All Good Children

by Catherine Austen

  Mom slips on a fresh needle and stabs it into a bottle. I watch the syringe suck up a pale dose of zombie. She sets the bottle down and holds the needle high.

  “Mom, you can’t—”

  “That’s enough, Max,” she hisses.

  Students stare at me like I’m a freak.

  “Voices down,” Werewolf reminds us.

  “Is he afraid of needles?” Linda asks.

  “Yes, but he needn’t be.” Mom turns to Dallas. “Ready?”

  Dallas smiles like she’s offering ice cream.

  I lay my head down on my desk to get a better view of his arm. Mom cups her left hand over the needle so it’s hard to see. Her right thumb pushes slowly on the syringe. It looks like she’s really giving him the shot. My heart thumps as if my blood is too thick to push through the valves.

  “Ow,” Dallas says. He looks up at Linda, who just stuck him in the other arm.

  “A big boy like you afraid of a little needle?” Linda shouts. “I’m surprised anything can get through those muscles of yours. They’re hard as a rock.”

  “Almost done,” Mom says softly.

  Dallas looks at her, smiles, tries to see what she’s doing to his arm.

  “There,” she says, pressing gauze to his skin.

  He opens his mouth to speak, but she says, “Don’t talk. Just rest. Hold this in place.”

  She flicks the needle into the garbage and grabs another patch from her pocket. I stretch back in my chair and get a brief but clear view of Dallas’s arm. There’s no mark, no piercing, just a moist gloss.

  Mom presses on the patch and pats his shoulder. “All done.”

  She works her way up the aisle of desks, whispering, “I’m sorry” to everyone. Everyone but me and Dallas.

  She stops and sighs when she gets to Tyler Wilkins.

  “Hello, Tyler,” she says sadly. She looks across the desk at Linda, but she doesn’t bother speaking.

  “My goodness, child, you smell like cigarettes,” Linda chatters. “Do you know how many toxins one cigarette contains?” She looks at Mom and her smiles fades. “Oh for God’s sake, what is it now? Does he have a temperature?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then get to it, Karenna. We have to do them all.”

  Mom looks at Tyler’s homely face. “I’m sorry, Tyler.”

  He laughs and runs a hand down his tattooed arm. “It’s all right. I’m not afraid of needles.”

  I watch the drug go deep into his skin.

  I’m not sorry to see Tyler Wilkins zombified. But I suppose there are people who’d say the same about me.

  There’s a dear little home in Good-Children street—

  My heart turneth fondly to-day

  Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet

  Make sweetest of music at play;

  Where the sunshine of love illumines each face

  And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.

  For dear little children go romping about

  With dollies and tin tops and drums,

  And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout

  Till bedtime too speedily comes!

  Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet

  With little folk living in Good-Children street.

  From Eugene Field’s

  “Good-Children Street”

  in Love Songs of Childhood (1894)

  PART TWO

  ADJUSTMENT

  EIGHT

  My mother sits on her bed, folded small like a child, hugging her knees. She’s in pajamas at dinnertime. Ally’s eating a sandwich in the living room, watching cartoons.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  Mom sniffles and shrugs. “Parents are always notified of detention.”

  “I mean how did you know about the drug?”

  “Oh. Linda told me when she called. I recognized the name.”

  “As what?”

  “It’s a derivative of one we use at the home.”

  “On who?”

  She shrugs or shudders, I can’t tell which. “Everyone.”

  “Everyone,” I repeat. I lean against Ally’s dresser, rattling her plastic dolls. They fall on their sides, backs bent, legs splayed, smiles painted pink.

  “It’s not how you think,” Mom says. “Our patients are in pain. They’re lonely and bored. Antisocial. That’s how this drug started out—for mood disorders.”

  “Elaine wasn’t antisocial.” I recall stepping into the geriatric center with my class three years ago. From the sad ranks of old folks slumped in rows of collapsible chairs, Elaine jumped up and shouted, “Hallelujah! There are children alive in the world!”

  “She wasn’t disordered,” I tell Mom. “She was a firecracker.”

  My mother stares at me, biting her lip.

  “I guess she’s no firecracker anymore,” I say.

  She huffs and scowls. “These drugs help my patients cope, Max.”

  “All of them? How could you drug all your patients? Most of them aren’t even sick. They’re just old.”

  “I can’t give them happy lives, Max. I can’t make their children visit. I can’t find them jobs or make them feel important. I feed them and bathe them and give them their shots.”

  “Did they ask for those shots?”

  “There are seventy-two patients under my care every ten-hour shift! That’s eight minutes each. That’s what I give them. The other nine hours and fifty-two minutes, they are ignored. They used to lie there and cry. Remember when you visited? It’s not like that anymore. They eat well, they take part in social activities, they exercise, they have hobbies.”

  “I bet they line up neatly too.”

  “They are happy to be alive now, Max.”

  “They’re not happy, Mom. They’re just not crying anymore.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No. I don’t understand. Why not just give me the shot if you don’t think it’s wrong?”

  She gapes at me, outraged. “It’s not for children. It’s for people with nothing else in their lives. It’s wrong to give it to children.”

