Adventures of a Middle School Zombie

by Scott Craven

  “Bottom line is this—it started with me wanting to be you. I wanted to be someone not Anna, a person who could cut this and break that and still keep going to cut and break some more. I told Christine because she was the only person I could really talk to then. I told her all my secrets. Like I said, I was in a really dark place.”

  “Anna, that’s not—”

  “Let me finish. Please. I need to get this out. Anyway, all of that was true when you picked me up for the dance. I thought maybe there was some trick to it, something I could take from you, like that Ooze everyone talks about.”

  “But Ooze is—”

  “Please! Please. Of course I know what Ooze really is. But before I really got to know you, I thought what all the other kids thought. You were a zombie and that was it, there was nothing else to know. But then we talked, and I watched you around other people. When I got to peek behind the zombie curtain, I saw a sweet and really shy person that I’d like to get to know better. And when I did get to know you as we talked at the dance I didn’t want to be you. I wanted to be with you. Then we went to the movie, and talking with you and your dad, and getting to know Jed, you were the least dead person I knew. You have this spirit about you.

  “Looking back, it wasn’t that I wanted you to make me a zombie. I wanted you to make me Anna again. Yes, someone who dressed a little differently, a girl who doesn’t like to go with the crowd, if you know what I mean. I knew you could bring that Anna back.

  “And … you have. Even after what Christine said, even now that you’ve avoided me for weeks. I just need to say thank you, Jed. That’s all. I promise not to bother you again.”

  Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes. She continued to look at me, almost through me. I knew she wanted me to say something, but I had nothing to say. I flipped the football from my left hand to my right and back again, almost daring her to continue.

  “Goodbye, Jed,” she said instead, before walking away.

  “Anna, wait, I understand, I’ve been in some pretty bad places too—trophy cases, garbage cans. Maybe we can just go back; you can come over for dinner, what do you think?”

  She continued as if I hadn’t said a word. Because I hadn’t. I should’ve said those things, and part of me really wanted to. But a bigger part was still hurting.

  It was true my heart didn’t beat, but right then it felt as if it were racing. And it also felt as if there were a hole in it.

  I wanted to follow her, to say everything was going to be all right. But would it? Or would it just get more complicated?

  I turned and started for home. I looked back, just in case, but Anna was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I would say we’re going to kill you. But that wouldn’t mean too much to you, would it?”

  I didn’t say a word. What was the point? All Robbie saw in me was a victim. All I saw in him was a bully. When it comes to middle school, some things never change.

  Robbie was referring, of course, to the flag football game, scheduled for the end of the day before winter break. Which happened to be today.

  Robbie had poked a finger in my chest just as we were about to enter Biology. The class was merely a formality since grades were already in (I had an A, I heard Robbie earned a C+, causing his parents to call the school to make sure their son hadn’t beaten up one of the computer geeks to hack into the system and change it).

  And, in fact, Robbie’s GPA would be just enough to earn him a pass out of middle school—though there were unconfirmed stories of an emergency school-board meeting to temporarily lower requirements to a new standard called the “Robbie Rule”—and so today was his last as an eighth grader in the big game.

  “Here’s the thing, DJ,” Robbie said. “I know you spent a fair amount of time in trash cans this semester. And you were smart enough to let me check my answers against yours on tests.

  “But you sent me to the nurse’s office. Twice. As far as I’m concerned, I need to get even. And that happens after school today. That’s a good thing. A really good thing. I’ve still got to send Javon a thank-you note.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You better back off the attitude, Zom-boy, or it’s only going to be worse.”

  “What do you mean about Javon? He’s the one who convinced me I could play football.”

  Robbie laughed.

  “Exactly. Which was a little favor I asked him after the first time we played at lunch. What better way to get some revenge than in a game where you not only are allowed to hit people, but are strongly urged to?”

  “No, you’re lying, like always.”

  “Whatever gets you through the day, gray matter. See ya.”

  He had to be joking. Of course. Javon was a stand-up guy. And I’d gotten good.

  I was Dead Jed, a running back with mad skills (I’d already proved I was Dead Jed, straight-A kid, but that wasn’t going to impress any middle school student on the planet).

  I almost didn’t get a chance. Principal Buckley had originally ruled that due to my condition, I would not be allowed to play a contact sport. Something about “infection.” Never mind that I’d been playing football at lunch for weeks.

  “But he’s been playing football almost every day at lunch for weeks,” Mr. Stanzer argued. Mr. Stanzer had not only seen me play, but each year he coached the seventh-grade team. That’s why he and I were in Principal Buckley’s office the week before game day.

  “Uh huh, and did he at any time suffer an injury, a cut of some sort, or an abrasion that would result in blood?” the principal said.

  “No, I think Jed’s been very careful about that sort of thing,” Mr. Stanzer said.

  “So, no other students have been exposed to blood or saliva? And please don’t mention the Woodshop incident; that has no bearing on this since, despite appearances, Jed’s blood didn’t get on anyone.”

  That’s what administrators and teachers called it. The Woodshop incident. Students called it the “Fingering.”

  “Of course not, it’s just a friendly game.”

