Adventures of a Middle School Zombie

by Scott Craven

  I took stock of my situation. Thankfully the bell had rung about five minutes before, and the hallway was clear. But I was wedged in pretty tight and couldn’t quite reach the edge of the sliding glass pane, which was a few inches past my shoe. And there was no way I could bend over far enough to reach it. I could scream, but everyone would hear me. So I figured I had to wait until a teacher noticed me, or maybe a passing Good Samaritan.

  If there was such a thing at this school. There sure wasn’t among the dozens of kids who watched me being placed into this display case. Even worse, my head rubbed against the biggest trophy in the case, awarded to the winning team of the annual Seventh vs. Eighth Grade Football Game. And the winning team was always the eighth grade, the captain’s name engraved on the large plaque near the base.

  I’d had a few uneventful weeks. Robbie and I had reached an uneasy truce, because (as I heard later) he had spent two hours in the nurse’s office after our minor collision in the locker room. He refused to leave until she gave him something for the Ooze.

  I got some of the story from Nurse Rankin, who called me in the next day to try to figure out just what the heck Ooze was (she didn’t have any better idea than the army of doctors that had poked and scraped me the first five years of my life had).

  Turns out there had been a bit on his shirt. Nurse Rankin didn’t see it at first, but Robbie insisted it was there. She finally noticed a tiny glistening spot, thanks to a magnifying glass and penlight.

  She needed a larger Ooze sample, but I had nothing to give. Yet.

  “You could pull my finger,” I said.

  “Jed, those games should have ended back in third grade,” Nurse Rankin said.

  “No, I mean pull it off. Ooze comes when I lose a body part.”

  “You are familiar with the term nurse, right? We tend to heal people. Not take them apart.”

  She paused, a funny look coming over her.

  “Would it hurt?” she said. “You know, just taking it like that?”

  “As long as it’s from the first knuckle it would be fine,” I said. “Any more than that would flip on my Zombie Anger, and I would go on a brain-eating spree.”

  “Oh, no … I … I … sorry, I wouldn’t dare—”

  “I’m just kidding.” Man, some people take this whole zombie thing way too seriously.

  When she got her color back, Nurse Rankin scraped a small bit of ooze from my forehead, which came out when I thought she was going to faint or something.

  After she took the sample, she told me what she could about Robbie’s visit.

  A shirtless Robbie lurched in (her word, lurch, is part of a popular zombie slur, but I took no offense), saying something about becoming zombified.

  “At first he was scratching at his chest to see if any skin would come off,” Nurse Rankin said. “So I couldn’t tell him if all the redness was caused by your, uh, ‘Ooze,’ because it was just a small drop, or if it was because he kept picking at it.”

  His chest had a sheen to it, but it was probably just nervous sweat. She offered him a Wet-Nap. “And once he wiped himself off, seems everything was just fine.” At first, anyway. She said Robbie kept picking at his chest, swearing that it tingled. And that he could feel something crawling through his pores. So, at his insistence, she took a closer look with a magnifying glass. “Usually I use it to search for lice,” she said. “This time, I really wasn’t sure what I was looking for.”

  She told Robbie to lie back to get the most of the fluorescent light. She held the glass about an inch from his chest, slowly scanning. Then she noticed something … peculiar.

  “There were small flecks of gray,” Nurse Rankin told me. “Like bits of ash. You could only notice them with the magnifying glass. And, Jed, I’m not telling you anything new when I say you are a bit, you know … ”

  “Gray?”

  “Yes, but not an unhealthy gray. Apparently. But it’s not the usual color of skin.”

  “No kidding,” I snapped, “like you’re the first one who’s noticed.”

  “Jed, I’m just trying to help.”

  I knew she was, but first of all, it’s a gray tinge, and the more time I spend in the sun, it seems to lighten. Like a reverse tan or something (and I never wear sunscreen because what’s skin cancer going to do, kill me?). And a lot of my friends don’t hold my skin tone against me. And they can honestly say one of their best friends is a zombie.

