by Scott Craven
And did I?
“No way,” I said. “She never said anything like that, Bella.”
“Bella? Huh? Who the heck is Bella?”
It made no sense. Anna wanting to be a zombie? No way. She was there for me. She cared about me. I thought that pretty soon she might even be more than a friend. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Gaunt, gray, and now dripping ooze from my temples. Who would want to be seen with that thing? Unless they had a reason. A very good reason.
“Hey, where you going?” Bella called after me. “You didn’t clean your area, or is that just a zombie thing?”
The last thing I heard was the cackling of the three witches as the Burger Bucket’s door closed behind me. I ran to Dad’s car, jumping into the front seat. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Whoa, son, where’s Anna?”
“I don’t know, she took off.”
“What? We can’t leave without her; she’s my responsibility.”
“What about me? Aren’t I your responsibility? After all, you created me. The dead boy. A perfectly wonderful zombie, the precious child you prayed for. Right? So how’s that working for you so far?”
“Jed, you need to calm down and tell me what happened, tell me where Anna went—”
“Just go!”
“Son, that is not going to happen. You need to pull yourself together—”
“Great choice of words, Dad. Because Zom-boy just falls apart, arms and legs that just come off with a tug. Why would anyone want to go out with a guy like that?”
“I’m not going to waste time right now trying to build your self-esteem, not when there’s a thirteen-year-old girl out there roaming around and probably even more upset than you are.”
As we pulled out, he called Anna’s parents and found out they were already on their way to get her.
What stuck with me was looking back at the Burger Bucket window, where Bella, Stella, and Della stared out the window, with Bella raising her hand and waving.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Luke and I lined up like we always had at lunchtime, ready for the daily humiliation that was the picking of the football teams. Sure, I was still last, but at least Luke had climbed a few notches over the past few weeks, since it turned out he had a pretty good arm.
But that day, things went off the tracks.
It started with Javon, and all it took was one word.
“Robbie.”
Everyone, including Robbie, just stood there. Dwight, who always chose Robbie first, shook his head. Javon always picked Kenny, his favorite receiver, first.
Javon picking Robbie? That was like a Kardashian not picking another Kardashian first.
“Robbie, you, come on,” Javon repeated.
Robbie looked back at Ben and Joe, and Ben and Joe looked at Robbie. It was as if Robbie were going to war and they were promising to remain faithful until he returned.
“Dude, you want to give them a goodbye kiss too?” Javon asked Robbie. Javon was one of the few kids who could get away with something like that, but I knew Robbie was making a mental note (I could actually hear his little-used brain cells firing up in an effort to do some work).
If his first selection was a surprise, Javon’s next one was a shock-twist ending—he pointed to me. “Jed, over here.”
For once I actually lurched like a zombie. I was that surprised.
I gave Javon a “you can’t be serious” look. But the selections continued, and soon the two sides were ready to square off.
“Dude, that is one seriously screwed-up team,” Dwight told Javon. “That’s what you get for messing with too many chemicals in Biology Lab.”
“No, we’re just fine,” Javon said. “We’ll even kick off.”
Once again I took my spot on the line, and, as was clear from the moment I stumbled over to Javon’s team, I wasn’t the only thing that was dead. So were any chances of our team winning.
With Dwight’s team stocked with the four best players (all we had was Javon, and the killing instincts of Robbie, whose lack of brain nearly negated his brawn), by the time the bell was close to ringing, we were down five touchdowns.
We had just received the kickoff when Javon said in the huddle before our first play, “Jed, you ready to take the ball?”
“No.” For a dead guy, my survival instincts were real good.
“Good. You’re on my right, snap on two, I’ll toss it to you, and everyone go right.”
“Javon, you can’t be serious.” Robbie, of course. “Losing is one thing. This is just humiliating. The only reason he’s OK on the line is because everyone is afraid of touching him. But carrying the ball? No way.”
“Everyone have the play?” Javon continued. “OK, break.”
As I took my spot to the right of Javon, even players on the other team were shaking their heads.
“Eyes on Javon,” Dwight said. “Watch for the bomb. Don’t worry about the zombie.”
“Hut, go!” Javon took the snap and immediately tossed it to me. And it went right through my hands.
I looked down, left, right, no, behind me, quick, thundering footsteps, got the ball, took a step. Tagged. No, shoved, whirling backward, thumping to the turf. But I held onto the ball.
“Nice play, Javon,” said Dwight, my tackler. “Look, if you guys just want to give up, fine. But if you’re going to dump it off to the living dead, there’s no sense in continuing.”
“Huddle up,” Javon said, and we gathered around him. “Same play, on three this time.”
Robbie—“No, this is—”
Javon—“Break!”
Once again I lined up to the right of Javon. The snap, toss to me. Got it, tucked it into my gut. Javon was now three steps ahead. I raced behind him, arms pumping, then hit the ground, chin thumping against the grass.
Tripped over myself.
“Cool, that’s a couple of yards,” Javon said as he lifted me to my feet. “Huddle.”
“Fine, you want to do that, whatever,” Dwight said. “Tomorrow, someone else is captain.”