  “You gave it to children!” I remind her. “Why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t you stop it?”

  She squints at me, confused. “It’s not illegal. The school has the authority to treat students for behavioral problems.”

  “We don’t all have behavioral problems.”

  “Sure you do, Max. Everybody does. Everybody can be improved—you’ve told me that yourself. They’ve just never done it on this scale before.”

  “Why didn’t you take us out of there?”

  “Take who out? I’m not allowed to take your friends out of school. I doubt if I’m allowed to take you out.”

  “You still should have done it.”

  “And put you where? It would be the end of education for you and Ally. Linda says they’ve already treated the trade schools. There is nowhere else to go.”

  “Take us to another town.”

  “And live on what? How will you find work if you never finish school? Do you know what the rest of the world is like, Max? We’re lucky I have a job here.”

  “A job where you drug people against their will.”

  “Stop it! I did what I could today.” She looks away and lays her head on her knees.

  “How did you fake it?” I ask.

  She grabs a dirty napkin off the cluttered nightstand and peels back the layers to reveal a small stained sponge. “I was scared to try it with Xavier. I didn’t know how much it could hold. I only brought two patches anyway, for you and Dallas.” She sighs and shakes the memory from her head.

  “What’s in my patch?”

  “Estrogen.”

  “Estrogen? No way. Am I going to grow boobs?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “It’s just a month’s worth. But you have to keep it on for three.”

  “Three months? Linda said the patc
h was for a week.”

  “She lied.”

  “Why? People will take them off early. Is that safe?”

  “Their parents will tell them to keep them on. Don’t worry. The patch is part of the treatment. It balances the side effects of the shot.”

  “Will kids get sick if they take them off?”

  She sighs. “They won’t take them off, Max. By tomorrow or the day after, they’ll do whatever they’re told.”

  I scratch my head and stare at the ceiling, trying to think of something to say. I hear Ally singing in the living room, “A—my name is Ally, my husband’s name is Arnold, we live in Arkansas, and we sell apples!”

  “You’ll get a new patch in three months,” Mom tells me. “Make sure you take it off and put the empty estrogen patch back on.”

  I nod at the ceiling.

  “Then in six months, you’ll get another shot,” she tells me.

  I look at her in surprise. “How many drugs are they giving us?”

  “It’s the same drug, just another dose.”

  “It wears off? So there’s a chance for Xavier?”

  She shrugs. “I think so. My patients get a slow-release shot that lasts two years, but Linda said they reduced the dosage for children.”

  “So Linda’s coming back to drug my class again in six months?”

  Mom nods. “I’ll try to be there for it.”

  I pick up two of Ally’s dolls and hurl them at her. She’s so surprised, she screams. Ally’s song ends abruptly. “How about you don’t?” I shout. “How about I find another school? How about you find another job?”

  Mom picks up a doll and straightens out its clothes and hair. “I’m not taking you and Ally out of New Middletown if I can help it. This is the safest city on earth.”

  I walk over to the bed and lean into her face. “You came into my school and stuck people with something that makes them do whatever they’re told. I don’t feel very safe.”

  She lowers her head and pinches her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Max. I want you to finish academic school. Your life will be so much easier if you do that. I can be there for your shots. No one will ever know.”

  “What about everyone else?”

  “They’ll be fine eventually. They’ll become much more focused on their studies.” She lays the doll down and sits up tall. “Everyone says it’s for their own good. Maybe this new variant—”

  “Don’t even try it,” I interrupt. “I’ve seen the results at the other schools. I don’t want to be like that.”

  “Okay. I know. I don’t want you to be like that either.” She reaches out for my hand, but I back away from her. “You’ll have to pretend you’ve been treated,” she tells me. “It’s not just that you have to work harder. You have to take school more seriously. You have to act like the others.”

  I remember Ally saying that outside her school weeks ago.

  “I’ve already spoken to Ally,” Mom says, as if she read my mind. “She’s so well-behaved that no one noticed. But you, Max.” She looks me in the eye and shrugs. “You have to be good.”

  “I have to be good?” I repeat. “Good?”

  “You know what I mean. You have to be obedient. Your teachers will be watching you.”

  “So the teachers know what’s going on?”

  She looks at me like I’m a lost little boy. “Everyone knows, Max. This is school policy. They’ve been planning this for months. They’ll increase the dosage for anyone who doesn’t respond.”

  “Is that what you do at the old folks’ home?”

  She ignores me. “Tell Dallas not to fight with his brother. Arlington will be watching and Austin won’t be treated for another week or two.”

  “They’re doing the grade twelves?”

  “They’re doing all the grades, Max. Everyone.”

  “Everyone,” I repeat, hating her.

  Celeste comes over after supper with a box of face paints. She wears white woolen stockings and a tight blue sweater that hangs to her knees. She pulls back her hair and ties on a beige apron. “You’re so much darker than the kids,” she says as she smears Mom’s cheek with makeup. “This is way too light for you. Your skin is gorgeous for your age.”

  “Thank you, dear. How’s your brother?”

  “Xavier? He’s fine. He’s actually sleeping. He fell asleep at the table, he’s so tired. It’s all that cross-country running.”

