Adventures of a Middle School Zombie

by Scott Craven

  “When something needs fixing around the house, I’m very good with my hands,” Dad always said. “They know how to pick up a phone and write a check. Perfect.”

  Each day I walked in to the smell of sawdust and left with the smell of defeat. I didn’t care. I loved Woodshop, despite the fact that Robbie sat just a few desks away. And I didn’t know it yet, but that class would play an important role in my survival as a zombie, if that makes sense.

  Desks were lined in six perfect rows, looking strangely out of place in the large workshop cluttered with circular saws, table saws, band saws, hand saws, lathes, and sanders. Given the tools and the lumber stacked along the walls, together we could have built the biggest and most awkward-looking birdhouse ever, capable of bringing years of shame to Mr. Anderson, the shop teacher.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Anderson said. “You should have assignments. Lineups are attached to each piece of equipment. Only those people listed may use the equipment. They must use the equipment in list order. No deviation. Understood? Get to work.”

  There was no hesitation between Mr. Anderson’s question and his answer. The only result you’d get out of raising your hand in his class was having it chopped off. I knew from the first day in Woodshop, and the second I laid eyes on Mr. Anderson, that this was not an environment where differences would be embraced and encouraged.

  Mr. Anderson stood six feet, two and five-eighths inches (we knew because on that first day, he paired up all twenty-six of us and had each team measure him because “before I see if you can handle this class, I have to make sure you can handle a tape measure”). And he was precisely six feet, two and five-eighths inches because he stood ramrod straight, his very thin frame capable of bending only at the waist and knees.

  With his close-cropped hair, it was pretty easy to tell he was ex-military, even before he spent the rest of the first class filling us in on his career record.

  Many of us can still quote him from that first day, when he laid out the Woodshop rules.

  “I don’t expect all of you to be able to build a bridge in an hour,” he said. “Like I was trained to do in Desert Storm. Not a great call for that in I-raq. I was ready if needed. And why was I able to do so? And how? Because I could handle a tape measure. Had it on me at all times. Slept with it. Knew it better than my best friends. Because it was my best friend.”

  Really, he talked like that. As if commas were un-American.

  He pulled chalk from the pocket of his white, short-sleeve button-down shirt (he wore khaki shorts and work boots every day) and, right by his desk, drew a circle so perfect on the concrete floor it was eerie. He stepped into it, leaving just a few inches between his heels and the line—four inches and thirteen-sixteenths, to be exact.

  “This is the Circle of Shame,” Mr. Anderson said, still standing in it. “There is only one way to earn a stint in the Circle of Shame: break the rules. That means talk out of turn. Misuse equipment. Abuse equipment. Fail to clean or properly maintain equipment. Use a tool without signing it out. Replace a tool improperly. Chew gum … ”

  It went on for another five minutes. At the end: “Any questions. No. Good.”

  Only there was a question. A hand in the front row shot up. It could have gone up between “questions” and “good,” but I was pretty sure no one’s reflexes were that fast.

  “Yes?” Mr. Anderson said, in what we would later call his “displeased voice,” which he used about ninety-five percent of the time.

  “Uh, you said there was only one way to spend time in the Circle of Shame,” the kid said. I was pretty sure he was in Chess Club. Kids in Chess Club just didn’t get it.

  “That’s correct.”

  “But then you listed, like, fifty things.”

  “And you are?”

  “Ray Knowles.”

  “Mr. Knowles. Thank you for pointing that out. There actually are fifty-one ways to get into the Circle of Shame. I left out asking stupid questions.”

  “But wouldn’t that make it fifty-two things?” I told you, Chess Club kids just didn’t get it.

  “Mr. Knowles. You have the honor of being the Circle of Shame’s first guest. Ten minutes. Five minutes added each time you step out.”

  The kid wound up spending almost that whole first day in the tiny circle.

  Since then, there was usually at least one kid who spent the class in the Circle of Shame. Not because they had no skills for sawing, shaping, or gluing wood. It was usually for a stupid question. Or chewing gum.

