“Where’d you go?” my dad asked. He and Bev were looking at me with real concern.
“I just started thinking about . . .”
My dad took up when I trailed off. “It’s normal to think about the dead when you least expect it,” Dad said. “The one thing you can’t do is to let yourself feel guilty—”
“For surviving, yeah I know,” I said.
“Well, it’s true.”
What about feeling guilty because you think you’re responsible for the person’s death?
“Hey, shouldn’t you guys go get the food?” I asked. “I’m starving.”
“Okay,” Dad said. “Want to come with?”
I said I didn’t and they got up and headed for the door. Bev stopped and looked at me, her eyes wet.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay, Courtney?”
I resisted the urge to be flip and just said I would. Then I shooed them out the door. They wouldn’t be gone long and I wanted to call Buddha before they returned.
Buddha’s deep voice sounded genuinely happy when I called.
“Courtney, I thought I was never going to hear from you again.”
“Things here have been pretty crazy, Buddha,” I said. “Crazy and shitty.”
“I hope you’re okay.”
“A friend of mine killed himself,” I said, and a lump formed in my throat.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “I don’t want to keep you long, and I’m really sorry to bother you with business. I just thought I would have seen you again by now.”
“Sure,” I said, “I don’t know if I can come see you till Saturday.”
“Saturday would be fine,” he said, and then something crept into his voice that I couldn’t quite place, but that I didn’t like. “That is, if you still want to come and see me . . .”
“I have to, Buddha,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I need to give you some money and pick up some more . . . stuff from you.”
“Well, then I’ll be expecting you Saturday,” he said, “and I am sorry to hear about your friend. Take care, Courtney.”
“You, too, dude,” I said. He hung up.
What did he mean by, “if I wanted to come see him”? Did he think I was considering running out on what I owed him? He’d never threatened me or anything, but even I knew it would be a bad idea to cross a drug dealer. Zombies aren’t the only thing in the world that can kill you.
Dad and Bev came home and I ate with them as we watched TV. They tried to talk to me a little. I was so busy cramming cabbage rolls into my face I couldn’t answer and they gave up after a while. My belly swelled as I ate and ate and ate. I looked like a teen mom by the time I was done—the memory of the preggo shuffler started to well up in my mind, but I stifled it. I had a hard time waddling down the hall to my bedroom.
The bed groaned under me as I sat on it, and then laid on my back with my knees up. I had to call Sherri and let her know I was back. When I was done, I might call Brandon. Sherri answered on the first ring.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Asleep mostly,” I said.
“Jesus, I wish I could say the same thing.”
“Yeah, sorry, I sort of checked out there.”
I could tell she was being delicate with me because she didn’t curse me out or accuse me of being a bitch. She just wanted to know what had happened in the office with the cop and what I knew about Willie.
“I thought you’d been arrested until the rumors about Willie started going around,” she said.
I told her everything that happened in the office, everything that Officer Rey told me, and about the note. When I was done, Sherri was silent on the other end.
“That stupid asshole,” she said finally. “God, what was he thinking? And what was up with that snatch of a mom?” I could tell she was being careful not to blame me. That was okay because I was blaming myself. I said so.
“Bull,” she said. “No matter how much he liked you, that’s no reason to go and off himself. That’s the kind of crap that happens in a, I don’t know, a freaking Shakespeare play. No, Courtney, you aren’t allowed to take the blame for this one.”
I was touched. I really thought she might agree with me once I said I felt guilty. She must have really thought it wasn’t my fault. She knew the situation better than anyone. If she didn’t blame me, maybe I could let myself off the hook a little bit about it.
She kept going off about how much she missed him and how mad she was at him for killing himself. It just didn’t make sense to her. Through it all, I picked up that she was at least a little mad at me for not being around the last few days. She’d wanted someone to talk to and I wasn’t there. She didn’t really have anyone else she could confide in.
“Hey,” I said, interrupting another tirade about how dumb Willie was. “I’m really sorry I wasn’t there for you to talk to. I couldn’t handle it very well and it never occurred to me that you wouldn’t be able to handle it, either.”
“Why, because I’m dead inside or something?”
“It’s not that and you know it,” I said. “It’s just that you’re so tough.”
“That’s me,” she said, “Miss Tough Girl.”
“I just thought . . .”
“What?”
“I just thought that maybe you didn’t like him as much as I did,” I said, and winced as I said it. “Because of the way you would ride him about stuff.”
She was silent again. I knew she was still there because I could hear her breathing.
“Someone needed to,” she said. “Someone needed to kick his ass so he’d get out of that goddamned house and do something with himself. If I was hard on him, it’s because I wanted him to be better. I wanted him to want to be better.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I don’t wish I’d been easier on him. I do wish I’d told him more that I liked him. I’m really going to miss him.”
“Me too.”
