As Fiona frowns, Roger peppers me with questions: “Why would the zombies be on their way here, Lucy? How many zombies? How long have you been a zombie? Can I be a zombie, too? What do brains taste like? Can I still be considered a vegetarian if I—”
Tara interrupts, “Don’t be rude, Rog, she’s not some circus animal but… he did make a good point, Lucy: how long have you been a zombie?”
Desperate to be in on the action Fiona says, “She just told me she’s been a junior at four different high schools, so that’s, what, 16 years? I mean, if you do the math. Can zombies do math, Lucy???”
“Hold up,” jokes Roger. “You’ve had to go to four different high schools? Don’t you ever get to, you know… graduate?”
I step back a little, his hand is still on my chest – and creeping starboard, if you know what I mean – and say, “This is how I looked when I died; this is how I will look until my kneecaps crumble and my jaw bone falls off and my skull disintegrates. The only way for me to ‘pass’ as normal is to, well, go to high school.”
“Forever?” asks Tara. “Good god, that’s horrible.”
Roger steps back, frowns, rubs his hand and says, “I guess I take back that last bit about wanting to be a zombie!”
I look at Alex, sweet Alex, frowning in the corner and say, “I dunno, going to high school forever kind of has its perks.”
I look back at the geeks and only Tara is smiling.
She raises her hand.
I frown and say, “Yes, Tara?” as if I’m some kind of substitute teacher or something.
“Nothing, I just, well, you said you needed our help. I think, well, I think I know how we can help.”
I smile back and purr, “I’m all ears.”
* * * * *
Chapter 14
The bell ending first period rings and no one moves.
Not even the teacher hunched over at his personal terminal.
(I’m actually beginning to wonder if perhaps the AV Club teacher has replaced himself with some kind of crash test dummy or something and these kids just haven’t realized it yet.)
Roger says, “It’ll never work.”
Tara bristles a bit, snaps, “Why not?”
After all, it was her bright idea; a good one, too, I thought.
“No offense, Tara. It’s just… there will be too much noise in the cafeteria at lunchtime,” he says, fondling a fuzzy microphone for emphasis.
She considers this, nods, a little blue vein pulsing beneath the pale, almost opaque skin of her temple.
“What about after lunch?” she offers, not in a testy way, but collaboratively.
I get the feeling these guys work well together.
You know, when they’re not facing a zombie-vampire Armageddon, that is.
He nods. “It would work better with other kids around, other kids’ reactions, you know?”
Fiona, through huffing in the corner, sits up a little and says, “We could do it right after school, while some of the geek-friendly clubs are still on campus. That way we have a little more quality control, you know?”
I’m sitting now, smiling over at her helpful suggestion; she ignores me.
“Right,” says Tara, spinning around in her armless desk chair. “I could get the Drama Club to help; they’d be naturals. And they’d really get into it, you know?”
Roger almost hesitantly offers, “I could perhaps persuade the Star Wars Light Saber Duel Reenactment Club to participate.”
Alex snorts from the corner, but Roger ignores him.
I do, too.
“Don’t forget the Math-a-Letes,” Fiona offers with a perfectly straight face.
I sit back and say, “So, let me get this straight: the plan is to get, I dunno, three or so of our finest extracurricular clubs into full face paint, bad suits, bloody teeth and gums, powdered wigs and zombie drag and have them all… attack… Fiona here at the same time? So that the zombies, the school, the whole town gets that she was only joking when she wrote that little story yesterday?”
“Not that she was joking,” points out Roger, “but that we were all punking her. That you were in on it, leading it, but that you weren’t alone and, hey, lookout, here come 150 zombies now. Arrggggh!”
He gets all into it, making noises from his double-wide chair and waving his big, bulky arms as Tara and I snort conspiratorially at his tripled-chin antics.
“That way,” explains Tara, “it doesn’t look like she was in on the joke. It’s like… like… she was clueless about the whole thing. No offense, Fiona, but… it’s more believable that way.”
I nod, the room growing silent.
“And you think these clubs would participate?” I ask hesitantly, almost not believing it could be quite that easy.
Tara laughs. “Hmm, let’s see; we can either go home to another boring afternoon of live blogging our chores or dress up like zombies and harass Fiona, on LIVE TV? Hmm, I think you’ll be fighting kids off once the word gets out.”
I smile but Roger quietly clears his throat and a look passes over his chubby, typically serene face.
“The bigger question,” he asks, just to me, “is do you think the… zombies… will go for it? I mean, will… it… work? Really and truly? Will they go away if we do this?”
I hesitate before answering, “If we do it right, Roger, it should work. I mean, I might get in trouble, me and my zombie friends but… the important part is Fiona’s life will be spared and no humans will get hurt.”
