by Marty Chan
He spun around. “I said quit it.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
“You want to walk in front, go ahead.”
“You first,” Monique said.
Shivering in my thin Cheong Sam, I hoped the bickering Boudreaus would run out of steam soon, but as they walked ahead of me, I heard something else in the air. Distant laughter.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
Monique turned around. “You think I’m going to fall for that gag?”
“I’m serious,” I said. “Listen.”
The laughter grew louder.
“Where’s that coming from?” I asked.
“From behind the fir trees,” she replied.
“What’s there?” I asked.
Remi whispered, “The graveyard.”
NINE
“Do you guys live next to the cemetery?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear the answer.
Remi looked down at his feet.
“Yes,” Monique answered. “We do.”
“Is that why you never invite me to your house?” I asked Remi.
A shrill wail from the graveyard cut off his answer.
“Who’s screaming?” Monique asked.
The track field that separated us from the cemetery seemed to shrink before my eyes like a collapsing telescope.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I want to find out.”
She shushed me. “Listen.”
Out of the darkness a girl screamed. Laughter floated out from the cemetery, over the chain-link fence and across the track field toward us. I wished I was home in bed under my covers. I inched closer to Remi.
“Maybe we should leave them alone,” I suggested.
“Are you two scared?” Monique asked.
Remi pushed me away. “No. Marty’s the one who’s trying to hide behind me.”
“You’re the one who’s shaking,” I said.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you. Your knees are knocking too loudly.”
“You’re scared too,” I accused.
“I’m rubber, you’re glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you,” Remi said.
“You’re a big chicken.”
“Boing. Right back at you. Bwock, Bwock,” Remi clucked.
I’d have to remember Remi’s neat trick the next time someone insulted me.
“You two are goofs,” Monique sighed.
“We’re rubber, you’re glue,” I said. “Boing!”
Remi nodded approval.
Monique whispered. “If you two knew who’s in the cemetery, you wouldn’t be playing stupid games.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Who’s there?” Remi leaned forward.
“Is it someone we know?”
Monique shook her head. “It’s no one you want to know.”
My stomach twisted into a pretzel, but Remi shrugged, unafraid.
He confronted his sister: “You’re lying. You don’t know who’s in the graveyard. You don’t even — ”
Low moans cut him off. Now the cemetery sounded like a restaurant full of cows that ate way too much off the buffet table.
“You guys ever hear of The Curse of Bouvier Cemetery?” she asked.
I shook my head and scanned Remi’s puzzled face for a clue. He shrugged.
“Do you want to hear it?” she asked.
I was pretty sure she meant to tell us the story whether we wanted to hear it or not. The way she asked reminded me of how my grade three teacher, Mrs. Connor, used to ask Eric Johnson if he “wanted” to re-do his homework, or how my mom asked if I “wanted” to take out the garbage. Why did they even bother asking?
Sure enough, Monique launched into her tale before Remi and I could say a thing: “When I started grade seven at Vanier, there was a gang that ruled the school — the Gangstas. These guys were serious trouble and they knew it. They skipped classes. They stuffed nerds in lockers. They clogged toilets with pages from textbooks. They even lipped off the principal.”
“What’s ‘lipped off’ mean?” I asked.
“They talked back to him,” she said.
“Why did they do that?” he asked.
“Because they felt like it. They did anything they wanted. They drank beer. They threw parties on the roof of the school. They stole the wheels off cars.”
“Couldn’t anyone stop them?” Remi asked.
She shook her head. “Everyone was afraid. The Gangstas held grudges. I heard that a grade twelve girl told them to stop being jerks and the next year, she never came back to school.”
“Maybe she graduated,” I suggested.
Monique shook her head. “She was supposed to come back and finish math and chemistry. Rumour is that the Gangstas made her disappear for what she said to them.”
“Are they still around?” Remi asked.
She silently looked toward the cemetery.
I asked, “What happened to them?”
“One night they went too far.” Her voice grew soft. “They stole a car and went for a joy ride, down the road over there.”
She pointed to the old highway which ran alongside the track field and past the cemetery.
She continued, almost whispering: “It was raining that night, and the road was slippery. They were going too fast and the car skidded off the road and into the cemetery. It rolled twenty-three times and landed in the middle of the graveyard. The Gangstas died. People say that the Gangstas were thrown out of the car so hard that their bodies went right into the ground, so when it came time to bury them, the undertakers just had to cover up the holes with dirt.”
“What happened after that?” Remi squeaked. If there was a chair there, he’d be sitting on the edge of it.
“Weird noises started to come from the graveyard. The sound of moaning, laughing, and sometimes a scream. People said it was the Gangstas.”
“But they were dead,” I said. “Did they become ghosts?”
She said nothing.
Remi scoffed. “You’re making this up. Someone must have checked out the cemetery and found something.”
“A policeman did, but he never came back. He disappeared like the grade twelve girl. The police sent twenty men to the cemetery to look for the cop, but all they found was his chewed-up shoe. They say the Gangstas ate him, from head . . . to foot.”
“Ghosts can’t eat people,” I said.