  On this particular day, I was continuing work on a bookshelf I’d been building since the start of the year. If middle-school Woodshops banded together, they could supply developing nations with all the bookshelves and birdhouses they would ever need. That’s my guess, anyway.

  I really wanted to do a good job on it. My plan was to give it to Anna. Things were progressing really well. We’d gone from nodding in the hallway to saying hi in the quad, and by this time it was pretty common for us to exchange small talk at lunch, where we would discuss TV shows or the weather for, like, almost five minutes.

  I followed the others to the bank of lockers where we kept our projects. I was the only one struggling with the bookshelf. Everyone else had moved on.

  Pulling out my project, I looked at what I had—one plank, notched poorly at the end, and another plank cut unevenly. The second plank was supposed to go in that notch, but it wasn’t even close. Is the lack of skills a zombie thing? I’d blame genetics, if I had any.

  “Jed, hey, don’t just stand there, you’re blocking the aisle.”

  I turned around to see Chris Puckett. Chris wasn’t really a friend, but he was one of the few who’d at least chat with me every now and then. And he was a whiz with power tools. He had already completed his birdhouse and bookshelf, and he was nearly done with his jewelry box. At this pace, he would be putting the finishing touches on a bedroom set by the time summer came along.

  “Sorry, just lost in thought,” I said, staring at what existed of my bookshelf.

  “No kidding,” Chris said. “If Mr. Anderson saw you—”

  “Circle of Shame,” we both said. To go with that, we all called the bell signaling the end of class the “Ring” of Redemption. Get it? When the bell went off, the kid could finally leave the Circle of Shame. We thought it was funny, anyway. Robbie didn’t. He called it the Dong of Done. Whatever.

  “How you coming on your project?” Chris said. “If you need help … ”

  “Nah. I think I’m OK,” I said. “Nice jewelry box.”

  “Oh, this old thing?” The lid was intricately carved with birds and branches. The box itself looked to be cut from one piece of wood, even though I knew better.

  “Yeah, that old thing. You have a talent.”

  “I’m not bad. It’s all about knowing how to use the saw. The band saw is the best.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Chris looked disappointed. “Jed, it’s the best. Super fast, super sharp, lets you make every little twist and turn as the wood just melts away. You just have to be careful. You could lose a finger and not even know it.”

  “A finger, huh? I had no idea.”

  “Only if you’re not careful. Just make sure you pay attention. Try it, you’ll see.”

  Yes, I was going to have to try it. Very soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Everyone should have their permission slips; please pass them forward, and Jacob, will you please collect them. And welcome to a very special edition of Biology.”

  With that, Mr. Landrum turned his back to the class and reached up to one of the many rollers that hung over the whiteboard. He grabbed the handle and yanked, unfurling the poster like pulling down blinds.

  It was, as we had all expected, a frog. Only, this frog was on his back with his guts exposed, and various arrows and lines pointing to his vital organs. It reminded me of a map, except instead of cities it showed what kept the frog ticking—heart, liver, kidney, and a long tube tha
t looked like spaghetti but wasn’t.

  On the diagram it looked fine. But I’m sure I wasn’t the only one wondering how it was going to look in person, because this was frog-dissection day.

  “For those who don’t have slips,” Mr. Landrum continued, “please proceed to room 12E where you will be shown a computer simulation that, I’m afraid, is like watching a video of someone skydiving rather than skydiving yourself. For the rest of us, the adventure will begin in just a few minutes.”

  With that, he waved his hand as if to dismiss the handful of kids who stood and walked out. I was shocked to see Robbie, Ben, and Joe among them. If there were three guys who’d want nothing more than to cut something open and look inside, I’d thought it would be them.

  Robbie glanced back as he walked out, and looked right at me. “Later, losers,” he said. Ben and Joe giggled in the hall.

