by E. Van Lowe
"You know, Amanda, for as far back as I can remember I've wanted to be you."
"Well, of course you do. Who wants to be a nobody?"
"Back when I thought you were a zombie, I would have let you bite me, so that I might roam the halls of Salesian by your side for all eternity. Before you became a zombie, I wanted to hang with you. If you'd said, 'Margot, you look cute today ,'I would have rejoiced, and if you'd said, 'I hate those shoes' I would have taken them home and burned them."
Note to self: You really have to start writing some of this stuff down--it's brilliant!
I continued: "What a fool I've been wasting my time on you."
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The smug smile that graced her lips slowly faded. She hung there above the zombies, staring at me. Her eyes narrowed.
"I've never liked you."
"You just asked me to hang out with you next semester."
"I don't need to like you to hang with you," she said.
"Is that why you stopped talking to me after seventh-grade summer camp?" The question flew from my lips so quickly I didn't realize I was going to ask it. It was a question I'd been torturing myself about since I was twelve years old. I knew the answer would never free me from the years of pain the snub had caused. Still, I had to know. As I stared at her, waiting for her reply, a lump formed in my throat.
"Oh, that," she said. "I guess I did like you until that summer."
"What did I do to make you guys stop talking to me?"
"Okay. You know how every night when we went to our bunks we always gossiped about someone? Remember how much we looked forward to lying in bed in the darkness, gossiping?"
I nodded.
"Well, after you went home sick, we gossiped about you. We made a bunch of stuff up--like we always did--but this time, it was about you."
"What kind of stuff?"
"The usual. You smelled bad; you talked about us behind our backs; you didn't know how to dress. You know?"
I was getting a sinking feeling, because I did know. We'd said those same things about other girls all the time. Not so much fun when it was about me.
"And since you weren't there to defend yourself, we all decided we hated you."
"But that's not fair," I said. It was the voice of a twelve-year-old girl. I could feel myself getting sick to my stomach, like
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I had when they first stopped talking to me. "It wasn't true. You guys just made up a bunch of lies."
She shrugged. "You asked, I told," she said in a dismissive tone.
"We used to do everything together. I thought we were friends."
"We were friends," she replied. If there was a hint of remorse in her words, I didn't hear it.
"All these years I thought I'd done something wrong. I tried so hard to get you to like me again." My words were filled with years of anguish.
"Really?" She seemed surprised.
"Yeah!" It was embarrassing admitting it.
"Let me give you some advice. The next time you want someone to like you, try sucking up to them a little more."
Hadn't thought of that. I guess I just wanted her to like me for me. What a concept--liking someone for who they are.
"You're the worst kind of person, you know that?" I suddenly said.
She thought about this for a second. "Of course you'd say that. You're a nobody. I'd rather be me than you any day."
I knew she'd say something like that. Sadly, there was a time when I'd rather have been her than me, too. I'd been blinded by all of Amanda's surface glitter.
I realized as I hung there that getting the chicken pox that seventh-grade summer was actually a blessing in disguise, because it allowed me to meet Sybil. Sybil would never tell lies about me behind my back, or desert me. She was an amazing person, a great friend. I hadn't been taking care of that friendship--until now.
I looked Amanda in the eye. "I know you think you're better than me. That's what makes girls like you so sad. Your
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reality is clouded by some distorted image of yourself. People like me help you keep that image alive by wanting to hang with you, fawning over you all the time. But I'm not doing that anymore." I took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. It felt soo good. "By the way, I'm not a nobody. I'm somebody. The name's Johnson, Margotyean Johnson."
And with that, I released my grip on the rope and dropped, plummeting into the outstretched arms of the zombies below.
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Chapter Thirty - three
I landed-- thoomph!-- on my back, atop the zombies' raised hands. So far so good. Now came the hard part. Like a partygoer at a club, stage diving into the crowd, I had to allow the zombies to crowd-surf me across the room toward the door.
I'd seen crowd-surfing on TV and in movies r and had always wanted to try it. How exciting it had to be to be carried away on an ocean of partying people. Of course, my parents had warned me against it; Too dangerous. You'll break your neck. Promise us you'll never do that. But as I'd weighed the options available to me hanging above the gym floor, I figured it was worth the risk.
The key to zombie-surfing was not to light, but to give in and allow myself to be moved freely. The zombies began working me away from the ropes across the room. I looked up into the horrified face of Amanda. She thought I'd given up. I had given up... on her. Then her expression slowly changed as she realized I'd planned the entire maneuver. I was escaping.
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Suddenly, Amanda came plunging down. CARUNCH! The zombies parted, allowing her to go crashing to the floor. As she struggled to her feet, she was surrounded. They'd hated her and the humiliation she'd inflicted upon them throughout their school lives. They saw their chance, and all wanted a piece of her.
She glanced around as the knot of zombies around her tightened. Heather was at the front of the pack.
"Hi, Heather," she said cautiously, donning a fake smile.
The zombies moved in.