Roger nods, then Tara, then… reluctantly… Fiona.
I wait for Alex but he’s still playing silent soldier in the corner, his green eyes a tad darker now, his broad shoulders hunched under his perfectly stone-washed rugby shirt, the folds of it clinging to his flat, almost concave stomach.
Distractedly I say, “Roger, Tara, Fiona, why don’t you guys start texting your friends in those clubs you mentioned, line up as many as you can for today, right after school. It has to be right after school, not a minute too late. If I’m right, the Sentinels are already on their—”
“Sentinels?” Roger asks.
“Sentinels, right,” I explain. “They’re like… zombie cops. Actually, more like zombie… green berets. They do the Council of Elder’s dirty work, moving us zombies around the country, making sure we have someplace to stay, making sure we get our monthly dose of brains, that kind of thing.”
He nods and I see he has other questions but Tara says, “What about these Elders, what’s their story?”
“They’re like, the real Living Dead. Seriously, you never want to see an Elder if you can help it. They’re hundreds of years old; barely human anymore, barely even the Living Dead. But their brains still work, and for better or worse, they’re the ones who enforce the 8 Unbreakable Zombie Laws.”
“Which are?” asks Roger, sitting up in his chair.
I smile, get a brainstorm and say, “I’ll make you guys a deal. If you can get every member of your clubs to show up, in full costume, at exactly 3:16 today, and not a second later, I will tell you everything you ever wanted to know about zombies – and then some – but were too afraid to ask. Deal?”
Roger doesn’t answer, but merely pulls out his PDA and immediately starts texting, his massive thumbs moving quite eloquently across a keyboard the size of a credit card.
When I look away, I see Fiona and Tara doing the same.
I sigh, get up quietly and walk over to Alex, not worrying about who might see, or hear, what I’m about to say.
* * * * *
Chapter 15
“Alex?” I ask, taking the desk chair next to his. “You’ve been pretty quiet since the ‘big reveal,’ any thoughts.”
There is a moment, just then, with the other three kids texting away, fully occupied, where I imagine Alex to be the boy I’ve always dreamed of; a Normal who could accept me, for who I am – for what I am.
I play it all out in a millisecond, every inch of it unfolding; as if I’m seeing the futu
re.
He will hold me, not caring if I’m cold; he will cling to me, not caring who sees.
His warm breath will caress my cold ears and he will tell me everything he’s always wanted to say; everything I’ve always wanted to hear.
He will confess that yesterday, when I stopped by the oil drums outside of shop class and we talked, and asked, and answered, and laughed, was the best day of his life.
He will say something like, if not exactly like, “Lucy, I don’t care if you had three heads and six arms and four butt cheeks, I don’t care if you’re as cold as my refrigerator turned up to 10, I don’t care if French kissing you tastes like tongue wrestling an ice spider, I don’t care if you turn my Dad’s Jacuzzi tub into an ice bath, I don’t care if you still look 17 when I’m 97 and you have to change my diapers – in fact, come to think of it, I’d prefer to have my diapers changed by a nubile young teenager – I don’t care if we break every single zombie law, I want to get with you, be with you and stay with you, no matter what.”
And I’m not sure why I’m so surprised when it doesn’t… quite… happen that way.
When, in fact, just the opposite happens.
“Thoughts?” he finally spits, just above a whisper, sliding over slightly on the wheels stuck to the bottom of his chair.
They make more noise than he does.
His eyes aren’t just cold, suddenly they’re… cruel.
“Which thoughts do you want to hear, Lucy? My thoughts on you being a zombie? My thoughts about how I feel about sitting next to a zombie, every day, in Chorus? My thoughts about almost… almost… asking you to the Fall Formal next week? My thoughts about you lying to me, every day, for the last three years? My thoughts about—”
“Hold up, hold up,” I stop him, ignoring the hurt look in his eyes, the anguished tone in his voice, the way his big pale hands are trembling on the arms of his chair. “YOU were going to ask ME to the Fall Formal next week? But Piper told me you had already asked her?”
“Piper?” he snorts. “Piper Madison? What am I, some kind of masochist? I barely know that chick and, what I do know, frankly, scares me. Even more than YOU being a ZOMBIE scares me. And, trust me Lucy, that scares me A LOT!”
I ignore the jab and press, “So, you mean to tell me, Piper Madison doesn’t pick you up every morning for school?”
“What? Gawd no. I ride my bike to school, if you must know, just like I have every day since freshman year. After the divorce, you know, Dad had to cut back on expenses, to afford the alimony. So… tuna casseroles every Thursday is his way of cutting back; riding a bike to school – even though I know it’s social suicide – is mine. Piper Madison? Where did you ever hear a thing like that?”
I shake my head.
How could I let her get to me like that?
Bother me like that?
