Allergic to Dead Bodies, Funerals, and Other Fatal Circumstances

by Lenore Look

  Silence.

  I kept my head down.

  The gang kept their heads down.

  “I’ve never s-s-seen a real live dead b-b-body before,” said Nhia.

  “I’ve never b-b-been in the s-s-same room with one,” said Sam.

  I sniffed.

  The gang sniffed.

  I made a little whimper.

  The gang made a little whimper.

  “Is that all the candy you’ve got?” I squeaked in my best granny voice.

  Several more pieces landed on the table.

  It was perfect!

  Then I began to cry, softly at first, then louder and louder until I was wailing like a siren going to an emergency.

  The gang wailed too.

  They were very simply pathetic.

  Suddenly my gunggung sat up. His eyes popped out like hard-boiled eggs. This is how he normally wakes from a nap at my house, like a zombie bolting from the grave, on account of he knows he shouldn’t be sleeping on the job. And his nap was over, just like that.

  “AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​AAA AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​A AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAA​AAAAAA​AAAAA​ACK!” screamed the gang.

  I don’t think that I need to tell you what happened after that.

  when you’ve seen a corpse rise from the dead the way the gang’s seen it, my dad would call it a game-changer. It’s a move that turns everything around. If you were losing, you’d start winning. If you were in jail, you’d get out of jail free.

  If you had thought that my gunggung was dead, you’d now know that he was alive, and you’d tell the teacher, who’d tell the librarian, who’d tell the principal, who’d cancel the memorial service, right?

  Wrong.

  The game changed, all right.

  It made GungGung a great deal deader.

  “D-d-don’t hurt me,” stuttered Pinky when I got on the bus the next morning. “I like d-d-dead people.”

  “I’m always nice to dead people!” said Hobson when I walked past.

  “Met like never I a person didn’t dead I,” said Scooter, which made no sense at all.

  “I’ll do a-a-anything you ask,” said Pinky. “A-a-anything.”

  Heads nodded.

  Wow. It was a dream come true!

  I didn’t know what to say.

  What do you say when suddenly you’re practically the leader of the gang?

  Well, there’s a lot of things you can say.

  “Carry my backpack.”

  “Velcro my shoes.”

  “Do my homework.”

  “Gimme candy.”

  “Eat my PDK.”

  So I did. I said all those things.

  But the one thing I couldn’t say, which I wanted to say more than anything else, was the truth.

  “MY GUNGGUNG’S NOT DEAD!” I wanted to shout. I needed to explain everything while I still could. As soon as I got to school, my voice would be gone, and so would my chance to stop the memorial service.

  But I couldn’t.

  It would have ruined everything. My gunggung would be a regular dude again, and I’d be regular too. And regular dudes, as everyone knows, don’t get the same respect as zombie-dudes. Worse, I’d be known for wearing you-know-what.

  So I didn’t.

  I didn’t make anything right. And when you do that, you’re really in for it.

  “Alvin?” said a voice. “Alvin Ho?”

  It was Miss P. She’s very nice and smells like fresh laundry every day. But she has a habit of calling on you when you’re just about to make history as the first boy to blast out of school and straight into outer space.

  “You look like you would have a wonderful example of a homophone to share with us,” said Miss P.

  She smiled like the morning sun.

  I fell out of my space shuttle like a bird out of its nest, and landed—thud!—right on my butt.

  I’m a wonderful example of what?

  “Ho-mo-phone,” whispered Flea, who was sitting next to me, and who was always trying to be helpful.

  “Homophones are words that sound alike,” said Miss P. “But they could be spelled differently or spelled the same, and have different meanings.”

  I knew that. Sort of.

  Miss P wrote two words on the board:

  Flea flee

  Sam’s hand went up. “The first one is Flea’s name,” he said. “And the second means you run away.”

  “Good, Sam,” said Miss P.

  Then the class came up with more homophones, which Miss P wrote on the board:

  Miss P was very pleased. “Homophones are very useful in making puns and understanding jokes,” she said. “You can make a collection of them. They’re little gems in our language.”

  Flea’s arm shot up. “I have another one,” she said.

  Miss P smiled and readied her chalk on the board.

  “Morning, as in when we wake up,” said Flea. “And mourning, as in …”

  Flea stopped. I could feel her head turning toward me. Then I felt her one good eye on me.

  Then all heads turned.

  All eyes were on me.

  “Mourning is the deep sadness we feel when someone dies,” said Miss P, writing the two words on the board. “You can say that our class is in mourning for Alvin’s grandpa.”

  Silence.

  Flea made a sad eye. Her lips turned downward. Although she’s a pirate, she had spent more time working on her Chinese calligraphy with my gunggung in our kitchen than anyone else.

  “Do people mourn for the undead?” asked Scooter.

  “The undead?” asked Miss P.

  “You know, like the dead authors who are still in their homes,” said Scooter.

  “We went over to Alvin’s gunggung’s place to pay our respects yesterday,” said Eli.

  “Turns out he didn’t go to regular heaven,” said Scooter. “He got himself into Red Sox heaven.”