  “I know you are, Nurse Rankin, but I’ve grown up with people judging me by my color, so I get sensitive sometimes.”

  “Well, I’m not judging you by your skin color. I’m judging you by the fact that you’re dead.” She smiled. “And pretty lively for a dead guy at that. But that whole pull-my-finger thing went a little too far.”

  “I know, sorry,” I said, returning her smile. I may be a zombie, but I don’t want to turn into a drama queen. “So, Robbie?”

  “Sorry, Jed, nurse-patient confidentiality prevents me from giving you further details,” she said. “Let’s just say I wasn’t too concerned, and rubbed the spot with hand sanitizer, telling him four out of five dermatologists recommended it in case of zombie contact. He bought it. I must say, this Ooze is very strange indeed. I know it’s covered extensively in your medical records, but I have a hunch there’s far more we don’t know about it than what we do. The gray color of—no, I’ve said too much. Let’s leave it at that.”

  So, Robbie was scared of a few shades of gray, huh?

  Cool.

  Robbie had been avoiding me, but maybe it was time to seek him out, go a little undead on him.

  It would have to be something special. Carefully planned but way over the top. Maybe one night put on my dad’s clothes from the 1980s (his parachute pants are really scary), put some dirt on as if I had just come fresh from the cemetery, and visit Robbie late one night, scratching at his window.

  But then I’d just be living up to stereotypes, putting the zombie movement back years. Not that there was a zombie movement, but as its only representative, I felt a certain responsibility to be a good role model. And that meant no midnight lurchings.

  But there was something in all this I could definitely use to my advantage. And in school, so everybody would see.

  I was feeling so good about all of this that a few days later, walking across the quad, I hadn’t thought about being a victim in quite a while.

  Luke and I were bragging about our World of Warcraft accomplishments (that sounds pretty stupid when I think about it), and I was just happy the towel incident was behind us. Just as I was bragging about hitting Level 17 and attaining Supreme Wizard status, Robbie appeared. As if he’d been beamed in by the Bully Transporter.

  “Well, if it ain’t Dead Jed,” Robbie said. Ben and Joe were there too, part of the same particle beam that had delivered Robbie. “How’re things hanging? About six feet under?”

  Ben and Joe giggled, the laugh tracks that they were.

  “I don’t want any trouble, I just want to go to class,” I said.

  “You want to go to class, I want to go to class, we all want to go to class,” he said. “I’m just here to remind you that even though your life is over—at least biologically—this thing between you and me is not. But for now, you are free to go. And make sure all your work is clearly visible to interested neighbors because I have it on good authority that there’s a pop quiz in bio today.”

  His sources were right, and I wish I could say that in class that day, I rebelled. That I covered my paper because I’d had enough. And that was what I fully intended to do—right up to the first answer, when I dipped my right shoulder to give Robbie access.

  Sometimes I hate me, too.

  Even more so later, wedged into the display case. Robbie nabbed me between third and fourth period, in the middle of a very crowded A Hall, where our rather empty trophy case resided. One second I was unzipping my backpack to get my notebook, the next my feet were swept from underneath me, my backpack falling to the floor. Then I w
as floating, gently, down the hall, a sea of kids parting in front of me. Robbie carried me as if I were no heavier than a cloud (when you’re dead, it’s hard to keep the weight on).

  “Put me down,” I said. “Please.”

  “I will,” he said. “Trust me.”

  We continued down the hallway. I pushed my legs down and arched my back, wriggling my torso. His arms remained firmly clamped.

  When we turned toward the wall, our destination was clear. The sliding glass door was open (I could swear it had been locked when I passed it a few minutes before), and Robbie lifted me considerately, almost compassionately, and placed me inside. The window slowly closed in front of me, wedging me inside.

  I realized what happened. I was his trophy, and he was proudly displaying me for all to see. This was not about hurting me. It was about humiliation. And it was far worse than any flares of pain I’d ever felt.