“I didn’t say they were ghosts,” Monique said. “The Gangstas became zombies. The undead. The creatures that feed on human flesh. They’re going to eat your feet if you’re not careful.”
She advanced toward Remi and me.
He laughed. “You’re just saying that to scare us.”
“They’re coming to get yo-o-o-u, Remi,” she moaned.
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
Monique continued, “The graveyard ghouls are going to eat your toes first, then your foot and — ”
I didn’t hear anything else she said. Ghouls! My entire body went numb as the truth plopped in front of me like a pop quiz. The dead were rising from their graves to paint graffiti.
TEN
“Ghoul” wasn’t a nickname; it referred to what our graffiti artist was — an actual ghoul. I had to tell Remi, but he was covering his ears to shut out Monique’s moans. She kept pestering him as we left the schoolyard, claiming the ghouls were going to eat him.
“Are you done yet?” Remi asked his sister.
“Admit it. My story freaked you out or else you wouldn’t be covering your ears.”
He dropped his hands. “My ears are cold, that’s all. Besides, why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s the truth,” Monique said.
“Sure,” he scoffed. “Like you told the truth when you told Dad your watch died and that’s why you missed curfew.”
“My watch did break,” she said.
“Did Brian fix it for you? Or was he too busy sucking the tongue out of your mouth?”
<
br /> “Shut your trap,” Monique said.
He smiled. “I think he’s the zombie, the way he was chewing on your ear.”
She smacked him in the arm.
“Didn’t hurt,” Remi said.
Monique shoved him aside and walked away, passing a green sign that read:
FOREST HEIGHTS ESTATES
“Is she crazy?” I asked. “She’s heading into the trailer park. Don’t you know who lives there?”
“Yeah. I live there,” he said.
“Oh,” I mumbled. “Sorry.”
I shouldn’t have called Remi’s neighbourhood “the trailer park.” To be fair, everyone called it that because it was, well, a park full of trailers. The long, narrow trailers were parked at angles so they could be towed out without hitting the houses across the lane.
“You don’t have to come over,” he grumbled.
“I want to,” I said, wondering if Lawrence Bennet’s claim that only criminals lived in the trailer park was true.
“You’re not going to make fun of where I live, are you?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Everyone else does,” he said.
Teasing was like the flu; it made me feel like throwing up. The kids picked on me because I looked different, because I was Chinese, because I didn’t fit in, but Remi looked the same as everyone else. I thought he’d be immune to the disease I called teasitus, but there must’ve been more than one way to catch this awful sickness. If Remi could come down with teasitus, then anyone could.
“Living in Forest Heights Estates isn’t so bad,” I said, trying to cheer up my friend. “At least you don’t live in a grocery store.”
He looked puzzled. “What’s so rough about that? You get free candy whenever you want.”
“I wish. Dad says candy’s for paying customers. For snacks Mom sticks head cheese on crackers because it’s the only meat that no customer will buy.”
“What’s head cheese?”
“Lunch meat that looks like it’s been sliced from a cow’s head.”
“Gross.”
“Plus, because the store is so gigantic, it takes me two hours to do my chores. Do you know how many trips I have to make to the dumpster? I’d live in Forest Heights Estates any day.”
“Do you want to trade places?” Remi asked.
“Sure, you can let my mom dress you up in her clothes.”
“Never mind.”
“Are you going to invite me in your house? I’m freezing in this dress.”
He chuckled, seeming more like his old self, and walked past a windmill mail box toward his trailer.
Remi’s house reminded me of my home. All the rooms ran in a straight line like the back hallway of my parents’ store. The difference was that his home had carpets, while mine had cement floors, and he had a bratty big sister, while I had none.
“Watch out for the ghouls,” she moaned.
Remi led me along the wood-panelled hallway into his bedroom and shut the door, blocking out his sister’s moans.
Finally I could tell him about my theory. “I think one of the Gangstas is drawing the graffiti.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “You think we’re dealing with a spray-painting zombie?”
He opened the top drawer of his dresser and dumped his candy into it. A hockey trophy tumbled off the dresser and landed in an unzipped hockey bag. By the time he fished the trophy out, a jockstrap had hooked around the tiny golden hockey player. He untangled it and flicked the jockstrap on to his messy bed.
“It’s someone from the Gangstas,” I said. I grabbed a hockey stick propped against a Wayne Gretzky poster, knocked the jockstrap off Remi’s bed and sat down with the stick on my lap. “I think Monique’s story is real.”
“My sister always lies. Last week, she told my dad she was late coming home because there was a grease fire at her job and she had to clean the grill. But I saw her necking with her boyfriend in his car for like an hour outside the house before she came in.”
“What’s necking?” I asked.
He wrapped his arms around himself and smooched the air.
“Ew,” I said, shuddering at this one-sided wrestling match.
Remi lowered his arms. “You can’t trust anything that snot gobbler tells you.”
“How do you explain what we heard from the cemetery?”
“It doesn’t have to be ghouls,” he said.