  Dustin, closest to me alphabetically and thus my lab partner, leaned over. “What’s up with Robbie skipping out?” he whispered. “I heard that last year, he took the frog apart in about three minutes and started flicking guts at people.”

  “Oh, right, that’s the LaVomit story, right?” I whispered back. “LaVomit” was LaDonna Currie, an eighth grader who almost no one called LaDonna.

  “She was in this class last year, and I guess Robbie hit her with a string of intestines,” Dustin said. “It landed right below her nose, and I guess she thought it was snot or something, so she sniffed in. Hard.”

  “Geez, no wonder she spewed.”

  “It’s been said that there are still chunks in this room that haven’t been found. And if you stand real still, you can smell them.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “Jed, something funny?” Mr. Landrum said. “Share it with the class, please; I’m sure we could all use a little levity now to brighten our day.”

  “No, sorry, Mr. Landrum.” My mind was now locked on the rest of the LaVomit story, how her brother, a junior, waited for Robbie after school about a week later. One punch in the stomach, and things were pretty much even. Though it had just served to make Robbie even meaner.

  “Since you have some dead time”—soft laughter all around—“I’m sorry, I mean downtime,” Mr. Landrum picked up without missing a beat, “please retrieve the four racks from the refrigerator.”

  I made my way to the large white box in the corner under the American flag and pulled on the door to reveal racks, each containing a single layer of metal trays. One by one, I placed the racks on the desk in front of the room, seeing that every tray contained a fat green frog, each with all four legs pinned to the corners. But something wasn’t right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Once finished, I returned to my seat.

  “Thank you, Jed,” Mr. Landrum said. “Now, will one lab partner for each station come up and take a tray.”

  I waited just a moment to time it right. I stood and walked up the aisle, right behind Anna.

  “Hey.”

  She turned her head. “Hey.”

  Anna sat up near the front, so I never got to talk to her in Biology, especially since Mr. Landrum loved to send “vocal offenders” to detention.

  “How’s everything?” I said. There were undead butterflies in my chest.

  “Good, you?”

  “Yeah, good.”

  Anna took the tray and returned to her seat. I slipped off cloud nine, took the tray that had been beneath hers, and swam upstream through the rest of those getting their frogs. I nearly dropped the tray when a stray elbow knocked it, but I recovered in time and realized what was wrong.

  The frog moved.

  Not just because I juggled the tray. No, he tensed up when it happened (I was guessing it was a he, anyway). His muscles bunched under his green skin, standing out like cords.

  I put the frog in front of Dustin. Others were just beginning to return to their stations, holding their frogs.

  “Dustin,” I said. “It’s alive.”

  “No, it’s like this,” he said. “It’s aalllliive. See, much creepier.”

  “Dude, it’s really alive. Like, still living. Like, breathing and stuff.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s impossible since being dead implies you aren’t alive.” Dustin looked from the frog to me. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Sure. But I’m telling you that this frog is still with us.”

  Mr. Landrum cleared his throat.

  “If I may have everyone’s attention, please, before I hand out the scalpels. Some of you may have noticed these particular frogs are still alive.”

  A chorus of “Eww”s rolled across the room.

  I nudged Dustin. “Told you.”

  We looked closer. The frog’s chest fluttered as if he was breathing really fast. Or maybe it was his heart beating. Guess we were about to find out.

  “Each one of these frogs has been carefully pithed,” Mr. Landrum said. “What that means is a needle was inserted into their brains and rotated, effectively scrambling it.”

  I thought about my dad’s inside-the-egg scrambler, which had a small plastic rod the size of a toothpick jutting up from a motor. He shoved the egg down on the rod and hit the “On” button, causing the needle to spin. After about ten seconds, he flipped it off and cracked the egg to reveal a milky, yellow substance that poured easily into the skillet.

  Now all I could imagine was a milky, gray substance.

