The Risen Series | Book 2 | Margaret

by Crow, Marie F.

  Hers are no longer the soft pastel of teal coloring I am used to seeing. They are faded and dull with worry as the many tall tales are circulating in her mind. We thought we had time to prepare ourselves for this. We should have held the time span of many hours still before forming this line. There should have been time to disprove the rumors, building courage in our over-beating hearts that race as reality is upon us with questions asked to those that went before our time.

  It is just a shot, right? A shot with many needles, from a machine that will force not really dead things into us, making our arms grow numb, unable to withstand the amount of pain that it will cause.

  No big deal at all. My sarcasm has no bounds.

  One by one, we make our way to the, “waiting wall.” This is where we form the long line of our class before making our way to any place in the building. There is no need for any extra words of caution about behavior. We are somber already, standing silent like an army awaiting a battle to come. Perhaps we are closer to mourners awaiting the march out of the church. Either way, as the line reluctantly grows, we are ready to follow the procedure, even if we are not ready for the results.

  Half of us grow anxious as the room grows dark with the lights being turned off in the final countdown of departure. The other half grows more somber, retreating into some private place of security to conceal their concerns. I bounce between each half as one moment I am lured into the fears and the next I take deep breaths to escape the panic.

  “Maybe we will get cartoon Band Aids,” I whisper to April.

  My voice shocks her from her own thoughts and she startles a little from it before turning to me with those still lackluster eyes. “What?” her voice is paper-thin.

  Normally, whispering in line is an art form perfected to avoid the ever watchful eyes of our teacher. Today, we don’t hold the enthusiasm to play the game and are overly bold.

  Perhaps being forced to the back of the line would not hold the normal threat today? I think about it, but the risk to my spotless record will not agree with me.

  “Like in the doctor offices. You go in, and they have all these different Band Aids to choose from. I wonder if they will have any.” The look April gives me makes me wonder what has grown on my face while I was talking. She peers at me as if I have just spoken a foreign language and she can either not understand me or believe me. My father gives me that look, a lot. You know, when he remembers me.

  “Just trying to find something positive,” I mutter, shrugging with the rejection.

  “Do you think the dead things will live in us forever?” April is still holding onto the fears from earlier.

  What will happen when she catches up to the needle rumors?

  “She said they are not really dead, but even so, how can anything that is any level of dead live anywhere? Isn’t that the whole point of being dead?” My answer only causes more questions.

  It is starting to sound like one of those never ending debates on talk shows my father enjoys. The boringly dressed men sit around in overly large black chairs, “discussing” a current topic without any of them really holding any real answers to the questions. They just like to talk, my mother tells me whenever I ask what the point of the shows is. To think he prefers those to cartoons still baffles me.

  Dancing bears, people, really. Who wouldn’t love dancing bears? I will never understand the man.

  “So, they will just be floating inside us forever?” There is no misunderstanding her opinion of that with her facial expression.

  “I guess? I haven’t thought much about it.” It is the truth. I am still caught in the net of fears over the needle. My mind has not escaped past that yet.

  “It’s just so gross.” April has no other comments to share as she slips back into her inner world of turmoil.

  Where do dead things go? They are put in dark wooden coffins to be placed into deep rectangles of removed earth. Slowly, that earth is replaced, shovel by shovel, sob by sob, securing the dead forever inside. We then place monuments marking the spot to forever remember what we can no longer see. The needle is the coffin. Our bodies are the earth. The scar is the monument. But, we won’t remember. Not until it is time to bury the dead again, anyway.

  Chapter 5

  The line moves slowly down the hallways that are refusing the mood of its occupants with its patterned pastel walls. The colors seem overly done with so many dismal steps

  being placed on the colorful floor tiles. We are once again locked in a prolonged moment of silence, not out of respect for the rules, but for the fears that whisper into each ear with targeted effects.

  Our line joins with other lines like a disjointed train as we make our way to the gym. Leaders become followers time and time again with the continued growth of the train, until due to the length, we are forced to wait along the wall for the double metal doors of the gym to open. They stand with their purple coloring, closed and blocking the sight of our doom that we are all anxiously awaiting.

  The teachers whisper to one another as their eyes glide over their charges. There are shared words over and over with each new arrival of “not how we were told” and “anyone knows why the change.” Their sentence structure may change each time, but it is always the same thought process. Basically, they all blame Mrs. Schinder. Just as my mother normally does, too.

  The sounds of the metal doors opening pulls every head of those in the hallway towards it. It must be unnerving to be the focal point of so many eyes, and Mrs. Tawny and Mrs. Bell stumble from it. We try to peer past them into the hidden room to catch a peek at the hidden secrets within but it is impossible. The doors slide closed, keeping their private information away from us.

  The cafeteria’s staff stares at the sea of scared eyes and melts with the emotions encircling them. They still wear their morning coats with the change in timing not allowing them the time to place their personal items in their private areas. They try to comfort us as they pass with smiles and gentle touches, but the emotion never carries into those they reach.

  “How bad did it hurt?” Teddy’s voice echoes the thoughts circling in everyone’s mind.