  I turned toward the wall, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to erase the sight of the dozens of kids laughing and pointing as Robbie bragged about his “catch.”

  “We may not be the best in basketball or football,” I heard Robbie say through the glass, “but check out our award for School with the Most Straight-A Zombies. We only have one, but it looks like it will be enough. So let’s give Dead Jed a big hand. Or maybe he can take his off and give it to us!”

  The laughter nearly drowned out the bell. I remained huddled there for a few minutes, then, as one more door slammed shut, I opened my eyes and turned.

  Two things struck me. Getting out of here was going to be difficult.

  And the principal’s office was just across the hall.

  Chapter Eight

  Mom and Dad know I’ve had rough times. How many times in elementary school did I come home from school with damp eyes? Or just go to my room, slamming the door?

  How many times did I wish I were as dead on the inside as I was on the outside?

  Mom and Dad were very sensitive about my feelings, always asking me if I was all right. And I would tell them about the kids who poked me, wondering what dead felt like. Or the teachers who sat me off to the side, not wanting their students to “catch death.”

  As a result, my skin got much thicker. As I tolerated more, I shared less with Mom and Dad. And by middle school, I just wished they would leave me alone sometimes. Because I could take care of myself.

  But the day I was put in the display case, when I finally wriggled my way out and arrived home two hours before school let out, it was tough to stay dead, even on the outside.

  I ran almost all the way home (endurance is pretty good when you’re not dependent on breathing) and ran right to my room as soon as I slammed the front door, which raised Mom’s suspicion, so I was not surprised when I heard a knock at the door.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Honey, what happened? What’s wrong? Are you OK?”

  “Get out of here!”

  “OK, I will, I just want to make sure you’re not hurt, that there is nothing seriously wrong because—”

  “I’m fine! GET OUT!”

  “Jed, please, I want to help but—”

  “This is your fault! What did you do? Why did you make me like this? Why am I here, why can’t I just be buried somewhere like other dead people? Why can’t I be NORMAL?”

  “Let me in, hon, let’s talk,” Mom said. “I really want to see you. Please open the door.”

  Most of me wanted to do that, to unlock the door, to hug one of the few people who accepted me as I was. But the rest of me just wanted to punish, to hurt somebody else for once.

  I didn’t say anything. As my mom kept asking stupid questions, I dreamed about being just a regular kid, about how I could go to school each morning without worrying about who was going to stare at me or jump out of my way or make jokes about me or whip me with a towel or dump me in a garbage can or put me in a display case.

  I was so tired of being a freak.

  I must’ve fallen asleep because when I heard Dad’s voice, I opened my eyes and saw that my San Francisco 49er clock by the bed read 6:15. Whoa.

  “Jed, I need you to open your door now. Let’s talk, son.” Dad’s voice was firm but calm. I recognized the “this is not the time to ignore me” tone.

  I lifted myself off the bed and opened the door. Dad, still in his suit, loosened his tie and entered. He pulled out the chair from my desk and sat. I took a seat on my bed.

  “Your mom is worried sick.”

  Under my breath. “Whatever.”

  “Excuse me? What was that?”

  I said nothing, surprised at the anger still inside me.

  “Look, your mom told me what you said, and I know where it’s coming from. I know you’re pissed off—” I was kind of startled a little, because Dad never said words like pissed “—and I don’t blame you. I get it. But if you let that anger grow, it’s going to eat you alive.”

  “Alive?” I said. “Yeah, I wish. I wish that could happen.”

  Dad reached over and put his hand on my knee. I knew he was doing it for comfort, but I pulled back. The look on his face told me I’d scored.

  “Jed, I can’t even pretend to know what it’s like,” Dad said. “I’m not going to sit here and tell you those kinds of lies. You are—unique—and no one knows what it’s like to be you except you.