  “Exactly,” Principal Buckley went on. “As we both know, the annual flag football game can get just a bit rough, the players tending to blow off steam on the last day of school before the holidays. Injuries certainly do happen in that game. And I fear that should blood be shed, our students might be exposed to fluids that could do them harm. We already know what Ooze can do, don’t we?”

  “But that was temporary, and it cleared right up,” Mr. Stanzer said. “Ask Robbie. He barely felt a thing.”

  “I’ve had a discussion with Robbie, which is one reason I’ve chosen to keep Jed out of the game. Robbie, in fact, was quite gracious and urged me to include Jed. But if Ooze—nothing more than sweat—can cause a patchy but very worrisome grayness, imagine what his saliva, maybe even his blood, can do?”

  “Principal Buckley, please—”

  “I’m afraid my mind is made up. I have to put the students’ well-being first.”

  “Before we jump right to thinking Jed’s body is a threat, let’s first—”

  “Bob, thank you for coming in, but at this point I’d suggest you focus on your team’s game plan. You do want to coach the seventh graders, right? I’d hate to see one divisive issue get in the way of your efforts.”

  We left, making sure the door didn’t hit our butts on the way out.

  “Jed, I am really sorry,” Mr. Stanzer said. “I’ve been watching you guys play, and to be honest, I thought maybe you guys had a chance, with you running the ball, Luke as quarterback, and that Arden kid—a little coaching, and he’d be great on the line.”

  “I know it’s out of your hands,” I said. “But I don’t get it. I’ve been trying all year just to fit in. And when I sign up for an activity to be a part of something, I’m not allowed. Which way is it going to be?”

  “I know,” Mr. Stanzer said, patting me on the back. “I still hope you’ll be there to watch.”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t
miss it. But Ziggy—Arden—on the line? You’re asking for trouble on that one.”

  “Not really. He’s faster than he looks, and pretty athletic. He just needs a chance. You of all people should be able to understand that.”

  “I guess. But he’s still Ziggy.”

  For the next few days, I really didn’t have my heart in the lunchtime game. I’d had my non-beating heart set on playing, to show everyone I wasn’t just another undead guy. In fact, I’d learned that since I was not burdened with a working cardiovascular system, I really never got tired. I could be as fresh in the fourth quarter as in the first.

  Luke drew me aside after one game.

  “Really, after everything you’ve been through—that we’ve been through—now you’re giving up?” he said. “That simple?”

  “Luke, I’m sorry, but nothing seems to go my way. Just when I thought I had something I could do, something no one else could, some guy makes a decision and I’m out. Just like that. What’s the point?”

  “The point? The point is nothing will change if you sit on your undead butt and take it. You’ll also be letting down everyone who believes in you. Especially me … ”

  I knew what was coming.

  “ … and Anna.”

  “Don’t even talk about her.”

  “Fine. Here’s the thing. You’re fed up, I get it. You want to quit, I understand. But this is not the time to quit. Keep fighting to play. You’re the only kid I know who can give an arm and a leg for real, without stopping. I know you have it in you. Keep going. See what happens.”

  I hated to say it, but Luke was right. I nodded. What, was I going to try to talk him out of it?

  But there was one more person to talk to.

  I got to school early, waiting for Javon’s bus. Even if Principal Buckley were to change his mind, I wasn’t strapping on any flags until Javon was straight with me.

  I was there when Javon stepped off the bus.

  “Jed, how are you?” he said. “Little early, aren’t you?”

  He noticed the look on my face. I get even more gray when I’m angry.

  “Something wrong, dude?”

  “Yeah, you could say that. You know Robbie.”

  “Of course. Why are you asking me something you already know?”

  “You friends with him?”

  “Friends? You kidding me? What’s going on?”

  “Robbie told me about the favor he asked you. To convince me to play, to fool me into thinking I was good. I know all about how he wants to get me on the field and … what are you smiling about?”

  It was true. There was a huge grin on his face. The guy clearly did not know the dangers of angering one of the brain-eating undead. At least that’s what I wished I could convince him of at that moment.

  “I was really happy to do him that favor,” Javon said. “You know why? Because you are a good football player. And you are going to make him look stupid on the field.”

  “Wait, Robbie said—”

  “I don’t care what Robbie said. I don’t care that Robbie is telling half the school he’s going to test that myth about killing a zombie by ripping his head off.”

  “What, my head?”

  “Jed, a ton of people want to see you play. You’d be surprised. I want you to play because without you, the sevvies don’t have a chance. Besides, I’m the one out of the game. I’ve decided to help Mr. Stanzer with the sevvies.”

  “What? You can’t be serious. You’re the best player in school.”

  “Maybe. But things won’t change unless people start to speak up. Funny thing, but when I told my folks what happened to you, they asked me what I could do to change things. I told them nothing, it was the principal’s decision. And they just said, ‘All the more reason.’ That’s it. And that’s when I really started to think about it. If you weren’t going to play, neither was I. But I could still be involved in the game.”

  “Thanks. Really, thank you. And sorry about the Robbie thing.”