  “He died with his Red Sox cap on,” said Hobson. “Then he rose from the dead.”

  “Rose from the dead?” Miss P wrinkled her forehead.

  “Just like Ralph Waldo Emerson,” said Pinky with awe in his voice.

  “But that’s an actor,” said Miss P.

  Silence.

  “Are you all feeling okay?” Miss P asked.

  Silence.

  If this were a normal town, this kind of news would definitely be a game-changer. Miss P would get on the phone and tell the principal, who would tell the librarian to cancel the memorial service. And that would be the end of that. But because this isn’t a normal town, and many undead people hang around, charging admission and giving tours of their homes, the news only changed one thing. Our lesson.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Miss P. “I should have realized how hard this was on all of you. Instead of diving right into our lesson, we should have done something more appropriate.…

  “This is a wonderful chance for us to use our letter-writing skills to write condolences to Alvin’s family,” continued Miss P. “It would be a kind and thoughtful gesture to let the family know that you’re thinking of them and will miss their loved one too.”

  “Will Alvin write a letter to himself?” asked Flea.

  “Alvin can write to his grandma,” said Miss P. “I’m sure that she’ll be very touched.”

  Then Miss P wrote this on the board:

  Normally, I’m pretty allergic to letter writing. I never know what to say. But now I was severely allergic! What do I say to PohPoh when GungGung is supposed to be dead, but isn’t?

  I could hardly get started. But before I knew it, there was a stack of letters on Miss P’s desk, just like that. Then she took a white ribbon from the art cabinet and tied it neatly around the letters, which made them look like a gift.

  “We’ll present these to your family at the end of the service,” said Miss P. We will?

  “Alvin, you did remember to give your parents my letter inviting them to join us this afternoon, didn’t yo
u?” asked Miss P.

  I made no eye contact.

  I kept my hands in plain sight.

  Letter? What letter?

  this is how you know you’ve dug your own grave.

  Mr. Kemp was all dressed up. In a suit. His hair was combed.

  The library was neat and tidy.

  Cookies sat on trays on tablecloth-covered tables. Fresh flowers and paper houses sat next to the cookies.

  Grandparent volunteers smiled at us as we marched into the library after Miss P and sat down at our usual places on the carpet in front of the fake fireplace for story hour.

  Then Calvin came in.

  “I invited your brother to join us today,” said Mr. Kemp. “I thought he’d want to be here.”

  It sure didn’t look like he wanted to be here to me.

  Calvin stood against the back wall. He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were red and puffy. He kept wiping his nose on his sleeve. He was a mess!

  Then I remembered something. His fourth-grade class had gone on a field trip yesterday. And I’d forgotten to mention to him that there was a mix-up at school about GungGung being dead.

  Oops.

  “Good morning,” said Mr. Kemp.

  Everyone quieted.

  “Thank you for coming today to celebrate the life of a man who has been an important part of our school for more than thirty years,” said Mr. Kemp.

  My insides tightened.

  My head spun.

  My throat closed.

  But surprise, surprise—Mr. Kemp made a really nice speech. It wasn’t creepy at all. In fact, I learned a few things about my gunggung that I didn’t know before:

  He’d taught Chinese calligraphy during library hours.

  A few times he demonstrated tai chi sword.

  Once, he brought in treasures from his Red Sox collection for show-and-tell. But only once.

  How I missed all that, I had no idea—I always go to library hour.

  Then a couple of the grandparent volunteers made speeches.

  “He was the one who badgered me to start coming here to read to the kids,” said a lady. “It changed my life.”

  “He sure loved the Red Sox,” said a man. “And I sure loved his Red Sox collection. I hope he didn’t take it all with him.”

  Everyone laughed.

  It wasn’t what I had expected at all. There was nothing creepy about a memorial service. There wasn’t even a dead body.

  Best of all, Miss P had postponed our history test for another day.

  But Calvin mostly cried. He couldn’t stop. Poor Calvin.

  Then the principal stood up.

  “I know this class was very special to Alvin’s gunggung,” Miss Madhaven began.

  Just then the library door opened.

  In walked GungGung!

  “Wow, the library looks nice today,” he said.

  There were gasps.

  “Who died?” he asked, looking at all the paper houses.

  I’m not sure who was the first to scream, but I think it might have been the principal, like she’d seen a ghost or something.

  Cookies flew.

  Paper houses collapsed.

  Punch spilled.

  There was a stampede for the exit.

  The only ones who ran toward GungGung were me and Calvin.

  I’m always glad to see my gunggung, and Calvin was extra-super-duper happy to see him.

  there was quite a lot of explaining to do when I got home. GungGung wanted to hear how a memorial service for him had come about. Calvin and Anibelly listened for a while, then they got bored and went upstairs. I was glad they did, on account of there were some scary parts that wouldn’t have been suitable for Anibelly to hear. Then I told it all to GungGung the best I could and didn’t leave out anything, not even my very bad dream or the creepy stuff I’d learned about Chinese funerals, especially not that.