"Urn... That top looks so good on you. When this is over, I'm going to give you another one just like it for your birthday."
And they were on her.
"Aiiiiiieeeee!"
Her shrieks filled the air, along with moans of zombie glee, and swatches of Chanel ball gown. The zombies holding me up dropped me. They too wanted a piece of her. For now, I was forgotten.
I eased out of the gym and raced up the corridor, praying I wasn't too late to save Sybil. Her friendship was more precious to me than it had ever been. I decided to go and check on her before I went looking for the geeks, who hopefully had the antidote.
I returned to the spot in the corridor where I'd left her.
She was gone.
The Thermos lay on the floor in a puddle of red tea. All the air went out of me, and I sank to my knees. I could feel my desire to live slipping away. I thought back to all the nights we'd sat up in my bedroom planning our fabulous high school careers, all the days since the eighth grade when we'd been there for each other.
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I don't know where it came from r but thoughts of the good times filled me with new resolve.
I got up.
"Toft!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs. My words echoed through the empty corridor. "Walk This Way," by Run DMC, played in the background.
Taft had pulled off this deception by playing on my desire to be popular. Sybil had wanted to go to the authorities right away, but I had convinced her going along with Principal Taft was best. Idiot!
I moved down the hall, energized by my new resolve. Suddenly Taft stepped from around the corner at the intersection in the corridor. He was smiling as I approached.
"Margot Jean Johnson." He shook his head with remorse. "What a fatal fiasco this is. A truly tragic turn of events. I really liked you."
"Then why?"
"You gave me no choice. You've changed, Margot. The girls I enlisted blended in with the pack. They did what was expected. But now look at you--the way you dress, the way you act, the way you think. The
old Margot would never have figured out how to thwart the zombies. She would have been too busy trying to fit in with them. I'm afraid you've become an individual."
"Isn't that what school is supposed to teach us?"
He chuckled. "Of course not. A school runs on order. Sameness. That's why we have up and down staircases. That's why you raise your hand instead of calling out, everyone following the rules, everyone conforming. If all you kids decided to become individuals we'd have anarchy. And we can't have that."
"No offense, Principal Taft, but that's crazy."
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His eyes widened. "I am not insane, "he said softly.
"I didn't say-"
"Zombies are the best thing that's ever happened to this school. No discipline problems, perfect attendance, no fights in the cafeteria, no one threatening the teachers, everybody where they're supposed to be when they're supposed to be there ... except you." His eyes narrowed. The sooner you become a zombie, Margot, the sooner things can get back to the way they should be around here."
"So, it's true. You're the one who turned everyone into zombies?"
He nodded.
"What about Mrs. Mars?"
He snorted. "What about her? Don't give her any credit for this,"
"But she must have been your accomplice."
He snorted again. "Why? Because kindly Principal Taft couldn't possibly have done this without help from tough-as-nails Mrs. Mars? Ha! It was all me."
"But I heard her. 'Zombies rule!'"
He smiled. It was a smile filled with beneficence. "This school has a fabulous intercom system. Not only can I talk to every classroom on campus, I can listen in as well. I recorded Mrs. Mars talking to you girls throughout the semester. Did you know that with a little help from Pro Tools editing software, I can manipulate her words to make it seem as if she's saying almost anything? It pays to be computer savvy." He winked at me.
"Anyway, after my unsuccessful attempt in the gym, I lured you girls to her office and played a tape for you."
"But the scarf... the odor."
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He raised his hand. "Me again. The stink is an unfortunate side effect of the formula that contains the virus. I used it to my advantage, to throw you girls off the scent... so to speak."
I stared at him, shaking my head, as the reality of his clever trap washed over me. "Stinky tennis shoes covered with cheese and then left out in the rain," I said softly.
"Excuse me?"
"You have to have a kid brother to understand."
"I'm sure you see that somebody had to fix things before they got too far out of hand." When I didn't respond, he sighed and shook his head, as if I weren't bright enough to understand. "Principals across the nation are at their wits' end the way you modern kids act out. And your parents aren't doing anything to help. When I become district supervisor, I'm going to see to it that every student in the district is a zombie. This thing is going to get popular."
"You're wrong about one thing, Principal Tart," I said.
"What's that?"
"You are crazy."
"Well... you're entitled to an opinion. At least you are for now."
"How did you do it? I know it had something to do with the carnival."
He smiled. "Believe it or not, the whole thing started in an Internet chat room. Administrators around the country were grousing about the sad state of students these days. Then someone chimed in and said they had a solution. A virus, of sorts, that makes people conform."
"So, it is a virus?" It was good to know that Baron and Milton had diagnosed correctly.
"Yes. I didn't know what I was getting myself into when I
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purchased it. But I needed to do something if I wanted that promotion." He looked at me, as if for confirmation, before going on.
"The instructions said it had to be ingested. And if more than fifty percent of the student population took it, they would see to it that the rest conformed. So I paid a vendor at the carnival to add it to all the soft drinks. It was that simple."