  “In effect,” Mr. Landrum went on, “these frogs are alive, but they feel nothing. No pain, no sense of their surroundings. Just an emptiness. And what this allows us to do is peek inside and see how everything works, just like opening the hood of a car with the engine running. Though the frogs are alive, they are actually dead when it comes to our definitions.”

  “Weird,” Luke said. “Not the living dead, but the dead living. Creepy.”

  That’s exactly what they were. The dead living. Heart beating, lungs breathing, blood moving through them. But they couldn’t feel a thing. And we were just going to cut them open, probe around as their lungs continued to breathe and hearts continued to pump.

  My hand shot up.

  “Mr. Landrum, I don’t think I can do this,” I said, without waiting on him to call on me. I stood up. “I’m going with the others.”

  “Jed, just a minute, you can’t arbitrarily decide to—” but I was out the door and in the empty hallway. If I’d needed to breathe, my lungs would be heaving right now. What had been done to those frogs, the way their life—real life, not biological life—had been taken away … And for science. I really wasn’t a big fan of science.

  Memories flashed quickly. Needles, scalpels, probes, scopes … more lab visits, always with the doctors promising that this would be the last time, they just want to check one more thing, maybe they can make it all better.

  As if something was wrong with me.

  I leaned against the wall, a little dizzy. It struck me how quiet the halls could be when empty, as opposed to between classes, when the shouts and constant buzz of conversation filled them.

  School officials frown on kids who leave class for no reason. I scanned for security, hoping to get to kill some time before my next class without being caught. If I could just find an empty room and sit until the bell rang, I might avoid earning detention.

  My next class was across the quad, so I headed toward the double doors, walking in an exaggerated heel-to-toe to make as little noise as possible on the linoleum floors.

  But first, a stop in the boys’ room. A little water on my face to straighten me out.

  As soon as the door opened, a thick cloud of smoke enveloped me. Through it, I saw Robbie’s glare.

  Had I been a breather, the scent of tobacco would have alerted me to stay far away from this particular boys’ room. Too late now.

  I turned, placing my palm flat on the still-open door, took a step—

  “Where do you think you’re going, Zom-boy?” A hand gripped my shoulder. Where had that come from?

  The han
d pulled, spinning me around. There was Ben, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a wisp of blue smoke floating from its ashen tip.

  “Zombiessaywhat?” Ben mumbled.

  “Huh?”

  “Zombiessaywhat?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were supposed to say—oh, never mind,” he said, stepping aside. “C’mon in. Party’s just getting started. Now.”

  Robbie leaned against the sinks, his legs crossed at the ankles, hands braced on the beige counter. A cigarette, apparently freshly lit, was stuck between the first and middle finger of his right hand. He pushed himself away and beckoned to me with the cigarette hand. Joe stood against the opposite wall, blowing a plume of smoke above him.

  “DJ, so good to see you,” Robbie said. “What, didn’t have the heart to dissect a poor little frog? Must be a dead thing, right? Having that in common and all.”

  I backed up, realizing only then that Ben had slipped behind me.

  “Where ya going, Zom-boy,” Joe said. “You just got here. Enjoy.”

  Robbie pushed off the counter, reaching into the pocket of his black jacket.

  “You know, DJ, you’ve been very good to me,” Robbie said. “My GPA is up to, what is it now, Bennie?”

  “I think around two-point-seven,” Ben said.

  “Are you so stupid that you can’t even keep track of your own GPA? Really?” I really wanted to say that. But didn’t. They couldn’t kill me, but they were capable of just about anything else.

  “Damn, two-point-seven, DJ, did you hear that?” Robbie said. “From what I understand, that’s solid C territory. That’s passing. It’s brand-new territory for me. And I have you to thank.”

  “(That’s OK),” I said, barely.

  “Sorry, didn’t quite pick that up,” Robbie said. “What’d you say?”

  “I said it’s OK.”

  “That’s quite neighborly of ya, DJ, it really is. I think maybe if I were you, I’d be put out by our little arrangement. I mean you give and you give.”

  “(Sure).”

  “What?”

  “Sure.”