“I’d be happy to,” Robbie said, drawing a look from Javon I’d never seen on him before. Utter contempt.
“Huddle!”
Again we circled, and I could almost mouth the words as Javon said them. “Same thing. On three. Break!”
Anticipating a little better, I kept on Javon’s heels for several seconds, and by the time I was tagged (while maintaining my feet) we’d picked up about five yards.
“Huddle! … OK, this time we line up the same way. But Robbie, you line up as a receiver on the left. Jed, when I toss the ball to you, I’m going to go right as usual. I want you to take one step to follow, but then go left. If all goes as planned, everyone is going to follow me right. Robbie, just block the defender on your side. Break!”
I took my spot by Javon and watched as most of the other team lined up to our right. Javon took the ball, flipped it to me, and we both took a step to the right in perfect time.
I stopped, turned on my heel and shot the other way. And I nearly stumbled when I noticed everyone on both teams still going right. And I was headed to a wide-open field, save for Robbie.
Robbie. Who wasn’t running downfield to block anyone. Odd. He wasn’t even facing downfield.
He was facing me. His feet wide, arms spread to the sides. Then he put his head down and charged.
Oh crap.
He didn’t care about any game of two-hand touch. He wanted to plant me so far down that I wouldn’t sprout until next year.
I looked to the right, but the play had worked so well (too well) that no one was within ten yards.
I stood there, rooted. Watching.
Everything was in slow motion and perfect detail. Robbie’s toes kicking up bits of grass and dirt and they dug in and pushed off. His arms pumping as his short sleeves rippled in the breeze. His hands balled into fists.
If all that time watching The Science Channel taught me one thing, it’s the proportional
speed of moving bodies. There were three directions I could move: To the side, taking the impact at an angle and lessening its force. To the back, running for dear life while merely postponing the inevitable (and then having to live with a play that everyone would laugh about). Directly at him. With both objects moving at one another, time until impact shrinks, leaving just a split second or two to react.
So I ran at him.
When Robbie glanced up to take aim, his eyes lit up like a tiger spying an injured antelope.
I was already dead. Now I was dead meat.
Robbie left his feet, in a horizontal dive toward my torso. Then two things happened.
I stepped left and twisted, pivoting as if I were pushing and pulling my body at the same time. I’m not sure how it happened, since all I wanted to do was get out of the space that Robbie had launched toward. I could feel my spine, hips, and knees come undone, the joints floating. My body had shaped itself like a C.
The second thing was that Robbie dove right through the middle of the C, like a trained tiger through a hoop. I was there, and then I wasn’t.
Just as quickly as it had come undone, my body snapped together. I stood there, trying to figure out what happened, until Javon’s voice drilled into my skull.
“Run!”
And I did, fifty or so yards to pay dirt. Untouched. Because no one was chasing me.
They just stared. Only the bell snapped them out of it.
“Dude,” Javon said as we walked in. “You’ve got a talent.”
“I … guess,” I said, still not sure what happened. “But why did you pick Robbie, then me? I thought maybe you had been smoking something.”
“It’s just that we play every day, same teams, almost the same score,” Javon said. “Mostly I wanted to give you a break, because you always try and never whine. And I picked Robbie first because I wanted you guys on the same team, so he wouldn’t spend the day headhunting … yeah, everyone’s noticed.”
“Thanks, even if it didn’t quite work out like that.”
“Goes to show how much of a tool Robbie is. Others noticed that too, trust me. Dwight can be a jerk, but he’s a pretty good guy. So are most of the others.
“I think a lot of them realize you can play this game if given a chance. And you should play more often. I’d be happy to give you a few pointers, if you’d like some help.”
And so I did play. After that I continued to play every day, working with Javon to refine my moves. I could step this way and that, my body contorting in all sorts of unexpected ways. I couldn’t block, catch, or run fast to save my life, but I sure could dance.
In just a couple of weeks, I had gone from out-of-shape geekling to fairly athletic geekling. (As a zombie, I’m not sure I’ll ever rise above geekling, not with limbs prone to coming off.)
Still, I had trouble taking Javon seriously when, a few weeks later, he suggested I sign up for the end-of-semester flag football game between the seventh and eighth graders.
“I didn’t know your jaw could dislocate too,” he said. “Amazing.”
Snapping it back in place, I said, “People wind up in the hospital after the game. Eighth graders use it to take out all their frustrations, and the sevvies try to get in one cheap shot before they break something.”
“True,” Javon said. “But you remember what I said about standing out? This is your chance. Do well, and you can return after the winter break with respect. Because everyone is at that game.”
“And I could also wind up deader than I am now. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have many fans.”
“Maybe, but it’s a lot better now than when the year started, right?”
That was true. Robbie had laid off a bit for a few weeks, though I still made sure he could see my tests whenever he needed. And I still stayed far from the lawns in the quad. I knew that at some point Robbie had payback in mind. That screwdriver in the stomach had been merely a reminder something big was coming. It had released a little of his tension, but his anger still had to be at least a six-point-six on the Anger Richter scale, and I had no idea when the earthquake was going to hit.