  Mom frowns and hunches. She’s quiet while Celeste applies two darker tints. Her face takes on subtle stripes, like faded war paint. “I hope he’s all right,” she mutters.

  “Xavier?” Celeste asks. “Sure, he’s just tired.” She cleans Mom’s face with white cream. “Can I try tomorrow with other colors?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Thanks.” Celeste sways down the hall under the eye of the camera.

  I stay up late watching a movie from Xavier’s favorite site: 1984. It’s about a poverty-stricken world where the government watches all the workers as they pretend to enjoy their reeking lives. They’re all ugly, white and underfed. It’s probably a metaphor.

  Mom knocks on my bedroom door.

  “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” I ask. “Don’t you have to get up at three?”

  She sits on the edge of my bed, wiping her eyes. I pause the movie. “Xavier could never fake being a zombie,” I say. “He talks too much. They’d dose him again right away.”

  She sniffles and pats my hand. She’s tired, her eyes baggy black, her lips stretched thin. Her hair is frizzy, and it’s been too long since she had it cut. “Your hands are so young,” she says. “They look brand-new.”

  I can’t smile at her, but I squeeze her fingers. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “For what, honey?”

  “For saving me and Dallas.”

  “Oh, baby.” She leans her head and shoulder into me. “I should have taken you home.”

  I shudder at the memory of her wheeling the tray into class. “When you walked into detention, I thought it was some kind of punishment. For the way I am.”

  “I thought you’d know why I was there. I couldn’t lose you, Max.”

  “You wouldn’t lose me. I’d just be a zombie.”

  She smiles. “That’s a funny thing to call them. Zombies are corpses that crawl out of their graves and eat people’s brains.”

  “No way.”

  She laughs. “Yes. They eat people alive. They’re not calm at all.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “You should call them something else.”

  “What do you call your patients?”

  She stiffens and pulls her hand away.

  I don’t take it back. I don’t want to make it easy for her. “We could call them robots,” I say. “Or mindless slaves.”

  “It’s not like that, Max.”

  “Yes it is.” I unpause the movie and watch skinny people in shapeless uniforms hide from giant cameras. “What if they do everyone? The whole country?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mom says.

  “Remember that airport guard who frisked me? I bet she was a zombie. I bet they’ll do the nurses eventually. One day you’ll come home from work and you’ll be one of them.”

  “Who would even notice?”

  I want to smack her face for asking that. “I would.”

  She leans into me again. Her hair is dry and stale as dust.

  “I love you, Mom,” I whisper.

  “I love you too, Max.”

  Tyler Wilkins stops on the sidewalk where I linger outside Ally’s old school watching the zombies. “Hello, Maxwell. Aren’t you going to class?” He looks at the schoolyard and frowns. “There’s something strange about that. We spoke of it before.” He winces and holds a hand to his chest. “I’m getting a cold.” He smiles at me without malice.

  “You don’t seem yourself,” I say.

  “I don’t feel right,” he admits. He checks his watch. “We should be going.” There’s something in his eyes, some rule-following gleam, t
hat makes me keep up.

  I don’t talk much the rest of the way. He asks strange questions like, “How’s your family?” and “Did you have a healthy breakfast?” He rubs his forehead and chest every few minutes, stumbles more than once, doesn’t smoke or swear. He ditches me on the school grounds and heads inside.

  Dallas pulls me to the fence and whispers, “My dad interrogated me last night! Mom said he’d been waiting since he heard I had detention. He checked my blood pressure and reflexes.” He stops talking when Bay walks near, doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t wave. After Bay moves on, he continues in a whisper. “He gave me a list of rules to memorize. I made a joke and he recorded it. Then he said, ‘You’re going to do so well from now on, son.’” He shakes his head, leans in close. “Like he’s proud of me now that I’m a zombie.”

  I nod. “They all know about it.”

  “Why? Why would they turn us into zombies?”

  “I don’t know. But Mom says zombies are actually undead creatures like werewolves who hunger for people’s brains, so we should call them something else.”

  “Werewolves aren’t undead,” Dallas says. “They’re just cursed.”

  “Well, zombies are undead. They crawl out of their graves half-rotted and go looking for brains to eat.”

  “No way. I thought they were hypnotized people who did some evil guy’s bidding.”

  “Zombies don’t do anybody’s bidding. They drag around after brains.”

  Dallas snorts. “So what are we supposed to call them?”

  I shrug.

  “Let’s still call them zombies,” he says. “It’s a good word.”

  I agree.

  “What would you rather be killed by?” he asks. “A zombie or a werewolf?”

  “Werewolf.”

  “Me too.”

  I take out my RIG. “Let’s record people before they’re all brain-eaters. Have you seen Pepper?”

  “No. But get the Scorpions.”

  We tell our teammates we’re composing a message for the Devils. They growl and roar, gesture rudely at my RIG, shout, “We’re coming for you, ladies!” The bell rings too soon. Montgomery is yards away, teaching a dance routine to the cheerleaders. I raise my RIG high, hoping to record a few moves, but I’m too late. He picks up his coat, hangs it over his back with one hooked finger and heads inside.