Kiss of Life

by Daniel Waters

  "Takayuki," she said, taken aback but still reaching automatically for the bag of candy. Takayuki had always gone out of his way to make her feel uncomfortable, and she hadn't

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  seen him since Adam's death. "How have you been?" Her voice broke, betraying her nervousness.

  "Dead." The comment put a mirthful, malevolent glint in the dull eyes of his companions. One of them was Tayshawn, who had dropped out of their Undead Studies class, but Phoebe didn't recognize the other two. Zombies were always showing up at the Haunted House, attracted mostly by the writing on Tommy's blog, mysocalledundeath.com . Phoebe hadn't been back to the house since Adam died.

  The boy next to Takayuki was wearing a long silver earring and sunglasses with dark lenses. His shaved head gleamed like a second moon in the porch light. When he smiled, he revealed teeth that had been sharpened into rough points. He was wearing a leather jacket similar to Tak's, but the cuffs were stained and spattered with red, as were the tips of the fingers on his bone white hand. There was a very tall fourth boy lurking behind them, his face cast in shadow.

  Phoebe reached into the bag and withdrew a few pieces of candy. Tak was the person who had "avenged" Adam, but his presence generated no warmth in her. Whatever it was that drove him to hunt Pete down, his motives were unlikely to have had anything to do with her, Adam, or any of the other "beating hearts" that Takayuki disdained.

  "Where are your Halloween bags?" she asked, holding the candy in front of her, feeling foolish. The dead had no use for chocolate. They had no use for her either.

  Tak looked over his shoulder. "George," he said, "come trick ...or-treat from the nice ...soft...beating heart."

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  Tak and the other boys moved aside so George could ascend the steps. The boy wore a tattered brown jacket, jeans with shredded cuffs, and a soiled T-shirt with holes big enough for Phoebe to see where patches of flesh were missing from his rib cage. He looked at her as he limped up the stairs with a big plastic trick-or-treat bag that had a garish jack-o'-lantern blazing beneath a green and warty witch. The boy was not a pretty sight. He was missing an ear and half his nose, and his hair looked as if it had been washed with sewage. He studied as if he'd been washed with sewage.

  But the scariest part of him was his eyes. They were like no other zombie eyes she'd ever seen. No matter how flat or glassy the eyes of the differently biotic were, there was always at least a glimmer of intelligence within. Not so with George. There was nothing in his eyes. Nothing at all.

  Holding her breath, she forced herself to hold his non-stare. Some of my best friends are dead, she told herself. This boy may be more dead in appearance, but he's no less a person than they are.

  He looked at her, or looked through her, she couldn't tell, and opened his bag. She dropped in a piece of candy, but the noise that it made when it landed was not the familiar paper on paper sound wrapped candy made. She glimpsed inside the bag and saw a round wet lump of red and gray fur, and a curling tail.

  She shrieked, jumping back.

  The dead pretended to laugh. "Can Adam ...come out ...and play?" Takayuki asked.

  Her heart was beating wildly as she looked over her

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  shoulder to where Adam sat with his back to the wall. He looked like he was trying, but failing, to speak.

  "No," she stuttered. "We're spending the night at home, thank you."

  Takayuki cracked his knuckles, making sure she could see the ones that were no longer covered with skin.

  "Someday," he said, "he will...want... to be with ... his own kind."

  "He is," she said, regaining her composure. Tak was just another bully, and she was sick of bullies. "I'm his kind."

  "Sure," Tak said as he and his companions began to fade into the night.

  "Happy ...Halloween."

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  CHAPTER THREE

  I PEAKING WITH the dead was always disconcerting, but speaking with Karen

  DeSonne was positively otherworldly. Karen's eyes were like diamonds; Phoebe swore she could see refracted rainbows in them when they were out from under the fluorescent wash of the school's lighting. Even in darkness they seemed to twinkle like far off stars.

  Phoebe started eating and was about to ask Margi if she would trade her peach for a yogurt, when she saw Karen from across the crowded cafeteria, her long mane of platinum hair bouncing with each clipped step. Phoebe looked down at her food with sudden interest, even though she knew staring into her salad would not ward off the conversation to come.