We spent about a half-hour talking about all the stuff we’d done with Willie and funny things he’d said—intentional and otherwise. By the end, we were both crying again. Sherri cried! I never thought I’d live to see it again since she seemed to give it up in the seventh grade.
We made a plan for her to pick me up the next day since I’d decided to go back to school.
“Prepare to be the center of attention,” she said, “though I’m sure no one will actually act like they’re checking you out.”
I groaned. I knew what she meant. I’d seen it in action before. I’d just never been its target. The whole school could sometimes come together and focus on one person without ever saying a word to them. I got a small taste of that on Monday as I walked down the hall with my dad. It would totally suck, but I could deal with it.
“Thanks for the warning,” I said.
“Are you going to call Brandon?” Sherri asked.
“What?” I asked. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because he’s been asking me about you. He’s worried about you. It’s sort of sweet while also being annoying.”
“I don’t know,” I said, “I think maybe I should tell him to give me some distance. Take a break from him for a while until I get my head back together. The situation with Willie has me all sorts of messed up.”
“Don’t do that,” she said quickly.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll deny saying this if you ever mention it to someone else,” she said. “Brandon doesn’t seem that bad. For a jock. And he likes you. And he had nothing to do with Willie’s . . . death. So don’t push him away.”
I sat there in shock. Was she sticking up for Brandon? Even more, was she telling me to see him? I didn’t know what to say.
“Besides,” she went on, “it would really suck to be alone right now when you have a chance not to be. You know?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I do.”
We said good night and hung up. I immediately dialed Brandon’s number.<
br />
And got his voice mail. Of course. I left a message telling him I’d be back at school tomorrow and that I was looking forward to seeing him again. I apologized for not being around for the last few days. I hoped he’d understand. I hung up.
I did a couple of hours of homework and then, despite having slept for three days straight, I went back to bed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jane Austen’s Most Delicate Creation
The next morning at breakfast, I got a taste of what the rest of my day would be like. Dad and Bev hovered over me, quick to step in if they thought I needed something, all of it in a way meant to keep me unaware they were there. Holy shit, it was annoying.
At one point, I sat there eating some pancakes my dad made—from scratch! They kept asking if I needed anything, if everything tasted good, if I needed more orange juice. I dropped my napkin and nearly bumped heads with Bev when she swooped in to pick it up. Because, apparently, I was incapable of picking it up myself due to my grief. I felt like Jane Austen’s most delicate creation. I fumed at being treated like such a baby. Then I accidentally knocked my OJ over and sent it spilling across the table. Dad and Bev moved in like a pair of firemen at a really big . . . fire. Dad grabbed paper towels, Bev wielded her napkin, and something in my brain broke.
“I can clean up a mess on my own,” I said, pushing my chair away from the table more forcefully than I meant. My plate of half-eaten pancakes clattered and the fork fell on the floor. They both stopped and looked around, guilty, unsure what to do next.
“I know you guys want to help make my day easier. All you’re doing is driving me nuts.” I sopped up the OJ with paper towels I tore out of my dad’s hands.
“We’re just trying to help,” Dad said. I didn’t look up from the juice because I didn’t want to feel sorry for him. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.
“I know, Dad, and I appreciate it,” I said. “It’s just too much.” I stopped and stood up. I threw away the paper towels, then ran water until it got warm and wet a kitchen rag. “I just want things to be normal,” I said finally.
“Courtney,” he said, “things aren’t normal.”
“No,” I said, “they’re not. They really suck, but we can act like they’re normal, right?”
“I don’t know if that’s the healthiest thing right—”
“Sure we can,” Bev said, giving me and Dad this little smile. “For a while, anyway. You gotta face reality sooner or later, though, hon.”
I felt big with liking for Bev right then. I thanked her and looked at Dad for his reaction.
“We will need to sort this out eventually,” he said. “Yes, for now we can let it lie.”
“Thanks, Dad.” A car horn saved me from any more discussions about my feelings. I looked at the wet rag in my hand. “I guess I do need help,” I said, feeling stupid. “Can one of you finish cleaning this up? I have to go.”
Dad chuckled as he took the rag from me. The chuckle could best be described as “sardonic.”
I gathered up my stuff from my room and headed out. I found myself really scoping out the path from the house to the car as I left. There’s only one tree in the yard and it’s as big around as my wrist, so not many zombies could hide behind it. Regardless, I was feeling extra paranoid. Apparently I took too long for Sherri’s liking because she laid on the horn after a few seconds. She made a hurry-up gesture with her free hand.
“What the hell were you looking for?” she asked as I climbed into the car. God bless Sherri. I could always count on her to not spare my feelings. “Did what Willie did to himself make you go simple?”
“What does that mean?” I asked as she screeched the tires and pulled away.
“Just don’t let it get to you,” she said. “What happened to him happened because he wanted it to. It’s not like he’s dead because of some random attack.”