  GungGung nodded. He listened quietly. We were in the kitchen enjoying a cup of tea (his) and a glass of milk (mine). And when I was done, he smiled.

  “Well, that explains a lot of things,” he said. Then he called the principal and explained it all to her.

  “Is she mad?” I asked.

  “No,” said GungGung. “She understood completely.”

  “Are you mad?” I asked.

  “Mad?” asked GungGung. “Why should I be mad?”

  “These were all unlucky signs that you’re going to … to … to …”

  “Die?” asked GungGung.

  I nodded.

  “I think that they’re all lucky signs,” said GungGung. “They showed that people really care about me.”

  “But aren’t you afraid of dying?” I asked. “Or … going to Charlie’s funeral?”

  GungGung looked at me.

  He leaned closer.

  “I’m a little bit afraid of going to Charlie’s funeral,” GungGung whispered.

  “You are?”

  GungGung nodded. “When you’ve known someone for more than eighty years, saying goodbye is a really big deal,” he said. “It’s like cutting off a part of yourself. And I’m afraid of how much it’s going to hurt.”

  “Oh,” I said. I hadn’t thought of that.

  “Are you afraid?” asked GungGung.

  I wanted to tell him I was scared out of my mind! But I couldn’t. How could I say that I was freaked out by dead bodies and ghosts when GungGung was afraid of something completely different?

  “As for dying,” said GungGung, “I was more afraid of it when I was younger. But now I’ve got friends on the other side.”

  “You mean Charlie?” I asked.

  “Charlie, and my mom and dad,” said GungGung. “My grandparents too, and a bunch of aunts and uncles, a cousin, and several other good friends.”

  “Oh,” I said. I thought about it. I pictured all these people waving to GungGung from the other side of Walden Pond. But swimming all the way to the other side is creepy. The water gets really dark and cold in the middle, and you could drown before you get there.

  “What if there’s no other side?” I asked. “What if when you die, it’s over? That’s it. You’re finished. There’s nothing more.”

  “Would I be afraid to die then?” asked GungGung.

  I nodded.

  GungGung looked at me in that way that my mom does when she wants to see to the bottom of me. He took a big breath.

  “If there’s absolutely nothing after this life?” asked GungGung. “Then I wouldn’t be afraid of death at all—how could you be afraid of nothing? But I would be terribly afraid of not having really lived while I had the chance.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “But there’s a way to avoid that,” said GungGung.

  “How?” I asked.

  “Make a bucket list,” said GungGung.

  “A bucket list?” I asked. “What’s a bucket list?”

  “It’s a list of all the things you want to do before you die,” said GungGung.

  Yikes!

  “I’ve actually been thinking a lot about this since Charlie died,” said GungGung. “But PohPoh, being old-fashioned Chinese, wouldn’t let me do it, she thought it would bring me bad luck.”

  “What kind of bad luck?” I asked.

  “The worst kind,” whispered GungGung. “Death.”

  I snorted milk up my nose.

  “You gotta look death smack in the eye, son,” said GungGung. “Otherwise, you’ll miss out on life.”

  “Look ’im smack in the eye?” I asked. I didn’t like looking anyone in the eye.

  “You ought to make a bucket list too,” said GungGung. “If I had made one at your age, I would have done a lot of spectacular things by now.”

  GungGung got up and handed me a pen and a piece of paper.

  “Get in touch with your inner old guy,” said GungGung. “He’ll show you a few things about yourself.”

  “My inner old guy?”

  “Your bucket list will reveal what’s really important to you,�
�� he said.

  Then GungGung took a pen and a piece of paper, and this is what he wrote:

  “DANCE AT MY WEDDING???!!!” I cried. “I’M NOT GETTING MARRIED UNLESS IT’S TO MY HAMSTER!!!”

  “Fine,” said GungGung.

  “But I don’t have a hamster,” I said.

  So GungGung crossed off number fourteen.

  Then GungGung sat back with his list. He looked very pleased.

  But I was not.

  There had been death omens all week, but a bucket list was definitely the creepiest one of all!

  “That’s as far as I’ll go,” said GungGung, rereading his list and chuckling to himself. “Some people have a hundred things on their list, but I haven’t got that much time left.”

  Not that much time left? It was just as I’d suspected!

  “You and your siblings are at the very top of my list,” said GungGung, giving me a friendly slap on the back. “I hope you know how important you are to me.”

  I wanted to give him a friendly slap back. But I couldn’t. My hands were stuck down at my sides, useless, like a couple of oars frozen to the sides of a boat.

  “How’s your list?” asked GungGung.

  My list was blank.

  There wasn’t even a bucket on it.

  What did a bucket have to do with it anyway?

  But I learned something about myself …

  I didn’t know where my inner old guy was.

  But I’m super-duper old-fashioned Chinese, that’s for sure.

  it wasn’t long before GungGung went to take a nap on the sofa in our living room, and I hurried upstairs with his bucket list to show Calvin and Anibelly.

  “Look, Cal—” I started to say, running into my room.

  But before another syllable came out of my mouth, something that felt like a house sailing out of the clear blue sky landed on top of me, flattening me against the floor.