How could I ever believe Piper for one frickin’ second?
I look at Alex and he seems hurt, confused and… well, just plain hurt.
I ignore Piper for the moment and say, “Alex, I’m… I’m sorry you had to find out this way but…”
“But what, Lucy? Chorus, three years, five days a week, 45 minutes a day, us talking, flirting, that whole time and not once, not ever, did you even drop a hint that you’re… that you’re… the Living Dead?”
I sigh.
“What did you want me to do, Alex? Scare off the only cool guy I’ve gone to school with in years? Decades, even? What would you have done if I’d walked into Chorus that first day as a freshman, gone straight up to you and said, ‘Him, I’m Lucy and I’m a zombie.’ You would have done what every other guy I’ve ever told has done; run the other way without looking back.”
He shrugs. “I guess so, yeah but… would you blame me?”
“No, but… do you blame me, I mean, now that you know? Look at you; you’ve known me for three years and suddenly you’re ready to disown me just because I’m a… zombie. It doesn’t change anything, Alex; it doesn’t change what’s inside.”
He slides over even further.
“Doesn’t change anything?” he asks, his chair darting across the tiny room and into Roger’s wide hips as he stands and grabs his backpack. “It. Changes. Everything.”
What?
He’s leaving?
Now?
Just when I need him the most?
I stand, too, keeping pace even though he’s faster, taller and leaner than me.
“Where are you going, Alex?”
“Going?” he spits, reaching for the door. “I’m going as far away from you as possible.”
“Hey, Alex,” grunts Roger as he stands up.
I hold up a hand and he sits back down.
“You can’t do that, Alex,” I say firmly, getting in between him and the door.
His eyes bulge a little but he keeps it real for the nerds.
“So, what, I’m a hostage now?” he asks, puffing his non-existent chest out, acting cocky.
“I thought you understood, Alex, we’re at war here. It’s nice and cozy and all plans and text messages for now but, eventually, we’re all going to have to face an elite team of zombie killers after school and I need you, Alex.”
“Me?” he spits, his face recoiling into something stiff and strange, making him look distant and cold and… dare I say… ugly. (At least, temporarily so.) “I wouldn’t help you if it was the last thing I ever did.”
Oh.
Ow.
Ouch.
That.
Frickin’.
Hurts.
I step back because it’s hard to believe this sweet, green-eyed, curly-haired kid who I’ve talked to every single frickin’ school day for three straight years could turn so fast, so suddenly, so… completely.
And he’s quick, too quick in the space of my dead, broken heart.
He already has the door open by the time I grab for his rugby shirt, which I manage just to snag the part that hangs over his belt loop and it holds, just for a second, then rips, letting him go into the swirl of kids as the bell rings and 2nd period swirls into 3rd.
Roger joins me at the door, breathing heavy just from the six steps it took him to cross the room, and Tara joins him and we step out into the halls, into the swirl, but already the word is out, the mood has changed and the kids who merely looked at me in homeroom with curiosity and just a little whimsy this morning now stare daggers as Alex zigs and zags through the crowd, his lovely dirty blond curls a head higher than most of the kids, quickly lost before we can even follow and grab him.
“Great!” I spit, as I grab Roger and Tara and drag them back into class before anymore probing eyes can find out where I’ve been hiding all morning.
“It’s just Alex,” sighs Fiona from her chair, where she hasn’t even bothered to get up. “He’ll be back.”
And with Roger inside, with Tara beside him, with the door closed at our backs I turn to her and say, no longer trying to be brave and hide my fear, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
* * * * *
Chapter 16
“1 or 2 sandwiches?” Ethan texts back as I work my Crackberry.
I sigh; we’ve been at this for 10 minutes and I could care less about lunch.
“Roger,” I ask impatiently. “1 or 2 sandwiches?”
He looks almost apologetic as he says, “Would 2 be all right?”
I smile and text back, “Better make it three.”
Tara and Fiona are in the corner testing the video equipment, which we’ve whittled down from five cameras to just two, which Roger and Tara will have to hold manually since Fiona is to be the star of the show and Alex has bailed on us.
In between coordinating the zombie costumes with the Drama Department, Roger bookmarks the live feed sites he plans on uploading the content to as it happens, using a laptop he keeps across his ample lap.
I’m busy watching the screen fill up with response codes and time zones as he coordinates this very technical part of the effor
t.
When I finally look away from the screen and find him looking at me.
Without flinching he asks, conversationally, “So, how does one become a… zombie?”
I sigh.
“Roger…” I groan playfully, but his chubby, almost serene face is deadly serious. “Seriously, dude, it’s not like in the movies, okay. You’re not going to want to recreate this with your little friends after this is all…”
Vampires Drool! Zombies Rule! A YA Paranormal Novel Page 9