  "Here's ...Karen," Colette said, after peering into Phoebe's yogurt as if she couldn't believe she'd ever eaten anything that looked like that. "She's on ...a ...mission."

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  Even with her head down, Phoebe was aware of boys from the surrounding tables craning to get a better look at Karen and her micro skirt and high boots. At one time it was considered impolite to stare at the dead, back in the days where the term of choice was "living impaired." Impaired no longer, the differently biotic could be gawked and leered at just like any other teenage girl. Phoebe wasn't sure if Karen liked the attention or thought it perverse, but if she had to guess, she'd go with liking it.

  Halloween had been pretty much a nonevent at Oakvale High. In years past there might have been jokes about the differently biotic already being in costume, but no longer--maybe because Halloween seemed superfluous in an age where the dead walked the earth. But a subtle shift was taking place among the students in adapting to what some called "the second chance" and still others called "the undead plague"--an acceptance. There were still those like Pete Martinsburg who feared or hated the differently biotic kids, but most regarded them with no more interest than they would anyone else.

  That was the reaction they had for most db kids, anyway. The reaction they had for Karen was special, and no different than they had for any other girl as flat out hot as she was. Phoebe thought of the grisly quartet that had stood on Adam's doorstep last night and couldn't believe how far ranging the differently biotic experience could be.

  "Phoebe," Karen said, her voice breathy, as though it had taken her effort to cross the room at such a speed. "Hi, Margi. Colette."

  "Hey, K," Margi replied, lifting her diet soda in a silent

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  toast. The usual clinking of her dozen-odd silver bangles was muted by her newest fashion fad, which was to twist thin wristlets out of electrical tape. Colette waved.

  "Phoebe," Karen repeated, and Phoebe lifted her head. "How much longer are you going to ignore Tommy?"

  "We're fine, K," Margi cut in. "Thanks for asking. And yourself? Really? No, I didn't watch the game last night. Colette and I handed out six bags of candy. We were both Hannah Montanas. I'm afraid I did not know that you were such a fan of NBA basketball. Isn't that interesting, Pheebes?"

  Phoebe watched Karen swivel toward Margi, imagining her diamond eyes flashing into life like twin lasers.

  "I'm not in the mood, Margi," she said. "I just had to endure about an hour of...interrogation about whether or not I ...defaced the school last night."

  "Did you crack?" Margi said. "Did you sing like a canary?"

  "Funny. I don't even know who did ...it."

  "Yeah, you ...do," Colette said, frowning.

  "What did 'they' do?" Phoebe asked.

  Karen and Colette exchanged a glance before Karen answered.

  "They ...spray painted the side of the school." "What did they spray?"

  '"Adam Layman ... no rest, no peace.'" Karen's crystalline gaze was steady and unflinching. "Over a drawing of a ...tombstone ...and an open grave."

  Phoebe frowned, thinking of the boy with the stained cuffs and hands.

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  "Did they use red paint?"

  Karen nodded. A tense silence followed until Colette broke it a few moments later.

  "I guess they ...will be ...talking to me ...next."

  "Could be," Karen said. "They already spoke to Tommy and Kevin. Strange h
ow they don't even ...consider ...that a trad may have done it."

  "A trad ...didn't do it ...and you ...know it," Colette said. Karen shrugged

  "You know who did it?" Margi asked. None of the other girls answered her.

  Karen sighed, turning back to Phoebe. The sigh sounded realistic even though Karen didn't need to breathe.

  "Phoebe, don't you think you've left you and Tommy ...unresolved?" she asked. "Don't you think he ...deserves ... a conversation at least?"

  "Deserves," Phoebe said. She didn't feel good about avoiding him, but that didn't mean that she thought that he "deserved" anything.

  "He hasn't ...been himself...since you stopped talking to him."