  With a smile, Mrs. Tawny removes her coat and rolls up her work shirt to show us a brightly colored Band Aid. My eyes light up seeing the very thing I had hoped would at least be a small bonus from today.

  “Told ya’ so,” I whisper to April, pointing at the suggested prize from earlier.

  “It only burns a little and then it is over. I promise.” Mrs. Tawny smiles at all the lingering doubts worn like well-fitted gloves on our faces.

  “Just a bee sting and then done,” Mrs. Bell offers, trying to support her friend’s advice.

  Why is it always bees? Does no other insect ever bite? Fire ants bite, but no one ever says “just a fire ant bite.” It is always “just a bee sting.” I wonder these thoughts as they roll around in my mind. What did bees do so long ago to earn them such a bad rap in our eyes? Do the other insects ever get jealous?

  “Do you think we should tell them?” Mrs. Bell’s eyes slide over to her coworker with a hidden, sly smile.

  “They told us we shouldn’t…” Mrs. Tawny’s words hang in the air like a dare to the powers that be, or for caution to the fact they may be listening.

  “I think they can keep a secret.” Mrs. Bell whispers the word, “secret” emphasizing the need for discretion making it sound all the more enticing to us.

  “I don’t know. Can you keep a secret?” Mrs. Tawny turns to us with mischievous intentions.

  The hallway erupts into a chorus of, “yes” and “uhuhs” with the idea of a secret being too much to contain the rules of the hallway anymore.

  “Well ok, but remember, you can’t tell anyone else.” Mrs. Tawny is now enjoying the game as much as we are as the space fills with our loud agreements in many excited pitches.

  With as much mystery that has been injected into the secret, she could tell us that we all have spelling words to write tonight, just as we do every night
, and we would still all cheer. Well, for a small moment anyway.

  “We were just on our way to start making a very special treat for you today. Mrs. Tawny and I have been storing it in our closet in the back of the kitchen just for today! Any guess as to what it might be?” With the ending of Mrs. Bell’s question the hallway explodes with many guesses being shouted over one another in the attempt to be the first to guess correctly.

  Tiny, extended hands wave in the air trying to lay claim to certain guesses before someone else does. I watch it all with mild amusement.

  Teachers are needed to contain the many excited voices as they rise with each new guess. Hands clap and whistles are blown to remind us of the rules they have let slide. I would hate to have a teacher with a whistle. That would just make Monday’s unbearable.

  “Ok. Ok, those are all very good guesses.” Mrs. Bell is trying to reclaim the calm of the hallway that was destroyed by her game, before more than just teachers are alerted to the commotion. “I heard someone say brownies. I heard a cake. I even heard pizza which I know was you, Paul.”

  She’s right. It most likely was Paul. The boy loves his pizza. I mean, L-O-V-E-S, his pizza.

  “What we have in store for you are some very special, secret recipes, hand made, double chocolate-chip, chocolate cookies!” Her voice grows higher in pitch with each word marking the added excitement to the special treat.

  The air around us is almost void with the sudden inhalation of breath the revelation causes. The exhale is a loud celebration of many excited voices. So much chocolate. So many sugar rushes. Totally, unhappy teachers. Yay!

  Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Tawny do not even try to help settle the chaos now. They wave like prom queens as they pass through the damage they have caused, smiling at the frustrated teachers as they go. I am pretty certain this is some form of payback with the width of their smiles. The giggles as they turn the corner confirms it for me.

  The lunch ladies are proving to be the best style of “busy work” so far this morning. They have successfully removed all thoughts of what lies beyond the double purple doors with the hints of their special treats. Just like Moms that pack special lunches and cook breakfasts into smiling faces, it is all to distract our minds for a few mere moments of comfort. I feel like when Mom figures out the ulterior motive for our actions, but keeps the secret anyway. I keep their secret with a smile as teachers keep it with a glare.

  Chapter 6

  The loud ruckus does eventually attract the unwanted attention our teachers feared it would. Our principal emerges from the secret chamber to explore the cause for so much chaos. His pressed pants and crisp linen shirt conflicts with the joy crashing against the walls. His look reels in the small celebration in a slow silence of a wave with awareness of him. Our teachers wear an expression of relief and embarrassment with the feelings of inadequacy at needing his help with what is supposed to be their jobs. Whistle Woman just looks mad. I’d hate to be in her class, Monday or not.

  “Glad to see so many of you excited for the vaccination this morning,” his voice echoes through the hallway without effort, bringing our attention to him fully. It kills the joyful mood completely.

  “Since you are already lined up and ready, we will begin to file in. Go ahead and remove any jackets or extra layers of clothing. This will help speed up the process. Once you have received your shot, go ahead and find your teacher and sit in your class rows on the bleachers. We are going to hang out for a while.” He gives us the instructions with no more emotion than a fast-talking commercial for prescription medicine. Luckily, there are no reactions to the shot or we may have been here longer as the list was rambled off giving more reasons to not take the medicine than to take it.