He chuckled, pleased with himself. "The person who sold me the virus didn't say anything about zombies. I was so nervous those first few days of the outbreak. I honestly couldn't have gotten this far without you, Margot. But now look. That virus is the best thing that's ever happened to this school."
I'd heard enough of his lunatic rantings. "I need the antidote," I demanded. "Where is it?"
"There is no antidote." There was a finality to his words that blanketed me in a wave of despair. Game, set, and match. "I think it's appropriate you and your friend become zombies at the same time. I tried that once before in the gym, but you outsmarted me."
"Where is she? If you've harmed her--"
"Of course I didn't harm her." He sounded almost hurt by the accusation. "What kind of principal do you think I am? Mar-got, I'm not a bad man. I'm a concerned administrator."
"Then where is she?"
"She's where you guys meet up all the time. Sitting in front of her locker waiting for you... Duh!"
I left Principal Tart and went in search of Sybil. I had to rescue Sybil and the geek boys before the zombies in the gym came looking for us. 'I Want Candy" was playing as I headed up the corridor.
Just as Taft had said, she was seated in front of her locker.
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What he had neglected to say is that she was tied to a student desk. She was coiled in thick rope. Her hands and feet were bound. Her head was down, listing to the side as if she'd been drugged.
"Sybil! It's me!" I called.
I started running. I was going to rescue her. Knowing this made me oblivious to the danger around me. I was doing something for somebody else. Pride surged through me.
She lifted her head as I got closer, and I realized it wasn't Sybil tied to the chair. It was Mrs. Mars.
When she saw me, an odd smile appeared on her lips. I gazed into her eyes. They were deep red, her skin green and flaky. A low rumbling commenced deep in her chest.
I reached her and began to untie the rope.
"Stop him!" Her voice was sandpaper over rough wood.
I realized there was something else in her eyes, a warning.
She was looking above her head. My eyes followed and I saw it. It was an old trick, one I'd seen in movies, heard stories of kids pulling since grade school. In its original form someone balances a bucket of water above a partially opened door. When the victim enters and pushes the door all the way open--splash! Loads of humiliating fun.
This version was slightly different. An old aluminum wash-tub was suspended from the light fixture above Mrs. Mars. I could see the nearly invisible fishing line that extended from the washtub to the chair. If the chair moved the washtub would dump its contents onto her.
Acid? I wondered. Boiling oil?
"I see it," I cried. There was a simple solution--free her without moving the chair. "Keep still," I said. "I can do this."
Her eyes widened.
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"Don't worry. I'm rescuing you. The key is not moving the chair."
"Mmrnrnmaaaah!"
My fingers froze on the knots as I heard the familiar zombie moan coming from Mrs. Mars SPLOOSH!
The washtub spilled a saucy brown concoction all over me.
Suddenly Mrs. Mars' chest heaved. A moment later she was struggling wildly against the rope to free herself. She eyed me hungrily, growling, hissing, and snapping. I was too late. She had crossed over. If I freed her now she would attack.
I took a step back. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mars," I whispered. "I'm too late." My words were filled with genuine remorse.
"Sorry I had to fool you like that." The voice of Principal Taft behind us. 'In case you're wondering, that's canned beef chili. The chunky kind." His words were cheerful. The man was totally bonkers.
I faced him. "You know, in most books the villain makes one final appearance. I do believe this is your second," I said, my voice reeking with sarcasm.
"I'm not
a villain," he said calmly. "In fact, I'm the good guy; I'm a concerned administrator."
"You turned Mrs. Mars into a zombie."
"I didn't want to. But at the last faculty meeting she threatened to expose me. She was the only opposition to my plan."
"All the other teachers were zombies."
He stroked his chin. "True. Mrs. Mars threatened to go to one of her big-shot former students. She said she'd given my way a chance, but she felt it lacked vision."
"I can't believe she became a zombie so quickly."
"She's old," he said. "She doesn't have Sybil's youthful immune system. I guess the older they are, the faster they change." He was smiling again.
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For some reason at that moment the photos on Mrs. Mars' wall flashed through my mind. I suddenly understood that the mementos were photos of Mrs. Mars with former students, students she was proud of. The woman in the photo I had recognized was Senator Watson. Senator Watson had gone to Salesian.
"What does she know about vision?" Taft said, scowling at her. "She's a gym teacher." He looked at me as if he was waiting for me to tell him he was right.
Considering all the successful women who graced Mrs. Mars' walls, it seemed to me she had quite a bit more vision than he did.
"You're a horrible man," I said.
He smiled. "Some people don't understand progress. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn't do this to her. That honor goes to your friend, Sybil."
"No." The word was dead on my lips.
Yes." He nodded somberly.
If Sybil had done this to Mrs. Mars, that meant she hadn't made it, either. My earlier despair was child's play compared to how I was feeling in that moment. I wanted to cry out "Nooo!" But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Besides, getting emotional wouldn't fix anything, and I had a lot of fixing to do.