  Phoebe poked at her wilted salad. She didn't like the hitch in Karen's speech. Karen wasn't like most differently biotic people. She could usually converse without any of the pauses and stops that marked typical zombie speech patterns. Phoebe had noticed that with "highly functional" db kids like Karen and Tommy, pauses meant they were feeling emotional, or as close to emotional as the dead could be.

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  "I've been really busy, Karen," she replied. It sounded lame even to her. "I go over to Adam's every night, and I ..."

  "I know all about Adam, Phoebe," Karen said. "Adam isn't here, and there's no reason why you couldn't give Tommy five minutes of your time. You know, like you used to every day before algebra class back when the two of you were ...dating?"

  Phoebe blushed and set her fork down. She heard Margi tell Karen to take it easy, but she lifted up her hand before Karen could say more.

  "I'm sorry, Karen," she said. "It's just really hard."

  "It's hard," Karen repeated, her voice growing husky. It was amazing, what Karen could do with her voice, altering the flat monotone that marked the speech of the dead. Phoebe raised her head so she was staring into the blank lights of Karen's eyes. "You think it's hard."

  "I know what you're going to say, Karen. I know."

  Phoebe knew that the differently biotic had to work at expressing emotions on their faces. She knew from being with Adam since his death that he could have emotions trapped deep within his still heart that his body would no longer convey. She'd spent long hours helping him walk or exercise in the hopes of bringing back a range of motion to his stiff limbs, long hours just sitting holding his hand or leaning against his arm. The time together might make him happy, or grateful, or sad, but Phoebe didn't know. Adam couldn't show it. Yet.

  Karen was better at nuance than any of them, as good as some living kids, almost. But if Karen felt any pity for Phoebe, there was no sign of it on her cold, beautiful face.

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  "Adam needs me right now, Karen," she said. "His mom said he fell again...."

  "He fell?" Margi asked. "I didn't think he could, like, walk yet. Without help."

  "He can't. He tries, of course. He's stubborn."

  "That isn't being stubborn. It's being smart. He isn't going to ...come back ... by sitting around on his can all day and night."

  Phoebe wasn't sure if Karen was being practical or cruel. "He needs me, Karen. I just don't ... I don't think I have anything left for anyone else."

  Tommy never needed me the way Adam does, Phoebe thought.

  Karen put her arms on the table in front of her, palms up. Phoebe couldn't help but notice how smooth and white they were, like she had been carved from a single piece of white stone.

  "I know Adam needs you, honey," she said. "He always did."

  Phoebe hesitated, then placed her hands on Karen's open palms, relieved that the subject of Tommy was dropped for the moment. Karen's hands felt warmer than hers, which Phoebe could never understand no matter how many times she experienced it.

  "Awww," Margi said. "See, we can all play nice."

  Karen smiled, looking embarrassed. "I know it's hard, sweetie. I guess I should be asking how I can help instead of bullying you."

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  Phoebe felt a tear roll down her cheek, but Karen was holding her hands so it made it all the way to her jawline before Margi leaned over and wiped it away with the edge of her napkin.

  "I don't know," Phoebe said, crying openly now. "Adam ... Adam isn't like you, Karen. Or like Tommy. Tommy told me that you and he came back more because ...because you were loved, and I'm trying with Adam, but it just isn't working."

  "He's more ... like me," Colette said. "It will...take time."

  The girls fell silent as Principal Kim walked over to their table and asked Colette to follow her. As Colette rose, Principal Kim looked at Phoebe and noticed she'd been crying.

  "Phoebe?"

  She turned, embarrassed.

  "Um," she said, "yes, Principal Kim?"

  "Are you all right, Phoebe?"

  "Yes. I'm fine, thank you."

  Principal Kim gave a slow nod. Phoebe prayed that she wouldn't bring up counseling again: counseling for this and that. Because your friends are dead, because your friends aren't dead. Because they are dead and then they aren't dead and how do you feel about that? How do you feel? How do they feel? How can they feel?

  Principal Kim's silence was worse even than the mandatory counseling that they'd made Phoebe go to for the first week after Adam was killed. Margi and Karen were looking at the table, compounding the air of guilt that seemed to hang over their lunch.