  Mrs. Lamb is wearing her confused look again. Something that he said has once again set off her alarm bells. Something that, we as kids, have not been picking up on, or maybe just ignoring. The adults in the hall exchange silent glances as each looks to another for hints on the private matter being discussed without words and I wish I had one of those decoder rings offered in the boxes of cereal to help me understand what I am missing. Mine would be purple with pink lights to read the hidden code.

  That would so rock. My smile is completely misplaced with the mood around me, but I enjoy the thought anyway.

  There is no heavy metal machine set up for us to walk through, like Charlotte said. There are no people dressed in yellow plastic suits with strange hats, like Richard said. There are no men in long white lab coats with clipboards taking notes of our behavior, like Scott said. It is just the school nurse, Miss Lacey, and a plastic chair.

  I guess it really is just a shot after all. I shrug with the thought, feeling a morsel braver. A morsel so small, that not even an ant would rejoice in its discovery, but braver just the same.

  There is an almost audible exhale with each child that passes through the pastel painted gym doors. The painted mascot on the floor of the gym awaits to welcome us with its smile and an over confident cheer. It is obvious with the shy looks that we are all starting to feel a little silly for so much panic and drama over this.

  Our giant train is segmenting as we pass sectioned bleachers. Just as with so many other aspects of school, we are well trained as to where each grade belongs on the many slanted rows of metal benches. Today is no different. We follow without any thought process to our area and climb the metal risers. Our shoes vibrate the walls with the metal echoes of our steps. Even with our newly found courage, we still glance over our shoulders to gain a better perspective of Miss Lacey’s actions with each step we climb.

  She sits among many plastic cases that appear to be filled with just as many small plastic bags. Her hands tremble some with each motion of preparing for the first class. She is having a hard time meeting the eyes of the Principal as they hold a whispered conversation. It is almost charming to know she is just as anxious about giving the shot as we are about having to receive it.

  I’ve always liked Miss Lacey. She is very giving with her smiles, lollipops, and the bright colored Band Aids that are now stacked and separated in rows of matching colors. Her dark curls gleam with the overhead lights reflecting in their spiraled perfection. Her face that normally fills the room with cheer is dark and dismal with nervous energy. Her shoulders seem to sag today with a heavy weight, robbing her of the glow that normally seems to always follow her, and I am not the only one that notices such a drastic change in our school nurse.

  Heads pivot from the metal risers we are climbing, one class at a time, and back to her, watching her motions and trying to gauge the reasons for her new behavior. Courage evaporates like water from a boiling pot. It floats away like the hot steam, fogging the room with our recurring doubts and dark thoughts. It is obvious she feels the many eyes boring into her with how she adjusts her body and squirms in the hard plastic chair.

  It is a pastel color, just as everything else is themed in the building. So much thought process was put into forcing cheer into every corner possible. Today, it just seems rude and mocks the true feelings of its inhabitants.

  We are selected by grade level as to which classes earn the privilege of going first. Days like this are when being in kindergarten is not as much fun as people had let on. Our cuteness can only save us from so much. Adding the double whammy of Mrs. Lamb having sat on the very bottom of the many tilted benches, forcing our class to line up first, is just depressing. Being the second child in line, that is just unfair.

  Why, oh why, didn’t I take the back of the line when I had the chance? I ask myself.

  Our steps are the smallest they might have ever been in our short lives as we march to the waiting principal. He stands with folded arms and no welcoming posture at all. His eyes bounce over each child and I know he is taking count of how many are lined up before him for whatever reason. His lips are pressed together so tightly that they are losing coloring from the pressure. His cold, business-like demeanor is an extreme opposite of the smiling mascot’s face he stands
on that welcomed us into the room. He has never been the spokesperson of hugs and comfort, but now, he even steals the joy from nightmares.

  There are no more words. No more speeches. No warnings of what is to come. There is just his sharp voice asking our names and marking it from the many crisp white pages on his clipboard. We are to stand beside him as the child before us sits in a chair beside Miss Lacey to receive their vaccine until his pen points us forward. At least, that was the plan in his head. Teddy has a different plan in his head.

  “Name?” His eyes do not even glance at Teddy, but prepare to play hunt the name on the sheets. The game never starts though.

  “Name?” he calls again. This time his eyes do look over the clipboard, but they are still waiting to play. “Son, what is your name?”

  Teddy’s voice and legs are locked as he watches the shot being pulled from its plastic prison. The smell of the awaiting alcohol wipe already perfumes the air with a stomach-turning scent. The class clown is now the class leader and he is not finding any of it funny.

  Fearing the reaction of our principal’s, “no nonsense” attitude, Mrs. Lamb rushes to the front of the line. Her shoes click against the gym floor in her haste to save Teddy from the cold words that may fall upon his already frayed nerves at any moment. She whispers soft words into his ear from a kneeling position that stir minor reactions from him, but he is still not moving forward or offering his name.

  His fingers drum against his pants leg as he debates her words. There is no way out of what is ahead of him, but his face shows he is thinking of his options of what to do anyway. His wide eyes show he is in no hurry to believe whatever is being whispered into his ear and the principal’s tapping toe shows that he has no patience for the delay. With an adjustment to the clipboard and his posture, I know that Teddy has run out of time. That is when I hear something I never thought I would. Ever.