  “No problem. So let’s just keep practicing, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I knew we still were not going to win. But it would be an improvement. Without Javon, the eighth graders were probably going to win 36-0 instead of 60-0. Could be closer. Moral victory, even.

  Even better was when Principal Buckley changed his mind. He emailed Mr. Stanzer that I could play. Just like that.

  “No idea what’s going on,” Mr. Stanzer said, handing me a slip of paper after tracking me down the Tuesday before the game. “Here’s your pass to join us at practice. We get fourth period for the rest of the week to put together a game plan. See you on the field.”

  Yeah, Pine Hollow took the game pretty seriously. Passes were almost impossible to get. Seriously, you had to fill out a form proving you had to go to the bathroom (though if your crotch was shown to be somewhat damp, you could fill out the form when you got back). On the black market, passes went for as high as two slices of pizza and a non-diet soft drink (which had to be smuggled on to campus since sugared beverages had been banned dating back to the 2003 “Fight Obesity” campaign by the National Fitness Association, though the campaign had ended after a semester because everyone wrote on the NFA stickers, “No Fat Asses”).

  Later that day, as my reinstatement became common knowledge, I received an anonymous text: “Check this out, to the left in the background. You’ll have your answer.” Attached was a video clip.

  It was grainy and dark, but the familiar tones of “Thriller” helped me place it. The dance. There I was, doing the zombie. I focused left and looked in the background. There was an adult watching. In a suit. I paused the clip.

  Principal Buckley. Had to be. He was the only one wearing a tie that I could remember.

  I hit “Play” and saw Buckley put his right hand inside his jacket, but he turned before I could see what he was reaching for.

  His elbow rose, as if lifting something. Then his head tilted back quickly, once, twice. He lowered his elbow and turned back to the dance floor, his hand once again going into his jacket.

  Wait, there was a flicker of light. I rewound and paused. Something was in his hand. Small. Silver.

  Holy crap. It was a flask.

  Principal Buckley was getting hammered at the dance. Maybe a leap in logic from taking a swig to drinking heavily, but you don’t bring a flask to a middle school dance to have a sip or two and unwind. I hit “Play” again, and in the final few seconds, Principal Buckley put his arms up in front of him, hands formed in claws, and shuffled his feet.

  He was dancing. Sort of. But that was enough for me to hammer the nail into this particular coffin.

  The principal was drunk.

  I played the video again, studying the scene to see if I could find any clues as to who may have taken it. There were some familiar faces watching, facing the camera, but the shot of me dancing was clear, no one’s head was getting in the way. So it had to be shot from someone standing up front. And right across from the DJ, who was centered behind me.

  But who took this? I had no idea.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Everybody, gather around,” Mr. Stanzer said.

  We formed a tight circle around him, making the last adjustments to the belts holding our flags (though we knew from looking at videos of past games that in most cases, flags would be yanked only when the sevvies wearing them were on the ground).

  “We’ve had great practices, and if we follow our plans, odds are we won’t get beaten as badly as everyone here expects,” Mr. Stanzer said. “A touchdown, maybe two, isn’t out of the realm of possibility. And you guys can leave with your heads held high—at least the ones who still have their heads.”

  No, he didn’t really say that, because coaches aren’t allowed to say stuff that realistic. Instead, Mr. Stanzer gave the usual pep talk about giving a hundred percent, going all out on every play, and leaving everything on the field (our entrails, perhaps?).

  It was a beautiful last day
of school before winter break (and would have been considered so even if it there had been a tornado bearing down on us, because it was the last day of school, a day so perfect nothing could ruin it). The sky was a cloudless turquoise, the field a rich emerald. Students jammed the metal bleachers. On the eighth-grade side, banners implored its team to “clobber,” “pummel,” and “anialate” (emotion, not spelling, was the priority). There was just one sign on the seventh-grade banner— “Next year is our year.”

  Just before the coin flip, Javon stepped into the huddle to say a few words. “We’ve worked up some good plays, stuff that will surprise them, trust me,” he said. “They aren’t prepared for us at all.”

  That much was true. Holding to tradition, the eighth graders’ practice had more to do with playing catch or relaxing under the bleachers during their free period. The coach, Mr. Benatar from PE, was OK with that since it had been a winning formula for, well, forever.

  “And we’ve got a secret weapon never before seen in middle school,” Javon said, looking at me. “Jed’s body is built a little differently, as you all know. And we’re going to use that to our advantage. And when they finally figure that out, we’re going to air it out. And none of them has any idea just how far Luke can throw the ball.

  “I know you are not going to believe this now, but we can win this thing. You guys can make history today, and make sure the eighth graders have their worst holiday break ever. OK, everyone, hands in the center, on three, ‘Sevvies fight proud!’ One, two, three—”

  “Sevvies fight proud!” we screamed. A few of us looked over at our opponents, wondering if that had made them mad.

  Stepping toward the middle of the field for the coin toss were our team captains: Arden, G-Ray, and computer-whiz Dallas (who had created a football simulation showing us exactly what we needed to do to win, which turned out to involve convincing Peyton Manning and Larry Fitzgerald to play with us).