'" Shion said, and we were lost again to laughter.

By the time half the cast was screaming in the rain, our cola was flat and our legs were braided together like we were building a human trap for loneliness.

I thought that was my favorite part of nights like that, the way the room hummed with friendship like the CRT hum, low and constant, holding our shapes in the dim.

Hotaru didn't even seem to mind that Shion's legs were perpetually cold no matter what the temperature was.

When the movie slammed to its nuclear punchline, Hotaru's jaw dropped.

"They just— They really—" She pinwheeled her hands. "Boom?!"

I shrugged, not certain whether or not that really happened.

"Reagan-era solutions," Shion said, smirking. "If problem persisted, apply bigger bomb."

Hotaru thought about that for a minute.

"Wow, kinda sounds like where we are today. I guess people loved the eighties so much they brought all of it back, huh?"

That sounded surprisingly accurate coming from Hotaru.

We sat through the credits, letting the synths wash our bones.

The disc spat out with a sigh, and we were suddenly faced with the Great Cliff: What now?

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