I’d discovered that athletic skills could lead to acceptance, or at least tolerance. The usual stares had turned into mere curious looks. More kids nodded and said hi. Some asked me to teach them dance moves (resulting in torn ligaments for one kid, even though I warned him to stretch—a lot).
There were still plenty who avoided me (and rumors of a cult that thought I could zombify them, though I’m pretty sure Bella started it just to remind everyone of my freakishness). And there was still a handful of others who wanted to put me in my place. Their ranks, however, had grown thinner.
And I missed Anna. A little. I was not about to forgive her for what she had done two weeks before, leading me on just because she thought I could zombify her.
But it sure had been cool hanging with her. I wondered every now and then how she was doing. Of course, I still saw her in class and at the cafetorium, but we never talked anymore.
“Yeah, stuff’s better now,” I admitted to Javon. “But that game is pretty vicious for seventh graders.”
“No doubt. But it also rewards the survivors. Everyone still remembers Chad Martin in ’92, hit so hard on a tackle in the first quarter that his kneecap was missing for about twenty minutes. He came back in the last quarter to score a safety, tackling a blind kid who sued the entire school district so he could play. That made the score a respectable forty-eight to two.”
“Chad who?”
“And in 2004, Bryson Phelps ran eighty yards untouched on the last play, scoring the only sevvie touchdown in the last ten years.”
“Wasn’t he the mentally challenged kid everyone agreed to let score on the last play of the game, and the eighth graders planned to tackle him anyway until they noticed all the TV cameras there to capture the moment? ”
“Yes, but the fact is everyone remembers his name. The game can change your life. At least until you get into high school.”
After talking to my parents (“No son, that’s just not a good idea without better health insurance”) and Luke (“Dude, that would be awesome, because a week in the hospital means access to the best desserts, because there is no lime Jell-O like hospital lime Jell-O”), I decided to pass.
Until Robbie put in his two cents.
“I hear you’re thinking about making an appearance in the eighth-grade football game,” he said, refusing to acknowledge that seventh graders would show up. “I’m not sure you can have kids anyway, but if you can, you will not be able to once I get done with you in the game. And I will be doing the world a favor.”
I signed up the next day. It was time to take a stand, even if it was more like a small statement uttered from under a pile of eighth graders.
Which is why I started spending most Saturdays at the park practicing, along with most of the guys who played at lunch.
One Saturday in late November, I was so caught up in playing football and taking in Javon’s tips that I never noticed until the end of the game that someone was watching.
Someone I never really wanted to see again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I walked off the field alone, holding my new football (thanks for the support, Dad) and then noticed a figure rising from a bench next to the playground. Dressed in black. Short. Thin.
Anna.
I reversed direction, breaking into a jog. I’d rather take the long way home.
Since the Burger Bucket, I’d stayed away from her as if a restraining order were in place. Mostly it was taking the back sidewalks between classes rather than the ones that cut through the quad. Once I saw her almost too late, and I had to do the unthinkable—cut across the Eighth Grade Lawn. When I lifted myself out of the trash can, Anna was nowhere to be seen. Then my phone had vibrated. It was a text from Anna. I’d read the first two words—“I’m sorry”—and hit delete.
I had no idea what she was doing here now.
“J
ed, wait, please!”
Keep going, I said to myself. Not ready for this. And I don’t have to be ready for this. Maybe someday, but not right now. I’d continued to ignore her texts, deleting them as soon as my phone vibrated. I even made the deepest cut—I unfriended her on Facebook, not sure how else to send the message.
“Jed. Please! Two minutes, just … ”
I still couldn’t get the image of Bella, Stella, and Della out of my mind, a trio of witches who wanted to figure out what sort of enchantment made me tick, as if I’d been put under a spell at birth.
I imagined them hunched over some ancient book of spells, skimming the index for “zombies, turning into.” Flipping to the page.
“Look, here it is,” Bella would say. “You need to kiss a zombie at midnight on a full moon in a graveyard. Eww, gross, kiss a zombie? Maybe if Robert Pattinson were a zombie. But Jed? We need to get Anna for this. Only she would be that desperate.”
Yeah, that’s how it would go. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, go out with Jed and your life is rubble.
A hand gripped my bicep and pulled. Since I was unprepared, my arm pulled halfway out of its socket, and I twisted toward the pressure.
Yup. Anna.
Dang, she’s a lot faster than I thought. Or I was a lot slower than I remembered.
Probably a little of both.
“What do you want?” I spat out.
Anna let go of my arm and looked me in the eye as if daring me to walk away. So I stood there, waiting for some lame apology so I could get on with my so-called undead life.
“I’m not going to give you some lame apology.” Well, so much for expectations. “When you asked me out, I was thrilled because I wanted to know everything about being a zombie,” Anna said. “I heard about the locker room thing and felt sorry for you. But as we worked on the Woodshop prank I wondered, ‘What else can he do?’ It just seemed so cool, being a zombie and all.
“And I was in a pretty bad place with my parents fighting all the time. Right after the dance last month my mom kicked my dad out, and they had to argue through me because they refused to talk to one another. I could tell you about the occult books I started to read, and the dark music I listened to.