  “But son, we’ve all faced our hardships. Everyone faces tough times. No one skates through life; it’s just not done. And all of us have to find a way to deal with the crap, to find a way to take charge and rise above.”

  I shook my head. “But that’s so easy to say. You’re not a zombie. I can’t wake up and say, ‘Hey, I’m going to rise above it all today, I’m going to stop being a zombie.’ I can’t change the one thing I really want to change.”

  “You think you’re the only one who’s faced hardships because of the way you were born? Huh? Do you? Have your mom and I really done that badly, to raise you in a way that you believe bad things only happen to you?”

  Oh crap. Ever since I was little, Mom and Dad have constantly reminded me that, even though I would face challenges as a zombie, I did not have to let that define me. That I could act in a way to show people that I am Jed Rivers, capable of intelligent thought and good deeds, and that my lack of vital signs was just another part of me, like my sports and video games hobbies, or the fact that I really liked romantic comedies, especially ones with Sandra Bullock.

  I was probably the only four-year-old who knew all about Jackie Robinson and Martin Luther King, Jr., and Stephen Hawking and Jim Abbott (a pitcher who threw a no-hitter for the New York Yankees even though he was born with a hand missing). Every time there was a story in the newspaper about a Bosnian refugee who made a new life after his family was killed, or a Lost Boy from Sudan who had just graduated from college and was entering law school, they would cut it out and put it in my scrapbook (Dad wrote “Never Give Up” on the cover, which you could barely make out anymore).

  I didn’t say a thing. But I could feel the anger loosen its grip just a little.

  “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

  “It’s just—” I stopped. I wanted to tell him everything, but I knew how much he’d be hurt. And if I told him, I know what he’d do—the same thing he’d done every time stuff like this happened. He would call the school, and the kids responsible would be called in, and they would receive some sort of punishment, and at some point they’d get back at me.

  You know the “Circle of Life” in the Lion King, where everything that goes around comes around? This was my own little “Circle of Death.” It all wound up coming back to me.

  “Just the same old thing, Dad,” I continued. “Teasing and stuff. Little things, but it piles up, and it just got to me today.”

  Dad put his hand on my knee again. I didn’t pull back. “I get it. And Jed, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about how it would be different if you were like everyone else.

  “But right after
that I think of how it would be if you were just like everyone else. Remember when we were bowling and your finger got stuck in the ball, and you pulled, and your finger just came off?” I did remember. I had gone ahead and rolled, getting a strike before taking the ball to the clerk and asking him if he had pliers. Dad continued, “Do you remember the look on his face when he saw why you needed pliers?

  “Or when we went to the lake with Uncle Moses and Aunt Brenda and you decided to walk along the bottom with all those rocks in your shorts? Your Uncle Mo saw you go under but when you didn’t come up after a few minutes, he dialed 9-1-1. It took your mom and me thirty minutes to convince paramedics that having no life signs was normal for you.

  “Or how about when you took first place with your Diversity Day essay last year, then read it aloud at the district assembly? Jed, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, and we spent an hour afterward just talking to so many people about you. And all of them said they wished they had your courage and strength.

  “That’s when I’m happy you’re not normal, you’re not just another one of those guys who gets up and go to school and comes home and blends in and every day is just like the other and on and on … Jed, I’m not sure what’s going to happen as you grow up. Only that it’s going to be different. And I think that’s pretty exciting.” I was still a bit angry, but Dad was right. I was different, but different didn’t have to be bad. I just needed to use it to my advantage.

  And right then, I thought I knew how.

  Chapter Nine

  Halloween. God, I hate Halloween. I stayed in my bedroom, and nobody bothered me. As far as I was concerned, Halloween was amateur hour.

  Chapter Ten

  I’m not sure who thought woodworking and middle school went together, but whoever decided to put a bunch of thirteen-year-olds around very sharp tools with minimal adult supervision, I salute you. Woodshop was always my favorite class of the day, even if I wasn’t very handy. In that, I followed in my dad’s footsteps.