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  "Um, is there anything else, ma'am?" Phoebe said, finally.

  The principal thought a moment before answering her question. "You wouldn't know who vandalized the school last night, would you?"

  "No," she said, the lie passing her lips with surprising ease.

  "I know you spend a lot of time with the differently biotic students," she said, looking at Karen apologetically. "With Adam, and with other kids that don't go to our school."

  "You don't know that a zombie did it."

  "No, I don't," she said. "But I thought you might know if someone was ...upset with the situation."

  "Everyone should be upset." Phoebe's eyes were burning, but she refused to cry again.

  "Of course," Ms. Kim's voice was soft. "Understand, I'm more interested in getting people the help they need than I am in punishment. You realize that, don't you? All of you?"

  Karen said she did, and Phoebe nodded. She was afraid to use her voice.

  Ms. Kim held her gaze. "Well, I'm sure you'll let me know if I can help. Let's go, Colette."

  They watched her leave, Karen shaking her head. "You get a few questions, we get interrogated. That's fair."

  "I'm sorry," Phoebe said, rubbing at the corners of her eyes. "Thank God, I don't have mascara on today."

  "Yeah, what's up with that?" Margi said, as eager to derail the conversation as she was. "And what's with the new wardrobe too?"

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  Phoebe looked down at her light green blouse, shrugging. "I just thought it was time for a change."

  "A change?" Margi said. "I barely even recognize you half the time now. What are those-- slacks'! Blue jeans? And all the colors ..."

  "She doesn't want to look like she's in mourning," Karen said.

  Phoebe, her tears under control, pursed her lips. Sometimes it really did feel as if Karen was walking around inside her head, because she'd nailed her motivations exactly.

  "Whaaaat?" For someone as fashion conscious as their pink-haired friend, Margi had a tendency to overlook the obvious.

  "She doesn't want to look like she's in mourning. When she's with Adam. Out with the blacks and the grays, good-bye gauzy skirts and ruffled sleeves. Good-bye, Morticia Addams, hello, girl next door."

  "I didn't think it was that obvious," Phoebe said,

  Karen conveyed sympathy with a slight turn of her eyebrows. She really was amazing. Such an actress.

  "Don't get me wrong, honey. Earth tones work for you. But you have such nice creamy skin, and that beautiful black hair-- you're a knockout in black. White, too. And you could give red a chance."

  Phoebe thought of the dress she wore for homecomin
g, a simple, straight sheath so white it shimmered. She ruined it on the muddy earth kneeling over Adam's body as he died. Tommy knelt with her, and he might have held her, or he might have

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  tried to help Adam. She couldn't remember much about that night except for her dirty dress and the blood spreading across Adam's chest.

  He'd said her dress was like moonlight.

  She shuddered.

  "I'll try, Karen. I'll try to talk to Tommy."

  But later, when she saw him lingering by the doorway to their algebra class, the one that they'd once shared with Adam's killer, Pete Martinsburg, and Pete's flunky, TC Stavis, she found she couldn't try at all. He stood so straight and tall, with his shoulders broad and his face strong and angular. He looked like a sculptor's idea of a young god. Like Karen, he looked as though physical perfection could only be achieved through death.

  She watched him for a moment. Watching him, with him not knowing she was watching, gave her a weird feeling in her stomach.

  You should have saved me, Tommy, she thought. You. But you didn't.

  Her breath caught as he turned suddenly and saw her, his gray-blue eyes finding hers even through the passing crowd. Her insides did a somersault, and she turned around in a hurry and marched off toward the nurse's office.

  But he caught up to her. Even Adam had talked about how quick Tommy was for a dead kid.

  "Phoebe ..."

  "Oh hi, Tommy," she said, not stopping. I'm not ready for this. "Phoebe, can we--"

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  "I'm not feeling very well, Tommy. I'm headed to the nurse's office."

  "You're ...sick?" his said, his face a mask of concern. Literally a mask, as expressiveness did not come as easily to him as it did to Karen.

  "I'm sick," she said. What right did he have to be concerned for her?