“Who else has a good time in a graveyard?” I asked. “Think about it. Halloween is party time for zombies, and the cemetery is like their community hall. They’re probably bobbing for feet right now.”
Remi scrunched his face and squeezed his eyebrows together. He was either thinking hard or he needed to fart. “If it was one of the Gangstas, the graffiti should have said ‘Gangstas Rule’, but it said ‘Ghoul Rule’.”
“Didn’t Monique say that the Gangstas drank beer?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Don’t you remember what was at the school shed? Under the message?”
His farty-thinking face returned. I hoped he was thinking.
“A beer bottle,” I said. “It had to be from one of the Gangstas. What other proof do you need?
His face was still in fart-or-thinking mode. A slow trumpet toot was followed by the reek of rotten eggs. Nope, he wasn’t thinking.
“Ooops,” Remi said.
“Something crawled up you and died.” I fanned the stink away from me.
“Beans,” he said.
THUMP.
“What was that?” I asked.
THUMP. THUMP. Something was banging against the bedroom window.
“Someone’s trying to get in.” I stood up, clutching the hockey stick. “It’s the Gangsta Ghouls!”
“Don’t be silly,” Remi said. “There are no such things as zombies.”
He picked up his jockstrap and stretched it out like a slingshot.
“I thought you didn’t believe in zombies,” I said.
“Just in case.”
“Ooooooohhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmm,” a low voice moaned from outside the window.
My hands shook. “It’s the undead.”
He took aim at the window. “No it’s not.”
“The ghouls are coming to feed on us,” I said.
“Chill!”
“We’re going to be zombie dessert!” I cried.
Remi elbowed me, then yelled at the window, “Monique! I know it’s you.”
Of course! The moaning creature outside had to be his sister.
“Yeah,” I added. “Stop joking around. It’s not funny.”
“I smeeeeellllll feeeeeeeeet.” The voice didn’t sound much like Monique at all.
“Are you sure it’s her?” I asked.
Remi nodded, then stared at the window. He didn’t look very sure of himself.
“Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet toooooooo eeaaaaaatttt,” moaned the voice.
It had to be his sister, and if it was, then she needed a little dose of Newton’s Law. Nudging my friend, I whispered, “Let’s lock her out of the house.”
He grinned. “That’s why you’re the brains and I’m the brawn.”
I threw down the hockey stick, scrambled to the door and pulled it open. Monique jumped around the corner of the hallway and screamed, “Gotcha!”
I let out a high-pitched scream and hopped back. Remi fired his jockstrap, which smacked Monique in the face.
“You morons,” she growled as she peeled the jockstrap off her head.
“There’s a zombie outside,” I said.
“And it’s going to eat us,” Remi said.
Monique smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe in zombies, Remi.”
“I’m telling the truth,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” she said.
“He is,” I said, backing Remi up. “It’s outside the window.”
She cackled. “Maybe we should let it in.” She walked to the window.
“What are you doing?” I cried. “Get away from t
here!”
“Don’t open the window!” he yelled.
Too late. She slid the window open and looked out.
“There’s no one out here,” she said.
“Really?” I asked.
“See for yourself,” she said.
Remi crept to the window. I stayed back. Monique stepped away from the window so her brother could peek out. Suddenly, a hand shot into the room, reaching for Remi. He screamed, but Monique held him by the arms.
“Feeding time,” she yelled.
“No!” I screamed.
“Let go of me!” he screeched.
A burly blond guy in a Bouvier Bobcats hockey jacket appeared in the window.
“Gotcha again!” Monique let go of her brother.
Remi blushed. “I knew it was you, Brian.”
“Is that why you were screaming like a girl?” Brian laughed. “I wish I coulda seen the look on your face when I was banging on the window.”
“There’s a zombie outside my window!” Monique mocked us. “Call mommy and daddy. I think I wet my pants!”
Brian pretended to be a hysterical Remi by running back and forth past the window, his blond hair flapping up and down like a dolphin’s tail.
“Dad said you’re not allowed to have friends over tonight,” Remi said to Monique. “Especially not Brian.”
Brian stopped and popped his head through the opened window. “Relax, runt. Monique asked me to drive your friend home.”
“I don’t need a ride,” I said. I didn’t want to go anywhere with this jerk.
“Do you want to walk instead?” Monique taunted.
“Past the cemetery?”
Remi said, “I’ll walk with him.”
“Past the ghouls?” Brian asked. “Oohhhhhmm.”
Between zombies and jerks, I didn’t have much of a choice. “It’s getting cold out there,” I said. “Let’s all go for a ride.”
Monique shook her head. “Remi’s gotta go to bed. School tomorrow.”
“You can’t leave me alone,” he argued.
“We’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Brian promised.
“It doesn’t take that long to get to Marty’s place.”
Monique smiled. “Are you scared?”
If Remi rode with us, he’d be admitting that he was too scared to stay at home alone, and Monique would tease him for the rest of his life. But if he stayed at home, Monique and Brian would probably try to frighten him when they got back, and the only thing worse than being scared was waiting to be scared. My friend’s problem was like a Jenga game; any block he pulled out would bring down the tower.