“No,” I said, “but we’ve seen more of those, right? There was that old lady, and Crystal and I got attacked up by the reservoir.” I didn’t bring up the pregnant shuffler who came for me mostly because I was trying my best to suppress that memory.
“There are always attacks,” Sherri said. “Just like there’s always car wrecks or drug overdoses or cancer.” She fell silent and I thought we were done talking for a while. Then she started up again and her voice sounded quavery.
“Look behind all the trees you want,” she said, “don’t go out after dark, travel in groups. None of it would have saved Willie from himself.”
I could see tears welling up in her eyes, which took me by complete surprise. I started to reach out to touch her arm, then I stopped.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She looked at me, her eyes red. She didn’t answer. Instead she turned back to the road, laid on the horn, and screamed at the top of her lungs. For block after block she screamed and screamed, until her voice petered out to nothing and then she’d take a ragged breath and do it again. The whole time she pushed down on the horn.
I just stared at her, a little scared, mostly sad. I had no idea losing Willie would affect her like that.
We came to a red light and she finally stopped honking and screaming. She put her head down on the steering wheel.
“It’s all just so stupid,” she said.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
She sat up and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Sometimes I feel like doing something stupid.”
“If you kill yourself, I will be totally pissed at you,” I said. “I’ll tell everyone at your funeral that you had sex with Coach Santori and you offed yourself because he wouldn’t leave his wife for you.”
She barked a hoarse laugh at that, which was good, I guess. The car behind us honked because the light had turned green. Sherri automatically flipped the guy the bird and peeled away through the intersection.
“I wouldn’t kill myself,” she said. “Not that kind of stupid.”
“Then what?”
She shrugged. “I’ll think of something,” she said.
We reached the school and performed the required security ritual. She parked and we climbed out of the car. I stood there for a minute looking at the school, watching the kids file in. Each one of those kids held a judgmental look or thought for me and soon they’d have a chance to give it to me. Jesus, I sounded maudlin.
I shouldered my backpack. Sherri just nodded and we walked toward the school together. When it was time to part, we said our good-byes.
“Don’t decide to do anything too stupid,” I said.
“And don’t you pussy out and let ’em see you cry,” she answered.
I turned and joined the flow of kids going in through the school’s main entrance. I heard the ebb and flow of conversation change around me. Little eddies of whispered accusations swirled around me. I made a promise to myself, almost a mantra.
I will not pussy out.
I will not pussy out.
The day turned out to be not as rough as I feared. I got a lot of stares and the whisper brigade was in full swing, though it didn’t feel like it carried the malevolence I expected. At lunch, Sherri told me that the school grief counselor had been running interference for me; she’d been spreading the word about what happened. So the folks in the hall weren’t suspicious or angry, they were sympathetic. Which was almost worse.
It became apparent after lunch that the hardest part of being in school would be avoiding the grief counselor. Ms. Bjorn had done her bit by getting people off my back, now she could do me a favor and do the same herself. I had a lot of near misses as I saw her standing near my locker or in the halls along the path I used to get to class. I might talk to her next week. There was no way I wanted to pow-wow with her just then.
I made it through the day without having to talk to her. I also went all day without seeing Brandon. He didn’t even come and join me and Sherri at lunchtime, which I really thought he would. I knew at least that I’d see him in Journalism.
/> Except that I didn’t. The room fell silent when I entered. I ignored them for the most part and scanned the room. No Brandon. He must have been behind me. I found a seat and watched the door for when he came in. My view was blocked by Phil standing in front of me. Besides Sherri, he was the first person to actually walk up and speak to me.
“I heard what happened,” he said. As socially awkward as ever. I paused for a second to see if he’d say he was sorry about it, or that I was brave for coming to school. Nothing.
“Yeah,” I said, “it really sucks. I wish Willie had reached out to me.”
Then he looked confused. He really had no idea what I was talking about. After a second, I could see a light go on inside his head and he nodded.
“Right,” he said, “your friend killed himself. I forgot.”
Forgot?
“That’s not what I was talking about,” he said.
I shook my head bewildered. This conversation was becoming downright Kafkaesque. “Okay,” I said, “what were you talking about?”
“I heard Crystal Beals talking a few days ago about you guys being attacked by zombies,” he said. “She told how you fought them off—killed a couple.” He stood there nodding.
“Yeah?” I said.
“That’s just pretty freaking cool, is all,” he said. “I had no idea you had it in you.”
Again, I shook my head in bewilderment. “Thanks,” I said.
“I drew a cartoon of you as a badass zombie killer,” he said, and he looked proud—of himself or of me I have no clue. “I submitted it for the paper. Mrs. Johnson killed it. Too raw or something. You want to see it?” He inclined his head toward his desk where I saw a manila folder stuffed full of drawings.
“Maybe some other time,” I said. Read: Never, not ever, you freak.
Mrs. Johnson came into the room and asked everyone to take their seats. Phil nodded down at me. “Any time,” he said, “catch you later.” And he went over and slouched behind his desk.
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